Silent Son Page 4

The procedure moved swiftly through the internal organ phase. The Bowers each had a list of congenital ailments associated with age, but none was life-threatening. In fact, their bodies had held up remarkably well. A lot of years left on the meter, Brownie sadly noted.

  Doc Johanssen moved to Henry’s wound, and Brownie edged closer. She turned his head to the side, and exposed a hole on the back of the skull. “Contact shot.”

  Brownie could see where the exhaust gases of the gun barrel had blown a star-shaped pattern of gunpowder into the skin around the hole. “Large caliber,” he said.

  “At least nine millimeter,” Gladys replied. “Maybe larger.” Then she went to Addie and checked the same area. Another star. Same size hole.

  “Identical,” Brownie said.

  “Same gun. Same point of entry—”

  “Same shooter,” Brownie cut in.

  “That’s my conclusion. A precise calculated act…”

  Brownie sensed a theme. “You sayin’ it was premeditated?”

  Gladys gently put down Addie’s head and turned to face the officer. “Was it a robbery?”

  Brownie bunched his brow. “Don’t know yet. No money gone from the register. Maybe a shotgun taken. Possibly some shells. Not really sure…” He looked at Addie’s hand. She still had on her diamond ring.

  “This wasn’t a robbery, Sergeant Brown.” That was two decades of autopsies talking. “It was an execution.”

  Brownie had been thinking the same thing. It was a clean shot to the head each time. No last-minute act of desperation. Whoever did it went to Bowers Corner to kill. The robbery, if any, was secondary.

  “Check for fragments,” Brownie said, pointing to the wound. The crime scene boys had not found any intact bullets at the store. Only minute fragments, as if the bullets had disintegrated on impact.

  Gladys inserted her forceps and drew out a slender piece of lead, then held it under a mounted magnifier. “Incredible,” she whispered.

  The greenish glow of the overhead lights was picked up by the blood-stained metal. “Shredded,” Brownie said.

  Gladys put that fragment on a dish and extracted another one. It was bent and twisted in the same way. “No way you’re gonna get a ballistics ID on this,” she said solemnly.

  “That must’a been the whole idea,” Brownie responded.

  “Huh?”

  “He customized the ammo, so it’d come apart when it was fired,” Brownie said. “I think you’re right. The son of a bitch went there to kill…”

  It was late in the afternoon, and Gardner was still at Granville’s bedside. He hadn’t slept for two days, and had barely moved from a twenty-foot radius of the boy’s room since he’d arrived at the hospital. Carole had gone to see her mother in the Baltimore suburbs. Father and son were alone.

  “Dad?” The boy was propped up against a massive puff of pillows. “When can I go home?”

  Gardner shifted in his chair and patted Granville’s knee. “In a day or two,” he said. “Doctors have got to be sure your noggin is okay. Then mom’ll take you home.”

  Granville squinted, as if he was in pain.

  “Son?” Gardner sensed a problem.

  “Am I going to die?” the boy asked suddenly.

  Gardner winced. Death was a subject they’d never really discussed. It was always “Grampa or Grandma went to heaven.” No one ever died.

  “No,” Gardner said with a nervous laugh. “You’re not gonna die. You’re gonna live to be a hundred…”

  But Granville didn’t respond. He was lost in thought.

  “You’re not going to die, son,” Gardner repeated. No force in the universe was going to harm the boy. Not now, or ever.

  three

  Joel Jacobs looked out the thirty-third-story window of his Manhattan law office. The sun was low in the west, and deep shadows now lay in the parallel canyons below. There was a layer of smoke across the Hudson, and soon it would cut the light in half and bring dusk to the island before its appointed time.

  Jacobs was in his early sixties. He worked out regularly in the gym on the fifth floor and could go the distance with men a fraction of his age. Thick white hair and alert brown eyes were his most striking characteristics. He wore an expensive tailored suit and topped it off with a red bow tie. After thirty-five years of practicing law in the downtown jungle of the city’s courts, he’d finally made it to the top.

  Jacobs, Zinmann and Kale was one of the most prestigious and powerful law firms in the country. They were known as the three wise men. And Joel Jacobs was the wisest of them all.

  “Mr. Wellington Starke, on line three,” a liquid female voice said over the intercom on his mahogany desk.

  “Thanks, Rachel,” Jacobs replied, picking up the phone. This was it. His bread and butter.

  “Wellington!” Jacobs’s voice had a hearty timbre, full of authority and control.

  “Joel. Thank you for taking my call.” The voice was affected, the man obviously well-bred and cultured.

  There was a slight hesitation in the caller’s voice that made Jacobs sense that something was on the way. He waited, but Starke said nothing. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Did you receive the retainer?”

  Jacobs picked up a generous six-figure check. “Have it right here.”

  “Good. Just wanted to make sure you got it.”

  “Sure did. Thanks. Anything else on your mind?”

  Again, there was a pause, as if the caller was dealing with a problem he didn’t quite know how to raise, even with his long-term counselor. “Uh, no, not really…”

  Jacobs knew that he couldn’t push. Sooner or later it would be delivered to him. He decided to drop it. “How’s Joanna?”

  “She’s fine. Playing tennis every day at the club. Getting quite good, actually.”

  “And Jessica?”

  “Still at school, but getting ready to graduate. Can you believe it, Joel? Jessie a college graduate…”

  Jacobs smiled, remembering a tiny freckle-faced blonde running around the table while he conferred over a stack of files with her father. “Unbelievable, Wel. She’s really grown up…”

  The lawyer hesitated. There was one more Starke to inquire about. One more name on the family list. “And IV? How’s he making out?”

  Wellington Starke the fourth. The only son. Namesake and heir to the family fortune.

  “Doing fine. Just fine…”

  “Still at the boarding school in Maryland?”

  “Yes sir. Prentice Academy. He’s a senior, but he’s not going to graduate until next fall. The transfer messed up his credits, and they have to hold him over.”

  “Too bad about that,” Jacobs said. “But he’s okay?” There was a touch of concern in his voice.

  “Yes. So far. Grades are, uh, not the best, but they’re acceptable, and he’s made some friends…”

  “Good.”

  “He’s on the skeet team. Best shooter on the squad, they tell me.”

  Jacobs smiled skeptically. “Coming right along…”

  “Yes, I’m happy to say. A credit to the family name.”

  “That sounds great,” the attorney replied. “So we’re making progress across the board.”

  “So it seems,” Starke replied. “Just wanted to say hello. Gotta go now to pick up Joanna. You know how she gets when I’m late…”

  “Okay, Wel. Thanks for calling. It’s always good to hear from you.”

  Jacobs hung up the phone and leaned back in his tufted leather chair. As anticipated, the sun had vanished into the western haze, and the shadows had blended into a blanket of gloom. He reached out and flicked the chain on his Tiffany lamp, laying out the retainer check in the oval light spot on the desk. Something was in the wind, some monumental crisis in the Starke family. And the fee for his services had been paid in advance.

  The lights were burning late at the State’s Attorney’s office. By 8:00 P.M. things were usually battened down and quiet in the second-story suite of
rooms the prosecutors occupied in the courthouse. Most official functions ceased at 4:30. But tonight was different. There was a killer on the loose, and the prosecutors were playing catch-up.

  Gardner and Jennifer were seated at the small conference table in Gardner’s private office. The setting was like the den of a county home, decorated with duck prints, regimental curtains, and a walnut desk. All were reflections of Gardner’s heritage as an eighth-generation Lawson in Maryland.

  Gardner’s eyes were creased with fatigue. Except for a brief nap in the helicopter on the return trip to the county, he’d not slept in fifty hours. He’d reluctantly left Carole to tend to Granville, assuring himself and the boy that he could return in a moment’s notice if needed. After the autopsy, Brownie had briefed him on the progress of the investigation, and the news was not good. He had no choice but to come home and assume command. Jennifer had been handling the office chores since he’d bolted out of the arson trial. She’d finished up the case for him, and brought in a guilty verdict. Then she’d set up a command post for the coordination of the Bowers investigation, opened a case file, and lined up witnesses. And now, Ellen Fahrnam, the teacher who made the 911 call, sat nervously in the conference room, waiting to be interviewed.

  “She’s convinced it’s her fault,” Jennifer said softly. The assistant prosecutor was keeping pace with Gardner’s sleep deprivation, but it didn’t show. Years of early rising, healthy eating habits, and exercise had conditioned her not to need much sleep. She looked like she could go another two days without rest.

  “I told her not to torture herself,” Gardner replied.

  “But she is,” Jennifer said.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Gardner said wearily.

  Jennifer rose and returned a short time later with Granville’s teacher. An attractive woman with short curly blonde hair and a shapely figure, she was a model of classroom decorum. When she saw Gardner, her lip began to tremble, “Mmmmister Lawson, I’m so, soooo sorry…”

  Gardner rose and extended his hand. “It’s okay, Miss Fahrnam, I really appreciate your coming down this late… and please, please understand that in no way do I hold you accountable. I mean that.”

  She shook his hand and sat down opposite the State’s Attorney.

  “But—”

  “No more,” Gardner said firmly. “You had nothing to do with it.” He picked up the written statement she’d given to the police and handed it across the table. “Okay, I just want to go over your observations. Some time has passed, and maybe you can be clearer on a few of the details.”

  “I’ll try.” Her voice was weak.

  “Good. Now let’s take it from the point you heard the shot,” Gardner said gently. “Are you familiar with firearms?” “No. Not really.” She looked confused.

  “Well, how did you know it was a shot? Have you ever heard a gun being fired before?”

  “No. Not in person. Only at the movies, and on TV.”

  “But you specifically said you heard a gunshot,” Jennifer cut in.

  “Yes,” Miss Fahrnam answered.

  “So you knew what it was as soon as you heard it,” Jennifer continued. “You were not drawing a conclusion later, after you saw the bodies.”

  At the mention of the word “bodies,” the teacher’s lip began to tremble again. “Uh, no… yes, I, I… don’t know!”

  “Okay, okay, that’s all right,” Gardner interrupted. “Let’s go on. Please, Miss Fahrnam. I know this is difficult, but we have to know exactly what you saw,” Gardner said. “When you entered the door, what was the first thing, the very first thing you noticed?” The prosecutor tensed. This was the only person besides Granville who might have seen something. The only other eyewitness. A fleeting shadow. A color. A shape. Anything would help.

  The teacher’s eyes went blank again. But she was still calm and composed.

  Suddenly, her expression switched to horror. “The blood!” she shrieked. “The blood! Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!”

  Gardner and Jennifer were caught by surprise as the schoolteacher lapsed into hysterics. Gardner in particular. He’d already tried to avoid the scene. The nightmare reality of Granville’s face against the barrel of a gun. Now, as the teacher. screamed her guts out, Gardner’s soul chimed in with an anguished wail of its own. He was too close. Too goddamned close. He thought he could handle it like the others, detached and professional. But now he knew he couldn’t.

  “God! God! Goddddddd!” The teacher was past hysterical now. Jennifer hugged her around the shoulders.

  Gardner wanted to help Jennifer comfort the witness, but he couldn’t. As the door to Bowers Corner had cracked open in her mind, he had peeked in too, and what he’d glimpsed left him as horrified and speechless as the teacher.

  Jennifer had gotten Miss Fahrnam to a state of quiet sobbing, but Gardner was still reeling with the effects of her outburst.

  Gardner shuddered, and looked at the limp body in Jennifer’s arms. If the scene had that effect on the teacher, what in God’s name had it done to Granville?

  The county lay in the westernmost region of Maryland, an area dominated by hills, mountain ridges, cliffs, valleys, and flatlands. Shaped by prehistoric subterranean upheavals and contractions, it was bordered by two major ridge lines. The town had sprung up in the central valley and had become the center of the county’s universe.

  The population was as diverse as the land itself. Farmers predominated, but there was a growing class of entrepreneurs and professionals in and near the town, and that class included the lawyers.

  Kent King, a Baltimore attorney who had moved to the county five years ago, was the undisputed tiger of the defense bar. A skilled courtroom technician and trial counsel, he knew the law and how to apply it to benefit his clients. His philosophy was to fight and win, and never to compromise. And he gave Gardner Lawson hell anytime he could.

  Ironically, Lawson and King were more alike than they were different: slightly distorted mirror images of each other. Both were tall, dark, and trim. Both were highly intelligent. Both were intensely combative. But Gardner fought for the state. And that left King to defend the other side.

  King pulled his Jaguar into the lot at Carlos’ Cantina. Roscoe’s truck was there, a plastic sheet taped over the driver’s side window. He entered and found Roscoe at the pool table.

  Miller followed the lawyer back out to the parking area. They stopped by Roscoe’s truck.

  “There it is, Mr. King,” Roscoe said angrily. “That’s what Brown did after he beat me.”

  King surveyed the truck, then studied Miller. “Where are your injuries?”

  Roscoe frowned. “Huh?”

  “You said you got beat. Where are your bruises?”

  Roscoe raised his tattooed arms. “Here somewhere,” he said.

  King seized both of Roscoe’s wrists. “I don’t see any,” he said. “Are you sure he hit you?”

  Miller shuffled his feet. “Yeah.”

  King turned the wrists loose. “Don’t bullshit me, Roscoe. If Brown wanted to hurt you, there’d be some damage.”

  “He did, no shit. I want you to file charges.”

  “Okay,” King said. “We can do that. It’ll be uphill, but we can do it. Too bad you don’t have any marks.”

  “He took pictures,” Roscoe said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Photographed me. All over.”

  King let out a sigh. “They can prove you weren’t hurt when you came in. Your word isn’t going to cut it.”

  Miller blinked, and leaned back against his truck. “He did hit me…”

  King crossed his arms. “Sorry, Roscoe…”

  “What about my window?” The young tough did not want to quit.

  “We may be able to do something with that,” King replied. “Get me an estimate, and I’ll draft up a claim. Now, tell me about the interrogation. Did you give a statement?”

  “I didn’t tell them nuthin’,” Roscoe said. “I didn’t do nuthin�
��, so there was nuthin’ to tell.”

  King nodded. “That’s good.”

  “Nuthin’ to tell,” Roscoe repeated. “But they’re after me…”

  King’s expression turned introspective. “Not to worry. They screwed up by hassling you. There was no legitimate reason to bring you in, and no probable cause to take the shotgun shells. If you’re ever charged, nothing they’ve got so far can come into evidence.”

  Miller stepped away from the truck and put his head close to King’s. “So I got nuthin’ to worry about…”

  The defense attorney gave him a piercing look. “I wouldn’t say that. Two people were killed and the prosecutor’s son was injured. You really think they’re gonna dog it on the investigation?”

  Roscoe paled. “Uh, how is the boy? How’s he doin’?”

  King hesitated. It wasn’t clear where Roscoe’s concern was coming from. “He’ll pull through, but his head may be messed up for a while.”

  “Huh?” Roscoe’s interest was still intense.

  “He can’t remember what happened.”

  Roscoe sighed. “But he’s gonna live?”

  “Yeah,” King replied. “He’s gonna live.

  Miller stopped talking. There was something very serious on his mind. “You’re gonna represent me, right?” he finally said.

  King frowned. “On what?”

  “The case. If they try to pin it on me?”

  King’s frown intensified. “Murders are expensive, Roscoe. I don’t think you can afford the fee.”

  Roscoe smiled. “That ain’t gonna be a problem.”

  “No?” King was surprised. He knew Miller usually struggled to scrape together the fee for a minor assault.

  “No,” Roscoe said resolutely. “In a couple of days I’m gonna have plenty of money, and then all you have to do is name your price.”

  Gardner and Jennifer lay in the four-poster bed in Gardner’s town house bedroom. Snug beneath a quilted blanket, they had assumed a spoon position with Jennifer’s slim body nestled behind Gardner’s. His breath was forced, the rhythm of exhaustion. She held him across the shoulder and pressed her face into his neck.

  Ellen Fahrnam had really shaken him up. “I can’t run this investigation,” he’d told her after the teacher left. “My objectivity is shot. I can’t think straight…”