Silent Son (38 page)

Roscoe stayed silent.

“What are you afraid of ?”

Miller’s expression wavered for an instant, then returned to his personal version of normal. “I ain’t afraid of nuthin’,”
he finally said. “Just don’t have nuthin’ to say.”

“I think I could get you a deal with Lawson,” King said. “Maybe get him to drop everything down to accessory. I’ve already
talked to him about it…”

Roscoe suddenly looked alarmed. “You made a deal?”

“No. Just suggested the possibility. I need your authority to work it out. And I need you to provide some information…”

The alarm had changed to fear. “Told you I ain’t got any information!”

King opened a folder on his desk. “Starke is not the nice boy he appears to be.” He pulled out a set of documents. “He’s been
kicked out of six prep schools for misbehavior. Some really weird shit too. Challenged some freshman kid to jump off a dormitory
roof, and the kid did it. Now he’s paralyzed for life…”

“Why are you telling
me
?” Roscoe asked.

“To show you what this guy’s all about. He may have put up your bond, but he’s definitely not your friend. You’ve got to turn
him in!”

“Thought you already had the case worked out,” Roscoe replied, “thought they didn’t have good evidence, and that that kid…”
he squinted his eyes, “that kid can’t remem-ber…”

King smiled. “That’s true,” he said, “but you never know about these things. Trials can sometimes bite you in the ass.”

“So the kid might testify…” He had a look of expectation in his eyes. “You said he couldn’t. That he was messed up…

King shook his head. “At this point, he’s incapable. I’ll know more in a few days, after I get the psychiatrist’s report.
Right
now
I’d still count him out.”

“He drew a tattoo,” Roscoe said suddenly.

“Don’t sweat it,” King said. “You’re not the only guy in town with a tattoo.” If push came to shove, he’d convince the jury
it was one of Starke’s stick-ons. “Right now we have to decide which way we’re going. Trial or deal. You finger Starke now,
give me something to back it up, and you’re home free.”

“And if I don’t?” Roscoe was thinking.

“Then we go to trial and pray that the kid doesn’t take the stand.”

“But what if he does?” Roscoe was still thinking.

“Then pray he doesn’t remember.”

Roscoe fell silent. Ile was considering his options.

“Well?” King said, “What’s it going to be? Turn in Starke and cut a deal, or go to trial?”

Roscoe looked his attorney in the eye. “I’ll take my chances with the kid,” he said.

At the State’s Attorney’s office the strategy session was still in progress. Gardner was back at the blackboard, and Jennifer
and Brownie were seated at the table. Granville was dozing in the next room after one too many alien encounters.

“So King ultimately ends up with the money,” Gardner said disgustedly, “and from everything I can see, it’s perfectly legal.
He represented both Henry and Purvis. And there was a contingency to leave the residual to him…”

“So maybe he engineered the whole scheme,” Jennifer sug-gested.

Gardner shook his head. “No,” he said. “I wanted to believe that. That King was behind it from the start, but it doesn’t fly.
King is a number one asshole. Devious. Unscrupulous. But he’s not stupid, and he’s not a murderer. Check the dates on the
documents.”

Jennifer glanced at Henry’s and Purvis’s wills.

“They were drawn
long
ago. The connection is too clear. Too obvious. The logical suspect would be King if everyone wound up dead.”

“So maybe that’s what he wanted you to think,” Jennifer replied. “That he’d never do something that could Ix traced to him
so easily.”

“No,” Gardner said firmly. “I don’t think King has anything to do with any of this. At least not with the murders. What do
you say, Brownie?”

Brownie had been uncharacteristically quiet all day. He’d responded when spoken to, but, except for his brief presenta-tion,
he’d hardly offered a thing. “What do I think?” he asked. “About the money. And King. And all that stuff ?”

Gardner nodded.

“I don’t think
any
of it is relevant!” Brownie stood up and walked to the blackboard. Without warning, he began to draw diagonal lines across
the evidence.

“Brownie!” Gardner had been taken by surprise.

“Take it easy!” Brownie said. “I’m just trying somethin’ out.” Most of the words were now crossed through. The only ones remaining
were HENRY, PRENTICE ACADEMY, WELLINGTON STARKE III, TELEPHONE CALL, and HANDGUN. “Your scenario sounds pretty good,” Brownie
said, “and it’ll probably do okay in court, but that line of thinking doesn’t begin to explain this.”

Gardner leaned against the wall. “What’s your point?”

Brownie gestured with the chalk. “Point is, that maybe everything started from another direction. Maybe Starke had some reason
to take out the Bowers, and maybe
he
dragged Roscoe along with
him
.”

Gardner crossed his arms. “Got anything to substantiate that?”

Brownie smiled. “Other than a hunch? No. I do not.”

“So what am I supposed to do with it,” Gardner asked. “Tell the jury one version, then say, wait a minute, we may have another
theory? Jesus, Brownie, the trial starts next week.”

The officer walked over to Gardner. “I got some ideas. Maybe they’re crazy. Maybe got nothing to do with the case at all.
But I’m putting together an alternate theory, and I’ve got to check it out.”

Gardner closed his eyes. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” They were in the final stages of laying out the theme
that would be played to the jury. Purvis, Roscoe, and greed were the main storyline. A last-minute switch to Starke as the
villain could undermine the entire presentation.

“Stick with what you got now,” Brownie said. “If my hunch pans out, none of that’s gonna make any difference anyhow.”

Gardner jerked his head toward the inner office. “What about Granville?” His testimony was still the ultimate key. “I’m still
going to work with him.”

“That’s up to you,” Brownie replied. “But if I find what I’m looking for, you can send the boy home to his momma.”

* * *

Gardner and Granville were eating a late lunch in the kitchen of the town house. The strategy meeting had lasted most of the
afternoon, and mealtime had been skipped. Jenni-fer had gone out to talk to witnesses while Brownie had gone off chasing his
mysterious lead.

“Want some more?” Gardner asked, pushing a plate of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches across the table.

“No,” Granville said.

“No, what?” Gardner prompted.

“No
thanks
, Dad.”

“Better,” Gardner said, reaching over with a napkin and dabbing a blob of peanut butter off the boy’s bottom lip. “So you
liked Dr. Grady,” Gardner said.

“Uh-huh.” Granville took a drink of milk, then wiped the white mustache off with his own napkin.

“He said you’re a really smart boy,” Gardner said.

Granville’s shoulders drooped. “He asked me……Granville said softly, the sentence incomplete.

“I know,” Gardner replied. “That’s his job. To find out how you’re doing.”

“I cried some.”

“I know,” Gardner said. He’d heard the sounds behind the door.

“Can we go outside?” Granville asked. “Play catch?” The electronic aliens were starting to get boring.

“Yeah,” Gardner answered. “In a little while. But first, I want you to look at something.”

Granville’s eyes took on an expression of dread as Gardner pulled a stack of papers out of his briefcase and laid them on
the table.

Granville glanced down, then back at his dad. They were the copies of the drawings he’d done for Miss Meyers.

“You used to he the best drawer I ever saw,” Gardner said. “You could draw the best spaceships, and cars, and trucks…”

Granville’s eyes were blank.

“But I’ll he darned if I can tell what this is…” He picked up one of the earlier scribblings.

Granville remained immobile.

“Or
this
one,” Gardner said.

Granville looked at the next page, then shot his eyes away.

“Or this one…” Gardner picked up the last drawing that Granville had done. The one with the hidden skull. “I can’t really
make it out.” He laid the page in front of his son.

Granville turned his body to the side.

“Gran,” Gardner said gently, “take a look, and tell me what you drew.”

The boy silently refused to turn his head.

“Please?” Gardner begged. “Just one quick look.”

Granville’s face began to contort, but no tears had come.

Gardner scooped the papers up and put them back into his briefcase. “Okay, no problem. No problem,” he said. “Base-ball. That’s
a much better idea.”

Granville stepped down from the chair.

“Wait a minute,” Gardner said.

Panic flickered across the boy’s face.

“What do you say?”

Granville suddenly realized what his father meant. “May I be excused?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gardner said. “You may. Now run and get your glove.”

Brownie had decided not to lay out the particulars of his new theory for Gardner. The Purvis-Roscoe scenario made sense, and
their evidence came close to backing it up. Brownie had no proof at all for his hypothesis, and until he did, for the sake
of the prosecutors’ sanity, it was best to keep the theory under wraps.

By crossing out the other evidence on the blackboard, Brownie had left a list of three names: HENRY. WELLING-TON STARKE. PRENTICE
ACADEMY. And when it came to names, there was only one man who could possibly connect them: Mr. Jim Johnson, the town genealogist.

Brownie drove to Mr. Jim’s house on Maple Avenue. The post office was closed, and Mr. Jim had gone home. Brownie parked and
walked to the cream-colored Victorian structure.The glass in the windows and doors was clean, and the paint on the shingles
was fresh. It looked like a museum.

Mr. Jim answered the door. “Sergeant Brown, Sergeant Brown, Sergeant Brown…”

“Evenin’, Mr. Jim.”

“It is an honor to have you in my abode.” He directed Brownie into the foyer, then into the library.

“Whew!” Brownie exclaimed. “See you got some books in here!” The walls were all shelves, filled to the top row with hardcovers.

“My life,” Mr. Jim said, “studying the trek of humanity.” He motioned Brownie to sit in a tufted chair. “What can I do for
you tonight? You said it was important.”

Brownie had written the three names on a piece of note paper. He handed it to Mr. Jim. “What can you tell me about these?
Do you remember any kind of…” Brownie was grop-ing for words. “Uh, any reason that these three might be tied together?”

Mr. Jim took the paper and read the names.

“Bowers… Starke… Prentice…” His eyes seemed to roll back the way they’d done at the post office. “Bowers… Starke…”

Brownie watched in amazement as the old man worked on his memory.

“Bowers… Starke…” he repeated. Then, suddenly, his eyes came open. “Starke!” he said.

Brownie sat up straight. “Mean anything?” he asked. There was definite recognition in Mr. Jim’s eyes.

“Wellington Starke…” the old man said, getting up from his chair, and pulling a thick book from one of the shelves. It looked
like a scrapbook. “Wellington Starke…” Mr. Jim was paging through a section of newspaper clippings. Yel-lowed and brittle,
they were from a long time ago.

Brownie looked on from the side as Mr. Jim’s fingers lifted page after page of pasted clippings.

Finally, he stopped, scanned the page, and turned the book so Brownie could read it. “Wellington Starke,” he said proudly.

Brownie adjusted the book on his lap and read the headline: WELLINGTON STARKE JR. AWARDED THE SILVER STAR FOR BRAVERY. The
story was from the
New York Times
, dated September 10, 1944.

Brownie swallowed, and began reading the text:

Lieutenant Wellington Starke Jr., son of prominent New York businessman Wellington Starke, was awarded the Silver Star on
Friday, September 8, for bravery in battle, the European Command announced. Lieutenant Starke, member of the 118th Antitank
Company of the 15th Infantry Division, distinguished himself in a fierce tank and infantry battle with members of the 6th
Panzer Division and supporting troops of the Nazi SS.

Brownie slowed his reading. This was a story about IV’s grandfather. He went back to the text.

The battle, which took place in France, near the Belgian border, cost the lives of 455 American sol-diers, but has been listed
as a victory for the Allied forces. In a particularly bloody skirmish, which included a point-blank artillery duel and hand-to-hand
combat, Lieutenant Starke was able to hold his position and turn back the enemy. It was during this period of the conflict
that Lieutenant Starke so bravely deported himself.

The story ended at that point, and was continued on another page, which Brownie turned to.

Under blistering enemy fire, Lieutenant Starke res-cued one of his men, who had been overrun by the advancing enemy. Crawling
into the face of the most murderous barrage, Lieutenant Starke covered the soldier with his own body until they were both
able to crawl back to friendly lines. This act of courage,it was said, inspired the other men in his company to hold their
ground and repel the assault.

Brownie stopped reading. Below the text was a grainy photo of two men in battle gear, their young faces beaming with triumph.
They had their arms locked, like blood brothers.

MIRACULOUS REUNION
the caption said.

Brownie let his eyes drift down to the line under the photo’s caption. “Jesus Christ,” he said, looking at Mr. Jim.

The old man nodded knowingly.

Under the picture was the name of the man whom Welling-ton Starke, Jr., had saved. A young man like himself. Brave and proud,
happy to be alive. A simple man from a simple background:
SERGEANT HENRY BOWERS
.

“Bowers and Starke,” Mr. Jim said.

Brownie smiled. There it was.