Cowart listened hard, occasionally interjecting a question, trying to gain some further edge to the stories he was hearing. After the first few, the shock wore off. They took on a sort of regular terror, where all the horrors that had once happened to real people were reduced to the memoirs of a condemned man. He sought details from the killer, the accumulation of words draining each event of its passion. They had no substance, almost no connection to the world. That the events he spoke of had actually filled the last moments of once real, breathing humans was somewhere lost, as Blair Sullivan spoke with an ever-increasing, steady, sturdy, unimaginative, and utterly routine evil.
Hours slid by horribly.
Sergeant Rogers brought food. Sullivan waved him away. The traditional last meal – a pan-fried steak with whipped potatoes and apple pie – remained on a tray, congealing. Cowart simply listened.
It was a few minutes after 11 P.M. when Blair Sullivan finished, a pale smile flitting on his face.
That's all thirty-nine,' he said. 'Some story, huh? It may not set a damn record, but it's gonna come damn dose, right?'
He sighed deeply. 'I'd a liked that, you know. The record. What the hell is the record for a fellow like me,
Cowart? You got that little fact at your fingertips? Am I number one, or does that honor go to another?'
He laughed dryly. 'Of course, even if I ain't number one in terms of numbers, why I sure as hell got it over most those other suckers for, what you wanna call it, Cowart? Originality?'
'Mr. Sullivan, there's not much time. If you want to…'
Sullivan stood, suddenly wild-eyed. 'Haven't you paid any attention, boy?'
Cowart raised his hand. 'I just wanted…'
'What you wanted isn't important. What I want, is!'
'Okay.'
Sullivan looked out from between the bars. He breathed deeply and lowered his voice. 'Now it's time for one more story, Cowart. Before I step out of this world. Take that nice fast ride on the state's rocket.'
Cowart felt a terrible dryness within him, as if the heat from the man's words had sucked all the moisture from his body.
'Now, I will tell you the truth about little Joanie Shriver. A dying declaration is what they call it in a court of law. The last words before death. They figure no one would go to the great beyond with a lie staining their lips.'
He laughed out loud. 'That means it's got to be the truth… ' He paused, then added, '… If you can believe it.'
He stared at Cowart. 'Beautiful little Joanie Shriver. Perfect little Joanie.'
'Number forty,' Cowart said.
Blair Sullivan shook his head. 'No.'
He smiled. 'I didn't kill her.'
Cowart's stomach clenched, and he felt a clamminess come over his forehead.
'What?'
'I didn't kill her. I killed all those others. But I didn't kill her. Sure, I was in Escambia County. And sure, if I'd a spotted her, I would have been right tempted to do so. There's no question in my mind, if I had been parked outside her school yard, I would have done exactly what was done to her. I'd have rolled down my window and said, "Come here, little schoolgirl…" That I can promise. But I didn't. No, sir. I am innocent of that crime.'
He paused, then repeated, 'Innocent.' 'But the letter 'Anyone can write a letter.' 'And the knife
'Well, you're right about that. That was the knife that killed that poor little girl.' 'But I don't understand
Blair Sullivan grasped his sides. His laughter turned into a solid, hacking cough, echoing in the prison corridor. I have been waiting for this,' he said. I have been so eagerly awaiting the look on your face.'
'I…'
'It is unique, Cowart. You look a bit sick and twisted yourself. Like it's you that's sitting in the chair. Not me. What's going on in there?' Sullivan tapped his forehead.
Cowart closed his mouth and stared at the killer.
'You thought you knew so much, didn't you, Cowart? You thought you were pretty damn smart. And now, Mr. Pulitzer Prize Reporter, let me tell you something: You ain't so smart.'
He continued to laugh and cough.
Tell me,' Cowart said.
Sullivan looked up. Ts there time?'
There's time,' Cowart said between clenched teeth. He watched the man in the cell rise and start to pace about.
I feel cold,' the prisoner said.
'Who killed Joanie Shriver?'
Blair Sullivan stopped and smiled. 'You know, he said.
Cowart felt the floor falling away from beneath his feet. He grasped the chair, his notebook, his pen, trying to steady himself. He watched the capstan on his tape recorder turn, recording the sudden silence.
'Tell me,' he whispered.
Sullivan laughed again. 'You really want to know?'
'Tell me!'
'Okay, Cowart. Imagine two men in adjacent cells on Death Row. One man wants to get out because he took a fall on the shabbiest case any detective ever put together, convicted by a cracker jury that probably believed he was the craziest murdering nigger they'd ever seen. Of course, they were right to convict him. But for all the wrong reasons. This man is filled with impatience and anger. Now the other man knows he's never gonna get out of that date with the electric chair. He may put it off some, but he knows the day's gonna come for him. Ain't no doubt about it. And the thing that bothers him the most is a bit of unfinished hatred. There is something he still wants to get done. Even if he's got to reach out from the very grasp of death to do it. Something real important to him. Something so evil and wrong that there's only one person on this earth he could ask to do it.'
'Who's that?'
'Someone just like him.' Sullivan stared at Cowart, freezing him into the seat. 'Someone just exactly like him.'
Cowart said nothing.
'And so they discover a few coincidences. Like they were in the same place at the same time, driving the same type car. And they get an idea, huh? A real fine idea. The sort of plan that not even the devil's own assistant could think up, I'd wager. The one man who'll never get off the Row will take the other's crime. And then that man, when he gets out, will do that certain something just for his partner. You beginning to see?' Cowart didn't move.
'You see, you dumb son of a bitch! You'd a never believed it if it weren't the way it is. The poor, innocent, unjustly convicted black man. The big victim of racism and prejudice. And the real awful, bad, white guy. Would never have worked the other way around, neither. It weren't so hard to figure out. The main thing was, all I had to do was tell you about that knife and write that letter right at the right moment so's it could be read at that hearing. And the best part was, I got to keep denying the crime. Keep saying I didn't have nothing to do with it. Which was the truth. Best way to make a lie work, Cowart. Just put a little bit of truth into it. You see, I knew if I just confessed, you'd of found some way to prove I didn't do it. But all I had to do was make it look for you and all your buddies on television and in the other papers like I did it. Just make it look that way. Then let nature take over. All I had to do was open the door a little bit…'