Just Cause

'How many?'

He grinned. 'I been sitting here, trying to add that total up, Cowart. Adding and adding, trying to come up with a total that's accurate. Don't want to leave any room for discussion, you know.'

'How many?'

'How about thirty-nine folks, Cowart?'

The condemned man leaned back on his seat, rocking slightly. He picked up his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees, continuing to rock.

'Of course, I may have missed one or two. It happens, you know. Sometimes killings just seem the same, don't have that little spark to 'em that makes 'em stand out in your mind.'

Cowart didn't reply.

'Let's start with a little old lady who lived outside New Orleans. Lived alone in an apartment complex for the elderly in a little town called Jefferson. I saw her one afternoon, just walking home alone, just as nice and easy and taking in the day, like it belonged to her. So I followed her. She lived on a street called Lowell Place. I think her name was Eugenie Mae Phillips. I'm trying hard to remember these details, Cowart, because when you go to checking them all out, you'll need something to go on. This'd be about five years ago, in September. After night fell, I jimmied open a sliding door in the back. She had one of those garden-type apartments. Didn't even have a dead bolt on the back. Not a light outside, no nothing. Now why would any damn fool live in one of those? Just likely to get yourself killed, yes sir. There ain't a self-respecting rapist, robber, or killer about who don't see one of those apartments and just give a little jump for joy, 'cause they ain't no trouble at all. She should at least have had some big old vicious black dog. But she didn't. She had a parakeet. A yellow one in a cage. I killed it, too. And that's what happened. Of course, I had me a little fun with her first. She was so scared, hardly made no noise when I stuffed that pillow over her head. I did her, and five others right around there. Just rape and robbery, mainly. She was the only one I killed. Then I moved on. You know, you keep moving, ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you.'

Sullivan paused. 'You should keep that in mind, Cowart. Keep moving. Never sink in and let any roots dig in. You keep going, police don't get a fair shot at you. Hell, I got picked up for vagrancy, trespassing, suspicion of burglary, all sorts of shit. But each time, nobody ever made me. I'd spend a couple of nights in jail. Spent a month in a county lockup in Dothan, Alabama, once. That was a helluva place, Cowart. Cockroaches and rats, and smelled of shit something awful. But nobody ever made me for what I was. How could they? I wasn't nobody important…'

He smiled. 'Or so they thought.'

He hesitated, looking through the iron bars. 'Of course, that ain't the situation now, is it? Right now, Blair Sullivan's a bit more important, ain't he?'

He looked up sharply toward the reporter. 'Ain't he, dammit!'

'Yes.'

'Then say it!'

'A lot more important.'

Sullivan seemed to relax, his voice slowed.

'That's right. That's right.' He shut his eyes for a moment, but when they blinked open, there was a chilling insouciance flickering within them.

'Why, I'm probably the most damn important fellow in the state of Florida right about now, don't ya think, Cowart?'

'Maybe.'

'Why, everyone wants to know what old Sully knows, ain't that true?'

'That's true.'

'You getting the picture now, Cowart?'

'I think so.'

'Damn right. I daresay there's a whole lot of folks gonna be right intrigued…' he stretched the word out, letting it roll around on his tongue like a piece of hard candy'… by what old Sully has to say.'

Cowart nodded.

'Good. Real good. Now, when I moved over to Mobile, I killed a kid in a 7-Eleven. Just a holdup, no big deal. You got any idea how hard it is for the cops to make you on one of those? If nobody sees you go in, nobody sees you come out, why it's just like this little touch of evil lands right there and bingo! Somebody dies. He was a nice kid, too. Begged once or twice. Said, "Take the money. Take the money." Said, "Don't kill me. I'm just working my way through school. Please don't kill me." Of course, I did. Shot him once in the back of the head with a handgun, nice and quick and easy. Got a couple of hundred bucks. Then I took a couple of Twinkies and a soda or two and some chips and left him back behind the counter…'

He paused. Cowart saw a line of sweat on the man's forehead. His voice was quavering with intensity. 'You got any questions, don't hesitate to let me know.'

Cowart choked out, 'Do you have a time, a date, a location?'

'Right, right. I'll work on that. Got to have details.'

Sullivan relaxed, considering, then burst out with a short laugh. 'Hell, I shoulda had a notebook, just like you. I got to rely on what I remember.'

Sullivan leaned back again, setting forth details, places, and names, slowly yet steadily, ransacking his history.

Cowart listened hard, occasionally interjecting a question, trying to gain some further edge to the stories he was hearing. After the first few, the shock wore off. They took on a sort of regular terror, where all the horrors that had once happened to real people were reduced to the memoirs of a condemned man. He sought details from the killer, the accumulation of words draining each event of its passion. They had no substance, almost no connection to the world. That the events he spoke of had actually filled the last moments of once real, breathing humans was somewhere lost, as Blair Sullivan spoke with an ever-increasing, steady, sturdy, unimaginative, and utterly routine evil.

Hours slid by horribly.

Sergeant Rogers brought food. Sullivan waved him away. The traditional last meal – a pan-fried steak with whipped potatoes and apple pie – remained on a tray, congealing. Cowart simply listened.

It was a few minutes after 11 P.M. when Blair Sullivan finished, a pale smile flitting on his face.

That's all thirty-nine,' he said. 'Some story, huh? It may not set a damn record, but it's gonna come damn dose, right?'

He sighed deeply. 'I'd a liked that, you know. The record. What the hell is the record for a fellow like me,

Cowart? You got that little fact at your fingertips? Am I number one, or does that honor go to another?'

He laughed dryly. 'Of course, even if I ain't number one in terms of numbers, why I sure as hell got it over most those other suckers for, what you wanna call it, Cowart? Originality?'

'Mr. Sullivan, there's not much time. If you want to…'

Sullivan stood, suddenly wild-eyed. 'Haven't you paid any attention, boy?'

Cowart raised his hand. 'I just wanted…'

'What you wanted isn't important. What I want, is!'

'Okay.'

Sullivan looked out from between the bars. He breathed deeply and lowered his voice. 'Now it's time for one more story, Cowart. Before I step out of this world. Take that nice fast ride on the state's rocket.'

Cowart felt a terrible dryness within him, as if the heat from the man's words had sucked all the moisture from his body.

'Now, I will tell you the truth about little Joanie Shriver. A dying declaration is what they call it in a court of law. The last words before death. They figure no one would go to the great beyond with a lie staining their lips.'

He laughed out loud. 'That means it's got to be the truth… ' He paused, then added, '… If you can believe it.'

He stared at Cowart. 'Beautiful little Joanie Shriver. Perfect little Joanie.'

'Number forty,' Cowart said.

Blair Sullivan shook his head. 'No.'

He smiled. 'I didn't kill her.'

Cowart's stomach clenched, and he felt a clamminess come over his forehead.

'What?'

'I didn't kill her. I killed all those others. But I didn't kill her. Sure, I was in Escambia County. And sure, if I'd a spotted her, I would have been right tempted to do so. There's no question in my mind, if I had been parked outside her school yard, I would have done exactly what was done to her. I'd have rolled down my window and said, "Come here, little schoolgirl…" That I can promise. But I didn't. No, sir. I am innocent of that crime.'