John Katzenbach - Just Cause

He looked up at her, eyes alert. '… And I don't suppose if you don't think it's such a damn hard thing to strap somebody into a chair and fry their ass it'd be such a damn hard thing to go tie somebody in a chair and cut their throat.'

1 didn't say they had their throats cut.'

'It was in all the papers.'

'Who?' she asked. 'Give me a name or two.'

'You're asking me to help you?'

'Names. Who on the Row would you talk to?'

He shook his head. 'I don't know. But they were there. You could tell, you know. The Row is a society of killers. It didn't take too long to figure out that some of the jailers belonged on the other side.'

He continued to grin at her. 'Go and see for yourself,' he said. 'Shouldn't take a sharp detective like yourself too long to figure out who's bent and who's not.'

'A society of killers,' she said. 'Where did you fit in, Mr. Ferguson?'

'I didn't. I was on the fringe.'

'How much would you have to pay?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know. A lot? A little? Currency is a hard thing to estimate, Detective, because the right person will do the wrong thing for a lot of different reasons.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, Blair Sullivan, for example. He'd likely kill you for no reason at all. With no other payment than the sheer pleasure of it, huh, Detective? You ever meet anybody like that? I don't bet so. You look a bit young and inexperienced for that.'

His eyes followed her as she shifted position. 'And you know, Detective, there's some men on the Row hate the police so bad, they'd kill a cop for free. And enjoy every second of it. Especially if they could, you know, draw it out. Make it last.'

He mocked her with lilting tones. 'And they'd take a special pleasure in killing a lady cop, don't you think, Detective? A special, unique, and very terrible pleasure.'

She didn't reply, simply letting the harsh words flow over her like cold water.

– '… Or Mr. Cowart. Seems to me he'd do just about anything for a good story. What do you think, Detective?'

She felt a surge within her. 'What about you, Mr. Ferguson? What payment would you ask to kill somebody?'

His smile slid away. 'Never killed anybody. Never will.'

'That's not the question, Mr. Ferguson. What payment would you ask for?'

'It would depend,' he replied, with ice quiet riding his voice.

'Depend on what?' she demanded.

'Depend on who it was I was going to kill.' He stared across the room at her. 'Isn't that true for everybody, Detective? There are some killings that would require big money, right? Others you'd do for nothing.'

'What would you do for nothing, Mr. Ferguson?'

He smiled again. 'Can't really say. Never thought about it.'

'Really? That's not what you told those two Escambia detectives. Not what a jury found.'

Barely contained rage creased the complacency of his face, and he replied in bitter, low tones, 'That was beat out of me. You know that perfectly well. Judge threw it out. I never did anything to that little girl. Sullivan did, he killed her.'

'And the price?'

'In that case,' Ferguson said coldly, 'the price was paid in pleasure.'

'What about Sullivan and his family? What do you think he'd have paid for those deaths?'

'Blair Sullivan? I suspect he'd have paid with his soul to take them with him.'

Ferguson leaned forward, lowering his voice. 'You know what he told me, before I figured out he was the person who killed the little girl that had put me on the Row? He used to talk about cancer, you know. Like some damn doctor, he knew so much about the disease. He would simply start in talking about deformed cells and molecular structures and DNA breakdowns and how just this little, tiny, microscopic wrong was working away within you, wreaking evil right through your whole body and working hard so that it would get in your lungs and colon and pancreas and brain and whatever, just make you rot away from within. And when he'd finish his lecture, he'd lean back and say why he was just the same damn thing, no different at all. What do you think of that, Detective?'

Ferguson leaned back, as if relaxing, but Shaeffer could see the muscles beneath his sweatshirt twitch. She didn't reply but started to move about the apartment again. The floor seemed to sway slightly beneath her feet.

'He talked to you about death?'

Ferguson leaned forward. 'On Death Row, it's a frequent subject.'

'And what did you learn?'

'I learned that it's about the most common thing around, ain't it, Detective? Why, it's just everywhere you turn. People think dying is something special, but it isn't, is it?'

'Some deaths are special.'

'Those must be the ones you're interested in.'

'That's right.'

She saw him lean forward slightly, as if anticipating her next question.

'You like sneakers?' she asked abruptly. For an instant, she thought it was someone else speaking in the small room.

He looked slightly surprised. 'Sure. Wear them all the time. Everybody here does.'

'How about that pair. What sort are they?'

'These are Nikes.'

'They look new.'

'Just last week.'

'Got another pair in the closet?'

'Sure.'

She strode across in front of him, heading toward the back bedroom. 'Just sit still,' she said. She could sense his eyes tracking her, burning into her back.

In the closet there was a pair of hightop basketball shoes. She picked them up. Damn! she thought abruptly. They were Converse and old and worn enough to have ripped near the toe. Still, she turned them over and inspected the soles. Near the ball of the foot the rubber had been rubbed smooth. She shook her head. That would have shown up. And the sole tread configuration was different from the Reeboks that the killer had worn when he visited number thirteen Tarpon Drive. She replaced the shoes and returned to face Ferguson.

He looked at her. 'So, you've got a shoeprint from the murder scene, right?'

She remained silent.

'… And you just all of a sudden thought you'd better check my closet.' He stared at her. 'What else have you got?' After a moment, he answered his own question. 'Not much, right? But what brings you here?'

1 told you. Matthew Cowart. Blair Sullivan. And you.'

He didn't respond at first. She could see his mind working rapidly. Finally he spoke in a flat, angry voice. 'So, this is how it's gonna be? From now on? Is that right? Some tired-ass Florida cop needs to make somebody on a killing and I'm going to be the convenient one, right? Convicted once, so I'm a likely candidate for just about anything you can't make right away.'

'I didn't say you were a suspect.'

'But you wanted to see my sneakers.'

'Routine, Mr. Ferguson. I'm checking everyone's sneakers. Even Mr. Cowart's.'

Ferguson snorted a half laugh. 'Sure you are. What sort does Cowart wear?'

She continued the lie rapidly. 'Reeboks.'

'Sure. They must be new, too, because last time I saw him he was wearing Converse just like my old ones.'

She didn't reply.

'So, you're checking everyone's sneakers. But I'm the easy one, right? Wouldn't it be something to connect me to that killing, huh, Detective? That'd get you some headlines. Maybe get you a promotion, too. Ain't nobody going to question your motives.'

She turned it back on him. 'Are you? Why are you so easy?'

'Always have been, always will be. If not me, then someone like me: young and black. Makes me automatically a suspect.'

She shook her head.

He half-rose from his seat in sudden anger. 'No? When they needed someone fast in Pachoula who'd they come to see? And you? You figure that just because I knew Blair Sullivan, that made me someone you'd better talk to fast. But I didn't, damn you! That man almost cost me my life. I spent three years on Death Row for something I didn't do because of cops like you. I thought I was a dead man just because I was convenient for the system. So, screw you, Detective. I ain't gonna be convenient for nobody no more. I may be black, but I'm no killer. And just because I am black, doesn't make me one.'