Cowart looked at the policeman. He said, 'It's not me you want to kill.'

Tanny Brown held stiff for an instant. Then he lowered the gun. 'That's right. It isn't. Or maybe it is, but it isn't the right time yet.'

He sat back down and placed the revolver on the arm of the chair, picking up his drink again. He let the liquor squeeze the anger, and he breathed out slowly, 'Close, Cowart. Close.'

The reporter leaned back in his seat. 'Everything seems to be cut close for me.'

They were both silent for a moment before the detective spoke again. 'Isn't that what you guys always complain about? People always hate the press for bringing them the bad news, right?' Killing the messenger, huh?'

'Yeah. Except we don't mean it so damn literally.' Cowart exhaled swiftly and burst into a high-pitched laugh of relief. He thought for an instant. 'So that must have been how it happened, right? Point that thing in someone's face and one's inhibitions against self-incrimination just naturally flow away fast.'

'It's not in the approved police training textbooks,' Brown replied. 'But you're right. And you were right about that all along. Ferguson told you the truth. That's how we got the confession. Only one small problem, though.'

'I know the problem.'

The two men stared at each other.

Cowart finished the statement hanging in the air between them. 'The confession was the truth, too.'

The reporter paused, then added, 'So you say. So you believe.'

Brown leaned back hard in his seat. 'Right,' he said. He took a deep breath, shaking his head back and forth. 'I should never have allowed it. I had too much experience. I knew too much. Knew what could happen when it got into the system. But I let all sorts of wrong things get in the way. It's like hitting a patch of slick mud in your car. One minute you're in control but speeding along, the next out of control, spinning around, fishtailing down the road.'

Brown picked up his drink. 'But, you see, I thought we might get away with it. Bobby Earl turned out to be his own worst witness. His old attorney didn't know what the hell he was doing. We waltzed the bastard right onto the Row, where he belonged, with just a minimum of lies and misstatements. So I was thinking maybe it would all work out, you know. Maybe I wouldn't be having any more nightmares about little Joanie Shriver…'

I know about nightmares.'

'And you came along, asking all the damn right questions. Picking away at all the little failures, the little lies. Seeing right through that conviction just as if it weren't there. Damn. The more you were right, the more I hated you. Had to be, can't you see?' He pulled hard at the glass, then set it down and poured himself another.

'Why did you admit that Ferguson was slapped, when I came up to interview you? I mean, it opened the door…'

The detective shrugged. 'No, what opened the door was Bruce exploding. When you saw that frustration and anger, I knew you'd believe he'd beaten Ferguson, just like the bastard said. So, by telling a small truth -that he slapped him – I thought I could hide the big truth. It was a gamble. Didn't work. Came close, though.

Cowart nodded. 'Like an iceberg,' he said.

"Right,' Brown replied. 'All you see is the pretty white ice up on top. Can't see the dangerous stuff below.

Cowart laughed out loud, though the laughter had no humor attached to it, only a burst of nervous relief and energy. 'Only one other little detail.'

The detective smiled as well, speaking quickly, cutting across the reporter's words. 'You see, I know what Blair Sullivan told you. I mean, I don't know. But

I sure as hell can guess. And that's the little detail, ain't it?'

The reporter nodded. 'What was it you say you knew Bobby Earl was?'

'A killer'

'Well, I think you may be right. Of course, you may be wrong, too. I don't know. You like music, Detective?'

'Sure'

'What sort?'

'Pop, mostly. A little bit of sixties soul and rock to remind me of when I was young. Makes my kids laugh at me. They call me ancient.' 'Ever listen to Miles Davis?' 'Sure.'

'This is a favorite of mine.'

Cowart rose and approached the stereo system. He put the tape into the player and turned to the detective. 'You don't mind if we just listen to the end, huh?'

He punched a button and plaintive jazz filled the room.

Brown stared at the reporter. 'Cowart, what're you doing? I'm not here to listen to music'

Cowart slumped back into his seat. ' "Sketches of Spain." Very famous. Ask any expert and they'll tell you it's a seminal piece of American musicianship. It just slides its rhythms right through you, gentle and harsh all at the same time. You probably think this piece ends nice and easy-like. But you're wrong.'

The mingled horns paled slowly and were abruptly replaced by Blair Sullivan's acrid voice. Brown pitched forward in his seat at the murderer's first words. He craned his neck toward the stereo speakers, his back rigid, his attention totally on what he was hearing.

'Now I will tell you the truth about little Joanie Shriver… Perfect little Joanie…' The executed man's voice was mocking, clear and resonant. '… Number forty,' Cowart said on the tape. And the dead man's laugh pierced the air. The reporter and the police detective sat still, letting Sullivan's voice envelop them. When the tape hissed to its end and clicked off, the two men sat quietly, staring at each other.

'Damn,' said Brown. 'I knew it. Son of a bitch.'

'Right,' replied Cowart.

Brown rose and pounded one hand into another. He felt his insides spark with energy, as if the killer's words had electrified the air. He clenched his teeth and said, 'I've got you, you bastard. I've got you.'

Cowart remained slumped in his seat, watching the policeman. 'Nobody's got anybody, he said quietly, sadly.

'What do you mean?' The detective looked at the tape machine. 'Who else knows about this?'

'You and me.'

You didn't tell those detectives working the Monroe murders?'

'Not yet.'

You understand that you're withholding important evidence in a murder investigation. You understand that's a crime?'

What evidence? A lying, twisted killer tells me a story. Blames another man for all sorts of things. What does that amount to? Reporters hear stuff all the time.

We listen, process, discard. You tell me: evidence of what?

'His goddamn confession. His description of the deaths of his mother and stepfather. How he worked it all out. Dying declaration, just as he said, is admissible in a court of law.'

He lied. He lied right, left, up, and down. I don't think, at the end, he understood what was truth and what was fiction.'

"Bullshit. That story sounds pretty goddamn real to me.'

That's because you want it to be real. Look at it another way. Suppose I told you that in the rest of the interview, he made up things. Claimed murders he couldn't possibly have committed. Misstated all sorts of stuff. He was grandiose, egotistical, wanted to be remembered for his achievements. Hell, he almost claimed being a part of the Kennedy assassination and to know where Hoffa's body lies. Now, hearing all that stuff mixed together, wouldn't that make you wonder if he was telling you the truth about this little murder or two?'

Brown hesitated. 'No.' Cowart stared at the detective.

All right. Maybe.'

'And what about him and Bobby Earl? Just where does the betrayal start? Maybe he figured this was his way back at Bobby Earl. I mean, what meant what? And now he's dead. Can't ask him, unless you want to take a trip to hell.' 'I'm willing.' 'So am I.'

The detective glared over at Cowart, but then his frown dissipated and he nodded his head. 'I think I see now.'

'See what?'

'Why it's so damn important for you to believe Bobby Earl's still innocent. I see why you tore up your own place here. Tore up your nice little life a bit when you heard what Sullivan told you, huh?'