Silent Son (8 page)

“Hi, Dad.” Granville opened the back door and ran out to greet his father.

“Gran!” Gardner gave his son a big hug. Then he pulled back so he could see the boy’s face.

The mark on his forehead was still visible, but it was beginning to fade.

“How’re ya feelin’?” Gardner was still holding the child by his shoulders.

“Head’s a little sore…” Carole had said he was still on Tylenol, but the dosage was being reduced.

Gardner gently ruffled the boy’s soft blond hair. “Good thing you’ve got the patented Lawson hard head. Takes more than a
little bang to keep us down.” Gardner looked into Granville’s eyes for a reaction as he spoke, but the boy remained passive.
The “bang” reference had gone right past him.

“Did you get the books?” Gardner had sent him a large stack of game, puzzle, and coloring books.

Granville nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Did you do any of them yet?”

Granville shook his head. “Uh-uh.” His pale face went blank for a moment.

“How come?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Are you gonna?” Two weeks ago Granville would have torn through the puzzles immediately. He loved them, especially the mazes.

“Uh-huh.” His eyes had lost their usual spark.

“Come up here,” Gardner said gently, pulling the boy up on his lap. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Granville put his arms around his father’s neck and drew his knees up, almost into a fetal position. He didn’t answer the
question.

“I love you…” Gardner said.

But Granville said nothing. He squeezed his dad’s neck tighter, put his head against his chest, and lay there quietly for
a long, long time.

They sat in silence, the hug substituting for words. Gardner could feel the tension in Granville’s body, and he had a sudden
anticipation that the boy would convulse hysterically like Miss Fahrnam, and let everything spill out. But it didn’t happen.
The memory stayed inside.

After a half hour of silence, Gardner encouraged Granville to get the puzzle book. With father leading, and son listlessly
following along, the two of them threaded mazes and connected dots for another half hour. Finally, time was up.

“Granny!” Carole called from the back door. “Come get your lunch!”

Granville stood up in response to the command and gave Gardner the “sorry, gotta go” look. Mom was in charge, and their time
together was always regulated by her.

Gardner grabbed him tightly. “I’ll be back to see you soon,” he said against Granville’s hair.

“Okay, Dad,” the boy replied. Then he dashed for the door that Carole was still holding open.

Gardner watched Granville disappear into the house. “Bye, Gran,” he called. But the door closed on his words.

* * *

Brownie was on his fifth stop of the morning. Another witness interview in the Bowers case. One more name on his student list.
The children who had gone on the field trip were now on an abbreviated school schedule.

Brownie had wanted to talk with the kids, one at a time, to see if they might remember something that could help the investigation.
Miss Fahrnam’s hysteria had left a jagged hole in his crime scene report. Her observations were disjointed and incoherent.
Maybe one of the little people could do better.

But the parents stood in the way. Each and every one had barred the door. “I’m sorry,” they said, “we don’t want little (fill
in name) involved. This is too traumatic. He/she didn’t see/hear anything. He/she can’t help. Please find someone else.”

In response, Brownie had argued, “If you won’t help, the killers could hurt other innocent people…”

“Too bad,” they said. “Not our problem. Sorry. Very sorry, but please go away. We do not want our child in court.”

So the first four attempts were strikeouts. Children can’t be forced to give statements the way adults can. In fact, they
cannot even be approached without parental consent. And police rules decree that parents who do not allow their children to
cooperate in a case will not be compelled.

Brownie knocked on the door of a suburban cedar-roofed house on Meadow Lane. A new development built in the past ten years,
the properties were expensive. And most of the residents of the neighborhood were upwardly mobile county professionals.

An attractive African-American woman answered the door. “Yes?”

Brownie let loose one of his blazing smiles. “Ms. Dorey?”

The woman nodded cautiously.

“Sergeant Joe Brown, county police. Like to speak with you about Jenneane.”

The woman stepped out on the low cement platform that bordered the door. “Is this about the shooting?”

“Yes, ma’am. Wondered if I could ask her some questions in reference to what she heard or saw that day.”

Mrs. Dorey seemed to be sizing Brownie up, letting her dark eyes roam his wide body for a moment, then lock on to his face.
“That’s all she’s been talking about for a week. On and on about what happened…”

Brownie felt a surge of elation. Maybe this was a change in his luck. “Is she home?”

The woman shook her head. “No. She’s at school.” “Thought they were holding the kids out,” Brownie said with surprise. “For
counseling…”

Mrs. Dorey cracked a skeptical smile. “Ahh, the counseling…”

Brownie cocked his head. “You don’t buy that stuff?”

“Jenneane doesn’t need it,” the woman answered. “She’s very advanced for her age…”

“So maybe you and Mr. Dorey wouldn’t mind if I had a few words with her after she gets home?”

A frown creased the woman’s pretty face.

“There’s no Mr. Dorey,” she said solemnly. “Just Jenneane and me.”

Brownie’s eyes glanced down at the wedding ring he had spotted earlier. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I thought—”

“It’s okay,” she replied. “Everybody assumes…”

Brownie waited for more, but her voice trailed off, and she seemed to be staring at his badge. “Uh, Ms. Dorey, would it be
all right if I came back later and spoke with Jenneane?”

She was still staring at his badge. “That would be fine, Sergeant Brown,” she answered. “I’m sure she’d be glad to tell you
everything she saw.”

Brownie thanked her and returned to his van. On the way back to the station, he placed a patched-in call to the school principal’s
office.

“Miss Kearns, this is Joe Brown.” He was speaking to the elderly secretary who had known him since childhood.

“Hi, Brownie.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure. I’ll try.”

“Do you know Jenneane Dorey? Second-grade student?”

“Sure do.”

“What do you know about her parents?”

She hesitated, then spoke. “Moved here two years ago from Washington, D.C.”

Brownie shifted the microphone in his hand. “Whole family?”

“No. Just mother and daughter.”

“What about Mr. Dorey?”

“He died a year before they moved out to the county.”

Brownie sensed tragedy. “What happened to him?”

“He was a D.C. police officer…”

Brownie visualized the woman’s eyes on his badge.

“Killed in the line of duty.”

Brownie thanked her and clicked off the mike. The family of a dead cop. Daughter a possible witness. A touchy situation at
best. Brownie took a deep breath and gripped the van’s steering wheel. But maybe they finally had a break in the case.

Purvis Bowers hung up the telephone, and opened the drawer to his desk. A lawyer had called, an estate attorney from Pennsylvania,
asking about Addie and Henry’s will. Some long-lost cousins had gotten the word about the shootings, and were overcome with
instantaneous grief. They wanted to convey their condolences, and make an incidental inquiry: what, exactly, could they expect
to receive as bequests?

His aunt and uncle didn’t have a will, Purvis said. At least, he didn’t know about one. They were simple people who lived
simple lives. They didn’t need that kind of paperwork. Everything they owned was owned jointly, and whoever survived would
get it all. If they both died, it really didn’t matter who got what. That’s the way Addie and Henry looked at things, Purvis
said, so it was not surprising that they never drew up a will.

He reached into the drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. The distant cousins were a surprise. He hadn’t anticipated
their appearance. He was the sole heir. That’s what he’d always thought. The only green leaf on the family tree.

He opened the envelope, and extracted a smaller one. This one was sealed, and he slit the seam with a letter opener. A creased
document lay inside. He pulled it out and smoothed the wrinkles, rapidly reading down the page. Then he turned to the next
sheet, then the next. When he was through, he folded the pages and put them neatly back in the envelope, pausing long enough
to read the inscription at the top left-hand corner:

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
LAW OFFICE OF KENT KING

Purvis put the envelope back in the desk drawer. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed long distance.

“Cooney and Clearwater,” a dulcet voice answered.

“Mr. Cooney, please.”

“Thank you, sir. May I say who’s calling?”

“Peter Baker.”

“Thank you, sir. One moment, please.”

There was a brief pause, then a man came on. “Tom Cooney.”

“Mr. Cooney, this is Peter Baker. Did you receive my letter?”

There was another pause, and the sound of shuffling papers.

“Yes, Mr. Baker. You’re inquiring about an account.”

“Yes, sir. It’s outlined in my letter. A client of mine needs to make a stock purchase.”

“And you want to know if we can keep the stocks in street name, and maintain your client’s identity strictly confidential?”

“Correct, sir.”

“You arc aware of the federal reporting requirements. Tax ID numbers, IRS notifications…”

“Yes, sir.”

“But the specifics of ownership you do not want mentioned in the account.”

“Precisely.”

There was another pause. “How much did your client want to deposit with us, Mr. Baker?”

Purvis smiled to himself. “Five K plus.”

“Five thousand dollars?” The voice sounded irritated.

“No… five hundred K. Five hundred.”

The words were met with silence. “Five hundred thousand?” Cooney asked.

“Yes, sir. Cash.”

“Mr. Baker, I think we can swing it. Might have to bend a rule or two, but I’m certain we can guarantee your client’s anonymity.”

Purvis smiled. “Good. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” Then he hung up the phone and got up from his desk.

The Veil Valley Professional Center contained two side streets that veered off the main road where Kent King’s office was
located. At the far end of the southern branch lay the County Outpatient Clinic. And on the second floor was the Family Counseling
Unit.

Gardner was familiar with the place. On many occasions he had watched from behind the one-way mirrored glass as young abuse
victims were treated by the therapists. He’d always gone there to assess the possibilities of going to trial. Some kids were
so messed up, they couldn’t communicate at all. On those cases, he did everything he could to negotiate guilty pleas. But
there were others, where the children were more articulate about their ordeals. They talked freely with the counselors, and
were able to explain what happened and who did it. Those children were candidates for court.

But now he was behind the glass, watching his own son. And what he saw was making him very uncomfortable.

“Let’s talk about what you like to do for fun,” Nancy Meyers said. She was a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length gray hair
and glasses, a licensed mental health social worker, and an expert in child trauma. Gardner had seen her in action many times
over the years, and as a therapist she was about the best.

Granville sat in the middle of the the floor, with his legs crossed under him. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with
toys. Dolls. Space planes. Building blocks. The ambience was strictly juvenile. Anything to break the ice and get the children
on common ground with the therapists.

“How about it?” Nancy said gently. “Tell me what you like to do.” She was sitting beside him, wearing slacks and a T-shirt,
trying to put him at ease.

Granville sat immobile. “Watch TV,” he said suddenly, his head down.

“Okay.” Nancy’s voice was as soft as a lullaby. “And what do you like to watch on TV?”

“Captain Freedom.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Monkey Shines.”

Gardner could see that Granville was slow to respond. Why did he have to go to talk to someone, Granville had asked before
they came. It had been easier, down at the hospital. They had all dressed alike, in white smocks, and the boy could not tell
a shrink from a surgeon. He’d had three sessions, and not even realized it. But now he was home, and his head had stopped
hurting. So why did he have to go see some dumb ol’ lady?

“You like cartoons?”

“Uh-huh.” He was staying monosyllabic.

“Do you like to draw?”

Granville’s head finally came up. “Sometimes.”

“Well, would you like to try some drawing now?” Nancy picked up a sketch pad and some color pencils, and put them beside Granville.

From behind the mirror, Gardner tensed. Art therapy was a device often used with severely traumatized kids. They were so beaten
down, so repressed, that they could not even speak the words. What had happened? Who did it? The questions could not be answered.
At least not with words. But sometimes they could draw what they could not say. And the drawings spoke for them and revealed
the horrors that they could never, ever utter aloud.

Granville picked up the pad and laid it across his knees.

“Draw anything you want,” Nancy said in an hypnotic voice.

Gardner pressed close to the glass so he could get a better view of the pad. Granville was situated just below and to the
left. He sat there with the pad on his knees, but did nothing.

“Go ahead,” Meyers prompted again.

Granville fidgeted with the pencil, and hunched across the paper.

Nancy Meyers and Gardner waited patiently.