pearl-handled thirty-two-caliber handguns. Pretty much what you'd expect, like I said. Nothing too unusual'
'But Joanie Shriver?'
The detective paused, thinking before answering. 'She was different.'
'Why?'
'She was just different. She was just… ' He hesitated, suddenly forcing his hand into a fist clenched tight and waving in the air in front of him. 'Everybody felt it. She was… ' He interrupted himself again, taking a deep breath. 'We ought to wait for Tanny. It was his case, really.'
'I thought his name was Theodore.'
'It is. Tanny's his nickname. It was his dad's before him. His dad used to run a little leather tanning business on the side. Always had that red dye color to his hands and arms. Tanny worked with him, right through high school, summers home from college. Picked up the nickname, just the same. I don't think anyone, except his momma, ever called him Theodore.' He pronounced the name See-oh-door.
'Both of you guys are local? I mean…'
I know what you mean. Sure, but Tanny's ten years older than me. He grew up in Pachoula. Went to the high school. He was quite an athlete in those days. Went off to Florida State to play football but ended up slogging about in the jungle with the First Air Cavalry. Came back with some medals and finished school and got a job on the force. Me, I was a navy brat. My dad was the shore patrol superintendent at the base for years. I just hung on after high school. Did a bit of junior college. Took the police academy exam and stayed. It was my dad steered me into police work.'
'How long have you been working homicide?'
'Me? About three years. Tanny's been at it longer.'
'Like it?'
'It's different. A lot more interesting than driving a patrol car. You get to use your head.' He tapped himself on the forehead.
'And Joanie Shriver?'
The detective hunched his shoulders together as if drawing inward. 'She was my first real case. I mean, most murders, you know, they're subject murders, that's what we call them. You arrive on the scene and there's the murderer standing right next to the victim.
That was true. Cowart remembered Vernon Hawkins saying when he went to the scene of a murder he always looked first for the person who wasn't crying but standing wide-eyed, in shock, confused. That was the killer.
'… Or else, now, these drug things. But that's just collecting the bodies for the most part. You know what they call them down at the state attorney's office? Felony littering. You don't ever really expect to make a murder case on a body found out in the water, that's been floating about for three days, that doesn't have any ID and not much of a face after the fish get finished. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Designer jeans and gold chains. No, those you just tag and bag, yes sir. But little Joanie, man, she had a face. She wasn't some anonymous Columbian drug runner. She was different.'
He paused, thinking. Then he added, 'She was like everybody's little sister.'
Detective Wilcox appeared about ready to say something else when the telephone on the desk rang. He picked it up, grunted a few words in greeting, listened, then handed it over to Cowart. 'It's the boss. Wants to speak to you.'
'Yes?'
'Mr. Cowart?' He heard a slow, distant, even, deep voice, one that didn't betray any of the Southernisms with which he was becoming so familiar. 'This is Lieutenant Brown. I'm going to be delayed here at this crash site.'
'Is there some sort of problem?'
The man laughed, a small bitter burst. 'I suppose that depends on how you look at it. None that one wouldn't expect with a burned plane, a dead pilot and student, all sunk in ten feet of swamp, a hysterical pair of wives, an angry flight-school owner, and a couple of park rangers pissed off because this particular landing came down in the midst of a bird sanctuary.'
'Well, I'll be happy to wait
The detective interrupted. 'What I think would be wise is if Detective Wilcox took you out and showed you where Joanie Shriver's body was found. There are a few other sights of interest as well, which we believe will help you in writing your story. By the time you two get finished, I will have cleared this location, and we can discuss Mr. Robert Earl Ferguson and his crime at our leisure.'
Cowart listened to the clipped, orderly voice. The lieutenant sounded like the sort of man who could make a suggestion into a demand merely by lowering his voice.
'That'd be fine.' Cowart handed the phone back to Detective Wilcox, who listened to the earpiece momentarily, replied, 'You sure they're expecting him? I wouldn't want to…' then started dipping his head in agreement, as if the other man could see him. He hung up.
'All right, he said. 'Time for the grand tour. You got any boots and jeans back at your hotel room? It ain't too nice where I'm taking you.'
Cowart nodded and followed after the short detective, who bounced down the hallway with a sort of impish enthusiasm.
They drove through the bright morning sun in the detective's unmarked squad car. Wilcox rolled down his window, letting the warm air flood the interior. He hummed to himself snatches of country-and-western songs. Occasionally he would half-sing some plaintive lyric, 'Mommas don't let your babies grow up to be homicide detectives…' and grin at Cowart. The journalist stared out across the countryside, feeling unsettled. He had expected rage from the detective, an explosion of animosity and frustration. They knew why he was there. They knew what he intended to do. His presence could be nothing but trouble for them -especially when he wrote that they had tortured Ferguson to obtain his confession. Instead, he got humming.
'So tell me,' Wilcox finally asked as he steered the car down a shaded street. 'What did you think of Bobby Earl? You went up to Starke, right?' 'He tells an interesting story.' 'I bet he does. But what'd'ya think of him?'
I don't know. Not yet.' It was a lie, Cowart realized, but he wasn't sure precisely how much of one.
'Well, I pegged him in the first five seconds. Soon as I saw him.'
'That's pretty much what he says.'
The detective burst out with a single crack of laughter. 'Of course, I bet he didn't say I was right, though, huh?'
'Nope.'
'Didn't think so. Anyway, how's he doing?'
'He seems okay. He's bitter,' Cowart replied.
'I'd expect that. How's he look?'
'He's not crazy, if that's what you mean.'
The detective laughed. 'No, I wouldn't figure Bobby Earl would get crazy. Not even on the Row. He was always a cold-hearted son of a bitch. Stayed frosty right to the end when that judge told him where he was gonna end up.'
Wilcox seemed to think for an instant, then he shook his head at a sudden memory. 'You know, Mr. Cowart, he was like that from the first minute we picked him up. Never blinked, never let on nothing right up until he finally told us what happened. And when he did confess, it was steady-like. Just the facts, Christ. It wasn't like he was talking about anything more difficult than stamping on a bug. I went home that night and I got so damn drunk, Tanny had to come by and pour me into bed. He scared me.'
'I'm very interested in that confession, Cowart said.
'I expect you are. Ain't that the whole ball of wax?' He laughed. 'Well, you're gonna have to wait for Tanny. Then we'll tell you about the whole thing.'
I bet you will, Cowart thought. Aloud, he asked, 'But he scared you?'
'It wasn't him so much as what I felt he could do.'
The detective didn't elaborate. Wilcox pulled the car around a corner, and Cowart saw
