Just Cause (30 page)

Cowart steamed and fretted, thinking of Blair Sullivan waiting in the cell for him. He kept staring at his watch. It wasn't until late in the afternoon that he was finally approached by two Monroe County detectives. The first was a middle-aged man wearing a tan suit streaked with sweat. His partner was a much younger woman with dirty-blonde hair combed back sharply from her face. She wore a mannish, loose-fitting cotton jacket and slacks, which hung from a lean figure. Cowart caught a glimpse of a semiautomatic pistol worn in a shoulder harness beneath the coat. Both wore dark glasses, but the woman took hers off when she stepped up to Cowart, revealing gray eyes that fixed him before she spoke.

'Mr. Cowart? My name is Andrea Shaeffer. I'm a homicide detective. This is my partner, Michael Weiss. We're in charge of the investigation. We'd like to take your statement.' She produced a small notepad and a pen.

Cowart nodded. He pulled out his own notebook, and the woman smiled. 'Yours is bigger than mine' she said.

'What can you tell me about the crime scene?' he asked.

'Are you asking as a reporter?'

'Of course.'

'Well, how about answering our questions first? Then we'll answer some of yours.'

'Mr. Cowart, Detective Weiss said, 'this is a murder investigation. We're not used to having members of the press tell us about crimes before we find out about them. Usually it's the other way around. So why don't you let us know right now why and how you got here in time to discover a pair of bodies.'

'Dead a couple of days,' Cowart said.

Detective Shaeffer nodded. 'Apparently so. But you show up this morning. How come?'

'Blair Sullivan told me to. Yesterday. From his cell on Death Row.'

She wrote it down, but shook her head. I don't get it. Did he know…?'

'I don't know what he knew. He merely insisted I come here.'

'How did he put it?'

'He told me to come down and interview the people in the house. I figured out afterwards who they were. I'm supposed to go back up to the prison right away.' He felt flush with the heat of lost minutes.

'Do you know who killed those people?' she asked.

He hesitated. 'No.'

Not yet, he thought.

'Well, do you think Blair Sullivan knows who killed those people?'

'He might.'

She sighed. 'Mr. Cowart, you're aware how unusual this all is? It would help us if you were a bit more forthcoming.'

Cowart felt Detective Shaeffer's eyes burrowing into him, as if simply by the force of her gaze she could start to probe his memory for answers. He shifted about uncomfortably.

'I have to get back to Starke,' he said. 'Maybe then I can help you.'

She nodded. 'I think one of us should go along. Maybe both of us.'

'He won't talk to you,' Cowart said.

'Really? Why not?'

'He doesn't like policemen.' But Cowart knew that was only an excuse.

By the time he got to the prison, the day had risen hard about him and was creeping toward afternoon. He'd been held up at the house on Tarpon Drive until evening, when the detectives had finally cleared the scene. He'd driven hard and fast back to the Journal newsroom, feeling the grip of time squeeze him as he threw a selection of details into a newspaper story, a hasty compilation of details painted with sensationalism, while the two detectives waited for him in the managing editor's office. They had not wanted to leave him, but they had been unable to make the last flight that night. They'd holed up in a motel not far from his apartment, meeting him shortly after daybreak. In silence they'd ridden the morning commuter flight north. Now, the two Monroe County detectives were in a rental car of their own, following close behind him. The front of the prison had been transformed in the prior twenty-four hours. There were easily two dozen television minivans in the parking lot, their call letters emblazoned on the sides, lots of LIVE EYES and ACTION NEWS TEAMS. Most were equipped with portable satellite transmission capabilities for live, remote shots. Camera crews lounged around, talking, sharing stories, or working over their equipment like soldiers getting ready for a battle. An equal number of reporters and still photographers milled about as well. As promised, the roadway was marked by demonstrators from both camps, who honked and hooted and shouted imprecations at each other.

Cowart parked and tried to slide inconspicuously toward the front of the prison. He was spotted almost immediately and instantly surrounded by cameras. The two detectives worked their way toward the prison, moving on the fringe of the crowd that gathered about him.

He held up his hand. 'Not right now. Just not yet, please.'

'Matt,' cried a television reporter he recognized from Miami. 'Will Sullivan see you? Is he going to tell you what the heck is going on?'

The camera lights blended with fierce sunlight. He tried to shade his eyes. I don't know yet, Tom. Let me find out.'

'Are there any suspects?' the television man persisted.

'I don't know.'

'Is Sullivan going to go through with it now?'

'I don't know. I don't know.'

'What have you been told?'

'Nothing. Not yet. Nothing.'

'Will you tell us when you talk to him?' another voice shouted.

'Sure,' he lied, saying anything to extricate himself.

He was struggling through the crowd toward the front doors. He could see Sergeant Rogers waiting for him.

'Hey, Matty' the television reporter called. 'Did you hear about the governor?'

'What, Tom? No, I haven't.'

'He just had a press conference, saying no stay unless Sullivan files an appeal.'

Cowart nodded and stepped toward the prison door, sweeping under the broad arm of Sergeant Rogers. The two detectives had slid in before him and were striding away from the probing lights of the cameramen.

Rogers whispered in his ear, singing, as he passed, 'You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away…'

'Thanks,' said Cowart sarcastically.

'Things sure are getting interesting,' the sergeant said.

'Maybe for you,' Cowart said under his breath. 'For me, it's getting a little difficult.'

The sergeant laughed. Then he turned to the two detectives. 'You must be Weiss and Shaeffer.' They shook hands. 'Y'all can wait in that office, right in there.'

'Wait?' Weiss said sharply. 'We're here to see Sullivan. Right now.'

The sergeant moved slowly, grasping Cowart by the elbow and steering him toward a sally port. All the time, however, he was shaking his head. 'He don't want to see you.'

'But, Sergeant,' Andrea Shaeffer spoke softly. 'This is a murder investigation.'

I know that,' the sergeant replied.

'Look, dammit, we want to see Sullivan, right now,' Weiss said.

'It don't work that way, Detective. The man's got an official…' he glanced up at a wall clock, shaking his head, 'uh, nine hours and forty-two minutes of life. If'n he don't want to see somebody, hell, I ain't gonna force him. Got that?'

'But…'

'No buts.'

'But he's going to talk to Cowart?' Shaeffer asked.

'That's right. Excuse me, miss, but I don't pretend to understand what Mr. Sullivan's got in mind by all this. But if n you got a complaint or you think maybe he's gonna change his mind, well, you got to talk to the governor's office. Maybe they'll give you some more time. As for us, we got to work with what we got. That means Mr. Cowart and his notebook and tape recorder. Alone.'

The woman nodded. She turned to her partner. 'Get on the horn with the governor's office. See what the hell they say about all this.' She turned to Cowart. 'Mr. Cowart, you've got to do your job, I know, but please, will you ask him if he'll talk with us?'

'I can do that,' Cowart replied.

'And, the detective continued, 'you probably have a pretty good idea what I'd be asking him. Try to get it down on tape.' She opened a briefcase and thrust a half dozen extra cassettes at him. 'I'm not going anywhere. Not until we can talk again.'

The reporter nodded. 1 understand.'

The detective looked over toward the sergeant. 'It always get this weird?' she asked, smiling.

Rogers paused and returned her smile. 'No, ma'am.'

The sergeant looked up at the clock again. 'There's a lot of talking here, but time's wasting.'

Cowart gestured toward the sally port and followed the sergeant into the prison. The two men walked quickly down a long corridor, their feet slapping against the polished linoleum surface. The sergeant was shaking his head.

'What?'

'It's just I don't like all this confusion' the sergeant replied. 'Things should be put in order before dying. Don't like loose ends, no sir.'

'I think that's how he's always meant it to play.'

'I think you're damn right there, Mr. Cowart.'

'Where we going?'

The reporter was being led onto a different wing than he'd been to before.

'Sully's in the isolation cell. It's right close by the chair. Right close to an office with phones and everything, so's if there's a stay, we'll know right fast.'

'How's he doing?'

'See for yourself.' He pointed Cowart toward a solitary holding cell. There was a single chair set outside the bars. He approached alone and found Sullivan lying on a steel bunk, staring at a television screen. His hair had been shaved, so that he looked like a death's head mask. He was surrounded by small cartons overflowing with clothing, books, and papers -his possessions moved from his former cell. The prisoner turned abruptly in the bed, gestured widely toward the single chair, and rolled his feet off the bunk, stretching as if tired. In his hand he clutched a Bible.

'Well, well, Cowart. Took your own sweet time getting back for my party, I see.'

He lit a cigarette and coughed.

'There are two detectives from Monroe County, Mr. Sullivan. They want to see you.'

'Fuck 'em.'

'They want to ask you about the deaths of your mother and stepfather.'

They do? Fuck 'em.'

'They want me to ask you to see them.'

He laughed. 'Well, that makes all the difference in the world, don't it? Fuck 'em again.'

Sullivan got up abruptly. He stared about for an instant, then went to the bars and grasped hold of them, pushing his face against them hard.

'Hey!' he called out. 'What the hell time is it? I need to know, what time is it? Hey, somebody! Hey!'

'There's time,' Cowart said slowly.

Sullivan stepped back, staring angrily toward him. "Sure. Sure.'

The man-shuddered, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 'You know something, Cowart? You get so you can actually feel all the muscles around and about your heart just getting a little tighter with each second.' 'You could call an attorney.' 'Fuck 'em. You got to play the hand you're dealt.' 'You're not going to…'

'No. Let's get that settled. I may be a bit scared and a bit twitchy, but shit. I know about dying. Yes, sir, it's one thing I know a lot about.'

Blair Sullivan shifted about in the cell, finally sitting on the edge of the bunk and leaning forward. He seemed to relax suddenly, smiling conspiratorially, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

'Tell me about your interviews,' he said, laughing. 'I want to know everything.' Sullivan gestured at the television. 'The damn television and newspapers don't have any real details. It's just a lot of general garbage. I want you to tell me.'

Cowart felt cold. 'Details?'

'That's right. Leave nothing out. Use all those words you're so damn clever with and paint me a real portrait, huh?'

Cowart took a deep breath, thinking, I'm as mad as he is, but he continued. 'They were in the kitchen. They'd been tied up…'

'Good. Good. Tied tight, like hog-tied, or what?'

'No. Just their arms pulled back like this…' He demonstrated.

Sullivan nodded. 'Good. Keep going.'

'Throats cut.'

Sullivan nodded.

'There was blood all over. Your mother was naked. Their heads were back like this…'

'Keep going. Raped?'

'I couldn't tell. There were a lot of flies.'

'I like that. Buzzing around, real noisy?'

'That's right.' Cowart heard the words falling from his mouth, echoing slightly. He thought some other part of him that he'd never known existed had taken over.

'Had they been in pain?' the condemned man asked.

'How would I know?'

'C'mon, Cowart. Did it look like they'd had some time to contemplate their deaths?'

'Yes. They were tied in their chairs. They must have been looking at each other, right up to the time they were killed. One got to watch the other die, I guess, unless there was more than one killer.'

'No, just one,' Sullivan said quietly. He rubbed his arms. They were in the chairs?'

'Right. Tied down.'

'Like me.'

'What?'

'Tied in a chair. And then executed.' He laughed.

Cowart felt the cold abruptly turn to heat. 'There was a Bible.'

'… And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been…'

That's right.'

'Perfect. Just like it was supposed to be.'

Sullivan stood up abruptly, wrapping his arms around himself, hugging himself as if to contain all the feelings that reverberated within him. The muscles on his arms bulged. A vein on his forehead throbbed. His pale face flushed red. He let out a great breath of air.

'I can see it,' the condemned man said. 'I can see it.'

Sullivan raised his arms up in the cell, stretching out. Then he brought them down sharply.

'All right!' he said. 'It's done.' He breathed hard for a few moments, like a runner winded at the end of a race, then looked down at his hands, staring at them as he twisted them into claws. The dragon tattoos on his forearms wrenched with life. He laughed to himself, then turned back to Cowart. 'But now for the little bit extra. The addition that really makes this all worthwhile.'