14

CONFESSION

Tanny Brown listened outside the door to Cowart’s apartment. He could hear distant city-night sounds of traffic penetrating the still darkness, blending with the frustrated buzzing of a bottle-green bug that seemed suicidally intent upon assaulting the light fixture in the hallway. He started when he heard a pair of voices from an adjacent apartment rise in sudden laughter, then fade away. For an instant he wondered what the joke was. He listened again at the door, but no sound emanated from Cowart’s apartment. He put his hand on the door handle gently, just twisting it slightly until he met resistance. Locked. He peered at the dead bolt above it and saw that the bolt was thrown.

He clenched a fist in disappointment. He hated the idea of asking Cowart for admittance. He had wanted to slip into the apartment with the stealth of a burglar, to rouse Cowart abruptly from sleep, perched like a wraith on the edge of the reporter’s dream, demanding the truth.

He heard a whirring, metallic noise behind him and turned swiftly, in the same motion trying to back into a shadow. A hand went automatically to his shoulder holster. It was the elevator, rising to another floor. He watched as a small shaft of light slid through the closed entrance door, passing upward. He lowered his hand, wondering why he felt so jumpy. Fatigue and doubt. He looked back at the door in front of him, realizing that if someone spotted him standing there, they would in all likelihood summon the police, taking him for some intruder with evil intentions.

Which, he thought with a twitch of humor, was exactly what he was.

Brown breathed in deeply, clearing his head of exhaustion, concentrating on what had brought him to Cowart’s door. He felt the warm breath of anger on his forehead and he rapped sharply on the thick wooden panels.

Cowart sat cross-legged on the floor amidst the ruins of his apartment, assessing his next step. When the four pistol-like cracks sounded on his door, his first thought was to remain still, frozen like a deer in headlights; his second was to take cover and hide. But instead he rose and walked unsteadily toward the sound.

He took a deep breath and asked, “Who’s there?”

Trouble, thought Brown to himself, but out loud said, “Lieutenant Tanny Brown. I want to talk to you.” There was a moment of silence. “Open up!”

Cowart wanted to laugh out loud. He opened the door and peered around its edge. “Everyone wants to talk to me today. I thought you’d be some more of those damn television guys.”

“No, just me,” replied Brown.

“Same questions, though, I bet,” Cowart said. “So, how’d you find me? I’m not in the book and the city desk won’t give out my home address.”

“Not hard,” the detective replied, still standing in front of the door. “You gave me your home phone number back when you were getting Bobby Earl out of prison. Just a matter of calling the telephone company and telling them it was a police matter.”

The two men’s eyes met and the reporter shook his head. “I should have known you would show up. Everything else seems to be going wrong today.”

Brown gestured with his hand. “Do I have to stand out here or may I come in?”

The reporter seemed to think this was funny, smiling and shaking his head. “All right. Why not? I was going to come see you, anyway.”

He held open the door. The room behind him was black.

“How about lights?”

Cowart went to a wall and flicked a switch. The detective stared around in surprise at the mess illuminated by the overhead light.

“Christ, Cowart. What happened here? You have a break-in?”

The reporter smiled again. “No, just a temper tantrum. And I didn’t feel much like cleaning it up yet. It fits my mood.”

He walked into the center of the living room and found an overturned armchair. He lifted it up and set it on its legs, then stepped back and waved the detective toward it. He swept some papers from the seat of a couch onto the floor and slumped down in the space he’d made.

“Tired,” Cowart said. “Not much sleep.” He rubbed his hands across his face.

“I haven’t been sleeping much, either,” Brown replied. “Too many questions. Not enough answers.”

“That will keep one awake.”

The two weary men stared at each other. Cowart smiled and shook his head in response to the silence between them.

“So, ask me a question,” he said to the detective.

“What’s going on?”

Cowart shrugged. “Too broad. I can’t answer that.”

“Wilcox told me that whatever Blair Sullivan told you before he went to the chair, it fucked you up pretty good. Why don’t you tell me?”

Cowart grinned. “Is that what he said? Sounds like him. He’s a pretty cold-blooded fellow. Didn’t bat an eyelash when they turned on the juice.”

“Why would he? You can’t tell me you shed a tear over Sullivan’s exit.”

“No, can’t say I did. Still . . .”

Brown interrupted. “Bruce Wilcox just sees things differently from you.”

“Ah, well, perhaps,” the reporter replied, nodding. “What would I know? So, you want to know what fucked me up, huh? Wouldn’t listening to a man confess to multiple homicides shake your complacency a bit?”

“It would. It has.”

“That’s right. Death is your line of business. Just as much as it was Sully’s.”

“I guess you could say that, though I don’t like to think of it that way.” Brown tried to obscure the sensation that the reporter had pinned him with his first move. He sat watching the disheveled man in his disrupted apartment. He wondered how long he could keep from grabbing the reporter and shaking answers from him.

Cowart leaned back, as if picking up an interrupted story.

“. . . Well, there was old Sully, talking my ear off. Old men, old women, young folks, middle-aged people, girls, boys. Gas-station attendants and tourists. Convenience-store clerks and the occasional passersby. Zip, zap. Just chewed up and tossed aside by a single wrong man. Knives, guns, strangled ’em with his hands, beat ’em with bats, chopped and shot and drowned. A variety of bad deaths. Inventive stuff, huh? Not nice, not nice at all. Makes one wonder what the world’s coming to, why anyone should go on in the face of all that evil. Isn’t that enough to listen to for a few hours? Wouldn’t that account for my—what? Indecisiveness? Is that a good word?—at the prison.”

“It might.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“No.”

“You think something else is bothering me, and you came all the way down here to ask me what. I’m touched by your concern.”

“It wasn’t concern for you.”

“No, I suspect not.” Cowart laughed ruefully. “I like this,” he said. “You want a drink of something, Lieutenant? While we fence around?”

Brown considered. He shrugged, a single, why-the-hell-not motion and leaned back in his chair. He watched as Cowart rose, walked into the kitchen and returned after a moment, carrying a bottle and a pair of glasses and cradling a six-pack of beer under an arm. He held it up.

“Cheap whiskey. And beer, if you want it. This is what the pressmen used to drink at my old man’s paper. Pour a beer, drink a couple of inches off the top, and in goes a shot. Boilermaker. Does a good job of cutting the day’s tension real fast. Makes you forget you’re working a tough job for long hours and little pay and not much future.”

Cowart fixed each of them a drink. “Perfect drink for the two of us. Cheers,” he said. He swallowed half in a series of fast gulps.

The liquor burned Tanny Brown’s throat and warmed his stomach. He grimaced. “It tastes terrible. Ruins both the whiskey and the beer,” he said.

“Yeah,” Cowart grinned again. “That’s the beauty of it. You take two perfectly reasonable substances that work fine independently, throw them together, and get something horrible. Which you then drink. Just like you and me.”

The detective gulped again. “But if you keep drinking, it improves.”

“Hah. That’s where it’s different than life.” He refilled their glasses, then sat back in his chair, swirling a finger around the lip of his glass, listening to the squeaking sound it made.

“Why should I tell you anything?” he said slowly. “When I first came to you with my questions about Ferguson, you sicced your dog on me. Wilcox. You didn’t make it real easy on me, did you? When we found that knife, were you interested in the truth? Or maybe in keeping your case together? You tell me. Why should I help you?”

“Only one reason. Because I can help you.”

Cowart shook his head. “I don’t think so. And I don’t think that’s a good reason.”

Brown stirred in his seat, eyeing the reporter. “How about this for a reason,” he said after a momentary hesitation. “We’re in something together. Have been from the start. It’s not finished, is it?”

“No,” Cowart conceded.

“The problem, from my point of view, is that I’m in something, but I don’t know what it is. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Cowart leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling, trying to determine what he could say to the detective, and what he should not.

“It’s always pretty much like this, isn’t it?” he said.

“What?”

“Cops and reporters.”

Brown nodded his head. “Uneasy accomplices. At best”

“I had a friend once,” Cowart said. “He was a homicide detective like you. He used to tell me that we were both interested in the same thing, only for different purposes. For a long time neither of us could ever really understand the other’s motives. He thought I just wanted to write stories, and I thought he just wanted to clear cases and make his way up the bureaucratic ladder. What he would tell me helped me write the stories. The publicity his cases got helped him in the department. We sort of fed each other. So there we were, wanting to know the same things, needing the same information, using a few of the same techniques, more alike than we’d ever acknowledge, and distrusting the hell out of each other. Working the same territory from different sides of the street and never crossing over. It was a long time before we began to see our sameness instead of our differences.”

Brown refilled his drink, feeling the liquor work on his frayed feelings. He swallowed long and stared over at Cowart. “It’s in the nature of detectives to distrust anything they can’t control. Especially information.”

Cowart grinned again. “That’s what makes this so interesting, Lieutenant. I know something you want to learn. It’s a unique position for me. Usually I’m trying to get people like you to tell me things.”

Brown also smiled, but not because he thought it amusing. It was a smile that made Cowart grasp his glass a bit tighter and shift about in his seat.

“We’ve only had one thing to talk about, from the very start. I haven’t had enough to drink to forget that one thing, have I, Mr. Cowart? I don’t think there’s enough liquor in your apartment to make me forget. Maybe not in the whole world.”

The reporter grew silent, then he leaned forward. “Tell you what, Detective. You want to know. I want to know. Let’s make a trade.”

The detective set his glass down slowly. “Trade what?”

“The confession. It starts there, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you tell me the truth about that confession, and I’ll tell you the truth about Ferguson.”

Brown held his back straight, as if memory thrust rigidity into his body and his words.

“Mr. Cowart,” he replied slowly. “Do you know what happens when you grow up and live your life in one little place? You get so’s you can sense what’s right and wrong in the breeze, maybe in the smell of the day, the way the heat builds up around noon and starts to slip away at dusk. It’s like knowing the notes of a piece of music so that when the band plays them, in your head you’ve already heard them. I’m not saying everything’s always small-town perfect and there ain’t terrible things happening. Pachoula isn’t big like Miami, but it doesn’t mean we don’t have husbands who beat their wives, kids that do drugs, whores, loan sharks, extortion, killings. All the same. Just not quite so obvious.”

“And Bobby Earl?”

“Wrong from the start. I knew he was waiting to kill somebody. Maybe from the way he walked or talked or that little laugh he would make when I would pull his car over. He came from mean stock, Mr. Cowart, no different from a dog that’s been bred for fighting. And it got all tarnished and banged-up worse living in the city. He was filled with hate. Hated me. Hated you. Hated everything. Walking around, waiting for that hate to take over completely. All that time, he knew I was watching him. Knew I was waiting. Knew I knew he was waiting, too.”

Cowart looked over at the narrow eyes of the detective and thought, Ferguson wasn’t the only one filled with hate. “Give me details.”

“None to give. A girl complains he followed her home. Another tells us he tried to talk her into his car. Offered her a ride, he said. Just trying to be friendly. But then a neighborhood crime watch patrol spots him cruising their streets at midnight with his headlights off. Somebody’s committing rapes and assaults in the next couple of counties, but forensics can’t match him up. A patrol car rousts him from outside the junior high one week before the abduction and murder, right before the end of school, and he’s got no explanation for why he’s there. Hell, I even ran his name through the national computer and I called the Jersey state police, see if they had anything up there in Newark. No instant winners, though.”

“Except Joanie Shriver turns up dead one day.”

Brown sighed. The liquor slopped over some of his anger. “That’s correct. One day Joanie Shriver turns up dead.”

Cowart stared at the police lieutenant. “You’re not telling me something.”

Brown nodded. “She was my daughter’s best friend. My friend, too.”

The reporter nodded. “And?”

Brown spoke quietly. “Her father. Owned those hardware stores. Got ’em from his father. Gave me a job after hours in high school sweeping out the place. He was just one of those people who put color way down on his list, especially at a time when everybody else had it at the top of theirs. You remember what it was like in Florida in the early sixties? There were marches and sit-ins and cross burnings. And in the midst of all that, he gave me a job. Helped me when I went away to college. And when I came back from Vietnam, he pointed me to the police force. Made some calls. Pulled some strings. Called in a favor or two. You think those little things don’t amount to much? And his son was my friend. He worked in the store next to me. We shared jokes, troubles, futures. That sort of thing didn’t happen a lot back then, though you probably didn’t know that. That means something, too, Mr. Cowart, in this equation. And our children played together. And if you had any idea what that meant, well, you’d understand why I don’t sleep much now at night. So I had a couple of debts. Still do.”

“Go on.”

“Do you have any idea how much you can hate yourself for letting something happen that you could no more have prevented than you can prevent the sun from rising, or the tide from flowing in?”

Cowart looked hard, straight ahead. “Perhaps.”

“Do you know what it’s like to know, to know absolutely, positively, with complete certainty, that something wrong is going to happen and yet be powerless to stop it? And then, when it does happen, it steals someone you love right from beneath your arms? Crushes the heart of a real friend? And I couldn’t do a thing. Not a damn thing!”

The force of Brown’s words had driven him to his feet. He clenched a fist in the air between them, as if grasping all the fury that echoed within him. “So, get it now, Mr. Cowart? You beginning to see?”

“I think so.”

“So, there the bastard was. Smirking away in a chair. Taunting me. He knew, you see. He thought he couldn’t be touched. Bruce looked at me, and I nodded. I left the room, and he let the bastard have it. You think we beat that confession out of Robert Earl Ferguson? Well, you’re absolutely right. We did.”

Brown slapped one hand sharply against the other, making a sound like a shot. “Wham! Used the phone book, just like the bastard said.”

The detective’s eyes pierced Cowart. “Choked him, hit him, you name it. But the bastard hung in there. Just spat at us and kept laughing. He’s tough, did you know that? And he’s a lot stronger than he appears.” Brown took a deep breath. “I only wished we’d killed him, right there and then, instead.”

The detective clenched his fist and thrust it at the reporter. “So, if physical violence won’t work, what’s next? A little bit of psychological twisting will do the trick. You see, I realized he wasn’t afraid of us. No matter how hard we hit him. But what was he afraid of?”

Brown rose. He pulled up his pants leg. “There’s the damn gun. Just like he said. Ankle holster.”

“And that’s what finally made him confess?”

“No,” Brown said with cool ferocity. “Fear made him confess.”

The detective reached down abruptly and with a single, sudden movement, freed the weapon. It leapt into his hand and he thrust it forward, pointing straight at Cowart’s forehead. He thumbed back the hammer, which made a small, evil click. “Like this,” he said.

Cowart felt sudden heat flood his face.

“Fear, Mr. Cowart. Fear and uncertainty about just how crazy anger can make a man.”

The small pistol was dwarfed by the hulking figure of the detective, rigid with emotion. He leaned forward, pushing the gun directly against Cowart’s skull, where it remained for a few seconds, like an icicle.

“I want to know,” the detective said. “I do not want to wait.” He pulled the gun back so that the weapon hovered a few inches from Cowart’s face.

The reporter remained frozen in his seat. He had to struggle to force his eyes away from the black barrel hole and up at the policeman. “You gonna shoot me?”

“Should I, Mr. Cowart? Don’t you think I hate you enough to shoot you for coming up to Pachoula with all your damn questions?”

“If it hadn’t been me, it would have been somebody else.” Cowart’s voice cracked with tension.

“I would have hated anyone enough to kill them.”

The reporter felt a wild panic within him. His eyes locked on the detective’s finger, tightening on the trigger. He thought he could see it move.

Ohmigod, Cowart thought. He’s going to do it. For an instant, he thought he would pass out.

“Tell me,” Brown said icily. “Tell me what I want to know.”

Cowart could feel the blood draining from his face. His hands twitched on his lap. All control raced away.

“I’ll tell you. Just put the gun away.”

The detective stared at him.

“You were right, you were right all along! Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

Brown nodded. “You see,” he said softly, evenly, “it’s not hard to get someone to talk.”

Cowart looked at the policeman. He said, “It’s not me you want to kill.”

Tanny Brown held stiff for an instant. Then he lowered the gun. “That’s right. It isn’t. Or maybe it is, but it isn’t the right time yet.”

He sat back down and placed the revolver on the arm of the chair, picking up his drink again. He let the liquor squeeze the anger, and he breathed out slowly. “Close, Cowart. Close.”

The reporter leaned back in his seat. “Everything seems to be cut close for me.”

They were both silent for a moment before the detective spoke again. “Isn’t that what you guys always complain about? People always hate the press for bringing them the bad news, right? Killing the messenger, huh?”

“Yeah. Except we don’t mean it so damn literally.” Cowart exhaled swiftly and burst into a high-pitched laugh of relief. He thought for an instant. “So that must have been how it happened, right? Point that thing in someone’s face and one’s inhibitions against self-incrimination just naturally flow away fast.”

“It’s not in the approved police training textbooks,” Brown replied. “But you’re right. And you were right about that all along. Ferguson told you the truth. That’s how we got that confession. Only one small problem, though.”

“I know the problem.”

The two men stared at each other.

Cowart finished the statement hanging in the air between them. “The confession was the truth, too.”

The reporter paused, then added, “So you say. So you believe.”

Brown leaned back hard in his seat. “Right,” he said. He took a deep breath, shaking his head back and forth. “I should never have allowed it. I had too much experience. I knew too much. Knew what could happen when it got into the system. But I let all sorts of wrong things get in the way. It’s like hitting a patch of slick mud in your car. One minute you’re in control but speeding along, the next out of control, spinning around, fishtailing down the road.”

Brown picked up his drink. “But, you see, I thought we might get away with it. Bobby Earl turned out to be his own worst witness. His old attorney didn’t know what the hell he was doing. We waltzed that bastard right onto the Row, where he belonged, with just a minimum of lies and misstatements. So I was thinking maybe it would all work out, you know. Maybe I wouldn’t be having any more nightmares about little Joanie Shriver. . . .”

“I know about nightmares.”

“And you came along, asking all the damn right questions. Picking away at all the little failures, the little lies. Seeing right through that conviction just as if it weren’t there. Damn. The more you were right, the more I hated you. Had to be, can’t you see?” He pulled hard at the glass, then set it down and poured himself another.

“Why did you admit that Ferguson was slapped, when I came up to interview you? I mean, it opened the door . . .”

The detective shrugged. “No, what opened the door was Bruce exploding. When you saw that frustration and anger, I knew you’d believe he’d beaten Ferguson, just like the bastard said. So, by telling a small truth—that he slapped him—I thought I could hide the big truth. It was a gamble. Didn’t work. Came close, though.”

Cowart nodded. “Like an iceberg,” he said.

“Right,” Brown replied. “All you see is the pretty white ice up on top. Can’t see the dangerous stuff below.”

Cowart laughed out loud, though the laughter had no humor attached to it, only a burst of nervous relief and energy. “Only one other little detail.”

The detective smiled as well, speaking quickly, cutting across the reporter’s words. “You see, I know what Blair Sullivan told you. I mean, I don’t know. But I sure as hell can guess. And that’s the little detail, ain’t it?”

The reporter nodded. “What was it you say you knew Bobby Earl was?”

“A killer.”

“Well, I think you may be right. Of course, you may be wrong, too. I don’t know. You like music, Detective?”

“Sure.”

“What sort?”

“Pop, mostly. A little bit of sixties soul and rock to remind me of when I was young. Makes my kids laugh at me. They call me ancient.”

“Ever listen to Miles Davis?”

“Sure.”

“This is a favorite of mine.”

Cowart rose and approached the stereo system. He put the tape into the player and turned to the detective. “You don’t mind if we just listen to the end, huh?”

He punched a button and plaintive jazz filled the room.

Brown stared at the reporter. “Cowart, what’re you doing? I’m not here to listen to music.”

Cowart slumped back into his seat. “Sketches of Spain. Very famous. Ask any expert and they’ll tell you it’s a seminal piece of American musicianship. It just slides its rhythms right through you, gentle and harsh all at the same time. You probably think this piece ends nice and easy-like. But you’re wrong.”

The mingled horns paled slowly and were abruptly replaced by Blair Sullivan’s acrid voice. Brown pitched forward in his seat at the murderer’s first words. He craned his neck toward the stereo speakers, his back rigid, his attention totally on what he was hearing.

“. . . Now I will tell you the truth about little Joanie Shriver . . . Perfect little Joanie . . .” The executed man’s voice was mocking, clear and resonant.

“. . . Number forty,” Cowart said on the tape.

And the dead man’s laugh pierced the air.

The reporter and the police detective sat still, letting Sullivan’s voice envelop them. When the tape hissed to its end and clicked off, the two men sat quietly, staring at each other.

“Damn,” said Brown. “I knew it. Son of a bitch.”

“Right,” replied Cowart.

Brown rose and pounded one hand into another. He felt his insides spark with energy, as if the killer’s words had electrified the air. He clenched his teeth and said, “I’ve got you, you bastard. I’ve got you.”

Cowart remained slumped in his seat, watching the policeman. “Nobody’s got anybody,” he said quietly, sadly.

“What do you mean?” The detective looked at the tape machine. “Who else knows about this?”

“You and me.”

“You didn’t tell those detectives working the Monroe murders?”

“Not yet.”

“You understand that you’re withholding important evidence in a murder investigation. You understand that’s a crime?”

“What evidence? A lying, twisted killer tells me a story. Blames another man for all sorts of things. What does that amount to? Reporters hear stuff all the time. We listen, process, discard. You tell me: evidence of what?”

“His goddamn confession. His description of the deaths of his mother and stepfather. How he worked it all out. Dying declaration, just as he said, is admissible in a court of law.”

“He lied. He lied right, left, up, and down. I don’t think, at the end, he understood what was truth and what was fiction.”

“Bullshit. That story sounds pretty goddamn real to me.”

“That’s because you want it to be real. Look at it another way. Suppose I told you that in the rest of the interview, he made up things. Claimed murders he couldn’t possibly have committed. Misstated all sorts of stuff. He was grandiose, egotistical, wanted to be remembered for his achievements. Hell, he almost claimed being a part of the Kennedy assassination and to know where Hoffa’s body lies. Now, hearing all that stuff mixed together, wouldn’t that make you wonder if he was telling you the truth about this little murder or two?”

Brown hesitated. “No.”

Cowart stared at the detective.

“All right. Maybe.”

“And what about him and Bobby Earl? Just where does the betrayal start? Maybe he figured this was his way back at Bobby Earl. I mean, what meant what? And now he’s dead. Can’t ask him, unless you want to take a trip to hell.”

“I’m willing.”

“So am I.”

The detective glared over at Cowart, but then his frown dissipated and he nodded his head. “I think I see now.”

“See what?”

“Why it’s so damn important for you to believe Bobby Earl’s still innocent. I see why you tore up your own place here. Tore up your nice little life a bit when you heard what Sullivan told you, huh?”

Cowart gestured, as if to say the detective was stating the obvious.

“Prize. Reputation. Future. Pretty big stakes. Maybe you’d prefer it just all go away, huh, Mr. Cowart?”

“It won’t,” he replied softly.

“No, it won’t, will it? Maybe you can close your eyes to a lot, but you’re still gonna see that little girl all dripping dead in the swamp, aren’t you? No matter how hard you shut your eyes.”

“Correct.”

“And so you’ve got a debt, too, huh, Mr. Cowart?”

“It seems that way.”

“Need to make things right? Put the world back in order?”

Cowart didn’t need to answer. He smiled sadly and took another long drink. He gestured Brown back to his seat. The detective slumped down but remained on the front rim of the chair, wound tight, as if ready to jump up.

“Okay,” said the reporter. “You’re the detective. What would you do first? Go see Bobby Earl?”

Brown considered carefully. “Maybe. Maybe not. Fox’ll walk through the trap unless it’s set just right and proper.”

“If there’s a trap to set. If he is a fox.”

“Well,” Brown said slowly, “Sullivan said a few things that can be checked out up in Pachoula. Maybe another talk with that old grandmother, and a look around her place. Sullivan said we missed something. Let’s go see if he was telling the truth about that. Maybe we can start there, figure out what’s the truth and what’s not.”

Cowart shook his head slowly. “That’s right. Except we go back there and walk through the front door and there’s eight-by-ten glossy photographs of Ferguson committing that murder sitting on the mantelpiece and it doesn’t help a damn thing. . . .” He pointed his finger at Tanny Brown. “He can’t be touched, not legally. You know that you won’t ever make a case against him. Not ever. Not with that confession and with all the other stuff that’s muddying up all this. It’ll never happen in any court of law.”

Cowart breathed in hard. “. . . And another thing. When we show up there, that old grandmother of his will know that something’s changed. And as soon as she knows, he’ll know.”

Brown nodded but said harshly, “I still want the answer.”

“So do I,” Cowart said, before continuing. “But the Monroe case. Well, if he did it—and I’m only saying if—if he did it, you could make him on that.” He paused, then corrected himself. “We could make him on that. You and me.”

“And that might put things right? Put him back on Death Row, clear the slate? That what you’re thinking?”

“Maybe. I hope so.”

“Hope,” said the detective, “is something I have never placed much faith in. Like luck and prayer. And anyway,” he continued, shaking his head, “same problem. One lying man says a deal’s been made. But the only corroboration of that deal is dead in Monroe County. So, you think maybe we can find some weapon on Bobby Earl? Maybe he used a credit card to buy a plane ticket and rent a car, so we can place him down there on the day of the murder? You think he let someone see him? Or maybe he shot his mouth off to some other folks? You think he was so stupid that he left prints or hair or any damn bit of forensic evidence which your dear friends in the Monroe sheriff’s department will generously hand over to you with no questions asked? You don’t think he learned enough the first time around, so that he did this clean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know that he did it.”

“If he didn’t do it, then who the hell did? You think Blair Sullivan struck some other deals in prison?”

“I only know one thing. Making deals, running head games, manipulation, it was what he lived for.”

“And died for.”

“That’s right. Maybe that was his last deal.”

Brown relaxed in his seat. He picked up his pistol and twirled it around, stroking a finger across the blue metal. “You stick to that, Mr. Cowart. You stick to that objectivity. No matter how goddamn stupid it makes you look.”

Cowart felt a sudden rush of anger. “Not as goddamn stupid as someone beating a confession out of a murder suspect so the man gets a free ride.”

There was a brief quiet between the two men before the detective said, “And there’s that one other thing on the tape, right? Where Sullivan says ‘Someone just like me . . .’” He looked hard at the reporter. “Didn’t that make your skin crawl just a bit, Mr. Cowart? What do you suppose that means?” The detective spoke through tightly clenched teeth. “Don’t you think that’s a question we ought to answer?”

“Yes,” Cowart replied, bitterness streaking the word. Silence gripped the two men again.

“All right,” Cowart said. “You’re right. Let’s start.” He looked over at the policeman. “Do we have an agreement?”

“What sort of agreement?”

“I don’t know.”

Brown nodded. “In that case, then, I suspect so,” replied the policeman.

Both men looked at each other. Neither believed the other for an instant. Both men knew they needed to find out the truth of what happened. The problem, each realized silently to himself, was that each man needed a different truth.

“What about the Monroe detectives?” Cowart asked.

“Let them do their job. At least for now. I need to see what happened down there for myself.”

“They’ll be back. I think I’m the only thing they’ve got to go on.”

“Then we’ll see. But I think they’ll head back to the prison. That’s what I’d do if I were them.” He pointed to the tape. “. . . And if I didn’t know about that.”

The reporter nodded. “A few minutes back you were accusing me of breaking the law.”

Brown rose and fixed the reporter with a single, fierce glance. Cowart glared back.

“There’s likely to be a few more laws broken before we get through with all this,” the policeman said quietly.