Just Cause

Cowart stood to the side while the crime scene was being processed, watching as technicians worked the entire area, aware that time was sliding out from beneath him. He had managed to call the city desk and inform the city editor of what had taken place. Even for a man accustomed to South Florida's inherent strangeness, the city editor had been surprised.

'What d'you think the governor will do?' he asked. 'Do you think he'll stay the execution?'

'I don't know. Would you?'

'Christ, who knows? When can you get back up there and ask that crazed sonuvabitch what's happening?'

'As soon as I can get out of here.'

But he was forced to wait.

Patience is needed in the processing of a murder location. Little details become magnified. The slightest thing can have importance. It is an exacting task when done by professionals who take pleasure in the painstaking application of science to violence.

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.