John Katzenbach - Just Cause

Mike. I'm up in Newark, New Jersey.'

New Jersey. Jesus. What's in New Jersey? You were supposed to be sitting on Cowart in Miami. Is he in New Jersey7'

No, but…' 'Well, where the hell is he?'

North Florida. Pachoula, but…' 'Why aren't you there?'

Mike, give me a moment and I'll explain.' it'd better be good. And another thing. You were supposed to be checking in, like, all the time. I'm in charge of this investigation, you do remember, don't you?'

Mike, just give me a minute, huh? I came up here to see Robert Earl Ferguson.'

The guy Cowart got off Death Row?'

'Right, the guy who was in the cell next to Sullivan.'

'Up to the moment he tried to reach through the bars and strangle him?'

Yeah.'

'So?' it was… ' She hesitated. 'Well, unusual.'

There was a momentary pause before the senior policeman asked, 'How so?'

Tm still trying to put my finger on it.'

She heard him sigh. 'What's this got to do with our case?'

'Well, I got to thinking, Mike. You know, Sullivan and Cowart were like two sides of a triangle. Ferguson was the other leg, the connection that brought them together. Without Ferguson, Cowart never sees Sullivan. I just figured I better go check him out. See if he had an alibi for the time the killings took place. See if he knew anything. Just get a look at the guy.'

Weiss hesitated before saying, 'Well, okay. That doesn't exactly not make sense. I don't know what it adds, but it's not crazy. You're thinking there's some link between the three of them? Maybe something that contributed to the murders?'

'Sort of.'

'Well, if there was, why wouldn't that bastard Cowart have put that into his story in the paper?'

1 don't know. Maybe because he was afraid it would make him look bad?'

'Look bad? Jesus, Andy, he's a whore. All reporters are whores. They don't care about yesterday's trick, only today's. If he had something, he'd have put it into the papers lickety split. I can see the headlines: DEATH ROW CONNECTION UNCOVERED. I don't know if they got type big enough for that story. They'd go crazy. Probably win him another damn prize.'

'Maybe.'

Weiss snorted. 'Yeah, maybe. Anyway, you got anything independent that gets this guy Ferguson to Tarpon Drive?'

'No.'

'Like anybody make him, down in Islamadora? Any of those folks you questioned on Tarpon Drive mention a black man?'

'No.'

'How about a hotel receipt or plane ticket or something? What about bloodwork or prints or a murder weapon?'

'No.'

'So you went all the way up there, just because somehow he was connected to the other two players here?'

'Right,' she said slowly. 'It was sort of a hunch.'

'Please, Andy. They have hunches on Perry fucking Mason, not in real life. Don't talk to me about hunches. Just talk to me about what you learned from the creep.'

'He denied any direct knowledge of the crime. But he had some interesting insights into the way things work on Death Row. Said that most of the guards there are only a step away from being killers themselves. Suggested we focus on them.'

That makes sense,' Weiss replied. 'It's also precisely what I'm doing right now and you should be doing, too. The guy had an alibi, right?'

'Said he was in class. He's studying criminology.'

'Really? Now that's interesting.'

'Yeah. He had a bookcase filled with textbooks on forensics and detection. Said he used them in class.'

Okay. Can you check that out and then, when it turns out to be true, get back down here?'

'Uh, sure. Yeah.'

There was a momentary quiet on the line before Weiss said, 'Andy, why do I detect a note of hesitation in your voice?'

She paused before replying. 'Mike, you ever have the sensation that you just talked with the right guy, but for the wrong reason? I mean, this guy made me sweat. I don't know how else to put it. He was wrong. I'm sure of it. All wrong. But why, I can't say. Just spooked me good.'

Another hunch?'

A feeling. Christ, Mike, I'm not crazy.'

Weiss waited an instant before asking, 'How spooked?'

Up in the ninety-ninth percentile.' She could sense the older detective thinking hard.

'You know what I'm supposed to say, right?'

She nodded as she answered. 'That I'm to take a cold shower, or a hot shower, whatever, and then forget it. Let the creep do whatever he's doing and make his mistake somewhere and let those cops take care of it and get my tail back down to the Sunshine State.'

He laughed. 'Christ,' he said. 'You even sound like me.'

'So?'

'Okay,' he said slowly. 'Take the right shower. Then poke around as much as you want to for a day or so. I can carry on here without much trouble. But when it's all said and done and you don't have anything, I want you to write up a report with all your guesses and reelings and whatever the hell else you think is appropriate, and we'll send it off to a guy I know with the New Jersey State Police. He'll just laugh it off, but, hey, at least you won't think you're crazy. And your ass will be covered.'

'Thanks, Mike,' she said, oddly relieved and frightened in the same moment.

'Oh,' he said, 'a couple other things. You haven't even asked what the hell I've found out down here.'

'What?'

'Well, Sullivan left about three boxes filled with personal things. Mostly books, radio, little television, Bible, that sort of shit, but there were a couple of real intriguing documents. One was his whole appeal, all mapped out, ready to file with the court, pro se. All he had to do was hand it to an official and bingo, automatic stay of execution. And you know something? The sucker made a pretty convincing argument for prejudicial statements to the jury by the prosecutor that nailed him. I mean, he might have stretched that one out for years.'

'But he never filed it.'

'Nope. But that's not all. How about a letter from a producer named Maynard out in LaLa Land. The same guy who bought the rights to your friend Ferguson's life story after Cowart made him into a star. Made the same offer to Sullivan. Ten grand. Actually, not quite ten grand. Ninety-nine hundred. For exclusive rights to his life story.'

'But Sullivan's life was in the public record, why would he pay…'

'I spoke with him earlier today. The slick said it was standard operating procedure before making a movie. Tie up all the rights. And, he said Sullivan promised him he was going to file the appeal. So the guy had to make a move to get the rights, otherwise' Sullivan could have messed him up as long as he was appealing his case. Surprised the hell out of the guy when Sullivan went to the chair.'

'Keep going.'

'Well, so there's ninety-nine hundred bucks floating about somewhere and I'm thinking, we find out what happened to that money and we find out how Sullivan paid for those two killings.'

'But we've got a Son of Sam law. Victims' rights. Sullivan couldn't collect the money. It was supposed to go to the victims of his crimes.'

'Right. Supposed to. The producer deposited the money in a Miami bank account according to instructions Sullivan gave him as part of the deal. Producer then writes a letter to the Victims' Rights Commission in Tallahassee, informing them of the payment, just as he's required to by law. Of course it takes the bureaucrats months and months to figure anything out. In the meantime…'

I can guess.'

'Right. The money exits, stage left. It's not in that account anymore. The victims' rights people don't have it and Sullivan sure doesn't need it, wherever he is.'

'So…'

'So, I'm guessing we trace that account, maybe we can find the sucker who opened it up and emptied it out. Then we'll have a reasonable suspect for a pair of homicides.'

'Ten thousand dollars.'

'Ninety-nine hundred. Real interesting number, that. Gets around the problem with the federal law requiring documentation of money transactions above ten grand…'