Silent Son (10 page)

“It was your decision to step aside, and you know it was right,” Jennifer said. “I’m meeting with Brownie tomorrow. He has
some new leads…”

Gardner looked up. “Leads?”

“A new witness. Possible identification of Miller and his truck near the crime scene.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because nothing’s certain yet. I’ll brief you after I get the facts—”

“But—”

“Obey your own directive. Please,” Jennifer said. “It’ll make it easier on both of us.”

Gardner started to protest, but stopped and grabbed the arms of the mahogany chair. “It’s hard to do that,” he said more calmly.

“I know,” Jennifer answered.

“I’m sorry I got testy,” Gardner said.

“That’s okay,” Jennifer replied, moving over and sitting on his lap. “I
do
understand what you’re going through.”

“But what if the witness doesn’t pan out?” Gardner said. He had slowed down, but he couldn’t quit.

“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” Jennifer answered.

“But we still need an ID. A
crime scene
ID…”

Jennifer squeezed his neck and felt the tension.

Gardner closed his eyes. The investigators could search and search, but only one person could really solve the case. One person.
The only eyewitness to the crime. Granville.

Granville was curled up in his bed, dreaming about bunnies. He had been home for three days now, and all his dreams had been
dark and spooky. But this one was sunny. He and Dad were at the Bowers Corner petting zoo. Granville looked into the first
cage. A large white fur ball with reddish eyes was looking out through the wire bars. His nose twinkled as he sniffed. Granville
smiled and turned to see Dad. He was gone. Suddenly, a shadow came across the sun. Granville turned to the cage. A man stood
on the other side of the enclosure. He was dressed in black, and was so tall that Granville couldn’t see his face. It was
getting dark, and the rabbit in the cage began to hop around. The man opened the top of the wire and reached in. The bunny
scurried to get away, but he was caught. It was getting darker and darker. Granville looked for Dad again, but it was too
dark to see. The bunny was struggling. Kicking and squirming to get away. There was some writing on the side of the man’s
hand. Granville yelled at him, but he wouldn’t stop. The bunny was shaking, its eyes wide with terror and pain. Dad! Dad!
The darkness was turning to red. Red. Wet, sticky red all over. Dad! Dad!

Carole awoke, and ran to Granville’s room when she heard him scream. She had been warned that this might happen. Nightmares
were a common aftermath of trauma. She had left on the night light and kept the door open just in case, but the strangled
voice still startled her.

“Granny. Granny.” She shook his small body gently. His head was damp, and he’d twisted his covers into a tangled mess.

“Mom…” He put his arms around her.

“It’s okay, you just had a dream,” she said, stroking his matted hair. “Just a dream…”

Granville blinked away the sleep. “I got scared…” “You’re fine now,” Carole said. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

The boy hugged his mother tightly. “Can I sleep with you?” Carole didn’t answer immediately. Her son was eight years old,
well past the stage where he had to cuddle with mommy in order to go to sleep. He’d graduated to his own room long ago, and
not only accepted it, he liked it. Now he was slipping backward. Since the day of the shooting, ever so slowly backward.

“Can I, Mom?”

“Yes, Granny. You can.” Carole could not resist his pleading look. “But just for tonight. Tomorrow you have to go back in
your own bed.”

They gathered Granville’s teddy bear and walked down the long hall to Carole’s room, holding hands. The clock on her dresser
said 2:15. Carole pulled back her covers and let her son slip inside. Then she got in next to him and reached for the light.

“No. Please, Mom.”

Carole considered switching it off anyway, but she retracted her hand. Granville was not playing games. The bedside lamp would
burn all night because, among other things, Granville had developed an aversion to the dark.

* * *

The law office of Kent King was situated in the Veil Valley Professional Center, near the county’s upscale doctors, dentists,
and attorneys. King had been the first tenant there when it opened two years ago, and he had selected the prime location,
a suite of first-floor offices at the head of the main thoroughfare. His large two-sided sign could not be missed as the people
came and went to have their teeth drilled or their taxes prepared. Sooner or later they came back to Veil Valley. And most
of the time, it was to see King.

“Mr. Edwin Charles to see you, sir,” his secretary called over the intercom.

King leaned back in his tufted leather chair. “Thanks, Tanya. You can send him in.”

The door opened and a distinguished-looking man entered. He was in his late fifties, with metallic gray hair, wearing wire
rim glasses and tweed from shoulder to foot.

“Mr. Charles, please sit.” King motioned to a leather captain’s chair.

“Thank you.” Charles eased down into the seat. “You know who I am,” he began, “headmaster of Prentice Academy.”

King nodded.

“Been there twenty years,” Charles continued smoothly.

King did not blink. The man’s name was synonymous with the academy.

“What can I do for you?” the attorney asked.

“Can you tell me if you drew up some documents for Henry Bowers?”

King frowned. Client dealings were confidential.

“Uh, a bequest to the school. Henry planned to leave us some money when he died—”

King interrupted. “Mr. Charles, I’m not at liberty to discuss communications with my clients.”

“But he’s dead,” the headmaster replied.

“All the more reason,” King answered. “He can’t defend himself against false claims.”

Now Charles was frowning. He pulled a piece of paper out of an envelope in his lap and passed it across to King. “We talked
about it. Quite some time ago. Henry and I. He loved the school. What we were trying to accomplish there…”

King looked at the paper. The date at the top was seven years earlier. “$500,000.00” was written in large print in the middle
of the page.

“Henry guaranteed it. When he passed away, we could get the money. That’s what he said.”

“Who wrote this?” King asked.

Charles hesitated. “I did,” he finally said. “But Henry signed it. At the bottom.” He pointed to an H with a squiggly line
after it. “There. Right there.”

King shook his head. “You’re not suggesting that this thing is enforceable, are you?”

“Uh, no. I don’t really know. That’s one reason I’m here. Henry told me he was going to get it written up in proper legal
form. Did he see you about it?”

King shook his head again. “Mr. Charles, I’m not permitted to say. If I did draw up any papers, or if I didn’t is a private
matter. But it’s really a moot question, isn’t it?”

The headmaster’s expression turned quizzical.

“I mean,” King continued, “Henry didn’t have that kind of money! A half a million? That’s ridiculous.”

A shadow passed over Charles’s face. “You’re sure about that?”

King smiled wryly. “He was broke.”

“But Henry said…”

King smiled again. “Saying and having are two different things. I’m sure his intentions were good, but you cannot give what
you haven’t got.”

Charles looked confused. He had not expected this.

“Anything else?” King asked. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Charles’s face was still blank, “Uh, no… I guess not.”

King stood up and handed his business card across the desk. “Well, if you ever need any legal advice for yourself, you know
where to call.”

Charles stood and took the card. “Thanks, Mr. King,” he said. “I may just do that.”

The meeting ended on that note, and Charles left the room. As soon as he was out the door, King picked up his phone and dialed
the number for Purvis Bowers.

“Hello?”

“This is King. Mr. Edwin Charles just paid me a visit.”

There was a pause. “What did he want?”

“Money.”

“What did you tell him?”

King did not reply.

“What now?” Bowers asked.

“We just sit tight,” King said. “If he makes a formal claim, we’ll have to defend it. But don’t worry, Prentice Academy won’t
get a cent.”

“You’re sure about that?”

King went silent again. He hated for anyone to question his advice.

“So we’re okay?” Bowers persisted.

“So far,” answered King. “Just pray that no one digs too deep.”

“I will,” Purvis replied.

“Good,” King said. Then he hung up the phone. Their moves had been well planned; the money was safe, and it was all legal.
With a little luck, the police would rush past it in their search for the killer.

“Call your next witness,” Judge Danforth ordered from his lofty bench in Courtroom One. It was midafternoon, and the minor
shoplifting case had dragged on all day. The assistant public defender, an inexperienced recent appointee, was making her
debut against Gardner Lawson. So far, the blonde twenty-six-year-old had effectively stood her ground.

But Gardner had fought back. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, he could not let this rookie best him on her first try. He was
sleepwalking through the case, barely able to concentrate, but he knew how to draw on his storehouse of experience.

And now Gardner was about to call his main witness, the store detective who had caught the defendant stealing a pair of designer
jeans.

“Stuart Ingram,” Gardner said wearily.

A uniformed man in his early thirties took the witness stand and was sworn in.

“State your name for the record,” the clerk droned.

Gardner’s mind was far away. He was barely listening, hardly cognizant of the trial or the people around him. The voices were
hushed, like distant whispers. He was lying in the hammock back at the Watson Road house, six and a half years ago. The sun
lit his face as he rocked slowly from the shade into the light, and the tall pine trees whistled in the soft wind. He was
peaceful. Content. Suddenly, something touched his arm. “Da Da.” Granville had escaped his crib, crawled down the stairs,
and gone to find his dad. Gardner smiled and pulled Granville up into the hammock, laying him across his chest, belly to belly.
The boy hugged his neck, and together they continued to rock from the shadows into the light.

“Mr. Lawson!” Judge Danforth hollered. “Ask a question! We can’t stay here forever!”

Gardner shook off his daydream and stood up. “Uh, Mr….” He had to look at the report to find the man’s name. “Mr. Ingram,
please tell the court by whom you are employed.”

“Cran Mart.”

“Is that Crandall Market, Incorporated? A licensed enterprise doing business as Cran Mart?”

“Yes, sir.” Exact corporate identity was a crucial element of proof. Without it, the case could be lost.

“Uh, and were you working on the…” Gardner had to scan the report again for the date. “… fourth of March?” “Yes, sir. I was.”

“And in what capacity?”

“Undercover shoplift patrol.”

Gardner opened a plastic bag and pulled out a dark blue pair of pants. “Let me show you this item, and ask if you can identify
it?”

The witness took the pants, and looked at a dangling tag. “It’s one of ours. Sportswear.”

Gardner slowly walked back to his table. “Can you be more specific?”

“Cran Mart’s.”

Gardner rubbed his neck. “More specific than that?”

“Crandall Market, Incorporated, trading as Cran Mart.”

“Thank you.” Gardner’s mind was wandering again. Now he was at Bowers Corner, the last time he had taken Granville to see
the rabbits. “Uh, can you tell the court when you last saw that item?”

“On March fourth, a customer placed this pair of pants in a shopping bag and left the store.”

Gardner was still watching Granville and the rabbit in his mind.

“Uh, was there any attempt to pay for the item?”

“No, sir.”

The rabbit was kicking, and Granville was holding on for dear life.

“Uh, what was the value of the item?”

“Thirty-nine ninety-five.”

“And there was no attempt to pay?”

“None, sir.”

Gardner leaned back in his chair, and placed both hands over his eyes. The images were still coming on strong. “And you apprehended
the customer?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gardner leaned forward and scanned the report. “Uh, and he, uh, he confessed to taking the pants?”

“Yes, sir, he did. Said he’d like to pay for them after he got caught, but I told him it was too late.”

Gardner ran his finger down the report. “Uh, and the item, again… the item was the property of whom?”

“Cran Mart.”

The prosecutor glared scornfully at the witness.

“Sorry. Crandall Market, Incorporated, trading as Cran Mart.”

“Thank you.” There was a long silence.

“Anything more, Mr. Lawson?” Judge Danforth asked impatiently.

“Uh, no sir. Your witness.” He glanced at the PD.

The ingenue stood up. “No questions, Your Honor.” She was smiling broadly.

“Any other witnesses, State?”

Gardner checked his notes. “Uh, no. No other witnesses. We rest.”

The assistant PD was on her feet in a flash. “Motion for judgment of acquittal, Your Honor!” Her expression was one of triumph.

“Grounds, Counsel?”

The PD’s smile broadened. “There has been no identification of the defendant as the person who took the goods, Judge. That’s
an essential element, and it’s missing.”

Gardner suddenly woke up. She was right. That detail had been omitted. It was something a good prosecutor
never
left out, but today he had.

“Response, Mr. Lawson?” Danforth knew it was all over, but he wanted to give Gardner a chance to pull it out.

“Uh, there was, uh, an implied ID…” Gardner stuttered.

“There must be an actual, unequivocal identification, or the case fails,” the PD interjected smugly.