Raising Cain Page 12

  “You want mypermission to shit-can the investigation?”

  Gray shook his head. “I’m not doing that,” he said. “You know me. I can take the heat. That’s not where I’m coming from. I need your input on this one, your help. If we proceed, we may hurt someone we all care about. I just wanted to be sure that you knew the consequences before we went any further.”

  Gardner reflected for a moment. If he gave the word, the wheels would stop right now. But that was unethical and illegal. They both had a duty to seek out the perpetrator of the violent crime. “What is your next investigative step?” he finally asked.

  The chief picked up the bag. “These have not yet been processed for fingerprints. I can send them out to an independent agency or have them done in-house.”

  Gardner gritted his teeth. A fingerprint on the cuffs would produce an instant suspect.

  “But we still have to get something straight,” Gray resumed, “before deciding about that.”

  “How far we intend to go?”

  The chief nodded grimly. “Right. If we start the race, we have to finish. All I was trying to say before is that I see no reason to rush. Things are quiet at the moment. People in Blocktown are breathing easier. There is no reason right now to push. Nobody seems to give a damn that this guy is dead, not even the people out at the quarry. They won’t even answer questions. All they seem to care about is getting his carcass back.”

  That was strange, Gardner thought. Fairborne had been most uncooperative at the power station, and the CAIN church wasn’t screaming for blood. An unusual response, to say the least.

  Gray continued, “We have time to think it through.”

  “So you could hold the cuffs awhile longer, before processing?”

  “As long as no one is making a fuss, why not?”

  Gardner considered the options. More time would give him a chance to contact Brownie and get his version. If he was clean, they could green-light a full inquiry. And if he wasn’t, they’d have an opportunity to think of another plan.

  “So what’s it going to be?” the chief asked. “Can I slow this thing down?”

  Gardner took a deep breath. This was a solemn moment, a circumstance that could later be called a conspiracy in the making or a cover-up.

  Gardner stood. “An investigation must be conducted. There is no way around that. But the time frame is flexible.”

  “You’re taking your time as a precaution against error,” Jennifer suggested.

  “Right,” Gray replied.

  “You proceed, but slowly.” Gardner picked up his briefcase.

  The chief nodded. “So I can hold the cuffs? Delay processing them?” He lifted the bag.

  Gardner hesitated at the door. If the handcuffs went to the lab now, and there was a print on them, they might identify the killer. But that was the question. At this point, did they really want to know?

  Gardner turned and faced the chief. “Hold the cuffs,” he said, “until you hear from me.”

  Kent King pulled the Thomas Ruth file from his desk drawer and laid it under his lamp. The petition he’d drafted after Ruth’s visit was the only document inside. King studied it carefully and closed the folder.

  He grabbed the phone and dialed an outside line. The court clerk, Judy Field, answered.

  “Judy, this is Kent King. I need you to run down a paper I filed yesterday.”

  “Sure. What’s the caption of the case?”

  “In the Matter of Thomas Ruth…”

  “Thomas Ruth,” the clerk replied. “As in ‘crispy critter.’ “

  “That’s the one.”

  “What do you want me to do with it?”

  King doodled on his yellow pad. “Pull it out and return it to me.”

  “I have to log it in,” Judy replied. “It’s an official pleading.”

  “Do not log it in,” King said. “Put it in an envelope and send it back.”

  “All pleadings have to be logged.”

  “They do not,” King said firmly. “I am withdrawing it before filing, just like it never arrived. The man is dead, and the petition is moot. Send it back, please.”

  “Okay, Mr. King,” Judy said.

  “And no logging,” King added.

  “Uh-huh,” Judy replied. Then she opened the court docket and placed a notation in the miscellaneous section: “Petition in re Ruth, filed on 9/23, abated by death, withdrawn by order of K. King, attorney for the deceased.”

  King put down the telephone. That was a close one. There was no use airing Ruth’s complaints now that he was dead. That could lead to complications, especially if King somehow got drawn into the case.

  King looked at a framed set of Chinese characters on his wall. It was the word for crisis and it was formed by combining characters from two other words: risk and opportunity. King smiled. That simple concept had been the key to his success. With every crisis there was an opportunity. And he never let one pass him by.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Brownie knocked on the door of his aunt’s house, absently fingering a hole in the screen while he waited for her to respond. Her face appeared in the doorway. “Joseph Junior!” she exclaimed.

  “Afternoon, Aunt Gladys.” She pushed the screen and allowed him in. As he entered, he hugged her around the shoulders.

  “Good to see you, boy,” she whispered.

  They walked to the kitchen, and Brownie sat at the small table by the window. There was a valley view to that side of the house, and a ripple of mountain ridges beyond. The sun was dipping in that direction, casting a golden sheaf of rays into the room.

  “How about some cake?” Gladys asked. The air smelled of butterscotch icing.

  Brownie hesitated. His regimen, of late, had been lack of food, lack of sleep, and lack of human contact. “Okay,” he finally said. “Small piece, please.”

  Gladys lifted the cover of her cake container and unveiled a sculpted masterpiece. “Let you have a big one,” she replied.

  Brownie smiled as she cut a large wedge and placed it in front of him. “Your mama asked if I’d seen you,” his aunt said.

  Brownie took a bite of cake and shook his head. He’d been to see his mother two times since Daddy died, and each visit was bad. The emptiness of the house, Mama’s crying, and his inability to comfort her had made things worse. Finally he’d stopped going. The aunts and cousins would take care of her. Right now he couldn’t help.

  Brownie swallowed. “How is she doin’?”

  “Misses Daddy and you,” Gladys replied. “I know it’s hard, but we need to keep the family together. Right now you’re the only man she’s got.”

  Brownie looked through the window and his mind wandered. Several youngsters had just hopped out of a school bus across the street. Chattering and roughhousing, they ran around the corner and disappeared. Brownie refocused on his aunt’s yard. An old wooden swing hung from the oak tree, swaying slowly in the breeze. Brownie closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them the swing was new, and he could see two boys playing baseball. The younger one was trying to throw, and the older one was coaching him. “Take your time and aim,” the older boy said. The little one reared back and let loose a wild pitch that almost hit the house. The older boy retrieved the ball and tossed it back. “Again!” he yelled. The ball flew off at another awkward angle. The older boy retrieved it. “Again,” he said. “But this time, aim.” The younger boy took a World Series stance, set, wound, and unleashed the ball. It zapped through the air, homed on the target, and smacked into the center of the catcher’s mitt.

  “Joseph?” Gladys asked.

  Brownie blinked and looked out of the window again. The boys were gone.

  “You all right?” Gladys touched his forearm with her wrinkled fingers.

  “Yeah,” Brownie replied, taking a deep breath. “But I need to ask you something.”

  Gladys adjusted her glasses.

  “You seen Paulie this week?”

  She shook her head sadly. “Pa
ulie…”

  Brownie played with his fork. “When did he go back to D.C.?”

  Gladys stood, went to the refrigerator, and returned with a glass of milk that she set by his plate. “Think it was day before yesterday.”

  “So he was here the night the man got killed at the power station.”

  Gladys nodded silently.

  “He was staying with you, right?”

  “Yes. He stayed here…. What’s this about, Joseph?”

  “Can you tell me what he did that night?”

  “He was going over to see Reverend Taylor. That’s what he said.”

  “What time was that?”

  Gladys looked at her watch, then at the clock on the wall. “Evenin’. Around suppertime.”

  “When was the next time you saw him?”

  Gladys frowned.

  “Do you remember what time you saw him later?”

  “No.”

  “How was he dressed? Was he wearing the African outfit?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  Brownie stared at the table.

  “Oh my God.” Gladys suddenly sat upright. “I know why.”

  “It’s okay, Aunt Gladys,” Brownie said. “Nothing is going to happen.”

  “You’re the boy’s brother. How can you do this to him again?”

  Brownie took her hand. “I’m not doing anything. I’m just asking questions.”

  “For the police,” Gladys replied.

  Brownie squeezed her hand. “No,” he repeated. “This is not for the police.”

  “You just got to be a policeman. Always a policeman!” Tears filled her eyes. “Why can’t you be a brother?”

  “I am, Aunt Gladys. That’s what I’m trying to be.”

  “You got to help that boy! You can’t keep tryin’ to hurt him!”

  “I’m not trying to hurt him. Please understand that. I just need to know what he was doing the other night.”

  “For the police,” Gladys repeated.

  “No,” Brownie answered. “Not for the police. For me.”

  * * *

  Frank Davis scanned the hallway outside the police lab and reached into his pocket for the passkey. He’d waited all day for his chance, and now the coast was finally clear. He inserted the key, slipped into the room, and relocked the door.

  Without turning on the light, Davis went directly to Brownie’s desk, trying several other passkeys until he found the right one. Soon the desk was piled high with purloined files.

  The chief had issued a slow-down order on the investigation, confiscated the handcuffs, and told the force to belay the rumors. The lid was on. But Davis still had a job to do, and his ultimate goal was still in sight.

  Davis screened several files and confirmed that Brownie had been a bad boy. He’d disobeyed the lieutenant’s directive to lay off his father’s investigation and he’d set up his own secret inquiry. It was all here: confidential reports, notes, and sketches. Then Davis noticed an aerial map at the bottom of the stack. He pulled it out and placed it on the desk. It was an overview of the county, and Brownie had outlined two sections in red ink: Blocktown and the quarry. Then he’d drawn dotted lines between the locations, writing “Possible access routes to Cutler Road” by the markings.

  Davis smiled. Brownie was a jerk, but he was a good investigator. He’d found the back-country passageway between Blocktown and the quarry that no one else had noticed.

  Davis turned the page to an enhanced view of the sector. Brownie had put marks there as well. There were three circles along the route. Davis lifted the page to his face to see it better in the dark. Then he laughed out loud and put the page down. “Got you, you black-assed bastard,” he declared. Inside the first circle was the fire tower; inside the second, the waterfall. But it was the third that made him laugh. Brownie had highlighted another spot where he might encounter Mr. Ruth, and this one was very familiar. Inside the third circle was the notation “Power station.”

  The county circuit court judges were in their weekly meeting. It was a private session, closed to the public and other officials. Every Friday they convened at five to discuss the events of the preceding days. They talked about cases and defendants, warned of deceptive lawyer tactics, and set the agenda for the future.

  “New business?” Judge Danforth inquired. He was chief judge, and he looked the part: a mane of white hair and ruddy cheeks above a black robe.

  “We’ve been receiving calls from the press about this CAIN death,” Judge Harrold said. As administrative judge, it was his job to handle the media. “They’re asking about the investigation.”

  “Refer to the State’s Attorney,” Danforth replied abruptly. “Do not comment.”

  “But there’s talk about a cover-up, police involvement—”

  “Let Lawson handle it,” Danforth said impatiently. “There is such a thing as separation of powers, remember? We’re judicial. They bring us a case and we decide. The State’s Attorney is executive. He investigates. He files charges. That’s not our affair.”

  “The reporters seem to think that it is.”

  “It’s not,” Danforth concluded. “We say nothing, and we do nothing. This is Lawson’s baby and he has to nurse it.”

  “But what if the police are involved in the crime?”

  Danforth tossed his mane. “We’re judges, not prosecutors. We stay out of it, as I said. Next subject, please?”

  Brownie’s house lay on a secluded farm road south of town. He’d bought the white two-story wooden building ten years before and renovated it himself. As a bachelor he had the time and energy to devote to the project. And, like most things Brownie tackled, the results were spectacular.

  Gardner drove his car into Brownie’s driveway. Bordered by maple trees, the crushed stones curved gracefully toward the front door. Brownie’s private auto was next to the lab van.

  Gardner parked by the grape arbor that screened the walkway. The leaves were browning, and clumps of ripe fruit dangled beneath. He and Jennifer approached, and Gardner knocked on the door.

  “Hello,” Jennifer said. Gardner turned as Jennifer patted Brownie’s collie, Jasper, on the head. He wagged his tail.

  “Brownie!” Gardner yelled. There was still no answer. “I’m going in,” he said, testing the door handle.

  It was unlocked, so they entered. The living room was a mess. Dishes covered the coffee table, and newspapers were strewn across the floor. There was an indentation in the couch, in line with the TV.

  “Brownie?” Gardner called again.

  There were two doors to the rear of the room. One led to the kitchen, the other to Brownie’s workshop. A buzzing sound was coming from the work area.

  Gardner walked to the door and quietly opened it. The room was set up like Brownie’s lab at police headquarters, packed with test tubes, scanners, magnifiers, and electronics. Brownie was bending over a table, blowing something with a hair dryer.

  “Brownie!” Gardner hollered.

  The policeman jumped off his chair, dropped the dryer, and pulled a cloth over the tabletop. “Gard!”

  The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then Jennifer came in.

  “Hi, Brownie,” she said. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed. And he had lost weight.

  “Jennifer.” Brownie was awkward, embarrassed.

  “We need to talk,” Gardner declared.

  Brownie ushered them into the living room and closed the door to his lab. He motioned them to sit and began picking up newspapers and trash. Jennifer stacked dishes, while Gardner sorted magazines. On top was an issue of Interview.

  Finally Brownie sat down. “I know why you’re here. I’m afraid things got out of hand. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t.” Brownie lowered his eyes.

  “You have something to tell me?” Gardner asked shakily.

  “His rights,” Jennifer whispered.

  “No.” Gardner raised a finger. “Brownie is not in custody, and I’m not interrogating him. Miranda warnings onl
y apply to custodial interrogation. This is a private conversation.”

  “But—” Jennifer protested. Brownie should not be allowed to incriminate himself, not even to a friend. That was in Brownie’s best interest.

  “It’s okay,” Brownie said wearily. “I know my rights. I should, after all these years. I screwed up, man. I—”

  “Hold it!” Gardner interrupted. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t speak.”

  “It’s okay,” Brownie repeated. “I know the rules, and I’m willing to play. I didn’t kill the man. I sure as hell wanted to, but I didn’t do it. I talked to him that day. I thought he killed Daddy, and I was pissed.”

  “What did you do?” Gardner asked.

  “Stopped his car. Interrogated him. “

  “Where?”

  “Dunlop Road, outside of town.”

  “What were you driving? “

  “Lab van. I had set up a surveillance.”

  “So you were waiting for him.”

  “Yeah. I knew his schedule.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “One of Davis’s reports had a timetable and route map for Ruth plotted out.”

  “And Dunlop Road was on it? That’s an odd location.”

  “No. I talked to old Gus at the Amoco station. He’d seen Ruth heading into town earlier in the day and hadn’t seen him come back. I decided to intercept him on Dunlop.”

  “So you stopped him,” Gardner continued. “On what pretext?”

  “None. I just flashed the lights, and he stopped.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Asked him back to the truck.”

  “Asked?” Brownie just said he was “pissed.”

  “Ordered him out of the car, brought him back to the van, stuck him in the front seat, and told him I knew he used a snake on Daddy.”

  Gardner and Jennifer looked at each other. Snake?

  “Daddy was terrified of snakes, enough to cause a heart attack if he had one put on him. A skin fingerprint test showed marks on his neck that looked like scales. Ruth used snakes in his act. I put it together and made the accusation.” Brownie stopped talking.

  “There was no skin print test in the autopsy,” Gardner stated.

  “Yes, there was. I ordered it.”