Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

  Brownie entered Carlos’s front door and scanned the smoky room, focusing immediately on a muscular form deep in the murk, a man bending over the pool table.

  The cue came back for the shot, but Brownie seized the end and locked it still with his grip.

  “What the fuck!” The man whirled around to see who had the guts to disrupt his game.

  Brownie pulled the cue out of his hand with a jerk, and dropped the thick end to the floor. “Evenin’, Roscoe,” he said calmly.

  Miller stood up straight and put his hands on his hips. He had dark unkempt hair, light blue eyes, and a trail of tattoos running down each arm. He smiled at Brownie. “Well if it ain’t nigger Joe Friday…”

  Brownie stayed cool. “Need to talk to you, Roscoe.”

  The other patrons at the bar froze, and the jukebox was between tunes. The room was silent, expectant.

  Miller leaned back against the rail of the pool table. “I’m busy right now. Come back tomorrow.” He smiled sarcastically and looked into the crowd. Several punk wanna-bes laughed in the background.

  Brownie stepped closer. “Afraid I’m gonna be unavailable tomorrow, Roscoe.” His voice was icy. “Got to go down to the morgue…” Brownie moved up and pinned Miller against the table. “We have to talk now.”

  Roscoe was in a spot. He was being challenged in front of his peers. He had to respond. But he had tangled with Officer Brown before. The man was like a block of pig iron. Roscoe subtly reached behind himself for another cue, and a cohort deftly slid it into his hand. Then, without warning, he swung it toward Brownie’s head.

  Like lightning, Brownie blocked the blow with the cue in his hand and snatched the second cue from Roscoe’s fist. Then he jammed it across Miller’s neck and slammed him down to the pool table.

  “Ughhh…” Roscoe’s air was cut off.

  “I’m not here to play games,” Brownie said calmly, applying pressure to the cue. “You’re gonna talk to me, or get locked up for assault. You decide.”

  Roscoe’s eyes started to bulge.

  Brownie pushed himself away, and Miller sat up. The crowd hesitated, then drifted back into the smoke. Brownie patted the flap of his sidearm. “No more trouble, okay?”

  Miller rubbed his neck and nodded.

  “Now, let’s go outside, where we won’t be disturbed,” Brownie said.

  Miller stood and glanced around, but there were no seconds in sight. Then, grudgingly, he started to shuffle slowly across the rough wood floor.

  Outside the air was cool for late May. A half moon had just risen above the flat roof of the bar. Brownie directed Roscoe to his truck as a prelude to a consent search. If Roscoe okayed a look at his personal effects, he couldn’t complain later about an illegal search. That was the trick.

  They reached the truck, and Brownie turned Roscoe around.

  “Where were you about four P.M. today?”

  Miller didn’t answer.

  “I said, where were you this afternoon?”

  Roscoe stood fast. “I don’t hav’ta answer that…”

  “Take it easy, Roscoe.” Brownie decided to slow down.

  “Just tell me where you were and we’ll call it quits.”

  Roscoe looked up. “Why you want to know?” He was sweating.

  “Two old folks got killed today…”

  “And you think I did it?” Roscoe asked, his expression one of shock.

  “Didn’t say that,” Brownie said quietly. “Just want to know where you were at the time.” As Brownie spoke, he peeked over Roscoe’s shoulder into the truck.

  Miller moved left to block his view. “You still sound like you’re accusin’ me…”

  Brownie’s patience was almost gone. He could see Addie and Henry in his mind’s eye, flat out on the blood-soaked floor of their grocery.

  “One more time, Roscoe! Where the fuck were you today?”

  Miller’s eyes turned ice cold. “Go to hell! I’m not telling you shit—”

  Brownie suddenly lost it. With a move like a rattlesnake, he leaped on Roscoe and wrestled him to the ground. “You’re gonna tell me, or I’m gonna break your fuckin’ neck!” Miller was pinned under him. “Tell me, motherfucker!” Brownie screamed.

  Miller had stopped struggling but was eyeing Brownie with defiance. “You’re crazy, man…”

  The words had no effect. Brownie pulled Roscoe to his feet, and shoved him away. “What are you hiding in the truck?” he said, pulling his 9 millimeter from its holster.

  “I don’t believe this!” Roscoe groaned. “Get the fuck away from there!”

  Brownie moved to the door and tried it. The lock was down, the window up. “Open it!” he ordered.

  “Where’s your warrant?” Roscoe knew Brownie was in dangerous legal territory.

  “You gave me consent!” Brownie huffed.

  “Like hell!” Roscoe yelled back.

  “Okay, have it your way,” Brownie said calmly. With a flick of his wrist he smashed the driver’s side window with the butt of his gun. Then he pointed the weapon at Roscoe’s face. “Lie down on the ground. Put your hands on the top of your head, and don’t move until I tell you.”

  “You’re really gonna be sorry,” Roscoe said. “You better not fuck with me—”

  “Down!” Brownie ordered.

  Miller kneeled, then went to the prone position as instructed.

  Meanwhile, Brownie entered the truck and was busy rummaging through its interior, holding the gun on Roscoe as he worked.

  The bar crowd had heard the commotion and was now poised in a semicircle around the truck.

  “Call my lawyer,” Roscoe hollered. “Somebody call Kent King…”

  Just then, Brownie emerged from the cab. “Yeah. Call Kent King…” The officer straightened up and unfolded his fingers. “Roscoe’s gonna need him big time!” Brownie moved his palm into the light, exposing the items he’d found in the glove compartment. Three brand-new 12 gauge shotgun shells.

  Gardner stood alone outside the intensive care unit at 2:00 A.M. Carole had become tired, and moved to a nearby seating area to wait. The hall was quiet, disturbed only by the passing of an occasional nurse. Nothing had changed since the afternoon. Granville was still stable, but asleep.

  “He moved!” Gardner yelled suddenly. The small bandaged head had slowly rolled to one side. “Nurse!” Gardner called.

  There were footsteps in the hall as robed figures flowed from all directions. Carole had also stood up in the commotion, and come to the glass.

  They were quickly allowed entrance by a doctor. Gardner on one side, Carole the other.

  In a flash, Granville’s eyes came open. Blurry at first, then steady, they searched for a familiar face. A small hand came out, and touched a larger one reaching to meet it. A weak smile materialized between the bandages as the small hand gripped the larger.

  And then, the first two words. “Hi, Dad…”

  Gardner’s hand trembled as he felt the movement of his son’s fingers against his own. “Gran…” he mumbled. His voice croaked as he bent down to kiss the boy’s barely exposed cheek. “Gran…” And they all began to cry.

  Dawn was approaching from the southeast quadrant of the county. The Apple Valley side. Pink waves of clouds had been building on the gray horizon for the past half hour, and soon they would crest, and molten sunlight would pour into the green trough between the ridges. It was a peaceful time, when cows gathered by the barn and alarm clocks buzzed in the farmhouses. But the peace wasn’t evenly spread. In a foggy meadow below Mountain Road, a stranger had returned.

  He hadn’t planned to come back here. He was going to stay clear of the area at all costs. But it had been a had night. The cops were restless, and the way they were going, it was not going to take them long to put it together.

  He had to act now. Still under the cover of semidarkness. Against the rules that he’d laid down. The cops had gone crazy. The goddamn prosecutor’s kid! That’s what set them off ! It was all over the local new
s. “Lawson! Lawson! Lawson!” What rotten luck! Of all the brats in the world who could have interfered, it had to be the prosecutor’s kid. So much for planning…

  He cut in and out of the saplings at the edge of the woods, and found the entrance to the trail. The light was stronger now. In no time the narrow strip of trees would be lit up and there would be nowhere to hide. He had to get in and out in a hurry.

  The rocks and fallen logs began to look familiar. It had been a quick decision at the time to ditch the merchandise. If he’d been caught with it, then it would have been over. “The fruits of the crime,” his lawyer said. “Never get caught with them.”

  The big boulder with a Y-shaped indentation marked the exit point. He left the trail, trying not to stir the underbrush or get snagged on the brambles. Then he saw it. An old oak with a rotted core. The bark was firm and the wood strong for six inches all around, but there was a gaping wound on one side and the innards had crumbled to sawdust long ago.

  He looked at the sky. Dawn was just moments away. He approached the tree and thrust an arm deep into the wound, up, high inside.

  He grasped an object and twisted it from its niche within the hollow tree. If they got their hands on this it could be real trouble.

  He grunted and pulled a 12 gauge shotgun from the dust. Attached to the trigger guard was a crudely marked tag: BOWERS SPECIAL $189.95.

  He checked the hole and smoothed the surrounding fallout with his foot. The sun had broken the plane of the far ridge. Time to move. In twenty minutes, this link to the crime would be severed for good. Hidden where no one would ever look. He was back in business.

  Gardner and Carole sat in the doctor’s office awaiting the verdict. They had stayed with Granville all night, comforting and soothing, holding his hands. Giving support as much for their own needs as his. But now it was morning. Granville had dozed off peacefully, and they felt comfortable taking a break.

  They were told to go to the chief neurologist’s office. He had made a complete examination of the child and could give some answers to the parents. There were some other patients to check, but he would be with them soon.

  The walls were bare, the furniture Spartan. This was obviously a part-time job for the doctor. With his background, he probably had a plush private medical compound somewhere in the suburbs. The hospital work was pocket change.

  Gardner and Carole sat in silence, each on the verge of exhaustion. Suddenly, the door swung open, and the doctor entered. He was in his fifties, tanned and healthy looking. “Mornin’ folks, I’m Wilson Robertson.”

  Gardner stood and shook his hand. “Gardner Lawson, and this is my—”

  Carole extended her hand. “Carole. Granville’s mother.”

  “Okay… okay.” The doctor was smiling. The news could not be too bad. He sat behind the narrow metal desk and laid a clipboard out on the table. “Your boy is very lucky. There is not going to be any permanent physical damage. He’ll have some short-term side effects, but in the long run he should be fine.”

  The listeners broke into smiles. That was terrific news.

  “How long does he have to stay in the hospital?” Carole asked.

  “Another day or two,” the doctor answered. “We’d like to keep him under observation, just to be sure there’s no brain swelling. And we’d like to get him started with the therapist—”

  “Therapist?” Gardner interrupted. “You said he had no longterm injury. Why does he need a therapist?”

  Carole’s face mirrored the same concern.

  “I said no permanent physical injuries—there may be some mental problems…”

  “What kind of mental problems?” Gardner’s voice sounded like a cross-examination.

  “Too soon to say for sure,” the doctor said. “Violence-induced traumas in children can take their toll. All we know at this point is that he’s begun disassociation…”

  Gardner suddenly saw the full picture. This often happened in child abuse cases. A hurt is so overwhelming that the child represses it deep in his subconscious mind. Unable to deal with the reality, the child makes it all go away. But it doesn’t leave. It stays inside and festers. Gardner had been so caught up in the physical part he’d forgotten about this ominous aspect.

  “He took a hard blow to the head,” Robertson continued, “and there was a weapon involved, but that’s not the problem.

  …It’s what he saw that we have to deal with…” The doctor’s voice faded out, and the room went silent. They were waiting for him to continue, but he had stopped.

  Gardner caught his eye. “And what was that, Dr. Robertson? What did he see?”

  “I’m afraid that’s the problem. At this point he’s unable, or unwilling to say.”

  “So what can we do?” Carole asked.

  “Start therapy as soon as he’s feeling better,” the doctor replied. “I’ve got several people on staff who can see him here, then he can continue with someone local when you go back home.”

  “But what can they do?” Carole continued.

  The doctor smiled wanly. “Try to make him feel better. Deal with the shock. Ease him back to normalcy.”

  Carole looked at Gardner, then at the doctor again. “But what about his memory? You said he can’t remember. Are the therapists going to try to make him remember?”

  The doctor glanced down at his chart. “He’ll be given a chance to get it all out,” he said.

  “Why?” Carole asked suddenly. “So he can go to court?” She looked at Gardner. “Are you going to make him testify? Is that what you’re trying to do?”

  Gardner tightened his jaw. “No!” He hadn’t even thought about it. So far they had no suspects and no case. Court was the last thing on his mind.

  “Promise me you won’t make him testify,” Carole said.

  “God, Carole—” Gardner answered.

  “Promise me!”

  The doctor stood up. The conversation had gone past him. “Unless you have other questions about the boy’s treatment…”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done,” Gardner said.

  “Yes, thanks,” Carole echoed.

  The doctor left Gardner and Carole alone in the room. “Please tell me you won’t make him go to court,” Carole repeated.

  “I’m not planning to,” Gardner said hesitantly.

  “But you might?” Carole asked.

  Gardner did not answer.

  Brownie entered the main lobby of University Hospital. It was 10:15 A.M. and he’d pulled an all-nighter. The Miller lead had not panned out. Roscoe had stonewalled it in interrogation, and Brownie had to admit to himself that the link between the shotgun shells and Bowers Corner was just speculation. They were not even sure that any shells had been taken from the store. Even the preliminary forensic work came up negative. After several tedious hours at the station. Brownie had to let Roscoe Miller go. Then he made the three-hour drive to Baltimore.

  He had an 11:00 A.M. appointment at the medical examiner’s office to observe the autopsies of Addie and Henry. But first, he wanted to stop by the intensive care unit to check on Gardner and Granville. According to the doctor he’d spoken to earlier on the phone, things were looking up.

  The elevator carried Brownie to the ninth floor.

  Brownie spotted Carole at the end of the long hall, and ran down. He spoke politely to her, and moved on to find Gardner by Granville’s bed.

  “How’re ya feelin’, young man?” Brownie asked.

  “Head kinda hurts…” Granville replied.

  “Think this might make it better?” Brownie pulled out a giant chocolate bar from his uniform coat pocket.

  Granville’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t know if he’s allowed quite yet,” Gardner said.

  Brownie pretended not to hear. He began to peel the foil from one end.

  Carole entered the room, and looked over his shoulder. “Maybe we should ask the doctor,” she said softly.

  Brownie kept peeling, then broke off a small piec
e of milk chocolate and extended it toward Granville’s mouth.

  Gardner and Carole looked at the child. His face was beaming, his eyes the brightest they’d seen since he woke up.

  Brownie put the candy in Granville’s mouth. Then he looked at Gardner and winked. “This boy’s gonna be just fine.”

  Brownie had now gone over twenty-four hours without sleep, and he was starting to fade. After the autopsy, he could get some rest at the University Inn, where the county had reserved him a room. But until then he had to try to stay alert, to see if the bodies contained any clues that might help him get the investigation back on track.

  The medical examiner’s facility was located in the subbasement of University Hospital. As Brownie entered, the odors of chemicals and death entered his nostrils, and revived him like a shot of ammonia. It was an eerie place, deep underground, lit by greenish fluorescent tubes. On more than one occasion he’d picked up clues that the pathologists had missed. To complete the investigation he had to observe the autopsy. But it always gave him the creeps.

  Addie and Henry lay on parallel stainless-steel slabs, naked, their bodies gray with age and postmortem pallor. Their blood had been drained, and their skins looked like candle drippings.

  “Okay, okay, I’m comin’…” A voice emerged from the office, followed by a white-uniformed figure. “Grandma and grandpa, you’re next…”

  Dr. Gladys Johanssen was known for her nonstop witticisms. The pathologist was too abrasive for live patients, so she had buried herself in the ME’s office for twenty years. Whenever she autopsied, it was one wisecrack after another until the job was done. Penis size. Cause of death. Even stomach contents were grist for the joke mill. She always laughed in the reaper’s face.

  “Mornin’, doc,” Brownie said.

  Gladys frowned when she saw his expression. “Know these two, huh?”

  Brownie nodded. “Real, real good.”

  “Okay, I get the picture.” She dropped her smile and picked up a scalpel.

  Brownie moved into his observation position behind her. All in all, Gladys Johanssen was a pretty good technician. Quick, efficient, and keen-eyed. And on the right day, amusing as hell.