Silent Son (20 page)

“You’ll get your call,” Brownie said wearily. At first, when Roscoe had gotten his rights, Brownie thought it strange that
he’d not requested King. But now, in retrospect, the motive was becoming clear. King had already told Roscoe what to do. Tipped
him off about the impending arrest, and advised him not to request counsel. Told him to play dumb and try to sucker the state
into making an offer that would set up a guaranteed suppression of evidence. King was diabolical with that kind of tactic.
And the scary thing was, it almost worked.

“You can still waive counsel, and give me a statement,” Brownie said, trying one last time to get Roscoe to talk.

“Gonna cut me a deal?” Roscoe had now taken charge of the entire proceeding.

“Can’t do it,” Brownie said solemnly.

“Then fuck you!” Roscoe quipped.

Brownie turned and left the room. There was nothing more he could do with Miller at this point. Thanks to the Constitution,
his hands were tied.

* * *

As Brownie left the interrogation room, he ran into Gardner and Jennifer. They looked excited.

“You got him!” Gardner exclaimed.

Brownie ushered them back toward the lab. “Tried to run, but I jammed him.”

They walked to the lab and sat around the table.

“Did you have to bust him up?” Gardner’s voice sounded hopeful.

Brownie grimaced. “Nope. He let me put the cuffs on, no problem.”

Gardner shook his head. “To be expected.” Criminals ran like hell when the heat approached, but once they were caught, they
usually submitted.

“You interrogated him,” Jennifer said.

Brownie laughed ironically. “Sort of. More like the other way around.” He then filled in the prosecutors on the details of
the questioning, ending with his supposition that the whole thing had been engineered by Kent King.

When Brownie finished he looked at Gardner. “King’s in this thing. Up over his head.”

The State’s Attorney nodded. “Seems to be…”

“He’s connected to Purvis Bowers and Roscoe…” Brownie continued, “and then, there’s the money. The unaccounted for cash. I
tell you, King’s pulling some strings out there.”

“Are we really suggesting that he’s involved in the killings?” Jennifer asked suddenly. “Or just the cleanup?”

That had been Gardner’s question at the Purvis Bowers crime scene. Had King really gone the way of his clients? Had he finally
turned into an actual criminal?

“I don’t think we can rule anything out at this point,” Gardner said gravely. “Brownie’s right. There’s too much going on
here, and King’s always in the middle of the action.”

“So what are you saying?” Jennifer asked. “We bring King in?” The hatred between Gardner and King was legendary, but the playing
field had always been the courtroom. They were soldiers in the system, each on his own side. This would take the battle to
a new level.

“We keep working the case, and see what happens,” Gardner answered. “Run the evidence all the way out to the end of the line.
If King is criminally involved, we charge him too!”

“There’s still a missing link,” Brownie interjected. “Another fish on the loose. And Roscoe won’t lead us to him.”

Gardner placed the yearbook on the table. “Maybe he already has,” he said.

They then reviewed the information they’d dug up at the school, and showed Brownie the picture.

“Holy mother!” Brownie exclaimed when he saw IV Starke.

“Shotguns,” Gardner said. “Miller and this Starke guy seem to have an affinity for shotguns—”

“And one could spit out the other’s mouth,” Brownie interrupted, “they look so much alike!” Then he stood up suddenly, as
if he’d been hit in the head by a club. “Jenneane Dorey!”

“Huh?” Gardner and Jennifer said in unison.

“Jenneane Dorey!” Brownie repeated. “The girl on the school bus. My witness! She saw someone in the back of Roscoe’s truck
on the day Addie and Henry got killed. Description fit Roscoe, but maybe it was really…”

Three sets of eyes flashed to the yearbook picture. “Set her up for a photo lineup!” Gardner exclaimed.

“No problem!” Brownie replied. He’d pull some photos out of his mug shot book, transpose Starke’s picture into a five-by-seven
enlargement, and head over to the Doreys’ immediately.

“Jennifer, let’s get to work on a search warrant application for Starke’s room,” Gardner said, his excitement rising. “We’ll
key it in to the ID. If the girl identifies him, we’ll shoot the warrant out there and serve it…”

“Right,” Jennifer answered.

The prosecutors stood and prepared to leave. Brownie had already removed the photo from the book and was inserting it into
the copier. Things were finally moving. After weeks of chasing their tails, they were finally on their way. One suspect in
custody. And another identified. With any luck at all, they should have the case locked down by nightfall.

D
EALING
WITH THE
D
EVIL

“Time for lunch, Granny!” Carole called.

The boy stirred on the couch in the TV room of his grandmother’s house but didn’t answer. The room was dark, the curtains
drawn. And a cartoon was on the screen.

“Granny!” Carole repeated. “Come in here now.”

“Not hungry,” the boy answered. His voice barely cleared the door.

“What?” Mom was still rustling around in the kitchen.

“Not hungry!” Granville said louder.

Carole finally came to the door of the darkened room and looked in. The child was lying on the couch with his knees up. “You’ve
got to eat something,” she said softly. “You hardly touched your breakfast.”

“Not hungry,” Granville said for the third time.

Carole walked over and sat beside her son. “What’s wrong?” she asked, as if she didn’t know. Let him vent, the therapist had
said.

“Nothin’,” Granville answered, locking arms across his raised legs. First he’d hurt his head, and now Mom and Dad were having
a fight. He just didn’t want to eat.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Carole said softly, “but your father did something bad. I couldn’t allow it to go on…”

Granville listened quietly.

“That’s why we had to leave. So you wouldn’t be hurt…”

“Dad wouldn’t hurt me,” Granville suddenly said.

Carole stroked his face. “What he was doing was wrong…”

The boy gripped his legs tighter and forced his head down into the soft cushion.

Carole stopped talking. It was obvious that her son didn’t want to hear another word.

A line of cumulonimbus clouds had already begun to build beyond the mountain ridge. It was 11:00
A.M.
, and at the rate the
white giants were billowing a thunderstorm would form and invade the town by midafternoon. That was the usual summertime drill.
Cool clear nights, followed by slowly humidifying days. And by 4:00
P.M
., the clouds burst, and the process started all over
again.

Brownie bounced his lab van down the road that led to Jenneane Dorey’s house. He was in a hurry. The wheels of the investigation
were finally grinding out solutions to the mystery, and now another question could be answered. When Jenneane had hit him
with the Roscoe look-alike in the back of the red truck, it had not computed. Why would Roscoe be riding in the bed and not
in the cab? He didn’t have many possessions, but what he did own was jealously guarded. No way he’d ever let another hand
guide his personal chariot. No way.

Brownie chugged to a halt at the Dorey house and rang the bell. Jenneane answered. Her hair had been combed out and straightened,
and she wore bright red jeans. Her face beamed when she saw the officer. “He’s here!” she yelled over her shoulder.

Mrs. Dorcy suddenly appeared behind her daughter, and assisted in pushing open the door. “Thanks for getting here so soon,
Sergeant Brown,” she said. “We do have plans this afternoon.” The mother was wearing a dark green outfit that clung to her
shapely body. Her hair was gathered up in a topknot, and her makeup was fresh and glowing.

Brownie beamed a warm smile. “Thank you, Ms. Dorey, for seeing me on such short notice.” Then he turned to the child. “How’s
the little lady doing today?”

Jenneane cast her eyes down shyly. “Fine,” she said in a coquettish voice. It was obvious she was happy to see him again.

The three of them walked to the kitchen and sat at the table.

“You said you had some pictures,” the mother said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Brownie answered. “This is what we call a photo lineup. I’m going to show Jenneane a set of eight photographs.
She can look at them as long as she wants. What I need to know, is if she recognizes anybody…”

“From the day the people got killed,” Jenneane said.

Brownie looked at the mother, then back at the little girl. “That is the day we’re talking about. You told me you saw a boy
in the back of a red truck—”

“Randy Sands,” Jenneane interrupted.

“Yeah,” Brownie said. “Like Randy Sands, the actor. That’s what you told me last time.”

“Uh-huh.” Jenneane nodded.

“Do you think you might recognize him if you ever saw him again?” Brownie fiddled with the manila envelope he was holding,
but he did not open it.

“Yes,” Jenneane said. “I think so.”

Brownie opened the envelope and laid the eight photos facedown on the table, arranging them in a line in front of the girl.
“I’m gonna turn these pictures over one by one, but I do not want you to say anything until you see them all, okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Jenneane’s eyes were roving the photo backs, as if she couldn’t wait to get at them.

Brownie reached for the first photo, then hesitated. This whole thing was crazy. Really crazy. An eight-year-old girl in a
school bus got a flashing glimpse at a guy in the back of a truck. She was talking to a friend, lazily glancing out the window
when the truck passed. A fraction of a second. No more. That’s all the time she had. And now, weeks later, she was being asked
to make an ID. Adult crime victims had problems with IDs every day. Often they couldn’t remember a thing, not even eye color.

Brownie held his breath and began to turn the photos over. One by one, the faces appeared. All white males with dark features
and clear eyes. A fair array under the Constitutional guidelines laid down by the Supreme Court. No one’s appearance stood
out above the rest.

Jenneane focused on the pictures from left to right. Her mother watched from the other side of the table, following the movement
of her daughter’s head.

Suddenly, Jenneane picked up a photo and stopped. Brownie tensed but said nothing. It was the Roscoe Miller mug shot, taped
over and sanitized to obliterate the police markings. Brownie had to include it. With the look-alike issue unavoidable as
it was, to keep Roscoe out of the array would have been legal suicide. Starke had to go one-on-one with Roscoe in the lineup
to avoid the charge of a setup. With only one Randy Sands look-alike in the array, the results would look like they were rigged.
With two, the charge could not be made. The ID had to come from recollection, not manipulation, and including both photos
was the only way to make it fair.

Jenneane studied Roscoe’s photo. It was his scowling self. Ratty hair and piercing blue-eyed stare. She started to say something,
but Brownie tapped her arm. “Don’t say anything until you’ve looked at them all, okay?”

The girl reluctantly put down the picture, and Brownie turned up the next and the next. There was only one to go. All of the
faces were upended except IV Starke’s. Brownie had put him last to avoid any inference of favoritism. He reached down slowly
and flipped the corner of the photo. It raised up to the edge and flopped over.

“That’s him!” Jenneane exclaimed. “That’s him!” she repeated. There was no hesitation. No pause for reflection as she’d done
over Roscoe’s mug shot. The blowup of the skeet team picture lay under her pointing finger, and she was jabbing him in the
nose.

“You’re sure?” In all his years, Brownie had never seen such an instantaneous, explosive identification.

“That’s him!” Jenneane said for the third time. “I’m sure. Thought it was this one at first,” she continued, picking up Roscoe,
“but he looks mean… That’s the boy I saw.” She touched the picture in Brownie’s hand. “He looks nice. Like Randy.”

“Was he wearing a hat?” Brownie asked.

Jenneane reflected for a moment. “No.”

“What about his hair? Was it long or short?” Brownie had to be sure she had picked the right one.

“Short. Real short,” Jenneane replied.

Brownie smiled. That definitely ruled out Roscoe. He turned the photo over and wrote the date, the time, and “100% ID, Jenneane
Dorey” at the top.

Then he stood up and patted Jenneane on the back. “You did good, girl,” he said. “Real, real good.”

“So that’s one of the killers, huh?” Mrs. Dorey said.

“We think so,” Brownie replied. “Already got the other one locked up. Shouldn’t be long before we know for sure that this
guy was with him. They were seen together out at the private school, and now,” he looked at Jenneane, “on the way to the crime.”

“Will she have to testify?” the mother asked, a worried expression crossing her face.

Brownie frowned. “Don’t know yet. Depends on how far this thing goes.”

“When will you know?” Mrs. Dorey continued.

Jenneane had maneuvered herself so she could hug Brownie around the waist. He lifted his arm, and hugged her back. “Gotta
get with the State’s Attorney first, then we’ll contact you.”

Jenneane was still hugging, looking up at Brownie like he was her idol.

“Maybe you could come over for dinner. We could talk about it.” Mrs. Dorey was giving Brownie the same type of look as her
daughter.

Brownie smiled. “Sounds nice. If I can get some time… real nice.”

The officer gently detatched Jenneane’s arm. “I’ll give you a call this week,” he told the mother. “Right now I gotta get
back to town.”

Brownie said good-bye and rushed to his van. IV Starke was man number two. Sidekick to his evil twin. He radioed the station,
and patched into the phone lines.