'That's right,' Weiss said angrily. 'First things first. We've just got a problem with what you guys think comes first. Like selling papers instead of solving murders.'
'Matt, how much longer?' the city editor asked. Neither side had moved much.
'A few minutes,' Cowart replied.
'Where are the tapes?' Shaeffer asked.
'Being transcribed. Almost finished.' The city editor seemed to think for an instant. 'Look, how about you read what Sullivan told our man while you're waiting?'
The detectives nodded. The editor guided them away from Cowart's desk, giving the reporter a single 'get going' glance as he led the detectives into a conference room where three typists wearing headsets were working hard on the tapes.
Cowart breathed in deeply. He had worked his way through a description of the execution and maneuvered through the substance of Sullivan's confession. He'd listed out all the crimes that Sullivan had confessed to.
The only remaining element was the deaths that concerned the two Keys detectives. Cowart felt stymied. It was a crucial part of the story, items that would occupy a prominence in the first few paragraphs. But it was the element that threatened him the most. He couldn't tell the police – or write in the newspaper – that Ferguson had been involved with the crimes without opening up the question why. And the only answer to why those killings had taken place went back to the murder of Joanie Shriver and the agreement the dead man claimed had been struck between the two men on Death Row.
Matthew Cowart sat frozen at his computer screen. The only way he could protect himself, his reputation, and his career, was to conceal Ferguson's role. He thought: Hide a killer? His imagination echoed with Sullivan's words. 'Have
I killed you?'
For a single instant, he considered simply telling the truth about everything, but, in the same instant, he wondered, What was the truth? Everything pivoted on the words of the executed man. A lover of lies, right to his death.
He looked up and saw the city editor watching him.
The man spread his arms and made a circling gesture with both hands. Wind it up, the movement said.
Cowart looked back at the story he was writing, knowing that it would parade into the paper untouched.
As he wavered, he heard a voice over his shoulder.
'I don't buy it.'
It was Edna McGee. Her blonde hair flounced about her face as she shook her head from side to side. She was staring down at some pages of typed paper.
Sullivan's confession.
"What?' Cowart spun in his seat, facing his friend. She frowned and grimaced as her eyes ate words.
'Hey Matt, I think there's a problem here.' "What?' he asked again.
"Well, I'm just going through these quick, you know, and sure, well, I know he's telling you straight about some of these crimes. Got to be, I mean, with the details and everything. But, well, look here, he told you he killed this kid who was working in a combination convenience store and Indian souvenir stand on the Tamiami Trail a couple of years back. He says he stopped for a Coke or something and shot the kid in the back and took the register contents before heading down to Miami. Well, shit, I remember that crime. I covered it. Remember, I started out doing a piece about all the businesses that have sprung up around the Miccosukkee Reservation, and I did a sidebar on some of the crime that has plagued the folks out there in the 'Glades? Remember?'
He gripped the desk.
'Matt, you okay?'
'I remember the stories,' Cowart replied slowly.
Edna looked at him closely. 'Well, they were mostly about people getting mugged on their way to the bingo games, and how the Indians have established an additional security patrol because of these cash businesses they've got.'
'I remember.'
'Well, I did a bit of research on that shooting. I mean, it happened pretty much the way Sullivan says it did. And it sounds like he was inside that store at some point. And sure, the kid got shot in the back. That was in all the papers…' She waved the sheaf of typed conversation in the air. I mean, he's got it all right, in a sort of superficial way. But, he didn't do it. No way. They busted three teenagers from South Dade for the crime. Forensics matched up the weapon with the bullet in the kid's back and everything. Got a confession from one and testimony against the shooter by the wheelman. Open and shut, as they say. Two of those kids are doing a mandatory twenty-five for first-degree. The other got a deal. But there ain't no doubt who did the crime.'
'Sullivan
'Well, hell, I don't know. He was in South Florida then. No doubt. I mean, I got to check the dates and everything, but sure. He probably passed right by. right about the time that crime hit the front page of the paper. The murdered kid was the nephew of one of the Indian elders, so it made a splash all over the local pages. TV was all over it, too. Remember?'
He did, vaguely, and wondered why he hadn't when Sullivan was talking to him. He nodded.
Edna shook the pile of papers in her hand. 'Hell, Matt, I'm sure he was probably telling the truth about most of these crimes. But all of them? Who knows? There's one that doesn't wash. How many others?'
Cowart felt sick to his stomach. The words 'probably telling the truth' punished him. What does it mean if he lied once? Twice? A dozen times? Who did he kill? Who didn't he kill? When was he telling the truth and when wasn't he?
Maybe it was all a lie and Ferguson was telling the truth. His image of Ferguson suddenly flip-flopped from a twisted, murderous gargoyle back to the angry man trapped by injustice. Sullivan's lies, half-truths, and misinformation all rolled together in an impossible
Innocent? Cowart thought.
He stared at the computer screen but remembered Sullivan's words. Guilty? He did. He didn't.
Edna flapped the sheaf of papers in her hand, 'There's a couple of others here that may not wash. I'm just guessing, though. I mean, why? Huh? Why would he claim some murders that he didn't do?' She paused and answered her own question, Because he was one weird guy, right up to the end. And all those mass murderers seem to get off on being the biggest or the toughest or the worst. You remember that guy Henley in Texas? Helped do twenty-eight with that other guy. So, there he is, sitting in prison, when word comes out that John Gacy in Chicago-has done thirty-three. So Henley calls up a detective in Houston and tells him, "I can get the record back…" I mean, weird doesn't really describe it, does it?'
'No,' replied Cowart, his insides collapsing in a turmoil of doubt.
Edna leaned over to look at the lead to his article. 'At least thirty-nine crimes. Well, that's what he said. But you better qualify it.'
'I will.'
'Good. Did he give you any real details about the killings in the Keys?'