The detective lit a cigarette. Then he stared for an instant at the glowing end. 'These things are murder,' he said with a rueful laugh. 'They're killing me. Used to be slowly, but I'm getting older, so it's speeding up.'
'So why don't you quit?' Cowart asked.
'Because they're the only things I've ever found that get the smell of death out of my nostrils.'
The detective took a long drag and the red glow illuminated the lines in the man's face.
After a moment of silence, the detective turned toward Cowart. 'So Matty, what brings you out on a night like this? Ought to be home with that pretty wife of yours.'
'C'mon, Vernon.'
The detective smiled quietly and put his head back gently against the tree. 'You're gonna end up like me, with nothing better to do at night except go to crime scenes.'
'Give me a break, Vernon. What can you tell me about the inside?'
The detective laughed briefly. 'Guy naked and dead. Throat cut while he was in bed. Woman naked and dead. Throat cut while she was in bed. Blood all over the fucking place.'
'And?'
'Suspect in custody.'
'Who?'
'A teenager. A runaway kid from Des Moines they picked up earlier this evening. Drove all the way to the Fort Lauderdale strip to find him. They were into kinky threesomes. The only trouble was, after having their fun with the lad, he decided that their hundred bucks wasn't quite all there was to be had. You know, he saw the car, saw the nice neighborhood and everything. They argued. He pulled out an old-style straight razor. Those things are still a helluva weapon. First shot got the guy right across the jugular…'
The detective demonstrated in the night air, abruptly slashing the darkness with a swift chopping motion.
'… The man goes down like he's been shot. Gurgles a couple of times and that's it. He's alive just long enough to realize he's dying. A tough way to go. The wife starts screaming, of course, tries to run. So the kid grabs her by the hair, pulls her head back, and bingo. Real fast, she only got off one more scream. Tough luck, though. It was enough to alert a neighbor who called us. Some guy with insomnia walking his dog. We got the kid as he came out the front door. He was loading up the car with the stereo, television, clothes, anything he could get his hands on. Covered in blood.'
He looked out across the yard and said vacantly, 'Matty, what's Hawkins' First Law of the Street?'
Cowart smiled through the darkness. Hawkins liked to speak in maxims. 'The first law, Vernon, is never look for your trouble, because trouble will always find you when it wants to.'
The detective nodded. 'Real sweet kid. Real sweet psychopathic kid. Says he had nothing to do with it.'
'Christ.'
'Not that strange,' the detective continued. 'I mean, the kid probably blames Mr. Junior Exec and his wife there for what happened. If they hadn't tried to stiff him, you know what I mean.'
'But…'
'No remorse. Not a shred of sympathy or anything human. Just a kid. Tells me everything that happened. Then he says to me, 'I didn't do nothing. I'm innocent. I want a lawyer.' We're standing there and there's blood all over and he says he didn't do nothing. I guess that's because it didn't mean anything to him. I guess. Christ…'
He leaned back in defeat and exhaustion. 'You know how old this kid is? Fifteen. Just fifteen a month ago. Ought to be home worrying about pimples, dates, and homework. He'll do juvie time for sure. Bet the house on it.'
The detective closed his eyes and sighed. I didn't do nothing. I didn't do nothing. Jesus.'
He held out his hand. 'Look at that. I'm fifty-fucking-nine years old and gonna retire and I thought I'd seen and heard it all.'
The hand was quivering. Cowart could see it move in the light thrown from the pulsating police lights.
'You know,' Hawkins said as he stared at his hand, 'I'm getting so I don't want to hear any more. I'd almost rather shoot it out with some crazy fuck than I would hear one more guy talk about doing something terrible as if it means no more than nothing. Like it wasn't some life that he snuffed out, it was just a candy wrapper he crumpled up and tossed away. Like littering instead of first-degree murder.'
He turned to Cowart. 'You want to see?'
'Of course. Let's go,' he replied, too quickly.
Hawkins looked at him closely. 'Don't be so sure. You always want to see so damn quick. It ain't nice. Take my word for it this time.'
'No,' Cowart said. 'It's my job, too.'
The detective shrugged. I take you in, you gotta promise something.'
'What's that?'
'You see what he did, then I show him to you – no questions, you just get a look at him, he's in the kitchen – but you make sure you get into the paper that he's no boy next door. Got it? That he's not some poor, disadvantaged little kid. That's what his lawyer's gonna start saying just as soon as he gets here. I want it different. You tell them that he's a stone-cold killer, got it? Stone-cold. I don't wanna have anybody pick up the paper and see a picture of him and think, How could a nice kid like that have done this?'
'I can do that,' Cowart said.
'Okay.' The detective shrugged, rose, and they started to walk toward the front door. As they were about to pass inside, he turned to Cowart and said, 'You sure? These are folks just like you and me. You won't forget this one. Not ever.'
'Let's go.'
'Matty, let an old guy look out for you for once.'
'Come on, Vernon.'
'It's your nightmare, then,' the detective said. He'd been absolutely right about that.
Cowart remembered staring at the executive and his wife. There was so much blood it was almost as if they were dressed. Every time the police photographer's flash exploded, the bodies glistened for an instant.
Wordlessly, he had followed the detective into the kitchen. The boy sat there wearing sneakers and jeans, his slight torso naked, one arm handcuffed to a chair. Streaks of blood marked his body, but he ignored them and casually smoked a cigarette with his free hand. It made him look even younger, like a child trying to act older, cooler, to impress the policemen in the room but really only appearing slightly silly. Cowart noted a smear of blood in the boy's blond hair, matting the curls together, another tinge of dried brown blood on the boy's cheek. The kid didn't even need to shave yet.
The boy looked up when Cowart and the detective entered the room. 'Who's that?' he asked, nodding toward Cowart.
For an instant Matthew locked his eyes with the boy's. They were an ancient blue, endlessly evil, like staring at the iron edge of an executioner's sword.
'He's a reporter, with the journal,' Hawkins said.
'Hey, reporter!' the kid said, suddenly smiling.
'What?'
'You tell everybody I didn't do nothing,' he said. Then he laughed in a high-pitched, wheezing way that echoed after Cowart and forever froze in his memory, as Hawkins steered him out of the room, back out into the hurrying dawn.
