The two men drove in silence for a few miles. Cowart watched the highway wash through the windshield, while the detective stared out at the passing countryside. The quiet seemed uncomfortable, and Cowart shifted about in his seat, trying to stretch his arms out stiffly toward the steering wheel. He was used to rapid assessments about personality and character, and so far Tanny Brown had eluded him. He glanced over at the detective, who seemed to be lost in thought himself. Cowart tried to appraise the man, like an auctioneer before the start of bidding. Despite his musculature and imposing size, Brown's modest tan suit hung loosely about his arms and shoulders, as if he'd purposefully had it cut two sizes too large to diminish his physique. Although the day was warming, he wore his red tie tight to the neck of a pale blue button-down shirt. As Cowart stole glances away from the roadway, he watched the detective clean a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses and put them on, giving him a bookish appearance that again contradicted his bulk. Then Brown took out a small pen and notepad and made some notations swiftly, a motion not unlike a reporter's. After finishing his writing, the detective put away pad, pen, and glasses and continued to stare through the window. He lifted his hand slightly, as if pushing an idea up into the air, and gestured at the passing countryside. 'It was all different ten years ago. And twenty years ago, it was different again.'
'How so?'
'See that gas station? The drive-in, serve-yourself Exxon Mini-Mart with the grocery store and the computer-driven, digital-read-out automatic pumps?'
They swept past the station.
'Sure. What about it?'
'Five years ago, it was a little Dixie Gas, owned by a guy who probably'd been in the Klan in the fifties. A couple of old pumps, a stars-and-bars hanging in the window and a sign that said BAIT 'N AMMO. Hell, the guy was lucky he could spell that much, and he still had to abbreviate one of three words. But he had prime location. Sold it. Made a bundle. Retired to one of these little houses you see growing up around here in developments named Fox Run or Bass Creek or Elysian Fields, I guess.'
The detective laughed to himself. 'I like that. When I retire, it's got to be to some place called the Elysian Fields. Or maybe Valhalla, that's probably more appropriate for a cop, huh? The warriors of modern society. Of course, I'd have to die with my weapon in my hand, right?'
That's right,' Cowart replied. He was tense. The detective seemed to fill the small interior of the car, as if there were more to him than Cowart could see. 'Lots has changed?'
'Look around. The road is good, that means tax dollars. No more mom-and-pops. Now it's all 7-Eleven and Winn-Dixie and Southland Corporation. You want your car lubed, you go to a corporation. You want to see a dentist, you go to a professional association. You want to buy something, you go to a mall. Hell, the quarterback on the high-school football team is a teacher's son and black, and the best wide receiver is a mechanic's boy and white. How about that?'
'Things didn't seem to have changed much where Ferguson's grandmother lives.'
'No, that's right. Old South. Dirt poor. Hot in the summer. Cold in the winter. Wood stove and outdoor plumbing and bare feet kicking at the dust. Not everything has changed, and that's the sort of place that exists to remind us how much more changing we've got to do.'
'Gas stations are one thing,' Cowart said, 'what about attitudes?'
Brown laughed. 'Those change more slowly, don't they? Everybody cheers when that teacher's boy throws the ball and that mechanic's boy catches it for a touchdown. But either of those kids wanted to date the other's sister, well, I think the cheering would stop damn fast. But then, you must know all about that in your business, don't you?'
The reporter nodded, unsure whether he was being teased, insulted, or complimented. They swept past some tract housing being built on a wide field. A yellow bulldozer was uprooting a swath through a green field, turning over a scar of reddish dirt. It made a grinding and digging noise, momentarily filling the car with the sound of machinery working hard. Nearby, a work crew in hard hats and sweat-drenched shirts was stacking lumber and cinder block. In the car, the two men were silent until they cruised past the construction site. Then Cowart asked, 'So, where's Wilcox today?'
'Bruce? Oh, we had a couple of traffic fatalities late last night. I sent him down to officially witness the autopsies. It teaches you a new respect for seat belts and driving around drunk and what happens when you've got construction workers like the ones we just passed getting paid on Thursdays.'
'He needs lessons like that?'
'We all do. Part of growing into the job.'
'Like his temper?'
That's something he will learn to control. Despite his manner, he is a very cautious observer, and astute. You'd be surprised how good he is with evidence and with people. It's not often his temper boils over like that.'
'He should have controlled it with Ferguson.'
'I think you do not yet understand how strung out we all were over what happened to that little girl.'
That's beside the point and you know it.'
'No, that is precisely the point. You just don't want to hear it.'
Cowart was quieted by the detective's admonition. After a moment, however, he started in again. 'You know what will happen when I write that he struck Ferguson?'
'I know what you think will happen.'
'He'll get a new trial.'
'Maybe. I guess, probably.'
'You sound like someone who knows something, who's not talking.'
'No, Mr. Cowart, I sound like someone who understands the system.'
'Well, the system says you can't beat a confession out of a defendant.'
'Is that what we did? I think I told you only that Wilcox slapped Ferguson once or twice. Slapped. Open hand. Hardly more than an attention-getting device. You think getting a confession from a murderer is a tea party, all nice and proper every time? Christ. And anyway, it was almost twenty-four hours later before he confessed. Where's the cause and effect?'
'That's not what Ferguson says.'
'I suppose he says we tortured him all that time.'
'Yes.'
'No food. No drink. No sleep. Constant physical abuse coupled with deprivation and fear. Old tactics, remarkably successful. Been around since the Stone Age. That's what he says?'
'Pretty much. Do you deny it?'
Tanny Brown smiled and nodded. 'Of course. It didn't happen that way. If it had, we'd have damn well gotten a better confession out of that close-mouthed son of a bitch. We'd have found out how he sweet-talked Joanie into that car and where he stashed his clothes and that piece of rug and all the rest of the shit he wouldn't tell us.'
Cowart felt a surge of indecision again. What the policeman said was true.
Brown paused, thinking. Then he added, 'There you go, that'll help your story, won't it? An official denial.'
'Yes.'
'But it won't stop your story?'
'No.'
'Ah, well, I suppose it's much more convenient for you to believe him.'
'I didn't say that.'
'No? What makes his version more plausible than what I told you?'
'I'm not making that judgment.'
'The hell you aren't.' Brown pivoted in his seat and glared at Cowart. 'That's the standard reporter's excuse, isn't it? The 'Hey, I just put all the versions out there and let the readers decide whom to believe' speech, right?'
Cowart, unsettled, nodded.
