Silent Son (35 page)

Granville stood up and ran over to Gardner. They embraced.

Carole put her head down and blubbered quietly as Gardner took Granville out of the room.

When he returned a few moments later, the look on Judge Cramer’s face signified he’d made a final decision.

“First, let me say that this is one of the toughest cases that’s ever come before me,” Cramer began. “There’s no clear-cut
right or wrong here. No illicit or improper motivations,” he looked at Carole, then at Gardner, “on
either
side. Both parents obviously care for this child. And both parents obviously want him to be safe and secure. The problem
I’m having is how to accomplish what
both
parents want to provide, seeing as how they have conflicting viewpoints…”

Gardner pushed his hands against the table. Cramer cer-tainly wasn’t telegraphing which way he was going to rule.

“The prosecutorial prerogative is, as Mr. Lawson points out, practically absolute. He has the power, I believe, to do what
he’s doing. The state
has
an unfettered right to a witness. I have decided therefore…”

Gardner held his breath.

“To temporarily grant custody to the father, pending further psychological evidence that the child will be irreparably harmed
by participation as a witness in the criminal trial.”

Carole gasped aloud.

“In the meantime, I will order supervised visitation by the mother on a schedule convenient to both parties, and I will further
order that the underlying custody
will
revert to the mother at the conclusion of the criminal trial, in any event. So ordered!”

Cramer slammed his gavel and beat a hasty retreat off the bench.

Brownie had rushed back to the van to pick up the plaster. Then he poured the casting material into the gap he’d torn in the
shed wall. Viscous and white, it congealed like pudding on the clay floor. Ten minutes’ drying time should do the trick.

“What the hell are you doin’?” a gruff voice behind Brownie suddenly screeched.

The officer turned around.

“I said what are you doin’?” An old man in overalls pushed the door wide to let in the afternoon light.

“County police,” Brownie said. “Afraid somebody’s been usin’ your shed to hide a gun.” He’d already pegged the old man as
a custodian.

“Say what?” The man squinted in the semidarkness and moved closer.

“Someone stuck a handgun down in the wall here,” Brownie answered. “Take a look.” He shone the light on the hardening white
mass. “You see anyone around here today?”

The custodian shuffled his feet into the edge of the beam. “No, sir. Just you. That’s why I come down here. Saw you runnin’
across the field.”

“But you didn’t see anyone else?”

“No, sir.”

Brownie stood up and extended his hand. “Joe Brown. Sergeant.”

The man took it. “Clarence Conley. Guard.”

“Nice meetin’ you, Mr. Conley,” Brownie said. “Where were you earlier?”

“In my trailer behind the main buildin’. That’s where I stay most of the time. It’s usually quiet ‘round here in summer. No
need to patrol…” He looked into the hole, then back at Brownie. “What’s this about? That Bowers, uh, Bowers—”

“Yeah,” Brownie cut in, “the Bowers case.”

“My, my,” Conley said. “Henry Bowers.”

Brownie picked up on the personal tone. “You knew the man?”

Conley looked at Brownie apologetically. “I knew him, sort of, when he used to come down here.”

“When was this?” Henry visiting the school might mean something. Conley scratched his head. “Long time ago. Twenty, twenty-five
years. Maybe more than that.”

“You been here that long?”

The old man smiled, displaying a row of false teeth. “Forty-two years. Seen more than six head men come and go.”

“Headmasters?”

“Uh-huh. Lot of changes out here since then—”

“Okay,” Brownie said impatiently. “Can we go back to Henry? Tell me about him coming to the school. Do you know why?”

“Liked to watch the football games. That’s what I remem-ber. Came to every game for a couple’a years. Every game.”

Brownie had pulled out his pad and began taking notes.“Do you recall a date? A year?”

Conley scratched his head again. “Uh, let’s see. It was headmaster Roane here then… no it was Slater. That’s right, Slater.
He came in fifty-three and left in sixty-four. Had to be durin’ that time.”

Brownie noted “mid-50s to mid-60s” on his pad. “Do you remember how often he came out to watch the games during that period?”

Conley went back to his head for a third time. By now his thinning hair was thoroughly disarrayed. “Every game for several
years.”

“How many years?”

“It was more than one, I remember that. More than two, even. I’d say three, maybe four years.”

Brownie noted “3 to 4.” “And what happened after that?” he asked.

“Nothin’ “Conley said. “He just stopped comin’. Far as I remember, he never came back.”

Brownie wrote “ceased visits” on the pad. “Tell me, Mr. Conley, how is it that you remember this man so well?”

Conley smiled. “It was the money.”

“Money?” Brownie asked cautiously.

“I wuz workin’ the grounds crew back then. On game days they had us parkin’ cars and handin’ out programs. The first time
I ever seen Henry Bowers, he got a game program from me. They wuz free…” The old man’s eyes drooped for a second as his mind
searched out the image.

“Yeah,” Brownie could sense a major breakthrough just ahead. “Got a program…”

“Program for the game. Names of the players. All that stuff…”

Brownie was getting restless. “Uh-huh…”

“Give me a twenty-dollar bill. New twenty-dollar bill. They wuz free, I told him, didn’t have to pay nuthin’. But he just
smiled. Told me to keep it…” The eyes drooped again. “And then, the next week, the next time they had a game, he done the
same thing. Always got a program from me. Always give me a twenty-dollar bill. Every time…”

Brownie was writing furiously.

“That’s how come I remember Henry Bowers, Sarge. How could I forget? Over them years the man done gave me over five hundred
dollars.”

Jennifer met Gardner in the courthouse corridor. They could see the results of their respective proceedings in each other’s
eyes.

“Tell me something good,” Gardner said wearily, glancing at the sheaf of signed indictments in his assistant’s hand.

Jennifer put her arm around him as they walked. “What happened with the custody?” She was in no hurry to tell him about Starke.

“Granville stays with me,” Gardner answered softly. “What charges did we get?”

Jennifer was still gripping the indictments like a steel clamp. “Everything on Miller,” she said. “Three first-degree murder
and all lesser includeds.”

When she didn’t continue, Gardner turned suddenly. “What about Starke?”

Jennifer handed him the documents. “Accessory before the fact—”

Gardner grabbed the papers and tore through to Starke’s indictments.

“They didn’t think they had enough evidence,” Jennifer said sadly.

Gardner stared at the Xed out page in disbelief. “What happened? Didn’t you give them the accomplice rule?”

“I did, but they didn’t buy it. I gave them everything, the way you wanted. All of the facts. None of the contradictions.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“A know-it-all hitch,” Jennifer answered. “Hung it up for three hours…”

Gardner shook his head. “They just don’t get it. You explain the law, and they just don’t get it.”

Jennifer kept silent.

“I know you did your best, Jen,” Gardner said gently.

“I did,” she said. “I’m just sorry the way it came out.”

Gardner’s expression turned serious. “We can’t worry about that now. We have work to do…”

“With Granville?” Jennifer asked.

Gardner nodded. The biggest challenge was yet to come.

Granville was sitting in Gardner’s big leather chair in the inner fortress. Several puzzle hooks lay on the desk, and an electronic
Game Boy was in his hands.

“Dad!” His eyes widened when he saw Gardner. The court-room scene had confused him. He had told the judge how he felt, and
the judge had said okay and sent him back to Dad’s room. Now he wanted to know what was going to happen next.

Gardner walked over and patted his son’s head. “I was very proud of you in the courtroom,” he said. “
Very, very
proud.”

Granville looked up. His father loomed over him like a mountain. “Am I gonna see Mom?” he asked.

Gardner squatted down to eye level. “Yes, you’re gonna see Mom.”

“Am I going hack to stay with her?” His expression was expectant.

“No. Not quite yet.”

“So am I gonna stay with you?”

“Yes. For a while.”

Granville’s eyes closed briefly. “Are you gonna talk to me about it?”

Gardner felt a tightness in his stomach. He was free to interrogate his witness, to try to unlock the memory.

“Are you gonna… Dad?” Granville was still waiting for his answer.

Gardner looked him in the eye. “I don’t know, Gran. It really depends on you.”

The boy was confused. “Huh?”

Gardner touched Granville’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “If you can be strong. Real, real, strong.”

Granville put his arms around his father’s neck. “I can do it, Dad.”

Gardner lowered his head and prayed that he was doing the right thing.

Brownie was excited. He had lifted the plaster cast from the hole in the shed and found a neat, finely etched impression of
a handgun underneath. It was complete in its dimensions. Unlike the partial fingerprint, the entire outline of the weapon
was defined. But there was a problem. As Brownie studied it in the dim light of the shed, he noticed something peculiar. It
was not a standard-issue firearm. Clearly not 9 millimeter. Not .38 caliber. Not even .45 caliber. It was huge. An oversized
pistol with a barrel that could carry a massive slug. Brownie had never seen anything like it.

He raced to the van and gently laid the cast in a cardboard box. Then, as he was about to leave, an idea suddenly popped into
his mind.

Brownie locked the van and ran to Clarence Conley’s trailer. He could see the old man through the window, feet propped on
a table, watching television. After two knocks, Conley came to the door.

“Thought you was leavin’,” the caretaker said.

“I was about to,” Brownie replied, “but I need to ask a favor.”

Conley nodded agreeably. “Okay.”

“Can you let me into the school library?”

There was a hesitant blink before Conley said, “Sure.” Then he grabbed a massive set of keys, slipped on his shoes, and led
Brownie to the deserted administration building.

Inside there was a short walk down the unlit hall and then they were in a large book-filled room.

Brownie scanned the shelves for yearbooks. He found them, and began pulling volumes. “Just letting you know,” Brownie said
to Conley, “I’m borrowing these, and I’m gonna bring them back.” He handed the old man five books and took eleven for himself.

They walked out of the building and back to the van. “I’m going to need to speak to you again later,” Brownie said as he took
the hooks from Conley and put them into a box beside the plaster cast. “About Henry Bowers and the money he was giving away.”

Conley wasn’t listening. He’d spotted the outline of the handgun, and was fixated on it.

Brownie noticed his interest, so he lifted the box.

“Ever see anything like that before?” the officer asked.

Conley scoured the impression with his watery eyes. “No, sir. Cain’t say as I have…”

“How ‘bout anyone with
any
kind of handgun or pistol. Ever see
anyone
on campus with one of those?”

Conley reared back and looked at Brownie. “That boy Hiller had one, I think.”

Brownie’s heart leaped. Hiller was Miller. “You think? Did you
see
it?” Putting a gun in Roscoe’s hand at this point would just about do it.

“Naw,” Conley said with disgust. “
I
didn’t. Heard some of the crew talkin’. ‘They said he was packin’ a gun.”

“Who said it?” Brownie asked.

Conley closed his eyes, then opened them abruptly. “Don’ remember.”

Brownie switched tracks. “How many crew members you got?”

“Ten. Fifteen. Depends on time of year. Right now, only got three.”

“Do you have any idea who talked about Hiller havin’ a gun?”

Conley’s memory was selective. A twenty-dollar bill three decades ago stood out, but a gun yesterday did not.

The old man was trying, but it just was not there. “Sorry,” he finally said. “Cain’t bring it to mind.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Conley. I can take it from here. Just do me a favor and write me out the names of all the crew members.”
It would take time, but maybe Brownie could track down the witness himself.

Conley’s face flushed and he looked away.

“What’s the problem?” Brownie asked.

“Cain’t do it,” the caretaker said. “Cain’t read. Cain’t write.”

Brownie sighed. Each step forward laid the groundwork for three steps back. He didn’t have time to fool with this now. He
had to get back to the lab and work on a trace of the gun. That was a lot more tangible course than chasing down a hearsay
witness. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Conley,” Brownie finally said. “I’ll get the names later.”

He then closed the door to the van, started the engine, and headed down the road, trying to figure out just when “later” was
going to be.

Brownie placed the plaster cast under the optical scanner as soon as he returned to headquarters. Immediately, its computer
image was recorded and sent on an electronic journey to the FBI and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms labs in Washington,
D.C., where it would be run against thousands of weapon profiles until it found a match.

As Brownie waited for the computers to compare notes, he walked over to the table where he’d stacked the yearbooks, one volume
for each year between 1955 and 1970.

He opened the 1955 and thumbed through. Henry had come to see football games. Regularly, Conley had said. Never missed a game.
And he was upbeat, in a good mood, happily dispensing cash. But the question was: who did he come to watch?”