'You couldn't be sure.'
Ferguson smiled again. 'That's right.'
'Other things. Hair. Skin. I might fight back. Cut you. That'd put some of your blood on me. They'd find it.'
'Maybe. At least now you're thinking, Mr. Cowart.'
Ferguson leaned, back. He gestured at the hunting knife. 'Too many variables. You're right about that. Too many angles to cover. Any student of criminology would know that.' Ferguson continued to stare at him. 'But I still don't think you'll write that story, Mr. Cowart.'
'I'll write the story,' Cowart insisted softly.
'You know something? You know there are other ways of cutting out somebody's heart? Don't always have to use a big hunting knife…'
Ferguson reached over and grasped the blade. He held it up, twisting it in his hand so that it caught a small bit of gray light that forced its way through the window.
'… No, sir. Not at all. I mean, you'd think this was the easiest way to cut out your heart, Mr. Cowart, but it really isn't.'
Ferguson continued to hold the knife up in front of him. 'Who lives at 1215 Wildflower Drive, Mr. Cowart?'
Cowart felt a surge of dizzying heat.
'In that nice Tampa suburb. Rides that yellow school bus every day. Plays down in the park a couple of blocks distant. Likes to help her mother in with the groceries and watch her new baby brother. Of course, you wouldn't care much about that little baby now, would you? And I don't know how much you'd care about the mother, either. Divorce sometimes makes people just fill up with hate and so I can't really tell your feelings about her one way or the other. But that little girl? Now, that's a whole different matter.'
'How do you know about…'
'They were in the newspaper. After you won that prize.' Ferguson smiled at him. 'And I like to do a bit of research every now and then. Finding out about them wasn't too hard.'
Cowart's fear was complete. Ferguson continued to eye the reporter. 'No, Mr. Cowart. I don't think you're going to write that story. I don't think you've got the facts. I don't think you've got the evidence. Isn't that right, Mr. Cowart?'
'I'll kill you,' Cowart croaked.
'Kill me? Whatever for?'
'You go near
'And what?'
'I'm saying I'll kill you.'
'That'd do you a lot of good, wouldn't it, Mr. Cowart? After the fact? Ain't nothing matter much after something's done, does it? You see, you'd still have that memory, wouldn't you? It'd be there first thing in the morning, last thing at night. It'd be in every dream you had while you slept. Every thought you had while awake. It'd never leave you alone, would it, Mr. Cowart?'
'I'll kill you,' he repeated.
Ferguson shook his head. 'I don't know. I don't know if you know enough about death and dying to do something like that. But I'll say this for you now, Mr. Cowart.'
'What?'
'Now you're beginning to know a bit of what it's like living on Death Row.'
Ferguson rose, leaned over and opened the cassette door on the recorder. He removed the cassette and slipped it in his pocket. Then he picked up the tape recorder from the table. With a single, abrupt motion, he threw it at the reporter, who caught it before it smashed to the floor.
'This interview,' Ferguson said coldly. 'It never happened.'
He pointed toward the door. 'Those words? They never got spoke.' Ferguson eyed the reporter, whispering, 'What story you got to write, Mr. Cowart?'
Cowart shook his head.
'What story, Mr. Cowart?'
'No story,' he replied, his voice cracked and brittle.
'I didn't think so,' Ferguson replied.
Cowart, head reeling, stumbled into the hallway. He was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him, of the sound of the locks being thrown. Stale, damp air trapped him in the dark space, and he clawed at his collar, trying to loosen it so he could breathe. He fought his way down the stairs, tore at the front door, slamming it open and battling his way to the street. The rain had started up; droplets scarred his coat and face. He did not look back up toward the apartment, but instead started to run, as if the wind in his face could eradicate the fear and nausea he felt within. He saw Tanny Brown exit from the driver's side door of their rental car, staring at him expectantly. Breathing hard, Cowart waved at him, trying to get him to return to the vehicle. Then he seized the car door handle and jerked it, leaping into the car, slamming himself into the warm, moist interior.
'Get me out of here,' he whispered.
'What happened?' Brown asked.
'Get me the hell out of here!' Cowart shouted. He reached across and grabbed the ignition, grinding it. The engine fired up. 'Go, goddammit! Go!'
Tanny Brown, eyes wide in surprise, but face marked with a sense of understanding, shifted the car in gear. He pulled out into the street, stopping only at the north end, pulling across from where Wilcox and Shaeffer had parked. He rolled down his window.
'Bruce, you two stay here. Watch Ferguson's place.'
'How long?'
'Just watch it.'
'Where are you…'
'Just don't let Ferguson get out of your sight.'
Wilcox nodded.
Cowart pounded on the dashboard. 'Go! Goddammit! Get me out of here!'
Tanny Brown punched the gas, and they pulled away, leaving the two other detectives behind in some confusion.
23. Detective Shaeffer's Negligence
The two detectives spent most of the day parked a half block from the doorway to Ferguson's apartment house. Their surveillance had no subtlety; within the first hour after Brown and Cowart's departure, everyone living within a two city-block radius, not merely those criminal in nature or inclination, was aware of their presence.
For the most part, they were ignored.
A minor-league crack dealer, accustomed to using an alleyway adjacent to their position, cursed them loudly as he bustled about, searching for a suitable replacement location; two members of a local street gang, wearing embossed jackets and headbands, sporting the preferred expensive hightop basketball shoes favored in the inner city, paused next to their rental car and mocked them with obscene gestures. When Wilcox rolled down the window and shouted at them to leave, they merely laughed in his face, imitating his southern accent with rancorous delight and only mildly concealed menace. Two prostitutes, wearing red high heels and sequined hot pants beneath slick black raincoats, flaunted their business at the detectives, as if sensing they would not budge for the likes of them. At least a half dozen homeless, decrepit folk, pushing the ubiquitous shopping carts filled with urban flotsam and jetsam, or merely staggering through the wet day, knocked on their windows, requesting money. A couple went away with whatever spare change the two detectives could muster. Others simply marched past, oblivious to anything save the demands of whatever unseen individual it was with whom they conversed so steadily.
The steady drizzle that kept the street-life parade down to a damp minimum kept most of the other residents of the block indoors, behind their barred windows and triple-locked doors. The rain and gray skies darkened the day, driving the gloom deeper.
More than once, each detective had asked, 'What the hell happened to Cowart?' But in the isolation of their car, they could not reach an answer. Wilcox had walked to a corner pay phone and tried reaching the two absent men at the motel, but without success. Lacking any information, knowing only what Brown had ordered as he drove off, they remained on the street, letting the hours pass in stultifying frustration.
They ate fast food purchased from a take-out joint, drank coffee that had grown cold from Styrofoam cups, wiped humid moisture from the windshield endlessly so they could see ahead. Twice, each had walked two blocks to an oil-stained gas station to use bathrooms that stank with a pungent mixture of disinfectant battling excrement. Their conversation had been limited, a few half hearted attempts at finding some commonality, lapsing into long silences. They had spoken a bit of technique, of the difference in crimes between the Panhandle and the Keys, knowing that differences were merely superficial. Shaeffer had asked questions about Brown and Cowart, but discovered that Wilcox merely idolized the first and despised the latter, though he was unable to say precisely why he felt either emotion. They had speculated about Ferguson, Wilcox filling the other detective in on his experiences with the onetime convicted man. She had asked him about the confession, and he'd replied that every time he'd hit Ferguson, he'd felt as if he was shaking loose another piece of the truth, the way someone would shake fruit from a tree. He said it without regret or guilt, but with an underlying anger that surprised her. Wilcox was a volatile man, she thought, far more explosive than the immense lieutenant he was partnered to. His rage would be sudden and dramatic. Tanny Brown's would be colder, more processed. No wonder he couldn't forgive himself for indulging in the luxury of having his partner beat a confession out of the man. It must have been an aberration, a window on a part of him that he must hate.