Silent Son Page 6

  Brownie knocked on the door of a suburban cedar-roofed house on Meadow Lane. A new development built in the past ten years, the properties were expensive. And most of the residents of the neighborhood were upwardly mobile county professionals.

  An attractive African-American woman answered the door. “Yes?”

  Brownie let loose one of his blazing smiles. “Ms. Dorey?”

  The woman nodded cautiously.

  “Sergeant Joe Brown, county police. Like to speak with you about Jenneane.”

  The woman stepped out on the low cement platform that bordered the door. “Is this about the shooting?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Wondered if I could ask her some questions in reference to what she heard or saw that day.”

  Mrs. Dorey seemed to be sizing Brownie up, letting her dark eyes roam his wide body for a moment, then lock on to his face. “That’s all she’s been talking about for a week. On and on about what happened…”

  Brownie felt a surge of elation. Maybe this was a change in his luck. “Is she home?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. She’s at school.” “Thought they were holding the kids out,” Brownie said with surprise. “For counseling…”

  Mrs. Dorey cracked a skeptical smile. “Ahh, the counseling…”

  Brownie cocked his head. “You don’t buy that stuff?”

  “Jenneane doesn’t need it,” the woman answered. “She’s very advanced for her age…”

  “So maybe you and Mr. Dorey wouldn’t mind if I had a few words with her after she gets home?”

  A frown creased the woman’s pretty face.

  “There’s no Mr. Dorey,” she said solemnly. “Just Jenneane and me.”

  Brownie’s eyes glanced down at the wedding ring he had spotted earlier. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I thought—”

  “It’s okay,” she replied. “Everybody assumes…”

  Brownie waited for more, but her voice trailed off, and she seemed to be staring at his badge. “Uh, Ms. Dorey, would it be all right if I came back later and spoke with Jenneane?”

  She was still staring at his badge. “That would be fine, Sergeant Brown,” she answered. “I’m sure she’d be glad to tell you everything she saw.”

  Brownie thanked her and returned to his van. On the way back to the station, he placed a patched-in call to the school principal’s office.

  “Miss Kearns, this is Joe Brown.” He was speaking to the elderly secretary who had known him since childhood.

  “Hi, Brownie.”

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. I’ll try.”

  “Do you know Jenneane Dorey? Second-grade student?”

  “Sure do.”

  “What do you know about her parents?”

  She hesitated, then spoke. “Moved here two years ago from Washington, D.C.”

  Brownie shifted the microphone in his hand. “Whole family?”

  “No. Just mother and daughter.”

  “What about Mr. Dorey?”

  “He died a year before they moved out to the county.”

  Brownie sensed tragedy. “What happened to him?”

  “He was a D.C. police officer…”

  Brownie visualized the woman’s eyes on his badge.

  “Killed in the line of duty.”

  Brownie thanked her and clicked off the mike. The family of a dead cop. Daughter a possible witness. A touchy situation at best. Brownie took a deep breath and gripped the van’s steering wheel. But maybe they finally had a break in the case.

  Purvis Bowers hung up the telephone, and opened the drawer to his desk. A lawyer had called, an estate attorney from Pennsylvania, asking about Addie and Henry’s will. Some long-lost cousins had gotten the word about the shootings, and were overcome with instantaneous grief. They wanted to convey their condolences, and make an incidental inquiry: what, exactly, could they expect to receive as bequests?

  His aunt and uncle didn’t have a will, Purvis said. At least, he didn’t know about one. They were simple people who lived simple lives. They didn’t need that kind of paperwork. Everything they owned was owned jointly, and whoever survived would get it all. If they both died, it really didn’t matter who got what. That’s the way Addie and Henry looked at things, Purvis said, so it was not surprising that they never drew up a will.

  He reached into the drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. The distant cousins were a surprise. He hadn’t anticipated their appearance. He was the sole heir. That’s what he’d always thought. The only green leaf on the family tree.

  He opened the envelope, and extracted a smaller one. This one was sealed, and he slit the seam with a letter opener. A creased document lay inside. He pulled it out and smoothed the wrinkles, rapidly reading down the page. Then he turned to the next sheet, then the next. When he was through, he folded the pages and put them neatly back in the envelope, pausing long enough to read the inscription at the top left-hand corner:

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  LAW OFFICE OF KENT KING

  Purvis put the envelope back in the desk drawer. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed long distance.

  “Cooney and Clearwater,” a dulcet voice answered.

  “Mr. Cooney, please.”

  “Thank you, sir. May I say who’s calling?”

  “Peter Baker.”

  “Thank you, sir. One moment, please.”

  There was a brief pause, then a man came on. “Tom Cooney.”

  “Mr. Cooney, this is Peter Baker. Did you receive my letter?”

  There was another pause, and the sound of shuffling papers.

  “Yes, Mr. Baker. You’re inquiring about an account.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s outlined in my letter. A client of mine needs to make a stock purchase.”

  “And you want to know if we can keep the stocks in street name, and maintain your client’s identity strictly confidential?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “You arc aware of the federal reporting requirements. Tax ID numbers, IRS notifications…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But the specifics of ownership you do not want mentioned in the account.”

  “Precisely.”

  There was another pause. “How much did your client want to deposit with us, Mr. Baker?”

  Purvis smiled to himself. “Five K plus.”

  “Five thousand dollars?” The voice sounded irritated.

  “No… five hundred K. Five hundred.”

  The words were met with silence. “Five hundred thousand?” Cooney asked.

  “Yes, sir. Cash.”

  “Mr. Baker, I think we can swing it. Might have to bend a rule or two, but I’m certain we can guarantee your client’s anonymity.”

  Purvis smiled. “Good. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” Then he hung up the phone and got up from his desk.

  The Veil Valley Professional Center contained two side streets that veered off the main road where Kent King’s office was located. At the far end of the southern branch lay the County Outpatient Clinic. And on the second floor was the Family Counseling Unit.

  Gardner was familiar with the place. On many occasions he had watched from behind the one-way mirrored glass as young abuse victims were treated by the therapists. He’d always gone there to assess the possibilities of going to trial. Some kids were so messed up, they couldn’t communicate at all. On those cases, he did everything he could to negotiate guilty pleas. But there were others, where the children were more articulate about their ordeals. They talked freely with the counselors, and were able to explain what happened and who did it. Those children were candidates for court.

  But now he was behind the glass, watching his own son. And what he saw was making him very uncomfortable.

  “Let’s talk about what you like to do for fun,” Nancy Meyers said. She was a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length gray hair and glasses, a licensed mental health social worker, and an expert in child trauma. Gardner had seen her in action man
y times over the years, and as a therapist she was about the best.

  Granville sat in the middle of the the floor, with his legs crossed under him. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with toys. Dolls. Space planes. Building blocks. The ambience was strictly juvenile. Anything to break the ice and get the children on common ground with the therapists.

  “How about it?” Nancy said gently. “Tell me what you like to do.” She was sitting beside him, wearing slacks and a T-shirt, trying to put him at ease.

  Granville sat immobile. “Watch TV,” he said suddenly, his head down.

  “Okay.” Nancy’s voice was as soft as a lullaby. “And what do you like to watch on TV?”

  “Captain Freedom.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Monkey Shines.”

  Gardner could see that Granville was slow to respond. Why did he have to go to talk to someone, Granville had asked before they came. It had been easier, down at the hospital. They had all dressed alike, in white smocks, and the boy could not tell a shrink from a surgeon. He’d had three sessions, and not even realized it. But now he was home, and his head had stopped hurting. So why did he have to go see some dumb ol’ lady?

  “You like cartoons?”

  “Uh-huh.” He was staying monosyllabic.

  “Do you like to draw?”

  Granville’s head finally came up. “Sometimes.”

  “Well, would you like to try some drawing now?” Nancy picked up a sketch pad and some color pencils, and put them beside Granville.

  From behind the mirror, Gardner tensed. Art therapy was a device often used with severely traumatized kids. They were so beaten down, so repressed, that they could not even speak the words. What had happened? Who did it? The questions could not be answered. At least not with words. But sometimes they could draw what they could not say. And the drawings spoke for them and revealed the horrors that they could never, ever utter aloud.

  Granville picked up the pad and laid it across his knees.

  “Draw anything you want,” Nancy said in an hypnotic voice.

  Gardner pressed close to the glass so he could get a better view of the pad. Granville was situated just below and to the left. He sat there with the pad on his knees, but did nothing.

  “Go ahead,” Meyers prompted again.

  Granville fidgeted with the pencil, and hunched across the paper.

  Nancy Meyers and Gardner waited patiently.

  Soon, Granville put the pad down on the floor.

  Gardner pushed his forehead against the glass. The page was empty.

  Jenneane Dorey was a wide-eyed, alert eight-year-old. Her hair had been plaited by her mother, and she wore a bright blue jumpsuit. She fidgeted with one of her plaits as she talked to Brownie. Both were seated at the kitchen table. Mom was in the living room, watching the evening news.

  “Did you know my daddy?” she asked, looking at the detective.

  Brownie smiled. “No. Afraid not.”

  “He was a narcotics officer.”

  Brownie was beginning to understand what her mother had said earlier. This child was mature beyond her years. Her words were grown-up. “I heard that,” Brownie said softly. “He was a good man.”

  Her eyes showed no grief, no clouding over like her mother’s. She had accepted the loss as if it was natural. Daddy was home, and then he wasn’t. If the hurt was there, it was long buried.

  “Jenneane, I’d like to talk about the day you went to see the cave,” Brownie said, easing the subject matter back on track. “Do you think we can talk about that?”

  The little girl nodded. “All right.”

  “Good. Now I’m just gonna ask you a few questions, and if you can, maybe you can answer them. Okay?”

  Jenneane nodded again. “Okay.” It was clear that she liked Brownie and trusted him. She would try very hard to help.

  “After you left the cave, you got on the bus, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you remember where you were sitting? In the front or the back of the bus?”

  The girl twisted her hair and answered immediately. “All the way in back. By Wendy.”

  “Wendy Leonard?” That was one of his earlier witness rejects.

  “Yes. She and me are friends. We always sit together.”

  “Okay.” Brownie made a note on his steno pad. “And did you sit by the window, or by the aisle?”

  “Window.” Again, there was no hesitation.

  “And did you look out the window while you were driving from the cave, or were you talking to Wendy?”

  “Lookin’,” she said, “and talkin’.”

  Brownie smiled. “Was it more lookin’ or more talkin’?”

  Jenneane switched plaits. “Lookin’ and talkin’…”

  “Okay.” Brownie got the picture. Two eight-year-olds chatting and sightseeing as the bus cut its path through the countryside. “Now, did you see any cars pass as you were going down to the Bowers’ store? While you were looking and talking to Wendy.”

  “Couple.”

  “Okay. Now, do you remember anything about the cars. What kind they were? What color? Anything at all?”

  “Two cars and a truck,” Jenneane said.

  Brownie blinked. This was unbelievable. Such recall. And from a kid no less. Adult witnesses seldom came out with that kind of detail.

  “Uh, Jenneane, are you sure? Two cars and a truck?”

  “Uh-huh. A blue one. A black one, and a red one.”

  Brownie was writing furiously. It was incredible, but it might be true. Traffic was scarce on the western end of Mountain Road. Maybe the vehicles somehow imprinted themselves on her fertile young mind. He had to follow it up. “Jenneane, do you remember which way the cars were going? I mean, did they pass you going the same direction, or were they coming the other way?”

  This time she hesitated, as if she was trying to piece the scene back together. “Two of ‘em goin’ the other way, and one zoomed past us…”

  Brownie was still writing. “Now, sweetheart, can you tell me which one passed you. Car or truck?”

  “Truck.” No hesitation on that one.

  Brownie tensed. “And can you tell me what color it was?”

  “Red. Old red truck.”

  Brownie let out his breath. “Did you see any people, driving or inside?”

  She looked up, as her mind scanned the scene again. “Guy was in the back…”

  “In the back?”

  “The place where they carry stuff.”

  “Truck bed,” Brownie noted. “Now, Jenneane, can you tell me what he looked like? Do you remember that?”

  She squinted her large brown eyes. “White guy. Like the boy on TV, you know, Randy Sands.”

  Brownie squeezed his pen. Randy Sands was a teenage idol with a prime-time show, Hollywood High. He had distinctive features, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. The girls went nuts over him. But the poor guy had one nasty flaw that not many knew about. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a no-good shit named Roscoe Miller.

  Brownie wrote MILLER in large letters on his pad. Another possible link to Roscoe! It looked like his initial instincts might have been right. “Jenneane, did you ever see the truck again? After it passed you?”

  “No.” The response was quick.

  “How about at the store? Did you see it anywhere near the store?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  The girl gave Brownie a teasing look. “I didn’t see it ever again!”

  That sounded positive. If it was Roscoe’s truck, they must have pulled off on a side road, parked it, and walked to the store.

  “Okay,” Brownie said. “Now, when you got to Bowers Corner, what did you see?”

  Jenneane lowered her head. “1 was still in the bus…”

  “When the Lawson boy ran inside,” Brownie interjected.

  “Yes, but I looked out the window…” Her voice faded.

  “And what did you see?”
<
br />   “Didn’t see anything… heard some bangs.”

  Brownie glanced up from his pad. “Bangs?”

  “Yes. From the store. Bangs.”

  “How many bangs did you hear, Jenneane?”

  “One when we got there… then one more… then another after Granny went in…”

  Brownie looked into her eyes. They were steady. Sincere. “You heard three bangs. One, two, three.” He extended three fingers to illustrate.

  “Yes. The window was down, and I put my head out, and I heard ‘em.”

  Brownie wrote THREE SHOTS on his pad. This was new information. Fahrnam had reported only one shot. The elderly, hard-of-hearing bus driver, none. And he’d not heard from the other kids. “You’re absolutely sure you heard three bangs?” Brownie repeated.

  “Yes,” Jenneane said. “I’m sure.”

  Brownie underlined THREE. They knew one shot went into Henry, and another into Addie. That left one unaccounted for.

  “Listen to me!” Roscoe Miller yelled on the phone. He was parked at Carlos’ Cantina, using the pay booth beside the building. The glass had been busted out on the lower panels of the enclosure, but the equipment still functioned. Roscoe kicked a jagged shard with the toe of his boot as he spoke. “I want my money!”

  The voice on the other end was subdued and calm. “Take it easy. You’ll get your money. Just be patient.”

  The booth was shrouded in darkness. The dome light had burned out long ago.

  Roscoe’s face contorted in anger. “Goddamn it, we made a deal!”

  “And it will be honored,” the voice replied.

  “How long?” Miller was still seething.

  “Soon. I can’t say exactly when.”

  “Shit!” Roscoe spotted a familiar blue van slowly glide by on the street. It slowed but did not stop. He pulled away from the phone, then came back.

  “What is it?” The voice was still calm.

  “The cops. That bastard Brown again!”

  “Where?”

  Roscoe craned his neck out of the booth. The van had turned the corner and headed west. “Just drove by. Probably checkin’ up on me.”