John Katzenbach - Just Cause

And yet, everything was a lie, the explosive coupling of the two men completely obscuring whatever truth lay about.

He thought, I am in hell. The simple, terrible reality was, for all the right reasons, all the wrong things had happened.

The first two times the telephone rang, he ignored it. The third time, he stirred himself and, despite knowing there was no one he wanted to talk to, plucked the phone from its cradle and held it to his ear.

Yes?'

Christ, Matt?'

It was Will Martin from the editorial department.

'Will?'

Jesus, fella, where the hell have you been? Everyone's going slightly bananas trying to find you.'

'I drove back. Just got in.'

From Starke? That's an eight-hour trip.'

'Less than six, actually. I was going pretty fast.'

'Well, boy, I hope you can write as fast as you can drive. The city desk is screaming for your copy and we got a couple hours before first-edition deadline. You got to get your rear in gear, in here, pronto.' The editor's singsong voice was filled with excitement.

'Sure. Sure…' Cowart listened to his own voice as if it were someone else talking on the telephone. 'Hey,

Will, what're the wires moving?'

'Wild stuff. They're still doing new leads on that little press conference of yours. Just what the hell happened up there, anyway? Nobody's talking about anything else and nobody knows a damn thing. You ought to see your phone messages. The networks, the Times and Post, and the newsweeklies, just for starters. The three local affiliates have the front door staked out, so we got to figure a way of getting you in here without too much fuss. There's a half-dozen calls already from homicide cops working cold cases that just happened to be on the route that Sullivan took. Everybody wants to know what that killer told you before taking his evening juice, if you'll pardon the pun.'

'Sullivan confessed to a bunch of crimes.'

'I know that. The wires have run that already. That's what you told everybody up there. But we've got to get the inside story right now, son. Chapter and verse. Names, dates, and details. Right now. You got it on tape? We got to get that to a typist, hell, a half-dozen typists, if need be, get some transcripts made. C'mon, Matty, I know you're probably exhausted, buddy, but you got to rally. Pop some No Doze, gulp some coffee. Just get on in here. Pump out those words. You got to move, Matty, move, before this place gets crazy. Hell, you can sleep later. Anyway, sleep's overrated. Better to have a big story anytime. Trust me.'

'Okay,' Cowart said helplessly. Any thought of trying to explain what had happened had dissipated in the waves of enthusiasm Will poured over the phone line. Cowart realized if Martin was this way – a man dedicated to a slow, thoughtful, editorial-page-consideration pace of events – the city desk was probably frantic with excitement. A big story has a universal impact on the staff of a newspaper. It catches hold of everyone, sucks them in, makes them feel as if they're a part of the events. He took a deep breath. 'I'm on my way,' he said quietly. 'But how do I get past the camera crews?'

'No problem. You know where the downtown Marriott Hotel sorta hides behind the Omni Mall? On that little back street by the bay?'

'Sure.'

'Well, a home-delivery truck will pick you up, right on the corner, in twenty minutes. Just jump in and come in the freight entrance.'

'Cloak and dagger, huh?' Cowart was forced to smile.

These are dangerous times, my son, demanding unique efforts. It was the best we could come up with on short notice. Now, I suppose the CIA or the KGB could think of something better, but who's got the time? And anyway, outwitting a bunch of television reporters shouldn't be the hardest damn thing in the world.'

'I'm on my way.' Then suddenly, he thought of the tapes in his briefcase containing the confession and the truth about Joanie Shriver's murder. He couldn't let anyone hear those words. Not until things had settled, and he'd sorted out what he was going to do. He scrambled. 'Look, I need to shower first. Hold the pickup for, say, forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.'

Not a chance. You don't need to be clean to write.'

I've got to collect my thoughts.'

You want me to tell the city editor you're thinking?'

'No, no, just say I'm on my way, I'm just getting my notes together. Thirty minutes, Will. Half an hour. Promise.'

'No more. Got to move, son. Got to move.' Will Martin made slapping sounds to punctuate the urgency of the moment.

'A half hour. No more.'

'Okay. I'll tell the city editor. Man he's gonna have a heart attack and it's only ten A.M. The truck will be waiting for you. Just hurry. Keep the poor guy alive another day, huh?' Martin laughed at his joke and hung up.

Cowart's head spun. He knew he was running out of choices, that the detectives would arrive at his office momentarily. Things were moving too rapidly for him to contain. He had to go in and write something. Things were expected of him.

But instead of grabbing his jacket, he seized his briefcase and pulled out the tapes. It only took him a second to locate the last tape; he'd been careful to number them as each was completed. For a moment he held the tape in his hand and considered destroying it, but instead, he took it over to his own stereo system and plugged it into the tape deck. He wound the tape through to the end, then backtracked it a few feet and punched the Play button. Blair Sullivan's gravel voice burst through the speakers, filling the small apartment with its acid message. Cowart waited until he heard the words: '… Now I will tell you the truth about little Joanie Shriver.'

He stopped the tape and rewound it a few feet, to where Blair Sullivan said, 'That's all thirty-nine. Some story, huh?' And he'd responded, 'Mr. Sullivan, there's not much time.' The killer had shouted then, 'Haven't you paid any attention, boy?' before continuing with, 'Now it's time for one more story…'

He rewound the tape again, backing it up to 'Some story, huh?'

He went to his record and tape collection and found a cassette he'd recorded some years back of Miles Davis's 'Sketches of Spain.' It was an older tape, frequently played, with a faded label. He knew that there were a few feet of blank tape on the end of that recording. He put the tape in the player and found the end of the music. Then he removed the tape and placed it in his portable machine, put the small portable directly in front of his stereo speakers, and replaced Blair Sullivan's confession in the larger unit. He punched the Play button on the Sullivan recording and the Record button on the Miles Davis.

Cowart listened to the words boil around him, trying to blank them from his imagination.

When the tape was finished, he shut both machines off. He played the Sullivan section on the end of the Miles Davis tape. The clarity of the voice speaking was diminished – but still brutally audible. Then he took the tape and replaced it on the shelf with the rest of his records and tapes.

For a moment he stared at the original Sullivan tape.

Then he rewound it to the spot he'd duplicated on the Davis, punched the Record button and obliterated Sullivan's words with a breathless silence.

It would seem an abrupt ending, but it would have to do. He didn't know if the tape would stand up to any professional scrutiny by a police lab, but it would buy him some time.

Cowart looked up briefly from the computer screen and saw the two detectives moving through the newsroom. They maneuvered between the desks, zigzagging toward him, ignoring the dozens of other reporters in the room, whose heads rose and whose eyes followed their path, so that by the time they arrived at his desk, everyone was watching them.

All right, Mr. Cowart,' Andrea Shaeffer said briskly. 'Our turn.'