waiting area – but, he thought, with the heart of a bulldog.
'You Cowart?' the man asked, not unfriendly.
Cowart rose. 'That's right.'
'I'm Bruce Wilcox.' The man held out his hand. 'Come on, it'll be a few minutes before Lieutenant
Brown gets back in. We can talk back here.'
The detective led Cowart through a warren of desks to a glass-walled office in a corner, overseeing the work area. There was a title on the door: LT. I.A. BROWN, HOMICIDE DIVISION. Wilcox closed the door and settled behind a large brown desk, motioning to Cowart to take a seat in front of him. 'We had a small plane crash this morning,' he said as he began arranging some documents on the desk. 'Little Piper Cub on a training run. Tanny had to go to the site and supervise the recovery of the student and the pilot. Guys went down at the edge of a swamp. Messy business. First you've got to wade through all that muck to get to the plane. Then you've got to haul the guys out. I heard there was a fire. Ever have to try to handle a burned body? God, it's a mess. A righteous mess.'
The detective shook his head, clearly pleased that he'd managed to avoid this particular assignment.
Cowart looked at the detective. He was a compact, short man, with long but slicked-back hair and an easygoing manner, probably in his late twenties. Wilcox had taken off his sportcoat – a loud, red-checked design – and slung it over the back of the chair. He rocked in his seat like a man wanting to put his feet up on the desk. Cowart saw a set of wide shoulders and powerful arms more suited to a man considerably bigger.
'… Anyway, the detective continued, 'hauling bodies is one of the drawbacks to the job. Usually it's me that gets the duty…' He held up his arm and made a muscle. 'I wrestled in high school, and I ain't big, so I can squeeze into some space half the size of most of the other guys. I expect down in Miami they got technicians and rescue people and the like who get to fiddly-fuck about with dead folks. Up here, it kinda falls to us. Everybody dead is our business. First, we figure out if there was or wasn't a murder. Of course, that's not so hard when you've got a crashed plane smoldering on the ground in front of you. Then we ship them off to the morgue.'
'So, how's business?' Cowart asked.
'Death is always steady work,' the detective replied. He laughed briefly. 'No layoffs. No furloughs. No slack time. Just good, steady work. Hell, they ought to have a union just for homicide detectives. There's always someone up and dying.'
'What about murders? Up here
'Well, you're probably aware that we've got a drug problem up and down the Gulf Coast. Isn't that a great way of putting it? A drug problem. Makes it sound kinda cute. More like a drug hurricane, if you ask me. Anyway, it does create a bit of extra business, no doubt.
That's something new.'
'That's right. Just the last couple of years.'
'But before the drug trade?'
'Domestic disputes. Vehicular homicides. Occasionally, a couple of good old boys will get to shooting or stabbing over cards or women or dog fights. That's pretty much the norm for the county. We get some big-city troubles in Pensacola a bit. Especially with the servicemen. Bar fights, you know. There's a good deal of prostitution about the base, and that leads to some cutting and shooting as well. Butterfly knives and little pearl-handled thirty-two-caliber handguns. Pretty much what you'd expect, like I said. Nothing too unusual'
'But Joanie Shriver?'
The detective paused, thinking before answering. 'She was different.'
'Why?'
'She was just different. She was just… ' He hesitated, suddenly forcing his hand into a fist clenched tight and waving in the air in front of him. 'Everybody felt it. She was… ' He interrupted himself again, taking a deep breath. 'We ought to wait for Tanny. It was his case, really.'
'I thought his name was Theodore.'
'It is. Tanny's his nickname. It was his dad's before him. His dad used to run a
'You Cowart?' the man asked, not unfriendly.
Cowart rose. 'That's right.'
'I'm Bruce Wilcox.' The man held out his hand. 'Come on, it'll be a few minutes before Lieutenant
Brown gets back in. We can talk back here.'
The detective led Cowart through a warren of desks to a glass-walled office in a corner, overseeing the work area. There was a title on the door: LT. I.A. BROWN, HOMICIDE DIVISION. Wilcox closed the door and settled behind a large brown desk, motioning to Cowart to take a seat in front of him. 'We had a small plane crash this morning,' he said as he began arranging some documents on the desk. 'Little Piper Cub on a training run. Tanny had to go to the site and supervise the recovery of the student and the pilot. Guys went down at the edge of a swamp. Messy business. First you've got to wade through all that muck to get to the plane. Then you've got to haul the guys out. I heard there was a fire. Ever have to try to handle a burned body? God, it's a mess. A righteous mess.'
The detective shook his head, clearly pleased that he'd managed to avoid this particular assignment.
Cowart looked at the detective. He was a compact, short man, with long but slicked-back hair and an easygoing manner, probably in his late twenties. Wilcox had taken off his sportcoat – a loud, red-checked design – and slung it over the back of the chair. He rocked in his seat like a man wanting to put his feet up on the desk. Cowart saw a set of wide shoulders and powerful arms more suited to a man considerably bigger.
'… Anyway, the detective continued, 'hauling bodies is one of the drawbacks to the job. Usually it's me that gets the duty…' He held up his arm and made a muscle. 'I wrestled in high school, and I ain't big, so I can squeeze into some space half the size of most of the other guys. I expect down in Miami they got technicians and rescue people and the like who get to fiddly-fuck about with dead folks. Up here, it kinda falls to us. Everybody dead is our business. First, we figure out if there was or wasn't a murder. Of course, that's not so hard when you've got a crashed plane smoldering on the ground in front of you. Then we ship them off to the morgue.'
'So, how's business?' Cowart asked.
'Death is always steady work,' the detective replied. He laughed briefly. 'No layoffs. No furloughs. No slack time. Just good, steady work. Hell, they ought to have a union just for homicide detectives. There's always someone up and dying.'
'What about murders? Up here
'Well, you're probably aware that we've got a drug problem up and down the Gulf Coast. Isn't that a great way of putting it? A drug problem. Makes it sound kinda cute. More like a drug hurricane, if you ask me. Anyway, it does create a bit of extra business, no doubt.
That's something new.'
'That's right. Just the last couple of years.'
'But before the drug trade?'
'Domestic disputes. Vehicular homicides. Occasionally, a couple of good old boys will get to shooting or stabbing over cards or women or dog fights. That's pretty much the norm for the county. We get some big-city troubles in Pensacola a bit. Especially with the servicemen. Bar fights, you know. There's a good deal of prostitution about the base, and that leads to some cutting and shooting as well. Butterfly knives and little pearl-handled thirty-two-caliber handguns. Pretty much what you'd expect, like I said. Nothing too unusual'
'But Joanie Shriver?'
The detective paused, thinking before answering. 'She was different.'
'Why?'
'She was just different. She was just… ' He hesitated, suddenly forcing his hand into a fist clenched tight and waving in the air in front of him. 'Everybody felt it. She was… ' He interrupted himself again, taking a deep breath. 'We ought to wait for Tanny. It was his case, really.'
'I thought his name was Theodore.'
'It is. Tanny's his nickname. It was his dad's before him. His dad used to run a
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