Raising Cain Page 15

  Paulie switched on his stereo, trying to drown his thoughts in the rhythm of an African chant. He sat on his couch and laid his head on a pillow. The sounds began to soothe his torment. He closed his eyes.

  The boys were in high school. Paulie was a sophomore and Joseph was a senior. They were studying the Civil War, and the teacher put the students in groups: one North, the other South. He asked each group to explain why they were fighting. Paulie was assigned the South group, filled with farm boys who smoked in the bathroom and hung Confederate flags in their primer-coated cars. The leader was a nasty teen named Rod Mullins. “We’re fighting to keep them on the plantation,” he said, pointing to Paulie. The others laughed, and Paulie hit Mullins in the back of the head. There was a free-for-all, and Paulie ended up on the bottom of the pile. The teacher restored order and sent them all to the principal. But Paulie was the only one suspended from school. And that was the way it was. Whenever he spoke up, he got smacked down. The harder he yelled, the harder they hit. And Brother Joe did nothing. He was too busy grinning and jiving, and slapping five with the white boys like nothing was wrong.

  The phone startled Paulie and he grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “How are you?” It was Aunt Gladys.

  Paulie turned down the music. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I want to know about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Joseph Junior was by here. Got me worried.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He was asking questions.”

  Paulie pushed the phone closer to his ear. “What kind of questions?”

  “About you. What you did that night, what you were wearing, who you were with.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said to leave you alone.”

  “What else did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. Just that I thought you went down to see the reverend.”

  Paulie rubbed his face. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  Silence on the line.

  “What did you do, Paulie?”

  “Keep out of it, Aunt Gladys.”

  “Please talk to Joseph Junior. He can help you.”

  Paulie laughed. “Like he did last time?”

  “He said he wasn’t doing this for the police.”

  Paulie moaned. “And you believe that bull? He’s always playing cop.”

  “He’d never hurt you, I know it.”

  Paulie laughed again. “He already did! Don’t you remember?”

  “He loves you, Paul. That other stuff is all in the past. “

  Paulie didn’t answer. The past was coming around again.

  “Please call him, please.”

  “Leave it alone, Aunt. It’s not gonna happen.”

  Paulie paced the room after he hung up, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a long-distance number.

  “Hello, Reverend Taylor? We’ve got to talk.”

  Fall Festival was in progress at the Apple Valley Elementary School. Gardner and Jennifer sat in the third row of the auditorium, waiting for the curtain to go up. Tonight was Granville Lawson’s big debut: the sixth-grader had a speaking part in the program.

  The lights dimmed, and a woman walked onto the small stage. “Thank you for coming,” she said into a microphone. “On behalf of all the teachers and students, welcome. Tonight we pay tribute to this glorious season, in song and dance and verse.”

  The curtain went up, and children dressed as autumn leaves and pumpkins began dancing and gyrating to recorded flute music.

  “Adorable,” Jennifer whispered.

  Gardner’s preoccupations were fading. The melody was haunting, and the children were surprisingly rhythmic. “Yeah,” he whispered back. “Not bad.”

  There were several younger kids’ acts before the fifth- and sixth-graders appeared: a song called “Bringing In the Corn,” a skit about protecting the environment, and another costumed dance number. Finally it was Granville’s turn.

  Gardner tensed as his son walked to center stage. His blond hair was combed neatly, and he wore a dark green sweater.

  ” ‘Fall,’ “ the boy said into the microphone. “A poem by Granville Alcott Lawson.”

  Jennifer glanced at Gardner. He was entranced.

  “Fall begins with a drop of rain,/ and fills the fields with ripened grain.”

  Gardner smiled.

  “The wind turns cold and chills my nose,/ and frost creeps up between my toes./ The school bell rings, and footballs fly, / and the bluest blue is in the sky.”

  Gardner’s smile widened.

  “Winter, spring, summer, fall,/ I love this season best of all!” He stopped speaking and bowed his head. Then he strode into the wings.

  The room broke into applause. Jennifer whistled, and Gardner clapped until his hands were red. The only thing that mattered at the moment was the poetry of a little boy.

  Officer Bobbie Thompson was jittery. The heat was on at the department following the appointment of the special prosecutor. Every cop on the force was terrified that King was gunning for him. The attorney had been their bane as a defense lawyer, and now he commanded the power of the state. And that made him dangerous.

  It was 8:15 P.M., and Bobbie had just come off day shift. He was still in uniform, driving his marked patrol car. He turned off Mountain Road and entered Blocktown from the north. It would make him less conspicuous.

  Reverend Taylor’s church was quiet and dark. There were no lights in the windows and no cars in the parking lot. Bobbie pulled next to the building and shut off his engine. A shadow suddenly approached the car, and the officer rolled down his window.

  “Evening, Bobbie,” Reverend Taylor said.

  “Reverend.” Word had been passed that Taylor wanted to see him. It had come through the Blocktown network, from the church to the gas station to Bobbie Thompson on his rounds. There were no phone calls or written messages.

  “Need to talk to you,” the reverend said.

  Bobbie looked around. No telling who King was watching. “Where?” he asked.

  “Inside,” Taylor whispered.

  Bobbie locked his car and accompanied the reverend to the rear of the church. They entered the basement and walked to a table in the middle of the room. Bobbie looked around. He’d never been down here. It was cozy and opulent, filled with comfortable furniture. There was a modern entertainment center and what looked like a wet bar. The windows, high against the ceiling, had been painted over like a World War Two blackout.

  “My thinking room,” Taylor said.

  “Uh-huh,” Bobbie muttered. It looked like the man did more than think down here. “What’s up, Rev? I don’t have a lot of time before I gotta report back.”

  “What’s the latest on the Ruth case? I heard an announcement today about a change of lawyers.”

  “The cops and Gardner Lawson are out. Kent King is in,” Bobbie replied.

  “What, exactly, does that mean?”

  “King is running the investigation.”

  “Tell me about King.” Taylor seemed concerned.

  “He is one nasty son of a bitch—uh, sorry, Rev.”

  Taylor smiled. “Don’t worry, Bobbie. You can speak freely here.”

  “King is one bad dude in the courtroom. He’ll work this thing till he gets blood.”

  “Who’s the target?”

  “Brother Joseph Brown, they say.”

  “Old Man Joseph Brown’s son?”

  “That’s him. Took Ruth out to avenge his daddy’s death, so the rumor goes.”

  “Have you heard any other rumors?” Taylor asked.

  “About what?”

  “Are they looking at anyone else?”

  “Not as far as I know. Lawson and the chief were taking their time with the investigation. They were going to probably let it all slide, but…”

  “But this new guy is gonna do things different.”

  “Yeah. He’s going to dig till he
gets his man. He’s a persistent sucker.”

  “So Sergeant Brown is in trouble.”

  “It looks like it, sad to say.”

  Taylor stopped talking and pursued some inner thought. Then he stood up. “Thanks for coming by, Bobbie,” he said. “And thanks for the information.”

  Thompson shook his hand, and Taylor walked him out the door. “Keep me posted,” the reverend said at the car.

  “Do what I can,” Bobbie replied. Then he drove away and left Taylor by the church.

  Brownie had been out all day and most of the night, following leads in his secret investigation. After Dr. Charles had called to say that Ruth’s hands and body were missing, Brownie couldn’t stay put. He’d disobeyed Gardner’s orders to lie low and returned to the woods. There was a fact he hadn’t told Gardner about, a fact that still needed clarifying. And now, finally, at 4:05 A.M., he was in bed.

  Brownie heard a thud on his front door and leaped up. There was another thud, followed by voices.

  Brownie grabbed his 9-millimeter, scrambled down the stairs,and took a defensive position. “Who is it?” he demanded.

  “Prosecutor’s office! We have a search warrant. Open up!”

  Brownie cocked his automatic. This had to be a trick, a ploy by break-and-enter thugs. It sure as hell wasn’t Gardner.

  “Open the door or we’ll bust it in!”

  Brownie prepared to fire.

  “You’d better do it, Sarge.” That voice was familiar: Frank Davis. “They have a warrant”

  Brownie released the hammer with his thumb and opened the door.

  “Put down your weapon,” a voice boomed, as a light blinded his eyes.

  Brownie placed his gun on the floor.

  “Now step outside.”

  Brownie walked forward until he saw Davis. The other men were still invisible behind their flashlights. “What’s going on, Frank?” he demanded.

  Davis handed him a piece of paper. “By authority of Special Prosecutor Kent King,” he said. “Sorry, Sergeant, I’m just their escort. These men are in charge.”

  “Yeah, you’re sorry.”

  “King was appointed special prosecutor in the Ruth case yesterday afternoon,” Davis continued. “They work for him.”

  Brownie finally got a look at Ace Dixon and Handey Randel.

  “And this is an authorized search warrant,” Davis went on. “I am here to observe, but I cannot interfere.”

  Davis directed Brownie into the yard and he could only watch as the two investigators entered his home. He was dazed; there had been no warning, no time to clean up.

  “This wasn’t my idea,” Davis said.

  “Fuck you,” Brownie replied.

  There were rummaging sounds within the house, drawers banging, books toppling. But Brownie said nothing. He’d served hundreds of warrants and knew the drill. The document authorized them to search, and that was exactly what they were doing. There was no way he could stop it.

  An hour and a half later, Ace Dixon and Handey Randel came out of the door. They each had an armful of items: files, clothing, uniforms, handcuffs, and several plastic bags. They signaled to their escort.

  “You can go in now,” Davis said. “They’re done.”

  Brownie observed silently as the private eyes unloaded their merchandise.

  “You can go in now,” Davis repeated.

  But Brownie didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the men place Thomas Ruth’s shoes into the trunk of their car.

  twelve

  Brownie and Gardner met at the interstate rest area at eight o’clock the morning after the raid. Brownie had called at first light and delivered the bad news.

  The rest area lay in a grove of trees, away from the highway, just beyond the county line. Brownie arrived first and took a position at a picnic table overlooking the valley. The sun was elevated, and smoke lay in the lowlands.

  Gardner parked next to Brownie’s car, walked to the bench, and sat down. “What happened last night?” he asked.

  Brownie sadly met Gardner’s eyes. He looked dreadful, unshaven and unusually sloppy. “Frank Davis and two Baltimore brownshoes rearranged my furniture.”

  “I tried to warn you. King was appointed Ruth special prosecutor. Where were you yesterday?”

  Brownie looked down. “Out.”

  “You were supposed to stay home.”

  Brownie raised his chin. “Leave it alone. I had things to do.”

  Gardner drummed his fingers on the table. “You could have at least left your message machine on.”

  “I forgot.”

  “Too late now anyway.”

  The two men looked at each other. A crow squawked in a nearby tree, and an air horn blared on the highway. “What were they looking for, Brownie?” Gardner asked.

  “Some stuff I had.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Evidence in the case.”

  “Evidence? What the hell were you doing with evidence? I told you to stay clear!” Suddenly he sensed where Brownie had been during the unanswered calls.

  “You know me,” Brownie replied apologetically. “Can’t leave things alone….”

  “All right,” Gardner said, trying to regroup. “What did they take?”

  “Ruth’s shoes.”

  “Oh, God. You had his shoes? How did that happen?”

  “I went out to the power station, found them.”

  “Shit. King is going to go nuts with this.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “No. It’s our problem.”

  Brownie slowly shook his head. “You’re not involved.”

  Gardner was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not your concern. I can handle it.”

  Gardner put his hands on the table and tried to calm down. “I don’t mean to disrespect you,” Brownie continued. “What I did, I did, and I’ll take responsibility.”

  “Don’t push me away,” Gardner answered. “We have to stick together.”

  “No. You’ve got to stay clear.”

  “But I’m not clear, I’m involved, no matter what the court order says.”

  “I think we better go separate ways for now. I made some bad decisions. I do not want you hurt because of it. I know you tried to help me, and I appreciate it, I really do. But I’ll be okay. I wanted to tell you that.”

  What Brownie was saying made sense. Collusion, conspiracy, and cover-up were at the heart of King’s mandate. The more Gardner tried to help, the worse it would look.

  “I told you I didn’t kill the man,” Brownie said.

  “I know.”

  “But that’s all I can really say right now. I had my reasons for doing what I did. No sense talking about it.”

  “We’re screwed either way,” Gardner said. “If we work together,we bolster King’s conspiracy case. And if we don’t, we split the team.”

  Brown smiled ironically. “The man’s a fucking genius.”

  Gardner sighed in resignation.

  “He’s been waiting for this a long time,” Brownie continued. “A chance to cut both our nuts off. Between you and me, he’s got a whole lot of scores to settle.”

  “So you think this is personal.”

  “Paybacks are hell, man.”

  “We can’t let him do it,” Gardner said.

  “You play it your way and I’ll play it mine.”

  “We don’t share game plans?”

  Brownie shook his head. “Don’t see how we can. King’s gonna watch every move we make and try to take you down, too. You know that. Right now I’m the only dirty one. You’re clean. Best leave it alone.”

  Gardner rumpled his hair. There had to be another way.

  Brownie stood up and extended his hand. Gardner looked at it as if to say, What’s that for? Then he gripped it.

  “Take care of yourself,” Brownie said.

  There was something frightening about this, a feeling that King had finally changed the rules forever. Gardner squee
zed his friend’s hand. “You, too,” he whispered.

  Kent King was back on the job early. In less than a day he’d accomplished more than the cops had managed in weeks. But then, he was interested in solving the case. The special team was again assembled in King’s office command center, all players minus one. Lin Song had been dispatched to Lawson’s to claim the space allocated under the appointment order. There was nothing like getting the morning started with a bang.

  “What’s the status on the car?” King asked the detectives. The cops had dropped the ball on this one. Ruth had left the compound in his vehicle and never returned. The car would be a logical place to search for clues, but it had not turned up yet, at least not according to the police reports. As with everything else, they had let it slip.

  “At the state park,” Ace Dixon said.

  “It was in the ranger’s maintenance section,” Handey Randel added, “so allegedly no one noticed.”

  King looked up from his notes. “I assume it was not logged in at the station.” All visitors to the park were supposed to sign in upon arrival, but the rule was seldom enforced.

  “Correct,” Ace replied. “There were a couple of abandoned cars next to it, and the area is unlit.”

  King was incredulous. “So no one saw a brand-new Lincoln sitting there for a week?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “What was its condition?” He looked at Handey.

  “Clean.”

  “Locked or unlocked?”

  “Locked. Lights off. No accessories operating.”

  “Uh-huh.” King made a note. “Keys?”

  “Unaccounted for.”

  “You checked the area?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the interior? Anything of interest in the car?”

  Handey pulled a plastic bag out of a carryall. “This pad was attached to one of those windshield devices.” He passed the bag to King. “Nothing on it.”

  The special prosecutor examined the small note tablet through the clear plastic. Several pages had been ripped out, but there was no writing and no indentation of letters impressed in the paper. King handed the bag back. “What else?”