Ferguson's voice was smooth and distant.

'But…'

'But if I hadn't had the car, I never would have been picked up by the sheriff's men investigating the crime.'

'Tell me about that.'

'There's really not that much to tell. The afternoon of the killing, I was at home with my grandmother. She would have testified to that, if anybody'd had the sense to ask her…'

'Anybody else see you? Like, not a relative?'

'Oh, uh, oh, I don't recall anyone. Just her and me. If you go see her, you'll see why. Her place is an old shack about a half mile past any of the other old shacks. Dirt-road poor.'

'Go on.'

'Well, not long after they found the little girl's body, two detectives come out to the house to see me. I was in the front, washing the car. Boy, I did like to see that sucker shine! There I was, middle of the day, they come out and ask me what was I doing a couple of days before. They start looking at the car and at me, not really listening to what I say.'

'Which detectives?'

'Brown and Wilcox. I knew both those bastards. Knew they hated my guts. I should have known not to trust them.'

'How'd you know that? How come they hated you?'

'Pachoula's a small place. Some folks like to see it just keep on keepin' on, as they say. I mean, they knew I had a future. They knew I was going to be somebody. They didn't like it. Didn't like my attitude, I guess.'