John Katzenbach - Just Cause

'Suppose,' the detective said coldly to Cowart's back, 'suppose he's already doing whatever he likes.'

Another little girl. A Dawn Perry. Disappeared one day. 'May I go to the pool for a swim? Be back before dinner…'

'Now we know what he likes, don't we, Cowart?'

'Yes.'

'And there's nothing stopping him from taking up where he left off, before his little vacation on Death Row, right?'

'No. Nothing. So what do you suggest we do, Detective?'

'A trap, said Brown flatly. 'We set a trap. We sting him. If we can't get him on something old, we should get him on something new.'

Cowart knew, without turning, that the man's face was set in granite anger. 'Yes, he said. 'Go on.'

'Something unequivocal, that makes it clear who he is. Clear so that when I arrest him and you write the story, no one has any doubts whatsoever. None, got it? No doubts. Can you write that story, Cowart? Write it so that he has no way out?'

Matthew Cowart had a sudden memory of watching a Maine fisherman bait lobster traps with pieces of dead fish before slinging them over the side of his boat into the ice-black coastal waters. It had been a summer vacation when he was young. He remembered how fascinated he had been with the simple, deadly design of the lobster traps. A box made of a few pieces of wood and chicken wire. The beasts would crawl in one end, unable to resist the allure of the rotting carcass, then, after feeding, be unable to maneuver about and retreat through the narrow entrance. Captured by a combination of greed, need, and physical limitations.

1 can write that story,' he replied. He looked over at the detective and added, 'But traps take time. Have we got time, Detective? How much?'

Brown shook his head. 'AH we can do is try.'

Brown left Cowart alone in his office while he went off saying he needed to check on whether Wilcox had returned with preliminary laboratory results on the clothing and the piece of auto carpet. The reporter looked around for a moment at the various citations and photographs that he'd previously inspected, then he picked up the telephone and called the Miami Journal. A switchboard operator connected him with Edna McGee. Cowart wondered how many people had been fooled by the breeziness of her tones, not knowing that beneath them lay a steely mind that thrived on detail.

'Edna?'

'Matty, Matty, where have you been? I've been leaving messages all over for you.'

'I'm back up in Pachoula. With the cops.'

'Why them? I thought you were going to Starke to try and work the prison angle.'

'Uh, that's next.'

'Well, I would get there. The St. Pete Times reported today that Blair Sullivan left several file boxes filled with documents, diaries, descriptions, I don't know what else. Maybe something that described how he set up those murders. The paper said that Monroe detectives are going through the stuff now, looking for leads. They've also been interviewing everyone who worked on Death Row during Sullivan's stay. And they've got lists of visitors as well. I made some calls and filed a bit of a catch-up story. But the city desk is wondering where the hell you are. And especially wondering why the hell you didn't file that story before that son of a bitch from St. Pete did. Not pleased, Matty, they're not pleased. Where have you been?'

'Back in the Keys. Here.'

'Got anything?'

'Nothing for the paper, yet. Got a lead or two…'

'Like what?'

'Edna, give me a break.'

'Well, Matty, I'd get cracking and think of filing something spectacular pretty soon. Like, right away. Otherwise the wolves will be at the door, howling for their dinner. If you get what I mean.'

'You make it clear. And appetizing.'

Edna laughed. 'No one wants to go from being caviar to dog food.'

'Thanks, Edna. You're really reassuring.'

'Just a warning.'

'It's been heard. So, what have you come up with?'

'Following the trail of your Mr. Sullivan has been quite an education in the creative use of lying.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, of the forty or so killings he owned up to, I right now say he did about half. Maybe a little less.'

'Only twenty…'

He heard himself speak those words and realized how silly they sounded. Only twenty. As if it made him only half as evil as someone who killed forty people.

'Right. For sure. At least, twenty that sound persuasive.'

'What about the others?'

'Well, some he clearly didn't do because other people are serving time, or even sitting on Death Row, for the crimes. He just sort of stitched the stories into the fabric of his own story, see? Like I told you about the crime on the Miccosukkee Reservation, for one example. He also told you at one point that he killed a woman up outside of Tampa. A woman he met in a bar, promised her a good time, ended up killing her, you remember that one?'

'Ahh, sure, I remember he didn't say a lot about it, except to sort of delight in the fun of killing her.'

'Right. That's the one. Well, he had all the details right, except for one thing. The guy who did that crime also did two other women in that area and occupies a cell about thirty feet away from Blair Sullivan's old home on Death Row. He just slid that story right in amidst two others that check out. Wasn't until I started checking up there that it rang a bell. See what he did? Just grabbed that other guy's crime – and there ain't no doubt the other guy was the killer – and just added it into his grand total. Did that a couple of other times, with other crimes that guys are on the Row for. Sort of like a quarterback throwing a lot of short passes in the final quarter of a game that's already won. He was, like, inflating his stats.' Edna laughed.

'But why?'

Cowart could sense Edna's shrug through the telephone line. 'Who knows? Maybe that's why all those FBI folks were so damn interested in talking to Sully before he checked out.'

'But…'

'Well, let me give you one theory. Call it McGee's Postulate, or something nice and scientific like that. But I asked around a bit, you know, and guess what? They always figured Ted Bundy for some thirty-eight killings. Could have been more, but that's the figure that we got, and that's what he ended up talking about before heading off to hell, himself. My guess is that old Sully wanted to do him a couple better. They found at least three different books about Bundy amongst Sully's personal effects, you know. Nice detail, that, huh? The next best killer, if you want to call it that, waiting on Death Row is that guy Okrent, the Polish guy from Lauderdale, remember him? He had the little problem with prostitutes. Like, he killed them. He's only around eleven officially, but unofficially, he's at about seventeen or eighteen. He was on the same wing as Sully, too. You beginning to see my thinking here, Matty? Old Sully wanted to be famous. Not only for what he was doing, but for what he did. So, he took a few liberties.'

'I see what you're driving at. Can you get someone to say it, and put it in the paper?'

'No sweat. Those FBI guys will say whatever I want them to. And there are those two sociologists up in Boston who study mass murderers. I spoke with them earlier. They love McGee's Postulate. So, all in all, it should run tomorrow, if I work late. Or the next day, which is a lot more likely.'

'That's great,' Cowart said.

'But, Matty, it would go a lot better if you had something to run alongside it. Like a story saying who killed those old folks down in the Keys.'

'I'm working on it.'

"Work hard. That's the only question still out there, Matty. That's what everyone wants to know.'

'I hear you.'

'They're getting a bit frantic over at the city desk. They want to put our world-famous, crack, ace, and only occasionally incompetent investigative team on it. Lobbying hard, so I hear.'