Death of Picky Pie

The crackers sat in the sun, their backs to the decaying summer house and watched the strangers. Irwinton seemed full of strangers, their cars raising clouds of red Georgia dust. Said one resentfully: "We had a white man lay over in a swamp near Big Sandy Creek till the buzzards ate him up, and they found his bones. We didn't have a single newspaperman look at the bones. But seein' as Picky Pie is a nigger he makes headlines." Irwinton was reacting to 1949's first lynching.

It all started Sunday night, when Sheriff George C. Hatcher was waked by a Negro. He was bleeding across the chest. "Picky Pie Hill done did me over at the New Harlem Club in Mclntyre," he said. The sheriff jumped into his car and headed for the tin-roofed Negro juke joint four miles away.

Bare bulbs glared through the smoky, crowded room. Caleb ("Picky Pie") Hill, a husky, 28-year-old Negro, was drunk, but the sheriff got handcuffs on him, and began to question witnesses. Suddenly, the sheriff felt his pistol pulled from the holster, turned to find Picky Pie aiming at his head. Hatcher ducked and the bullet went into the ceiling. In the scuffle, the sheriff's pistol got lost. The sheriff took his prisoner back to town and put him in a cell with another Negro in the jail on the second floor of the sheriff's house. Then he went back to get his pistol. It took him 2 1/2 hours.

The Door Was Open. The sheriff explained later: "The trouble was a report had got around that the Negro had killed me. The men were pretty riled up and when they didn't find me at home, they thought maybe I was dead."

While he was gone, two men walked into the sheriff's house. They had no trouble. The keys to the jail were on a cabinet in the living room, where the sheriff had left them, and the front door was open--"if I lock it the lock sticks," explained the sheriff. The men calmly picked up the keys and went upstairs to the cell. "Come on, Picky Pie, let's go," one said. Without a protest, Picky Pie walked out with them. Mrs. Hatcher, asleep downstairs, heard no commotion.

Next morning two young farmers found Hill's body, face downward in the sandy Georgia roadside, near Big Sandy Creek. He had been shot through the head and body. Roused, Sheriff Hatcher was amazed: "I thought, could it be they'd come and got my prisoner? I ran upstairs and sure enough, Hill was gone."

No Memory. At the inquest, Tom Carswell, the Negro who had shared Hill's cell, shook perceptibly as he was questioned. "They were white and there were two of them," he said. Did he recognize them? "I know just about everybody around here, but I never saw those two before." Wispy-haired Coroner C. C. Thompson, who is also Mclntyre's town butcher, asked: "You probably couldn't identify the men if you saw them again, could you?" "No, suh," said Carswell eagerly.

Around the square, the loafers settled back and talked it over: "He was a bad nigger, all bad." Picky Pie had worked in the chalk mines, but mostly he bootlegged liquor. He had been arrested several times before, once for shooting at a white boy just to make him jump. They snorted at the reports that he supported his crippled father and three sisters besides his wife and three children.

But the reporters and all made the coroner nervous. Leaning on his meat counter, he declared: "I am still making a desperate effort to apprehend the guilty party." Sheriff Hatcher called in the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, and dug the bullets out of Picky Pie. At week's end, the G.B.I, arrested two white men on suspicion. They figured there were more, and were still looking for them.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.