Watson knew one of the late leader’s guilty pleasures was being a science fiction fan. He could imagine a future when all were free to pursue their hopes and dreams. But now his resourceful intellect had been stilled, his inspiring voice silenced to inspire no more. Replacing the biography, his roaming gaze indicated nothing on the shelves had been disturbed—but Watson knew better than to believe such. He knew at some point it might mean all the books would have to be taken down and the surfaces behind them studied carefully for a hole, possibly hidden among the wood grain—or even a hole that had been recently patched from the other side. He quickly took in the rest of the great man’s private library and study. There weren’t many framed photos or plaques on the walls, though what there were of them chronicled the stalwarts of the domestic and international freedom struggle. An animated Fidel Castro, intense Malcolm X, and the good Doctor sitting around a table when Castro had stayed at the Hotel Teresa in Harlem, the time he came to speak at the U.N. Grace Lee Boggs accepting an award from the doctor-professor at some ceremony, and a grainy shot taken of him marching with farm workers, in the lead alongside organizers Delores Huerta and Cesar Chavez in California’s agricultural-rich Central Valley.
There were rectangular windows high up on the walls, and Watson stood on a footstool the deceased man had also used. Though he was taller than Barrow had been, Watson couldn’t reach the windows over the bookshelves.
“There must be some sort of extension he used,” he said to the other man.
“Here it is.” He began to reach for a length of slim pole with a catch on the end of it leaning against the dead man’s desk.
“Don’t touch it,” Watson said, looking over his shoulder.
“But it would be normal for our prints to be in here.”
“I know, but you’re going to tell the cops everything the way it happened—only, leave me out.”
“Right on.”
Watson moved the footstool about, standing on it and studying each window. The room was a basement construction and the windows let out onto the sidewalk. They were barred on the inside and as far as he could tell, each was latched in place.
“The heat ain’t gonna like it I busted in the door,” said the good-sized Tony “Squelch” Waller.
“You were doing your job.”
“If I was doing my job, Dr. Barrow would be alive.”
Watson smiled grimly. “Don’t beat yourself up, brother. This was his sanctum sanctorum.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning this is where he went to be alone, to get away from the masses to read and contemplate, or to work on his writing. It wasn’t unusual for him to be holed up days on end.”
“But they got to him, Dock,” Squelch Waller said, strain and worry contorting his mild features. “What the hell we gonna do, man?”
Watson crouched down, studying the doorjamb, faceplate, and lock mechanisms. The door locked from the inside but it wasn’t a sophisticated piece of equipment, no doubt once upon a time bought at the neighborhood hardware store. The door wasn’t that heavy either, but solid wood, dating back to the thirties was his guess. The door chain had also been in place when Waller used his shoulder and a fire axe to get in.
“You walked with Dr. Barrow here two days ago?” Watson asked.
“Yes,” Waller answered. “We’d been at the meeting planning the anti-apartheid teach-in and we stopped at the store to get him some groceries. I carried his bags back here and left him in good shape.” A faraway look settled his face.
“And Martin called him earlier this morning? Here in his library?” There was an adjacent back room to the study that had a cot, hot plate, and mini-refrigerator.
“Said he’d been calling off and on since last night. He’d sent somebody to his apartment and he wasn’t there. That’s why our folks started to get worried.”
Watson again examined the locks, looking for signs of tampering. “Then you get called because you were last seen with him.”
“So I came around, knowing Doctor Barrow was always up early like. I knocked and knocked but got no answer.” He gestured with his hands. “Him being up there in age, I figured it was best to get in here and see to him.”
Watson removed his Minox mini-camera from his jean jacket pocket. He was clicking away as he talked and walked around the space. “We play this like it lays out, Squelch, at least as far as the fuzz is concerned.” He paused at the desk, examining the papers and letters on the desktop. Before he’d entered the room, he’d put on his lambskin gloves. Watson sifted through the material. He snapped pictures of the various sheets of paper and letters as well.
“Did you call me using this phone?” Watson asked, pointing at the rotary sitting on a corner of the desk.
“Hell no, went around the corner and two blocks up and called you from one of the followers. Sister Mable. She’s an early riser too.” It was just edging toward six in the morning.
“She gonna get rattled in case the cops question her?”
Waller shook his massive head side to side. “Man, she been around since the Palmer raids. She’s stand-up before they invented the word.”
“Solid. I’m out of here. Call Sid and tell him what you found. Tell him everything but me being here. Then he can call the law and be here with you when they arrive so they don’t jack you around.”
“Okay.” Waller rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you gonna tell Martin?”
Watson was at the broken-in door which, according to the big man, had been locked and bolted from the inside when he got here. “What he’s going to already know. It’s going to be on him to keep a lid on things . . . if he can.”