'I don't know what he knew. He merely insisted I come here.'
'How did he put it?'
'He told me to come down and interview the people in the house. I figured out afterwards who they were. I'm supposed to go back up to the prison right away.' He felt flush with the heat of lost minutes.
'Do you know who killed those people?' she asked.
He hesitated. 'No.'
Not yet, he thought.
'Well, do you think Blair Sullivan knows who killed those people?'
'He might.'
She sighed. 'Mr. Cowart, you're aware how unusual this all is? It would help us if you were a bit more forthcoming.'
Cowart felt Detective Shaeffer's eyes burrowing into him, as if simply by the force of her gaze she could start to probe his memory for answers. He shifted about uncomfortably.
'I have to get back to Starke,' he said. 'Maybe then I can help you.'
She nodded. 'I think one of us should go along. Maybe both of us.'
'He won't talk to you,' Cowart said.
'Really? Why not?'
'He doesn't like policemen.' But Cowart knew that was only an excuse.
By the time he got to the prison, the day had risen hard about him and was creeping toward afternoon. He'd been held up at the house on Tarpon Drive until evening, when the detectives had finally cleared the scene. He'd driven hard and fast back to the Journal newsroom, feeling the grip of time squeeze him as he threw a selection of details into a newspaper story, a hasty compilation of details painted with sensationalism, while the two detectives waited for him in the managing editor's office. They had not wanted to leave him, but they had been unable to make the last flight that night. They'd holed up in a motel not far from his apartment, meeting him shortly after daybreak. In silence they'd ridden the morning commuter flight north. Now, the two Monroe County detectives were in a rental car of their own, following close behind him. The front of the prison had been transformed in the prior twenty-four hours. There were easily two dozen television minivans in the parking lot, their call letters emblazoned on the sides, lots of LIVE EYES and ACTION NEWS TEAMS. Most were equipped with portable satellite transmission capabilities for live, remote shots. Camera crews lounged around, talking, sharing stories, or working over their equipment like soldiers getting ready for a battle. An equal number of reporters and still photographers milled about as well. As promised, the roadway was marked by demonstrators from both camps, who honked and hooted and shouted imprecations at each other.
Cowart parked and tried to slide inconspicuously toward the front of the prison. He was spotted almost immediately and instantly surrounded by cameras. The two detectives worked their way toward the prison, moving on the fringe of the crowd that gathered about him.
He held up his hand. 'Not right now. Just not yet, please.'
'Matt,' cried a television reporter he recognized from Miami. 'Will Sullivan see you? Is he going to tell you what the heck is going on?'
The camera lights blended with fierce sunlight. He tried to shade his eyes. I don't know yet, Tom. Let me find out.'
'Are there any suspects?' the television man persisted.
'I don't know.'
'Is Sullivan going to go through with it now?'
'I don't know. I don't know.'
'What have you been told?'
'Nothing. Not yet. Nothing.'
'Will you tell us when you talk to him?' another voice shouted.
'Sure,' he lied, saying anything to extricate himself.
He was struggling through the crowd toward the front doors. He could see Sergeant Rogers waiting for him.
'Hey, Matty' the television reporter called. 'Did you hear about the governor?'
'What, Tom? No, I haven't.'
'He just had a press conference, saying no stay unless Sullivan files an appeal.'
Cowart nodded and stepped toward the prison door, sweeping under the broad arm of Sergeant Rogers. The two detectives had slid in before him and were striding away from the probing lights of the cameramen.
Rogers whispered in his ear, singing, as he passed, 'You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away…'
'Thanks,' said Cowart sarcastically.
'Things sure are getting interesting,' the sergeant said.
'Maybe for you,' Cowart said under his breath. 'For me, it's getting a little difficult.'
The sergeant laughed. Then he turned to the two detectives. 'You must be Weiss and Shaeffer.' They shook hands. 'Y'all can wait in that office, right in there.'
'Wait?' Weiss said sharply. 'We're here to see Sullivan. Right now.'
The sergeant moved slowly, grasping Cowart by the elbow and steering him toward a sally port. All the time, however, he was shaking his head. 'He don't want to see you.'
'But, Sergeant,' Andrea Shaeffer spoke softly. 'This is a murder investigation.'
I know that,' the sergeant replied.
'Look, dammit, we want to see Sullivan, right now,' Weiss said.
'It don't work that way, Detective. The man's got an official…' he glanced up at a wall clock, shaking his head, 'uh, nine hours and forty-two minutes of life. If'n he don't want to see somebody, hell, I ain't gonna force him. Got that?'
'But…'
'No buts.'
'But he's going to talk to Cowart?' Shaeffer asked.
'That's right. Excuse me, miss, but I don't pretend to understand what Mr. Sullivan's got in mind by all this. But if n you got a complaint or you think maybe he's gonna change his mind, well, you got to talk to the governor's office. Maybe they'll give you some more time. As for us, we got to work with what we got. That means Mr. Cowart and his notebook and tape recorder. Alone.'
The woman nodded. She turned to her partner. 'Get on the horn with the governor's office. See what the hell they say about all this.' She turned to Cowart. 'Mr. Cowart, you've got to do your job, I know, but please, will you ask him if he'll talk with us?'
'I can do that,' Cowart replied.
'And, the detective continued, 'you probably have a pretty good idea what I'd be asking him. Try to get it down on tape.' She opened a briefcase and thrust a half dozen extra cassettes at him. 'I'm not going anywhere. Not until we can talk again.'
The reporter nodded. 1 understand.'
The detective looked over toward the sergeant. 'It always get this weird?' she asked, smiling.
Rogers paused and returned her smile. 'No, ma'am.'
The sergeant looked up at the clock again. 'There's a lot of talking here, but time's wasting.'
Cowart gestured toward the sally port and followed the sergeant into the prison. The two men walked quickly down a long corridor, their feet slapping against the polished linoleum surface. The sergeant was shaking his head.
'What?'
'It's just I don't like all this confusion' the sergeant replied. 'Things should be put in order before dying. Don't like loose ends, no sir.'
