Finally, he'd spotted Vernon Hawkins leaving the house through a side door. The old detective had ducked away from the police strobes and the television cameras and had pushed himself up against a tree, as if in great exhaustion.

He had known Hawkins for years, through dozens of stories. The veteran detective had always had a special liking for Cowart, had tipped him off frequently, shown him things that were confidential, explained things that were secret, let the reporter in on the inexorably ugly life of the homicide detective. Cowart had surreptitiously slid beneath the yellow police line and approached the detective. The man had frowned, then shrugged and gestured for him to sit.

The detective lit a cigarette. Then he stared for an instant at the glowing end. 'These things are murder,' he said with a rueful laugh. 'They're killing me. Used to be slowly, but I'm getting older, so it's speeding up.'

'So why don't you quit?' Cowart asked.

'Because they're the only things I've ever found that get the smell of death out of my nostrils.'

The detective took a long drag and the red glow illuminated the lines in the man's face.

After a moment of silence, the detective turned toward Cowart. 'So Matty, what brings you out on a night like this? Ought to be home with that pretty wife of yours.'

'C'mon, Vernon.'

The detective smiled quietly and put his head back gently against the tree. 'You're gonna end up like me, with nothing better to do at night except go to crime scenes.'