Raising Cain Page 3

  Lieutenant Harvis of the county police was waiting in the reception area of prosecution headquarters when they arrived. “Got some bad news,” he announced.

  Gardner ushered him into the inner office. Jennifer followed, closed the door, and the three of them were alone.

  “Hit me,” Gardner said anxiously.

  Harvis placed a file on the desk. He was a twenty-year veteran of the force with a regulation haircut and ice-blue eyes. “Brownie lost his dad last night.”

  “God, no,” Gardner moaned. “What happened?”

  “Heart attack on the way home from the senior center.”

  Gardner pictured Joseph on his front porch, a kindly, gentle old man, telling stories on a lazy Sunday. “How’s Brownie taking it?”

  “Not good. He was still on the Payson case, finishing up at the farmhouse when it happened. Didn’t make it to the hospital till after his dad was dead. Stirred up some trouble in the emergency room.”

  “Trouble?” Gardner looked at Jennifer.

  “He hassled the doctor, insisted there was a problem with the diagnosis, ordered an autopsy.”

  Gardner frowned. Autopsies were only performed in suspicious death situations. “You said heart attack.”

  Harvis nodded. “That’s what the doctor told Brownie, but he found some scratch marks on his father’s wrists, something like that. I only got it secondhand. Brownie thinks there might have been foul play. He asked for a departmental investigation. Wants me to assign him to do it.”

  Gardner clasped his hands. “You can’t do that, of course.”

  “Of course.” The department had a policy against personal involvement in a case. It was classic conflict of interest.

  “So who are you assigning?”

  “Frank Davis was in that sector when the ambulance call came in. He went to the scene and did some preliminaries, then volunteered to do a follow-up. I’m assigning him.”

  “Davis?” Gardner rose up in his seat. “He’s a damn troublemaker.”

  “Don’t start with that again. He’s a decent officer and not a half-bad investigator. Besides, he’s already begun. I’m not taking him off now.”

  Gardner did not respond. Davis was an abrasive cop with an attitude problem who’d been passed over for promotion four times. “Don’t you have anyone else?”

  “No. Not at the moment. We’re short-handed now, and if Brownie goes out, we’ll have to use the other investigators to pick up his caseload.”

  “So you’re giving him administrative leave?”

  “I’m going to offer it, but he doesn’t have to take it.”

  “Knowing Brownie, he won’t,” Gardner said.

  Jennifer had been reflecting on her own memories of Joseph. She’d spent time on the porch with Gardner and Brownie and his dad. She’d played checkers and listened to his stories. “Who would want to kill him?” she finally asked.

  “It’s not certain he was killed,” Harvis replied. “Not certain at all.”

  “But Brownie thinks so,” Jennifer said. “Was there anything other than scratches? Any bruising, money taken, anything like that?”

  Harvis glanced at the preliminary report. “No. Davis came up clean on the first sweep, and there was nothing else amiss as far as we know.”

  “Have you talked to Brownie yet?” Gardner asked.

  “No. He took off after he left the hospital, faxed me the investigation request, and disappeared. We haven’t been able to reach him by phone.”

  “So he doesn’t know about Davis being assigned.”

  “No.”

  Gardner put his hands on the desk and drummed his fingers. “Brownie is not going to sit by and let someone else, especially Davis, run this investigation. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “That’s one reason I came over here. I thought maybe you…”

  Gardner drummed his fingers faster. If there was such a thing as a “best” friend, Brownie was his. “You want me to tell him he can’t investigate the death of his own father?”

  “He listens to you.”

  Gardner stopped drumming. Brownie was like a snapping turtle. When he got his jaws around a case, he never let go.

  “Will you do it?”

  Gardner looked at Jennifer. She was shaking her head no. The police had to control their own. It wasn’t Gardner’s job.

  “Will you?” Harvis repeated.

  Gardner apologized to Jennifer with his eyes. “I’ll try,” he said.

  “Spool it up again,” Brownie said. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and he was at the emergency dispatch center in the fire station, listening to the tape of the 911 call that had come in on Joseph. He’d been up all night, pacing, driving, drinking coffee, crying, screaming. He’d wrung out a lot of sorrow. And now it was time to get back to work.

  Dispatcher Sarah Little threw a switch, and the massive tape reel whirred into rewind. Brownie had heard it four times already, but under the circumstances, Sarah didn’t mind doing it again. “Okay, we’re set,” she said. The tape counter showed they were at the right spot.

  Brownie gave the go-ahead signal, and Sarah pushed the play button.

  There was some static, then the voice of the night-shift dispatcher:

  “Emergency.”

  “Yeah,” the voice said. “You got a sick man on the pathway by Cutler Road.”

  Brownie put his ear close to the speaker.

  “What’s his problem?”

  “Passed out, needs help.” The words were muffled, unnatural.

  “What’s his exact location?”

  “Mile or so from Cutler, in the woods.”

  There was a pause, then the dispatcher spoke again. “A unit is on its way, sir. May I have your name, please?”

  No response.

  “Sir? Are you still there?”

  Brownie nodded, and Sarah stopped the tape. “He was trying to disguise his voice,” he said.

  “Sounds like it.”

  Brownie’s eyes were red, and his stomach ached. “Pull up the number reference.”

  Sarah went to another console and keyed a command. The screen scrolled data, then displayed a set of numbers. “The call came in at twenty-twenty-three,” she said. “Eight-twenty-three P.M.“

  Brownie looked over her shoulder. The system was programmed to print out the number of the telephone that made the call. The number and address let the dispatcher know where to send help if the caller was disabled and couldn’t speak.

  Sarah ran her finger down the screen to the spot where the number and address should have been. It was blank.

  Brownie grimaced. “A no-show.”

  The dispatcher swiveled her chair. “Must have been a cellular call. They don’t print.”

  Brownie nodded. The system was not designed to register cellular calls because there were too many transmission variables to make it viable.

  “There’s no way of knowing who the call came from,” Sarah said, “unless you run the records of every cell phone customer on the East Coast.”

  Brownie looked up. “Or know which system he’s on.” The phone company’s airtime log would show a call to 911 at 20:23 hours on September 20. But he’d need the right cellular company and their customer list. And there were millions of cell phones in the area.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Sarah said. “Too bad we don’t know who called.”

  “Too bad,” Brownie agreed. His eyes were as blank as the space on the screen.

  “I know you’d like to thank him.”

  Brownie blinked. “Thank him?”

  “For tryin’ to save your father’s life.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The man wasn’t a Good Samaritan.”

  Sarah looked confused. “What was he?”

  Brownie clenched his fist. “Daddy’s killer.”

  Sallie Allen did not w
ant to get out of bed. She pulled the pillow over her head and shifted her body in the bunk. It was nine-thirty in the morning, and the dormitory was empty. The other women had gone out to do their chores.

  Sallie closed her eyes and reran the images of the night before. The CAIN people were crazy. Totally beyond-belief crazy. The scene had been bizarre to the max. She had been simultaneously terrorized, turned on, and, she had to admit, exhilarated. Ruth was a hunk, a big, scary one. But he’d disappeared soon after the ceremony and left her on the platform, shaky, wet, and a little disappointed.

  Sallie Allen, former high school cheerleader, former college gymnast, was a natural go-getter. Growing up in a wealthy household in Georgia, she always got what she wanted: men, cars, attention. She was smart enough and pretty enough to move to the head of the line in any endeavor she chose. And her sights were set on a star in the journalistic walk of fame.

  Sallie rolled over and sat up. She scouted the room, slipped her arm under the mattress, and pulled out her recorder and notebook. She switched tapes and checked her notes. Today she would try to find what secrets lay behind the camp’s closed doors. They’d kept her on a tight rein so far, restricting her access from most of the buildings.

  Suddenly there was a noise on the steps. Sallie jammed the book and recorder under the mattress and stretched languidly, trying to look nonchalant.

  “You’re awake.” It was Alva, one of her roommates. She was a horse-faced woman in her early twenties with kinky blond hair and hazel eyes. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Like a baby,” Sallie lied. Visions of Ruth and the snakes had kept her up most of the night.

  “You did great yesterday.”

  The reporter smiled. “You mean my walk?”

  “Yes. I know you were scared, but you hung in there.”

  “Has anyone ever been bitten?”

  “Thomas wouldn’t allow it.”

  Sallie cocked her head. “So the act is rigged?”

  Alva looked puzzled. “Rigged?”

  “The snakes don’t really bite?”

  Alva put her finger to her lips. “It’s a test of faith. Leave it at that.”

  Sallie took the hint and moved on. “Thomas is wonderful, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Alva’s eyes sparkled as she spoke.

  “What does he do when he’s not preaching?” Except for prayer meetings, Ruth was invisible.

  “I don’t really know. He leaves the camp a lot.”

  “Where does he go?”

  Alva pointed east, beyond the barbed-wire fence. “Out there.”

  “Do you ever go with him?”

  “Me?” Alva blushed. “No. Not me.”

  “Someone else?”

  “No one as far as I know. He spends most of his time alone.”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Sallie said. Alva would follow Ruth to the moon if he asked her. “I’m just trying to learn the ropes. The dos and the don’ts around here.”

  “That’s all right. I know what you’re asking….”

  Sallie tried to stay cool, to keep her conversation glib. “What’s that?”

  Alva blushed again. “You want to know if he has a girlfriend.” She’d seen the attraction on the dais last night.

  “No…” Sallie protested coyly.

  “He doesn’t as far as I know.”

  Sallie pondered the words. Ruth was attractive enough, and man enough, but sex did not seem to be a part of the program. That in itself was strange. He could have any woman he wanted.

  Sallie began dressing. “How long have you been here?”

  “Two months.”

  “And how much money did you contribute?”

  “All I had.”

  “How much was that?”

  “Six thousand dollars and my car.”

  Sallie looked out the window. The church had quite a fleet of vehicles out there. “Why did you come here?”

  “To be saved.”

  “Saved from what?”

  “Evil.”

  Sallie was searching for an angle, a hook for her story. “Who do you consider evil?”

  “Who?”

  “Do you see evil as a person or a thing?”

  “The devil takes all forms.”

  “So you see it as a person.”

  “I guess so.” Alva gave her a skeptical look.

  “There are no black people in the congregation. Is there a reason for that?” Sallie’s research had uncovered a central theme in a lot of escapist cults: race. Hatred in the name of the Lord.

  “No!”

  “So blacks can join CAIN if they want to?”

  Alva hesitated. “Uh…”

  “Yes or no?”

  “I don’t know about that. We don’t discuss it.”

  “But no blacks have ever joined, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What’s your opinion of black people?”

  “My opinion?”

  Sallie was trying to smoke out a quote. “Do you dislike them?”

  Alva’s jaw tightened. “I don’t dislike anyone.”

  “How about Thomas Ruth? Does he ever preach about race?”

  “Never!” Alva frowned.

  Sallie smiled defensively. She had pushed it right up to the line. Time to back off.

  “We’re into love here, Sallie. Love. That’s it.”

  Sallie sighed. The race angle would make an ideal hook for her story: white fundamentalists preaching bigotry, brandishing snakes in their upraised hands. That would put her article over the top. But the words she needed weren’t being said. And if she didn’t come up with some flaming rhetoric soon, she just might have to make it up.

  Blocktown was a suburb of the county seat. A generation before the Civil War, the land had been owned by William Block. He’d raised cattle, corn, and seed crops on the huge estate and shipped them down the Potomac to Washington. It was a prosperous venture, and Mr. Block had become rich. But, as the legend went, he was tormented by the guilt of slavery, unable to enjoy his wealth. One day he summoned his slaves to the great house and set them free. And then he divided up his property and gave them each a share.

  Joseph and Althea Brown’s house lay on the border of Blocktown. It was a red brick house on a wooded street, flanking the valley and the forest that continued westward to the rocky ridge. Most Blocktown residents had one thing in common: they were descendants of the men and women who stood on William Block’s lawn that sweltering August day, cheering and weeping and throwing their straw hats in the air.

  “Thank you, Reverend, thank you,” Althea said. She was sitting in her parlor, robed in black, nervously stitching a quilt.

  “In times of sorrow, the Lord extends His comfort.” Reverend Taylor’s deep baritone filled the darkened room. “’This, too, will pass,’ the Savior said.”

  Althea put down her needle and touched her chin. Her lips twitched like she was going to cry again.

  Taylor quickly stood and crossed the room. Handsome and nattily turned out in a blue three-piece suit and spit-shined shoes, he was “on the job.” He was the newest cleric in town, but he was fast becoming the most popular. He’d opened his Temple of the Word in a converted farm-supply depot just three months ago, and now hundreds flocked to the cinder-block building under a blue neon dove to hear him raise the roof each Sunday.

  “Take my hand,” Taylor said. His teeth were polished ivory, his hair close-cropped.

  Althea looked up shakily from her chair. “What?”

  The reverend extended a set of manicured fingers. There was a diamond ring on one finger, a gold chain on his wrist. “Take my hand.”

  Althea reached out as the reverend pulled a small wooden side chair next to hers and sat down. “Hold tight,” he said.

  Althea grasped his hand. It was strong, empowering.

  “Pray with me,” Taylor said.

  Althea blinked a tear and weakly nodded her head.

  “Comfort this woman, Lord! Comfort and protect
her! Put your mighty arms around her and squeeze her to your bosom!”

  There was movement in the hall as several relatives left the kitchen and went to the parlor. “What’s going on?” an aunt whispered.

  “Taylor’s praying with her,” a sister answered.

  “Embrace her with your love! Squeeze out the pain!”

  The relatives all gathered in the doorway and watched. Althea was rocking in time to the reverend’s words, her eyes closed.

  “Reach across the icy void and touch this woman’s heart! Give her the strength she needs to keep movin’ on, Lord.”

  Althea opened her eyes. “Joseph?” she asked.

  Taylor paused for a second, then it clicked. “While you’re embracing, Lord, embrace the soul of this woman’s departed husband! Guide him to you! Show him the way! Give him the key to Paradise!”

  Althea closed her eyes again, her fingernails digging into Taylor’s palm.

  “Keep Joseph by your side, Almighty Jesus! At your right hand, in the place of the righteous. Keep him, and protect him, from now until these two souls shall join again, and hold them together for all eternity.”

  Althea’s face relaxed, but she still clutched Taylor’s hand. He moved closer and cradled her head against his chest. They sat that way in silence for several minutes. Then Taylor began to sing a hymn. His voice was soft at first, then louder, resonant and mellow.

  The relatives looked at each other with surprise. No one had ever heard him sing before. An aunt began to hum.

  The relatives entered the room and formed a ring around Althea’s chair.

  Then their song faded and the room was silent. Only the rhythm of Althea’s steady breathing rippled the air. Her eyes were still shut, but she looked at peace. Reverend Taylor held her tightly against him. And then he whispered something in her ear.

  Officer Frank Davis walked down the steps of police headquarters toward his squad car. It was late afternoon, and the light was waning. Soon the sun would drop behind the ridge and the evening chill would begin.