[Note : This story has its origin in an actual incident occurring in 1963 – ‘the 16th Street Baptist Church Bombing’]
The city leaders proudly say that Birmingham is the city that it is, not the city it was. Maybe, that’s true, and perhaps it’s not. Whatever, that is politicians speak pretending that there wasn’t a time when enforcing segregation was more important than enforcing the law—policing some and serving others. Like a scab that never heals, the city will always live in the shadow of Sunday, September 15, 1963. On that day, a bomb planted by the Klan with the help of the police sent four Negro girls—three 14-year-olds and an 11-year-old- to the comforting arms of the Lord and cast a shadow of foul, evil deeds over Bombingham, Alabama that remains forever. Guilt has a knack for bringing back bad memories. The torturous dreams come back as ghosts these many years later.
On August 8, 1963, I drove down 6th Avenue south, passing the endless row of shotgun houses on the right-the poor area of the city’s left behind citizens. I had to pick-up my regular car that was in the city shop for a routine oil change. I parked and went in the usually bustling office. No one was there. I walked in the service bay and spotted two black men standing outside the Whites Only break room. Zeke, an old black, I knew, held his broom and watched me approach. He appeared to be trying to peek in the room before he saw me.
“Zeke, what in the hell is going on? Where is everyone?”
Zeke snatched the hat off his head and held it at his waist as his head lowered, breaking eye contact. “Mister Miller, Sir they’s watchin Martin Luther King give a speech in Warshington, Mister Miller, sir.”
I stopped at the entrance and looked in the room. A city mechanic known as Dynamite Bob and four to five BPD cops sat on pulled-up aluminum folding chairs in front of the 16-inch black and white TV. Dynamite Bob was the leader of the Cahaba River KKK Klavern. He was a likely suspect for the recent bombings in the Negro section of town. One of the worst held secrets in the department was the reason for the ‘Dynamite’ nickname—the man was a church bomber. He kept his city job because he was the cousin of the Police Commissioner- an avid racist. The men watched with hatred and disgust as Martin Luther King railed on about police brutality and the need for black and white men to join hands and sing the words of “the old Negro spiritual: Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at last.”
The BPD members in the break room were known Klansmen. One had tried to get me to join the KKK until he found out I was Catholic. He told me, “Pope followers belong to secret societies and are almost as bad as niggers and Jews.” He laughed and said, “I was just kidding.” I knew he wasn’t. Klan members and Masons got the best assignments and quick promotions, I knew that. I listened to their animated conversation.
“That nigger is coming to Birmingham soon,” Dynamite Bob said with hatred and disgust. “We’ll give him a welcome; he’ll never forget.” That evoked a resounding “you got that right,” chorus coming from the cops. Shit, here we go again. As a member of the BPD Tactical Unit, I got called out every time them White Cappers blew something up or burned a cross.
The other black cleaning man lowered his head and said, Mister Miller, sir, “is they gonna kill Reverend King when he gets here?”
“No. They ain’t that stupid.” Blowing up shit was their style, not murder. Killing MLK would bring in the feds. I knew they didn’t want that. Blowing up churches and homes were investigated by the state or the BPD, they were safe.
“Mister Charley is that stupid,” Zeke said. “That Mister Charley is a real bad man. Sorry about that,” he added with a bowed head. He knew he’d stepped into forbidden territory—criticizing a white cop.
The second Negro joined in.
“That officer they call Trigger in there done already killed five black folk,” he said. “He brags about killer niggers every time he’s in here. He’s proud as a peacock. He’s always pulling his gun and pointing it at us.”
The black cleaning men were right. Those sheet brothers were dangerous. Dynamite Bob and those cops were stupid. The 1963 church bombing planning began that night at the Cahaba River Klavern.” A kaleidoscope of bad memories flooded into my mind like a dam breaking.
Saturday night, September 14, 1963, at approximately 10 PM twelve of us on the BPD Tactical Unit assembled in the roll call room at Central Headquarters. Our leader Sergeant Aker addressed us.
“Men, you know Martin Luther King is in the city.” Shit. There’s going to be trouble. Always is when he shows up. “We’re expecting trouble, the Sergeant said. Al Wallace standing next to me, said, “What brain dead politician came to that conclusion?” The room erupted into laughter.
“All right, that’s enough. We’ve got security assignments at possible trouble points. Listen up.” Sgt. Aker pulled out a lined tablet from his black brief case.
“Miller you and Wallace have got the 16th Street Baptist Church. I don’t need to tell you what a hot spot that is.” He certainly didn’t. All the marches and demonstrations started there. We had already had three bombings in the last eleven days. Dynamite Bob and his Klan brother had been busy. The Klan had threatened to blow up the 16th Street Baptist Church for years. They regularly called in bomb threats during the services.
“What are we supposed to do there, Sergeant?” I asked.
“You’re supposed to make sure nobody get’s near that church. I don’t care how you do it. Sit on the front steps. Walk or drive around the block. But, don’t let anyone get near that church. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Sure do. How long do we guard the church?”
“You go down there now and stay there until I come tell you to leave. If you need to take a break, call me, but don’t leave until I tell you to.”
We left and drove to the church and parked in the alley behind the church. Every ten minutes, one of us walked around the church. Every thirty minutes, we drove around the block. At 1 AM, dispatch called.
“Tac Car 4.”
I answered, “This is Tac 4. What do you need?”
“Lieutenant Harris says to move down to the Downtown Motel. Start watching it.”
Wallace and I looked at each other. “What the hell is going on?” Wallace said.
“I don’t know, but we ain’t moving until Sergeant Aker tells us to.”
“Tac 4. No can do. Sergeant Aker said to stay here until he told us to leave.” I said.
“Tac 4. This is Lieutenant Harris. I’m the shift commander. Move your car down to the Motel. That’s an order.” I had a sinking feeling filled with dread. Lieutenant Harris was a known member of the Invisible Empire. Something is bad wrong. But there was nothing we could do.
“Well shit, I ain’t getting in no pissing contest with a Lieutenant. Let Sergeant Aker straighten it out,” I said.” “Yeah, there ain’t nothing we can do about it,” Wallace said.
We drove the six blocks to the Downtown Motel- the only black Motel in Birmingham- and parked in the alley behind it. Never heard from Sergeant Aker until daylight when he told us to go home. “But you’re still on call,” he added. I knew the shit was going to hit the fan. It did but not how I expected.
The phone buzzed like an angry bumblebee. I pushed myself out of bed and placed my feet on the floor. The clock on the table read 10:30. Damn two hours of sleep. I stretched and popped my joints as I reached for a cigarette. The damn phone still rang. I knew a beat cop would be knocking at the door if I didn’t answer. I picked up the phone.
It was Sergeant Aker. “The 16th Street Church was just bombed. Get your gear and get to Central Roll Call ASAP.” He sounded like he was ready to cry. “Sergeant, I knew that would happen when Lieutenant Harris pulled us off. Shit, that mother fucker knew what was going down.”
“Jim, that ain’t all of it. There looking for four little girls in the rubble.”
“Oh, God, no.” Vomit filled my mouth and then spewed out on the floor.
“I’m on the way.”
We lined up in front of the church to try to help the firemen get to the church and keep the looky-loos at bay. The scene was horrific. It was easy to see that the bomb went off on the eastside. Mortar and bricks were sprayed across the street. Fireman and church members were frantically searching in the rubble of what had been a restroom. The girls were down there, changing into choir robes when the bomb exploded, I was told. The silence of death enveloped the large crowd as the first small broken body was pulled out of the rubble. Then, the crowd broke out singing old black gospel songs. I sang the ones I knew and hummed to the others. The rest of that day is a blur.
Three weeks later, I had my chance to go mano a mano with Office Louie Phillips, aka Trigger. The ten-year veteran and I rode the elevator in the city courthouse down to the parking deck. Coming from court, I assumed. The five-foot-seven rail-thin piece of shit eyed the elevator floor like a guilty dog as it went in motion. Then he stood in silence and watched the floors tick off. The doors opened at the parking level, and he burst out like he was spring-loaded. He headed for the parking deck in quick steps. I quickly covered the distance between us.
“Louie, I need to talk to you.” He kept going. He didn’t want to talk to me. That was clear. He stopped at his car, unlocked the door, and tried to get in. I slid beside him and pushed the door closed.
“Louie, I need to talk to you.”
A faked look of surprise spread across his face. “I thought I heard someone calling my name. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Like hell, you didn’t. Was it you or some other White Sheet brother who got me and Wallace moved the morning y’all planted the bomb.”
“What are you talking about? Who told you that bullshit?”
His face was tight and without color. He shot me a pissed-off; don’t fuck with me look. I shot one back. I could tell that the bully in him and the coward in him were linked together like identical twins.
“Lieutenant Harris told me that. That’s who.”
“No, he didn’t. Harris would never give that up.” What? How dumb can he be?
“Trigger, you dumb shit. You all but admitted that somebody told him to move us. You murdering sonsabitches.” I could feel my face turning red with anger.
His mouth opened as if to speak. Silence. His mind is going places where only ghosts walk, I thought. Then he spoke.
“Wait a minute, Jim. That’s a little too strong. It was an accident.”
He must have seen the look on my face. Trigger had just set off my bullshit detector. He held up both hands in mock surrender.
“No, I mean it, Jim. We never meant to kill nobody.” This dumb shit thinks he was an innocent bystander in a murder plot. Damn, I always thought these Kluckers were stupid, but this is beyond belief for a cop. He is down to the bone marrow stupid.
A long uncomfortable silence followed. I could not believe what he just said. A freaking accident. The line of connected events weren’t accidents. He believes this shit.
“You shitheads accidentally planted a bomb at the church and it accidentally exploded and accidentally killed four kids. You expect me to believe that, you murdering son-of-a-bitch.” I knew I was shaking with rage. I was seriously considering beating him to death.
“Jim. Jim. Calm down and let explain how it went down,” he begged.
“OK. I really want to hear about this accident.” I could hear my voice cracking.
Trigger looked around the parking deck to make sure no one could hear him.
“Well, you’re right, Lieutenant Harris called you and Wallace off. At our first meeting at the Klavern, someone brought up the possibility of Tac officers guarding the church. Harris said he’d take care of that.” God Almighty. Lieutenant Harris was part of the planning group. I wonder who else was there? He continued.
“After you guys went down to the Motel. I ain’t gonna give you no names. Four of us walked down the alley. Two guys planted the bomb. Three sticks of dynamite and a timer under the front steps. I was at one end of the alley in uniform, and another cop was at the other end. Now, here is where the accident occurred.” he gave me a feigned look of sorrow.
“The timer was set for five o’clock, when nobody would be in the church.”
“Wait a minute. Who built that bomb?” I asked.
“Bob did. He always builds our bombs, but sometimes he ain’t as good as he thinks he is. The bomb didn’t go off when it was supposed to. I told you it was an accident.”
“Accident, my ass. Why didn’t someone call in or go down there and get the bomb,” I asked? They had over five hours before the world ended for four innocent girls.
“Are you out of your mind? We would have got caught. It was an accident. We didn’t mean to kill nobody.”
“Bull shit, you’re accident took the lives of four kids.”
His face turned red, and he started breathing heavily. “We ain’t killed no kids. That ain’t right. Jim, they was Niggers. Female Niggers, and they would have had more Niggers.” He jerked the car door open and got in.
I stood in numb silence as he drove away. I was left with knowing things I could not tell. That was the shit of it all. I was still bound by the police code of silence, secrecy, and solidarity, even when the ghosts of those little girls visited at night and in the quiet times. My police future was a word without meaning. I like Trigger, and the Kluckers played the role of innocence, knowing it was a lie—I knew.
by 
Tom Barker
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