to that, Mr. Cowart, because that is a message that comforts the heart and soul, don't you think?'
'I think it does. And are you a regular churchgoer up here in Newark?'
'No. Here I'm a student.'
Cowart nodded. 'So, how many times have you given this speech?'
'Eight or nine.'
'You got the names of the churches, community centers, whatever?'
'This for a story?'
'Give me the names.'
Ferguson stared hard at Cowart, then shrugged, as if unconcerned. Rapid-fire he raced through a short list of churches, Baptist, Pentecostal, and Unitarian, adding the names of a few civic centers. The names of the towns they were in followed just as swiftly. Cowart struggled to get the information into his notebook. His pen made a scratching sound against the page, and he saw his handwriting flying about between the blue-ruled lines. Ferguson finished and waited for Cowart to say something. The reporter counted. Perrine was on the list.
'That's only seven.'
'Maybe I forgot one or two.'
Cowart stood up, driven to his feet by the turbulence, he felt within him. He moved away from Ferguson, toward the bookcase. His eyes scanned the titles, just as Shaeffer had done when she visited the apartment.
'You must be an expert, after reading all these,' he said.
Ferguson watched the reporter carefully. 'Assigned readings.'
Cowart turned back. 'Dawn Perry,' he said quietly. He moved behind Ferguson's desk, as if that would afford him momentary protection if Ferguson came after him.
'The name is unfamiliar,' Ferguson replied.
'Little girl. Black. Just twelve years old. On her way home from a swimming club one day last August, just a couple of days after you gave that speech down there.'
'No. Can't say I place her. Should I know her?'
I think so. Perrine, Florida. Swim club's about three, four blocks from the First Baptist Church of Perrine. Did you tell the congregation about Jesus's light that came and visited you? I guess they didn't know what else that light might mean.'
'You asking a question, Mr. Cowart?'
'Yes. Why'd you kill her?'
'Little girl's dead?'
'Disappeared.'
'I didn't kill her.'
'No? You were there. She disappears.'
'That a question, Mr. Cowart?'
'Tell me how you did it.'
'I didn't do anything to that little girl.' Ferguson's voice remained cold and even. 'I didn't do anything to any little girls.'
'I don't believe you.'
'Belief, Mr. Cowart, is in great supply. People will believe almost anything. They'll believe that UFOs visit little towns in Ohio and that Elvis was spotted buying Twinkies in a convenience store. They'll believe that the CIA is poisoning their water and that a secret organization actually runs the United States. But proving something, Mr. Cowart, is much more difficult.'
He looked at the reporter. 'Like murder.'
Cowart remained stock still, listening to Ferguson's voice as it swirled around him.
'You need motive, you need opportunity, and you need physical evidence. Something scientific and certain that some expert can get up in a court of law and say without dispute happened, like a fingerprint or blood residue. Or even maybe this new DNA testing, Mr. Cowart. You know about that? I do. You need a witness, and lacking that, maybe an accomplice to testify. And if you don't have any of those, you damn well better have a confession. The killer's own words, nice and clear and indisputable, but we know all about that, don't we? And you got to have all these things, all sewn together into a nice fabric, because otherwise, you've got nothing except awful feelings and guesses. And just because some little girl got snatched away, right out there on the outskirts of that big old evil city, Mr. Cowart, and I happened to be in that town some two days earlier, well, that isn't proof of anything, is it? How many killers you think there are in Miami at any given moment? How many men wouldn't think twice about grabbing some little girl who was walking home, just like you said? You think the cops down there haven't run profiles and questioned all the creeps? They have, Mr. Cowart. I'm certain of it. But you know what? I'm not on anybody's list. Not anymore. Because I am an innocent man, Mr. Cowart. You helped me become one. And I intend to stay that way.'
'How many?' Cowart asked, almost whispering. 'Six? Seven? Every time you give a speech, does somebody die?'
Ferguson narrowed his eyes, but his voice remained steady. 'White man's crime, Mr. Cowart. Don't you know that?'
'What?'
'White man's crime. Come on, think of all the killers you've read about. All the Specks, Bundys, Coronas, Gacys, Henleys, Lucases, and our old buddy Blair Sullivan. White men. Jack the Ripper and Bluebeard. White men. Caligula and Vlad the Impaler. White men, Mr. Cowart. They're all white men. You take a tour of any prison and they're gonna point at Charlie Manson or David Berkowitz and you're gonna see white men, because they're the people who give in and get those strange urges. This is not to say that there ain't an occasional exception that maybe proves the rule, you know. Like Wayne Williams down in Atlanta; but there are so many questions about him, aren't there? Hell, there was even a movie on television questioning whether he was the one that did all those young men down there in that fair city. Remember that, Mr. Cowart? No, snatching little girls off the street and leaving 'em dead someplace dark and forgotten ain't typical of black men. What we do is crimes of violence. Sudden, uncontrollable bursts with knives or guns and noise. City crime, Mr. Cowart, with witnesses and crime scenes fairly dripping with evidence, so that when the cops get around to putting us in jail there ain't no questions left around. Raping joggers and shooting rival crack dealers and strong-arming convenience store clerks and assaulting each other, Mr. Cowart, ain't that right? Typical stuff that makes white folks buy fancy alarms for their 'suburban homes and feeds the criminal justice system with its daily quota of black men – but not serial killing. And you know what else, Mr. Cowart?'
'What?'
'That's the way the system likes it. The system isn't comfortable with things that don't quite match up into statistics and categories.'
Ferguson looked over at him. 'How you gonna write that story up, Mr. Cowart? The one that doesn't fit into some nice, safe, expected niche? Tell me, are newspapers real good at telling people things that strange? That unexpected? Or do you go about your business of reporting over and over again all the same old stuff, just with different faces and words?'
He didn't reply.
'And you think you're gonna write something like that without any proof?'
'Joanie Shriver,' Cowart said.
'Goodbye to her, Mr. Cowart. She's long gone. Best you understood that. Maybe make your friend Tanny Brown understand that, too.'
Cowart remained standing next to Ferguson's desk. He leaned across it, gripping the edges for balance. 'I will write the story, you know that, don't you?'
Ferguson didn't reply.
'I'll put it all in the paper. All the falsehoods, all the lies, every bit of it. You can deny it and deny it, and you know what, don't you?'
'What?'
'It'll work. I'll go down. Maybe Tanny Brown'll go down. But you know what will happen
