Silent Son (33 page)

Jennifer had sent Brownie on his way. There was nothing more he could do there but wait, so she had released him. He was anxious
to get back out to Prentice Academy.

Jennifer checked her watch. Another five minutes had passed and the door was still locked. What on earth could they be doing?

Suddenly she noticed two men approaching from the other end of the hall. In an instant, their features clarified into King
and Jacobs. They were laughing. She was trapped in the hall until the Grand Jury let her back in the room. And there was no
place to hide.

“Waiting for a bus?” King said sarcastically. He knew their case was on the Grand Jury docket, and that any delay in returning
the indictments spelled trouble for the state.

“Funny, King,” Jennifer said.

King tried to switch from sarcastic to sincere. “Really, Jennifer, how long have they been out?”

“A while,” she replied. There was no reason to say exactly how long. And in front of King, it was never wise to show concern.

“How long?” King persisted.

Jennifer crossed her arms. “Couple of minutes,” she lied.

King looked at Jacobs. “Over an hour,” he said.

Jennifer winced internally. As usual, King knew everything.

“They must be having trouble making a decision,” Jacobs said.

“It’s a complex case,” Jennifer countered. “Not unusual for them to consider it carefully.”

“They’re hung up,” King said. “That’s obvious.”

Jennifer prayed that the door would open at that moment and the jury would come back with the full slate of charges, but it
didn’t.

“Your case or mine?” Jacobs asked King.

“Huh?” King had seemed to sense Jennifer’s anticipation about the door opening, and he had turned in that direction.

“Do you think it’s Mr. Miller or Mr. Starke who’s giving them trouble?” Jacobs asked.

King glanced at Jennifer. “What’s your view?”

Jennifer leveled an unflinching stare at King. “I’d say that my view is none of your business.”

King smiled again and motioned for Jacobs to leave. “Guess we’re not wanted here,” he said. “Let us know if you hear anything
by midnight.”

Jennifer stood silently while they left. The smugness was knee-deep, and she had an urge to run over and rake King’s face
with her nails.

She looked at her watch again. Ten more minutes had passed, and the door was still sealed shut. Her eyes wandered the long
passageway toward the domestic relations court. This was starting out to be a bad day. She only hoped that Gardner was faring
better than she was.

Brownie parked his lab van in the gravel lot at Prentice Academy. The school year was officially over now, and the campus
was deserted. The green lawn in the quadrangle had been recently cut, and the hedges along the walkway trimmed. Brownie closed
the door to the truck and looked around. A soft breeze off the mountains shook the maple leaves overhead. Brownie leaned on
his vehicle and let his mind drift.

The Bowers-Roscoe Miller connection had given the crimes a twisted kind of logic. The killings were deliberate and planned.
But the underlying question remained unanswered. Who was behind it all? Miller? King? Starke? IV’s tie-in was puzzling. He
too was connected to the Bowers in some bizarre way. But his tie-in was more mysterious. More illogical. He was a privileged
kid with a billion bucks. Why would he want to hang around with Miller? The macho “rebel with a tattoo” played okay on TV,
but Starke had too much going for him to settle for wannabe status. And then there was the phone call. Henry, or Addie, calling
him from the store.

His reverie was snapped when he detected motion and saw a figure scampering across the far end of the athletic field. Brownie
shouted, and raised his arm. The figure stopped, then ran over a crest and disappeared.

Brownie went from stop to full speed in three seconds. Something was wrong. Whoever it was did not want to talk. And that
made Brownie all the more curious. He raced across the grass toward the hill and the woods beyond.

Brownie ran full speed across the carpeted grass of the Prentice Academy athletic field. The shadowy figure he’d called out
to was not stopping. Like a spooked animal, he was running away, fleeing toward the underbrush.

“Stop!” Brownie yelled. “County police!”

The man kept running, entering the overgrown thicket on the threshold of the woods without breaking stride. And then he was
gone.

Brownie took six more steps and pulled up. There was too much of a lead, and the vegetation was too thick. He’d never be able
to catch up.

Brownie unsnapped his radio and called the police station.

“Patch me to the sheriff’s office,” he told the dispatcher.

The call was transferred, and a deputy answered.

“Detainee surveillance,” Brownie said.

Again, there was a transfer.

“Deputy Smawley.”

“Pete, Joe Brown,” Brownie gasped into the mike. He was still breathing hard from the run. “Give me the current locations
on Miller and Starke.” From the size, shape, and hair color of the mystery man, it could be either one.

“Uh…” Smawley sounded frustrated.

“Hurry up!” Brownie huffed. If he could get a read-out, maybe he could swing around the woods and intercept.

“Didn’t you get the word?” Smawley asked.

“Word?” Brownie didn’t like the sound of his voice.

“We lost them three days ago. Equipment failure.”

“What?” This was the first Brownie had heard.

“Sam Ellen reported it…” Smawley said.

“They never told me!” Brownie yelled. Two dangerous defendants loose without a leash, and the sheriff had never informed the
prosecutors. Gardner was going to explode when he found out.

“So you’re showing nothing on either of them,” Brownie said.

“Right,” Smawley replied. “Thought you-all knew.”

Brownie stopped his slow drift toward the woods. By now Miller, or Starke, or whoever it was, had found an escape path out.

“Brownie?” Smawley was still connected to the radio patch-in.

“Yeah,” the officer said disgustedly.

“What you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” Brownie said coldly. “You’ve done enough already.” Then he clicked the mike button and shut off the receiver.

He stood in the open field and put his hands on his hips, angry enough to throw a punch. But there was no one to hit.

A few moments later, Brownie walked slowly back toward the van, his mind still churning with anger. Suddenly his eye caught
an open door on a shed at the east end of the field. If he retraced the path of the fleeing man, it would lead back to that
area.

He ran over to the shed and looked in. It was a small, tin-roofed storage building, large enough to house two riding mowers,
a stack of fertilizer bags, shovels, rakes, and trimming implements.

Brownie checked the lock on the door. It had been cut by a hacksaw. He unsnapped his flashlight and probed the interior with
the beam. The construction was crude, a dirt floor, slatted wooden strips nailed across support posts, and open rafters.

He scanned the floor for footprints, but the clay was dry and hard. There were some heel indentations, but none were defined
enough for an identification. He then swept the walls with the light, but nothing seemed amiss.

Suddenly Brownie’s beam caught a slat on the far wall that was not flush with the others. It stood out slightly. He rushed
over and knelt down. There was a mark on the end of the slat.

Brownie removed his penknife, pried the slat loose, and shone his light into the hole. He could see a space between the inner
and outer wall. Six or seven inches deep, it made an ideal hiding place.

Brownie angled off so he could direct his light down, but he couldn’t see bottom. He grabbed the next slat down and pulled
it off. Then he pulled off another slat. Then another. There was only a foot left above the floor.

He pointed the light into the gap, but it was empty. He was about to pull away when he noticed something. As the beam shifted
in his hands, a faint outline seemed to appear on the clay floor. There must have been some water seepage under the edge of
the building, because the clay seemed softer, susceptible to impressions.

Brownie tore the slats all the way down to the floor and shone his light into the gap. “Uh-huh! Uh-huh!” Brownie exclaimed
to himself.

The distinct outline of a handgun was neatly etched in the soil, defined enough to cast in plaster.

C
ONFRONTATION

The custody hearing was still dragging on. Gardner had cross-examined the therapist as intensely as he could, but she insisted
that an outright interrogation of Granville was wrong, and that the boy might suffer emotional damage because of it. Gardner
finally stopped questioning.

Carole then took the stand. With her dark hair piled on top of her head, she still looked quite alluring, despite the circumstances.

“Tell the court why you should have exclusive custody of Granville,” Bieman said.

Carole glanced at Gardner. “Because his father doesn’t know how to take care of him.”

Gardner Stirred in his seat.

“Granville is a special boy, very sensitive. He needs to he treated gently…”

Judge Cramer looked at the witness over his glasses. There was a sympathetic expression on his face.

“His father doesn’t understand that. He pushes him. He’s always pushing him…”

Gardner looked down at the desk, as a vision of a baseball field and a crying son flashed into his head. “Get up!” he had
yelled.

“Granville is a little boy. Just a little boy. He’s not big. He’s not strong. He’s just a child…”

Gardner’s heart began to throb as the words came out. He’d always felt the same way. He’d always believed that Granville was
special, a big-eyed innocent, untainted and pure in spirit. But he couldn’t he sheltered forever. He had to he shown the realities.
Thoughtfully, and gently, of course. But it had to be done. The world was real. The bullets were not imaginary. Someday, he’d
have to learn that.

“He was hurt at the store,” Carole continued. “His head was hit, and he was unconscious…” Tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“And right away, his father comes in. The prosecutor. The almighty prosecutor! The boy is lying there knocked out, and
he
—” she pointed accusingly at Gardner—”
he
comes in! Not as a father! No! He has to make his own child a witness…” Carole was starting to lose it.

“Your Honor!” Gardner stood up shakily. The words were hitting too close to home. “This isn’t proper testimony…”

The judge looked at Gardner sternly. “Sit down, Mr. Law-son. You’ll have your turn to speak.”

“But she’s giving her
opinion
,” Gardner sputtered, “not fact…”

The judge was unswayed. “Opinion is what this case is all about, Mr. Lawson,” Cramer said, “opinion as to what’s best for
the child. Now sit down!”

Gardner slumped into his chair.

“Granville doesn’t
want
to do this!” Carole continued. “Judge. You heard the therapist. He doesn’t remember! God! He doesn’t
want
to remember! He cries at night. He curls up like a baby. He jumps at loud noises.”

“Mrs. Lawson.” Attorney Bieman decided it was time to bring it back under control. “Do you have a plan for the child? In the
event that the judge awards you exclusive custody in this case?”

Carole rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand and took several deep breaths. “Uh, yes, I do,” she said. “We plan to go
away, to Switzerland.”

Gardner almost fell out of his chair. Europe? She was going to Europe? Jesus Christ, no! No way the judge could allow that!

“And why the drastic change of locale?” Bieman asked.

Carole’s eyes clouded with tears again. “Because we, uh, I mean,
he
’ll go crazy if he has to stay here. He’s practically psychotic now—”

“Object!” Gardner shouted. “She cannot give that kind of opinion, Judge. That’s a medical conclusion.” Gardner recoiled at
his own words. It was his son they were talking about, “Grand Bill,” not some nondescript witness in some nondescript case.
His emotions were running in one direction, and his legal instincts the other. And they were crashing in the center.

“I’ll accept it for what it’s worth,” the judge said curtly, his eyes urging Gardner to sit down.

Gardner was boiling.

“I’m not going to ask you again, Mr. Lawson,” Judge Cramer warned. “Sit down!”

Gardner remained standing. “Please don’t do this!” he said to Carole. There was a look of desperation in his eyes.

“Mr. Lawson!” the judge boomed.

“Object!” Bieman followed up.

“Please! Carole!” Gardner had lost his dignity. He’d decided to skip protocol and go straight to the source. “You don’t know
what you’re doing!”

Carole stood up in the witness chair. “No!
You
don’t! You’re going to kill him!” The word “kill” reverberated in the empty courtroom like a scream.

“
Mrs
. Lawson, uh,
Mr
. Lawson!” The judge had lost control.

“Judge!” Bieman hollered.

“Carole, please!” Gardner yelled.

Everyone was standing except the judge, so he too rose and slammed his gavel so hard it almost snapped in two. “Quiet everyone!”

The protagonists fell silent but held their ground.

“I realize this is a very emotional issue,” Judge Cramer said with forced composure. “But we’re not going to resolve
anything
if we act like this. Please!” He looked at Gardner and then at Carole. “Please let’s try to remain calm. I’m going to take
a ten-minute recess so you can get yourselves under control. When I come back, I expect civility to be restored.”

Judge Cramer slammed his gavel again and swept off the bench. Gardner and Carole remained standing, glaring at each other
through their tears.

Jennifer had almost worn a rut in the marble floor in front of the Grand Jury room. Over three hours now without a knock at
the door. This had to be some kind of record. Grand juries were supposed to be pro forma. Whatever the prosecutor asked for,
he usually got. But today, they had a mind of their own.