and others. She took out an issue of the Newark Star-Ledger and saw a headline that read: FAMILY OFFERS REWARD IN MISSING DAUGHTER CASE.
'This sort of thing interest you?' she asked.
'Same as it does you,' Ferguson answered. 'Isn't that true, Detective? When you pick up a newspaper, what's the first story you read?'
She did not reply but glanced down at the newspapers again. She noticed there was a crime story on each page. Other headlines leapt out at her: POLICE PROBE EVIDENCE IN ASSAULT and NO LEAD IN ABDUCTION, POLICE SAY.
'Where'd you get these papers?'
He glared at her. 'I go back to Florida with some frequency. Give speeches at churches, to civic groups.' His eyes locked onto her own. 'Black churches, black civic groups. The sort of people who understand how an innocent man gets sent to Death Row. The sort of people who don't think it's so damn unusual for a black man to get harassed by the cops. Who wouldn't think it so damn strange that every cheap homicide cop in the state who can't get anywhere on some damn case would roust an innocent black man.'
He continued to stare at her, and she dropped the newspaper she was holding back onto the pile.
I study criminology. 'Media and Crime.' Wednesdays, five-thirty P.M. to seven-thirty P.M. It's an elective. Criminology 307. Professor Morin. That's why I collect newspapers.'
She let her eyes sweep over the desk again.
'I'm getting an A,' he added. He restored the mocking tone to his voice. 'Now, tell me what you want, he insisted.
'All right,' she said. The force of his gaze was making her uncomfortable. She stepped away from his desk and returned to face him directly.
'When were you last in the Florida Keys? Upper Keys. Islamorada. Marathon. Key Largo. When did you go down there to talk to some civic group?' She made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm.
'I've never been in the Keys,' he replied.
'No?'
'Never.'
'Of course, if I had someone telling me the contrary, that would say something, wouldn't it?' She lied easily, but the implicit threat seemed to wash off him.
'It would say someone was feeding you false information.'
'You know a street called Tarpon Drive?'
'No.'
'Your friend Cowart's been there.'
He didn't reply.
'You know what he found there?'
'No.'
'Two dead bodies.'
'Is that why you're here?'
'No,' she lied. 'I'm here because I don't understand something.'
A cold rigidity rode his voice. 'What don't you understand, Detective?'
'You, Blair Sullivan, and Matthew Cowart.'
There was a momentary silence in the room.
'I can't help you,' he said.
'No?' Ferguson had the ability to make someone uncomfortable simply by remaining still, she thought. 'All right. Tell me what you were doing in the days before your old buddy Blair Sullivan got juiced.'
For an instant, a look of surprise sliced across his face. Then Ferguson answered, I was here. Studying. Going to classes. My course list is on the wall there.'
'Right before Sullivan went to the chair. Did you take one of your little trips?'
'No.'
He pointed at the wall. She turned and saw a list taped to the faded paint. She went over and wrote down the times and places and professors' names. Professor Morin and 'Media and Crime' were on the list.
'Can you prove it?'
'Do I have to?'
'Maybe.'
'Then maybe I can.'
Shaeffer heard a siren sweep by in the distance, its sound penetrating into the small room.
'… And he was never my buddy,' Ferguson said. 'In fact, he hated me. I hated him.'
'Is that right?'
'Yes.'
'What do you know about the murders of his stepfather and mother?'
Ts that your case?'
'Answer the question.'
'Nothing.' He smiled at her, then added, 'No. I know what I read and saw on television. I know they were killed a few days before his execution and that he told Mr. Cowart that he managed to arrange the deaths. That was in the papers. Even made the New York Times, Detective. But that's all.' Ferguson seemed to relax. His voice abruptly took on the tone of someone who enjoyed verbal fencing.
'Tell me how he could arrange those killings,' she asked. 'You're the Death Row expert.'
'That's right, I am.' Ferguson paused, thinking. 'There are a couple of different ways…' He grinned at her unpleasantly. 'First thing I'd do is pull the visitor lists. They log every visitor onto the Row. Every lawyer, reporter, friend, and family member. I'd go back to the day Sullivan arrived on the Row and I'd check every single person who came to see him. There were quite a bunch, you know. Shrinks and producers and FBI specialists. And of course, eventually, Mr. Cowart…' Ferguson's voice had a slightly animated edge to it '… And then I'd talk to the guards. You know what it takes to be a guard on Death Row? You've got to have a bit of the killer in you, you know, because you're always aware that one day it could be you strapping some poor sucker into the chair. You've got to want to be that man.' He held up his hand. 'Oh, hell, they'll tell you that it's just a job and nothing personal and nothing different from any other part of the prison, but that ain't true. You got to volunteer for Q, R, and S wings. And you got to like what you're doing. And like what you might have to do.'
He looked up at her, eyes alert. '… And I don't suppose if you don't think it's such a damn hard thing to strap somebody into a chair and fry their ass it'd be such a damn hard thing to go tie somebody in a chair and cut their throat.'
1 didn't say they had their throats cut.'
'It was in all the papers.'
'Who?' she asked. 'Give me a name or two.'
'You're asking me to help you?'
'Names. Who on the Row would you talk to?'
He shook his head. 'I don't know. But they were there. You could tell, you know. The Row is a society of killers. It didn't take too long to figure out that some of the jailers belonged on the other side.'
He continued to grin at her. 'Go and see for yourself,' he said. 'Shouldn't take a sharp detective like yourself too long to figure out who's bent and who's not.'
'A society of killers,' she said. 'Where did you fit in, Mr. Ferguson?'
'I didn't. I was on the fringe.'
'How much would you have to pay?'
