goddamn Fourth of
July rocket. Especially a young black man. If Ferguson had been here, he'd have had to sneak in under cover of midnight. He might have done that, maybe. But that's a big risk, you know.'
'Where's the risk at night? Nobody'd see him.' The policeman leaned up against the side of the car. 'Come on, Cowart, think about it. You've got an address and a job. A killing job. What you've got to do is come to some place you've never been. Find a house you've never seen before. Break in and kill two people you don't know, and then get out, without leaving any evidence behind and without attracting any attention. Big risk. Take a lot of luck. No, you want to do some homework first. Got to see where you're going, what you're up against. And how's he gonna do that without being seen? None of these folks go anywhere. Hell, half of them are retirees sitting outside no matter how damn hot the sun gets, and the other half never held a job more'n maybe five or ten minutes. They got nothing much to do except watch.'
Cowart shook his head. 'Happens all the time,' he replied.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, it happens. Suppose Sullivan gave him the layout. All the information he needed.'
Brown paused. 'Maybe,' he said. 'But I'd think that after spending three years on the Row, Ferguson might be wary of doing something that might put him back there, if he wasn't real careful.'
That made sense to the reporter. Still, he was reluctant to give up on the idea. 'Why does he have to come last week? Maybe tie came last year. First thing, after getting out of prison. Soon as the hubbub dies down and his face has been out of the newspapers and television for a couple of weeks. Comes down, innocent as all get-out, walks all around the place. He knows they're an old couple. Not going to change a damn thing. Gets a feel for the location, what he's going to have to do. Maybe knocks on the door, tries to sell them some encyclopedias or a magazine subscription. Gets himself inside just long enough to get a good look around before they kick him out. Then walks away. It makes no difference who sees him because he knows they're gonna forget by the time he comes back.'
Brown nodded his head, eyeing Cowart. 'Not bad. for a reporter,' he said. 'Maybe. It's something to think about.' He allowed a small grin to rub the edges of his lips before adding, 'But, of course, that isn't what you want to know, is it? You want to know how he couldn't do it. Not how he could, right?'
Cowart opened his mouth to reply but then stopped.
And here's another little idea, Cowart,' Brown continued. 'You'll like this one 'cause it makes your man seem innocent. Suppose, just for a minute, that
Blair Sullivan did arrange, like he said, for these killings to happen – but not with Bobby Earl.
Somebody totally different. And what he wanted to guarantee is that nobody would look under the right stone for the slime that he made those arrangements with. How better could he guarantee that than by telling you that Mr. Innocent was the killer? He knew that sooner or later someone would be walking up and down this street with a picture of Bobby Earl in hand.
And if Bobby Earl's name gets into the paper again, that'd give just about anybody time enough to hide what they did. A little bit of extra confusion.'
The detective paused. 'You know how important it is to make a murder case fast, Cowart? Before time just worries away at facts and evidence until there's nothing left?'
'1 know it's important to move rapidly. That's what you did in Pachoula and look what the hell happened.' Brown scowled.
Cowart felt the sweat under his arms run down, tickling his ribs. 'Anything's possible,' he replied. 'That's right.'
Brown straightened up and rubbed a hand across his forehead, as if trying to shift about the thoughts that were contained within. He sighed deeply. 'I want to see the murder site,' he said. He started down the street, striding swiftly, as if by moving about quickly he could somehow elude the heat that had gathered about them.
When they reached the street outside number thirteen, the policeman hesitated, turning again to Cowart. 'Well, at least he had that going for him.'
'What?'
'Look at the house, Cowart. It's a real good place to kill somebody.'
He swept his arm about. 'Set back from the street. No real close neighbors. See the way the house is angled? At night there's no way anybody'd see anything going on inside unless they just happened to be standing right out front. And close, too. You think that Mister Rotten Teeth down there walks that pit bull around at night? No way. I'd bet a week's pay that once the sun goes down, and everybody's had a chance to have a drink or two, the TV sets are on and the only people out on this street are those teenagers. Everybody else is either drunk, watching reruns of Dallas, or busy praying for the day of judgment. I guess they didn't know it was closer than they thought.'
Cowart let his eyes flow about the exterior of the house. He envisioned the place at night and thought Brown correct. There would be an occasional outburst as some couple fought. That might mingle with the sounds of television sets playing too loudly. Broken bottle, drunk arguments, maybe a dog barking. And, even if someone did hear a car leaving fast, they'd probably assume it was some kids fighting the ubiquitous boredom with recklessness.
'A real good killing place, Brown said.
There was a yellow police tape surrounding the house. The detective slipped underneath it. Cowart followed him around the back.
'In there,' Brown said, pointing at the broken rear door.
'It's sealed.'
'Screw it.' He tugged the door open with a single pull, breaking the yellow tape.
Cowart hesitated, then stepped inside the house behind him.
The death smell lingered in the kitchen, mingling with the heat, giving the room a tomblike oppressiveness. There were signs of police processing throughout the small space; fingerprint dust streaked the table and chairs. Chalk notes and arrows showed locations. Each of the blood splotches remained on the floor, though samples had clearly been scraped from them. Cowart watched as Brown absorbed and assessed each sign.
Tanny Brown went through an internal checklist. In his mind's eye, first he saw the forensic teams steadily working the scene, the busy work of death. He knelt down next to one of the swatches of blood that had turned almost black against the light linoleum of the floor. He reached out and rubbed a finger against it, feeling the slick, brittle consistency of dried blood.
When he rose, he pictured the old man and woman, gagged and bound, awaiting death. For an instant he wondered how many times they had sat in the same chairs and shared breakfast or dinner, or discussed the
Bible, or did whatever they did that was routine. It was one of the awful things about homicide work: that the banal, humdrum world in which most folks lived was suddenly rendered evil. That the places people thought safe were abruptly made deadly. In the war, of all the wounds he'd tended, he'd hated those caused by mines the most: toe-poppers, Bouncing Bettys, and worse. It was not so much the savagery of the damage the mines did as the manner in which they did it. You put your shoe down on the ground, took a single step, and were betrayed. If you were lucky, you only lost a foot. Did these people know they were living on a minefield? he wondered. He turned toward Cowart.
At least he understands that, he thought. Even the ground is unsafe. Brown left the kitchen, leaving
Cowart standing next to the dying spot.
He walked quickly through the small house, inventorying the lives that had festered there. Barren, he thought, clinging to Jesus and waiting for Mr. Death to come calling. They probably thought they were being stalked by old age, when it was something altogether different. He stopped in front of a small closet in the bedroom, marveling at the row of shoes and slippers that were lined up across the floor, like a regiment on parade. His father would do the same; the elderly like everything in its place. A pile of knitting, balls of yarn, and
