John Katzenbach - Just Cause

Cowart glanced around but couldn't see a phone. 'I went to see her.'

'Well, that was nice of you.'

'I went to see her because Blair Sullivan told me to go look for something there.'

'Told you when?'

'Right before he died.'

'Mr. Cowart, you're driving at something and I surely have no idea what.'

'In the outhouse.'

'Not a nice place. Old. Ain't been used for a year.'

'That's right.'

'I put some plumbing in. A thousand bucks, cash.'

'Why'd you do it?'

'What? Put plumbing in? Because it's cold to walk outside and do your business in the wintertime.'

Cowart shook his head. 'No. That's not what I mean. Why did you kill Joanie Shriver?'

Ferguson stared hard at Cowart and then leaned back in his chair. 'Haven't killed nobody. Especially that little gal. Thought you knew that by now.'

'You're lying.'

Ferguson glared at him. 'No.'

'You raped her, then you killed her, left her body in the swamp, and stuck the knife under the culvert. Then you returned home and saw that there was blood on your clothes and on a piece of the rug in your car, so you cut that out, and you took it and wrapped up the clothes and buried them under all this shit and muck in that outhouse, because you knew that no one in their right mind would ever look there for them.'

Ferguson shook his head.

'You denying it?' Cowart asked.

'Of course.'

'I found the clothing and the rug.'

Ferguson looked surprised for an instant, then shrugged. 'Came all this way to tell me that?'

'Why did you kill her?'

I didn't. I told you.'

'Liar. You've been lying from the start.'

Cowart thought the statement should anger Ferguson, but it did not, at least outwardly. Instead he smiled, reached forward, slowly cut himself another slice of cake, lingering with the knife in his hand for just a moment, then took another sip of coffee.

'The lies are all Sullivan's. What else did he tell you?'

That you killed his folks down in the Keys.'

Ferguson shook his head. 'Didn't do that crime, neither. Helps explain what that pretty detective was doing poking about up here, though.'

'Why'd you kill Joanie Shriver?' Cowart asked again.

Ferguson started to rise, anger finally creasing the edge of his voice. I didn't do that crime! Goddammit, how many times I got to say that?'

'Then how did that stuff get in your outhouse?'

'We used to throw all sorts of things away down there. Clothes, auto parts that didn't work, trash. You name it. Those clothes you thinking of, I threw them out 'cause they got covered with pig's blood, 'cause I helped a neighbor slaughter an old sow. And I was walking home through the woods and got surprised by an old skunk and got nailed good with its damn stink. And hell, I had a little extra money, so I wrapped up those clothes and just threw 'em out, they was almost worn out anyways. Went and bought a new pair of jeans downtown.'

'And the rug?'

'The rug got cut up by accident. Got torn when I put a chainsaw on the floor of the car. I cut out the square 'cause I was going to replace it with a new piece of rug. Got arrested first, though. Just chucked it down there, same as everything else.'

Ferguson looked over at Cowart warily. 'You got lab results that say differently?'

Cowart started to shake his head but then stopped. He didn't know whether Ferguson had spotted the slight movement.

'You think I'm so damn stupid that after I got out of prison, if that stuff were evidence of some damn crime, especially a first-degree murder, I wouldn't go get it and make sure it was disappeared for good? What do you think, Mr. Cowart? You think I didn't learn anything on Death Row? You think I didn't learn anything taking all those criminology courses? You think I'm stupid, Mr. Cowart?'

'No,' said Cowart. 'I don't think you're stupid.' His eyes locked onto Ferguson's. 'And I think you've learned a great deal.'

The two men were quiet for an instant.

'How did Sullivan know about that outhouse?'

Ferguson shrugged. 'He told me once, before we had our little disagreement, said he once strangled a woman with her pantyhose, then flushed the stockings down the toilet. Said once they got into that septic system, weren't no one gonna find them. Asked me what I had at my house, and I told him we had that old outhouse and we used to throw all sorts of stuff in there. I guess he just put two and two together and made up a story for you, Mr. Cowart. So when you looked hard enough and thought hard enough and expected to find something, you sure as hell did. Isn't that the way things work? When you go looking for sure for something, you're likely to find it. Even if it ain't what you really are looking for.'

That's a convenient story.'

Again, Ferguson bristled briefly, then relaxed. 'Can't make it any prettier. But if you listen, seems to me that you'll hear a bit of Blair Sullivan in it. Man was able to twist about anything into something useful for him, wasn't he, Mr. Cowart?'

That's true, he replied.

Ferguson gestured toward the tape recorder and the notepad that Cowart held in his hand.

'You here looking for some sort of story, Mr. Cowart?'

That's right.'

Well, this is all old news.'

'I don't know about that.'

Old story. Same old story. You been talking to Tanny Brown. That man is never gonna give up, is he?'

Cowart smiled. 'No,' he answered. 'He's never going to give up.'

Damn him,' Ferguson said bitterly. But then his voice lost the touch of fury that had accompanied the epithet and he added, 'But he can't touch me now.'

Cowart could feel a helplessness sinking within him. He tried to imagine what Tanny Brown would ask, what question could break through the hard shell of innocence that covered Ferguson. For the first time, he began to understand why Brown had loosened his partner's fists to obtain the confession to murder.

When you go south to talk to some church group, Bobby Earl, or when you go to some civic center, do you give the same speech every time, or do you make it a bit different for different audiences?'

I change it about a bit. It depends on whom I'm speaking to. But mostly it's the same message.'

'But the thrust of it?'

'That remains the same.'

Tell me what you say.'

'I tell folks how Jesus came and brought light right into the darkness of that cell on Death Row, Mr. Cowart. I tell them how faith will abide you through the most dangerous of times. How even the worst sinner can be touched by that special light and find comfort in the words of God. I tell them how truth will always rise up and cut through evil like a great shining sword and show the path to freedom. And they say Amen to that, Mr. Cowart, because that is a message that comforts the heart and soul, don't you think?'

'I think it does. And are you a regular churchgoer up here in Newark?'

'No. Here I'm a student.'

Cowart nodded. 'So, how many times have you given this speech?'

'Eight or nine.'

'You got the names of the churches, community centers, whatever?'

'This for a story?'

'Give me the names.'

Ferguson stared hard at Cowart, then shrugged, as if unconcerned. Rapid-fire he raced through a short list of churches, Baptist, Pentecostal, and Unitarian, adding the names of a few civic centers. The names of the towns they were in followed just as swiftly. Cowart struggled to get the information into his notebook. His pen made a scratching sound against the page, and he saw his handwriting flying about between the blue-ruled lines. Ferguson finished and waited for Cowart to say something. The reporter counted. Perrine was on the list.

'That's only seven.'

'Maybe I forgot one or two.'

Cowart stood up, driven to his feet by the turbulence, he felt within him. He moved away from Ferguson, toward the bookcase. His eyes scanned the titles, just as Shaeffer had done when she visited the apartment.