John Katzenbach - Just Cause

'But ninety-nine hundred isn't…'

'Hell, up there they'd kill you for a pack of smokes. What do you suppose somebody'd do for almost ten grand? And remember, some of those prison guards aren't making much more than three, four hundred a week. Ten big ones probably sound like a whole helluva lot of money to them.'

'What about setting up the account?'

'In Miami? Got a phony driver's license and a fake social security number? I mean it's not exactly like they spend a lot of time in Miami regulating what goes on at the banks. They're all so damn busy laundering heavy bucks for drug dealers, they probably never even noticed this little transaction. Christ, Andy, you can probably close out the damn account at an automatic teller, not even have to look a real person in the eyes.'

'Does the producer know who opened it?'

'That idiot? No way. Sullivan just provided the number and the instructions. All he knows is that Sullivan screwed him by telling his life tale to Cowart, so it all went splat into the paper when this guy thought it was going to be his exclusively. Then double-screwed him by jumping into the electric chair. He ain't too pleased by circumstances.'

Shaeffer was quiet. She felt caught between two different whirlpools.

Weiss spoke quickly. 'One other little detail. Real intriguing.'

'What's that?'

'Sullivan left a handwritten will.'

'A will?'

'That's right. Quite an interesting piece of paper. It was written right over a couple of pages of the Bible. Actually, the Twenty-third Psalm. You know, Valley of Death and Fearing No Evil. He just wrote it in a black felt-tip pen right over the text, then stuck a marker between the pages. Then he wrote a note, which he stuck on top of the box, saying, "Please read the marked passage…" '

'What's it say?'

'He says he wants all his stuff left to a prison guard. A Sergeant Rogers. Remember him? He's the guy who wouldn't let us see Sully before the execution. The one that ushered Cowart into the prison.'

'Is he…'

'Here's what Sullivan wrote: "I leave all my earthly possessions to Sergeant Rogers, who…" get this "… came to my aid and comfort at such a critical moment, and whom I could never repay for the difficult services he's performed. Although I've tried. Weiss paused. 'How do you like that?'

Shaeffer nodded, although her partner couldn't see her head move. 'Makes for an interesting combination of events.'

'Yeah, well guess what?'

'Tell me.'

'The good sergeant had two days off three days before Cowart found those bodies. And you know what else he's got?'

'What?'

'A brother who lives in Key Largo.'

'Well, damn.'

'Better than that. A brother with a record. Two convictions for breaking and entering. Did eleven months in county lockup on an assault charge – that was some barroom beef – and arrested once for illegal discharge of a weapon, to wit, a three-fifty-seven magnum pistol. Charge dropped. And it gets a little better. Remember your crime-scene analysis? The brother's left-handed, and both of the old folks' throats were cut slicing right to left. Interesting, huh?'

'Have you spoken with him?'

'Not yet. Thought I'd wait for you to get here.'

'Thanks,' she said. 'I appreciate it. But one question.'

'What's that?'

'Well, how come he didn't get rid of Sullivan's stuff after the execution? I mean, he had to figure if Sullivan was going to double-cross him, that would be where he would leave the message, right?'

I thought of that, too. Doesn't exactly make sense for him to leave those boxes laying about. But maybe he's not that smart. Or maybe he didn't figure Sully for quite the character he is. Or maybe it just slipped his mind. But it sure was a big slip.'

'All right, she said. 'I'll get there.'

'He's a real good suspect, Andy. Real good. I'd like to see if we can put him down in the Keys. Or check phone records, see if he wasn't spending a lot of time talking to that brother of his. Then maybe we go talk to the state attorney with what we've got.' The detective paused before saying, 'There's only one thing that bothers me, you know…'

'What's that?'

'Well, hell, Andy, that's a pretty damn big arrow pointing right at that sergeant that Sully left. And I hate trusting Sullivan, even if he's dead. You know the best way to screw up a murder investigation is to make somebody look like they did something. Even if we can eliminate other suspects, you know, some defense attorney is going to trot those suspects out at trial and mess up some jury's mind. I think Sully knew that, too.'

Again, she nodded vigorously. Weiss added, 'But, hey, that's just my own paranoia talking. Look, we make this guy, Andy, it's gonna be commendations and raises for the two of us. It'll be like giving your career a jump start. Trust me. Come on back here and get a piece. I'll keep interviewing people until you get here, then we'll head back down to the Keys.'

'All right,' she said slowly.

'I still hear a "but" in your voice.'

She was torn. Her partner's enthusiasm, coupled with his success and the sudden thought that she was missing out on the biggest case to which she'd ever been connected seemed to flood over all the fears she felt. She picked her head up and looked about the room. It seemed as if the shadows within her had diminished. For a moment, she wavered. 'Maybe I should just bag it and head home.'

'Well, do what you think is right. That'd be okay with me. A lot warmer down here, anyway. Aren't you cold up there?'

'It's cold. And wet.'

'Well, there you have it. But what about this guy Ferguson?'

'A bad guy, Mike,' she found herself saying again. 'A bad guy.'

'Well, look, hell. Go check out his schedule, poke about, make sure that alibi is as good as he says it is, then do what I said and forget it. It's not wasted time if it'll put the locals on to him. Maybe there's something floating about up there, you know. And anyway, all I've got in line for the next day or so are interviews with everybody who worked on the Row. Our sergeant is just one of the big pile. You know – routine questions, nothing to get him excited or nervous, make him think he's lost in the woodwork. Then zap. I'll wait until you get here. I'd like to see you work him over. Meanwhile, satisfy your curiosity. Then get down here.'

He paused, then added, 'See what a reasonable boss I am? No yelling. No swearing. Who would complain?'

She hung up the telephone wondering what she should do. It made her think of that moment when her mother had packed her and as many possessions as would fit into their old station wagon and left Chicago. It had been late on a gray, windy day, the breeze kicking up whitecaps on Lake Michigan: Adventure coupled with loss. She remembered closing the car door with a bang, slicing off the chill, and thinking that that was the moment when she'd realized her father was truly dead and would never return to her side.

Not when she'd come down the stairs at her house to find a priest and two uniformed police captains standing in the vestibule, holding their hands in front of them, unable to meet her eyes. Not the funeral, even when the single piper had started playing his heartbreaking dirge. Not the times when her classmates had stared at her with that uniquely cruel children's curiosity about loss. That afternoon.

There are such junctures in childhood, she realized, and later, when things get pressed together beneath a clear, hard shell. Decisions made. Steps taken. An irrevocability to life. It was time to make such a decision now.

She recalled Ferguson. She could see him grinning at her, sitting on the threadbare couch, laughing at the homicide detective.

Why she asked herself again.

The answer jumped instantly at her.

Because she was asking about the wrong homicide.