Just Cause

Cowart sat wordlessly in Lieutenant Brown's office. Detective Wilcox was seated behind the desk, pawing through a large file marked 'SHRIVER,' ignoring the reporter. They had not spoken since leaving the house. Cowart looked out the window and saw a large oak tree bend with a sudden breeze, its leafy branches tossing about as if unsettled, then slowly return to position.

His reverie was interrupted when Wilcox found what he was searching for, and tossed a yellow manila envelope on the desk in front of him.

'Here. I saw you take a nice long look at that pretty picture of Joanie Shriver on the wall at her house. Thought maybe you'd like to see what she looked like after Ferguson got finished with her.'

There no longer was any pretense to the detective's tones. Every word seemed tied down with barely adequate restraints.

He picked up the packet without replying and slid the photographs out. The worst was the first: Joanie Shriver was stretched out on a slab in the medical examiner's office before the start of the autopsy. Dirt and blood still marred her features. She was naked, her little girl's body just starting to show the signs of adulthood. He could see slash marks and stab wounds across her chest, slicing down at the budding breasts. Her stomach and crotch, too, were punctured in a dozen spots by the knife. He stared on, wondering whether he would get sick, staring instead at the girl's face. It seemed puffy, the skin almost sagging, the result of hours spent submerged in the swamp. He thought for an instant about many bodies he'd seen at dozens of crime sites, and of hundreds of autopsy photos from trials he had covered. He looked back at the remains of Joanie Shriver and saw that despite all the evil done to her, she had retained her little girl's identity. Even in death it was locked into her face. That seemed to pain him even more.

He started to flip through the others, mostly scene pictures that showed how she appeared after being pulled from the swamp. He saw as well the truth to what Bruce Wilcox had said. There were dozens of muddy footprints around the body. He continued looking through the pictures, finding more signs of the contamination of the murder location, only looking up when the door opened behind him, and he heard Wilcox say, 'Christ, Tanny, what took you so long?'

He stood up, turning, and his eyes met Lieutenant Theodore Brown's.

'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cowart, the policeman said, extending his hand.

Cowart grasped it, at a loss for words. He took in the policeman's appearance in a second: Tanny Brown was immense, linebacker-size, well over six feet, broad-shouldered, with long, powerful arms. His hair was cropped close, and he wore glasses. But mostly what he was was black, a resonating, deep, dark onyx.

'Something wrong?' Tanny Brown asked.

'No,' Cowart replied, recovering. I didn't know you were black.'

'What, you city boys think we're all crackers like Wilcox up here in the panhandle?'

'No. Just surprised. Sorry.'

'No problem. Actually,' the policeman continued in his steady, unaccented voice, 'I'm used to the surprise factor. But if you were to go to Mobile, Montgomery, or Atlanta, you'd find many more black faces wearing policeman's uniforms than you would expect. Things change. Even the police, though I doubt you'd believe that.'

'Why?'

'Because, Brown continued, speaking simply and clearly, 'the only reason you're here is if you believe the crap that murdering bastard and his attorneys have told you.'

Cowart didn't reply. He merely took his seat and watched as the lieutenant took over the chair that Wilcox had occupied. The detective grabbed a folding chair and sat down next to the lieutenant.

'Do you believe it?' Brown asked abruptly.

'Why? Is it important for you to know what I believe?'

'Well, could make things simpler. You could tell me yes, you believe that we beat the confession out of that kid, and then we wouldn't really have much to talk about. I'd say, No, we didn't, that's absurd, and you could write that down in your little notebook and that would be the end of it. You'd write your story and whatever happens happens.'

'Let's not make it simple,' Cowart replied.

'I didn't think so,' Brown answered. 'So what do you want to know?'

'I want to know everything. From the beginning. And especially I want to know what made you pick up Ferguson and then I want to know about that confession. And don't leave anything out. Isn't that what you'd say to someone whose statement you were about to take?'

Tanny Brown settled his large body into the chair and smiled, but not because he was pleased. 'Yes, that's what I would say,' he answered. He spun about in the chair, thinking, but all the time eyeing Cowart steadily.

'Robert Earl Ferguson was at the top of the short list of prime suspects from the first minute the girl was discovered.'

'Why?'

'He had been a suspect in other assaults.'

'What? I've never heard that before. What other assaults?'

'A half-dozen rapes in Santa Rosa County, and over the 'Bama border near Atmore and Bay Minette.'

'What evidence do you have that he was involved in other assaults?'

Brown shook his head. 'No evidence. He physically fits the best description we could piece together, working with detectives in those communities. And the rapes all corresponded to times when he was out of school, on vacation, visiting that old grandmother of his.'

'Yes, and?'

'And that's it.'

Cowart was silent for an instant. 'That's it? No forensic evidence to tie him to those assaults? I presume you did show his picture to the women.'

'Yes. Nobody could make him.'

'And the hair you found in his car – the one that didn't match Joanie Shriver's – you ran comparisons with the victims in those other cases?'

'Yes.'

'And?'

'No matchups.'

'The modus operandi in the other attacks was the same as in the Shriver abduction?'

'No. Each of the other cases had some similarities, but aspects that were different as well. A gun was used to threaten the victims in a couple of cases, a knife in others. A couple of women were followed home. One was out jogging. No consistent pattern that we could determine.'

'Were the victims white?' Cowart asked.

'Yes.'

'Were they young, like Joanie Shriver?'

'No. They were all adults.'

Cowart paused, considering, before continuing his questions.

'You know, Lieutenant, what the FBI statistics on black-on-white rape are?'

'I know you're going to tell me.'

Cowart surged on. 'Less than four percent of the cases reported nationwide. It's a rarity, despite all the stereotyping and paranoia. How many black-on-white cases have you had in Pachoula before Robert Earl Ferguson?'

'None that I can recall. And don't lecture me about stereotypes.' Brown eyed Cowart. Wilcox shifted about in his seat angrily.

'Statistics don't mean anything,' he added quietly.

'No?' Cowart asked. 'Okay. But he was home on vacation.'

'Right.'

'And nobody liked him much. That I've learned.'

'That's correct. He was a snide rat bastard. Looked down at folks.'

Cowart stared at the policeman. 'You know how silly that sounds? An unpopular person comes to visit his grandmother and you want to make him on rape charges. No wonder he didn't like it around here.'

Tanny Brown started to say something angry in reply, but then stopped. For a few seconds he simply watched Cowart, as if trying to burrow into him with his eyes. Finally he replied, slowly, 'Yes. I know how silly it sounds. We must be silly people.' His eyes had narrowed sharply.