Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

  “Okay, Brownie, that’s done. We’ve got to get back on track.”

  “I hear you.” The professionalism was returning.

  “I want to talk about the bank records. I’ve been going over them, and I need to confirm a few things,” Jennifer said.

  “Shoot.”

  “You Ran every bank in the area on the Bowers, right?”

  “Every one.”

  “And there were no listed accounts for Addie or Henry Bowers.”

  “Correct.”

  “What type of accounts were you looking for?”

  “Checking. Savings. Business accounts.”

  “How about safe deposit boxes?” Jennifer asked.

  “Them too,” Brownie answered.

  “What names were you searching under?”

  “Henry R. Bowers and Addie S. Bowers.”

  “Any others?”

  “No. What are you driving at, Jennifer?”

  “Did you run Purvis Bowers?”

  “Not yet.” It was on Brownie’s list, but he’d been sidetracked with the print search.

  “Can you get a summons out on Purvis’s bank records? As their accountant, maybe he did Addie and Henry’s banking in his name.”

  “Thought about that,” Brownie answered. “He could have the account. That might answer the question of why he got so squirrelly out at the store. Maybe he’s the bagman for their secret stash.”

  “Well, right now, he’s our only live lead,” Jennifer said.

  “Purvis?”

  “Yes. I think he’s the key at this point.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?” Brownie asked.

  “I’m going to subpoena Mr. Bowers to appear before the Grand Jury,” Jennifer said resolutely. “No immunity. No deals. He’ll have to talk. You check out his bank records at the same time. Maybe we can catch him in a lie and force out the truth.”

  “King won’t like that,” Brownie said solemnly.

  “Screw King!” Jennifer snapped, sounding more like Gardner than herself. “Bowers is gonna tell us about the money or face an obstruction of justice charge. And King can’t protect him.”

  “Now you’re talkin’!” Brownie chuckled. “I’ll run the records summons, and you get your subpoena out on Purvis, and we’ll be cookin’.”

  “Okay.”

  “One more thing.” Brownie’s voice dropped. “How’s Gardner doing?”

  “So-so. Up and down. You know.”

  “Take care of that boy,” Brownie said. “Stick with him. He’ll come around.”

  “I’ll try,” Jennifer whispered. Then she hung up the phone, pulled out her legal pad and began drafting a Grand Jury subpoena for Purvis Bowers.

  * * *

  Gardner and Carole had been called to Nancy Meyers’s office for a conference. Granville had been to four therapy sessions now, and she needed to talk with the parents about his progress.

  “We seem to be off to a slow start,” she said. “He hasn’t yet adjusted to being here.”

  Gardner recalled Granville’s listless reaction on the floor of the therapy room, and his senseless scribbled drawings.

  “How’s he doing at home?” Meyers looked at Carole.

  “Quiet. Almost morose,” Carole said.

  “And with you?” She turned to Gardner.

  “About the same,” Gardner replied. He said nothing about the tears at the playground.

  “We’ll just keep at it, then,” Meyers said. “Slowly, slowly, slowly. I’m sure he’ll start to relax before long.”

  “How long do you think it will take?” Carole asked.

  Meyers fiddled with her pen. “No telling…”

  Gardner hefted a paper bag he’d brought with him from the floor to his lap. “I’ve noticed you have a lot of toys, but I didn’t sec one of these…” He pulled a large white stuffed rabbit from the bag and set it on the therapist’s desk. “How about putting this in there during Gran’s next session?”

  Carole gave Gardner a quizzical look. “What’s that for?”

  “It’s his favorite animal,” Gardner said.

  “But it’ll remind him of Bowers Corner!” Carole said.

  Nancy Meyers picked up the rabbit and studied it. “That might be okay,” she said. “I could put it on the side, make no reference to it. He could go to it only if he wanted to…”

  “But,” Carole said, “won’t it just get him upset?”

  “Not necessarily,” the therapist answered. “He may take some comfort in it. Not all memories of the Bowers were bad.”

  “But—” Carole was still trying to protest.

  “Good idea, Mr. Lawson,” the therapist continued. “This might be just the gentle stimulus we need.”

  * * *

  Gardner was in the yard behind his town house, fiddling with the barbecue grill, when Jennifer arrived at dusk. They’d spoken few words since the flare-up at the office, and Jennifer approached cautiously.

  Gardner was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and his face still radiated the glow of the midday sun. He looked more relaxed than he had earlier.

  Jennifer let the screen door snap against the frame to alert him to her presence.

  He looked up from the half-scraped grill top. “Hi, Jen.”

  She forced a thin smile. “Getting ready to cook something?” In the course of their tiff, coordinating evening meals had been overlooked.

  “Thought I might throw on a few burgers… You hungry?” Gardner’s grilling techniques were as impromptu as some of his trial tactics. He liked to fire up the coals, toss on the meat, poke ‘em, flip ‘em, close the lid, sip a martini, open the lid, and redeem the remains. Remarkably, like many of his offbeat courtroom maneuvers, the results were usually favorable.

  “Let’s eat,” she said tentatively. There was still a barrier between them, despite his obvious overture of peace.

  Jennifer went to the bedroom and changed into shorts and a halter top. She loosed her ponytail from its black cloth band and shook out her dark shiny hair. When she returned to the yard, the smell of the burgers was beginning to replace the cool grassy odor of the summer evening.

  Gardner snapped up the lid and retreated from the burst of heavy smoke. Then he flipped one of the burgers and closed the top again.

  Jennifer sat at the round patio table and Gardner joined her. They were on opposite sides, looking at each other in silence.

  “We’re going after Purvis Bowers,” Jennifer said suddenly. “Brownie and I are convinced he’s hiding something. I’m bringing him before the Grand Jury.”

  Gardner’s relaxed expression changed. He was obviously not pleased.

  “That’s not gonna do it, Jennifer,” he sighed. “This was a robbery that went sour, not some diabolical family plot.”

  “How can you say that?” Jennifer asked.

  “Twenty years, Jennifer. Twenty years of robberies. This was a robbery attempt…”

  “Brownie doesn’t think so,” Jennifer retorted.

  “Why not?”

  “It was too deliberate. Too well planned—and nothing seems to have been taken.”

  Gardner frowned deeply. “It got interrupted…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “I thought you trusted Brownie’s judgment.”

  Gardner put his elbows on the table. “I do, Jennifer, but…”

  Jennifer began to say something, but held back. She took several deep breaths and calmed herself. “Well, Mr. Lawson, how do you propose we proceed, then?”

  Gardner looked into her eyes with resolve. “Granville,” he said.

  “Granville?” She was shocked.

  “He saw the killer,” Gardner replied.

  “But, he’s…” Jennifer was searching for a polite way to describe his condition.

  “I think he’s starting to remember,” Gardner cut in. “He broke down today when we talked about it.”

  “But you’re not supposed to…” Jennifer stuttered.

  Gardner frowned deeply. “N
ot supposed to what? Talk to my own son? Not supposed to give a damn that he was beaten and two of the nicest people on this earth were killed? Not supposed to interfere with the investigation? What? What am I not supposed to do?”

  Jennifer’s discomfort was mounting rapidly. She wanted to say that he was not supposed to get involved in the case, but she couldn’t. “You might hurt Granville,” she said at last.

  “What?” Gardner replied. “More than he’s hurt right now? The boy’s a mess!”

  Jennifer sat stoically, not responding.

  “While you and Brownie fool with Purvis Bowers, the killer is still on the street, and it won’t take him long to realize he’s got a potential witness…”

  Jennifer nervously fluffed her hair behind her ear.

  “We don’t have any time. No more damn time!”

  “So you’re going to try to force it out of your son,” Jennifer said.

  “You got any better ideas?” Gardner snapped.

  Jennifer fell silent. There was no reasoning with him. Nothing she could say or do was having any effect. She got up from the table.

  “This isn’t going anywhere,” she said sadly. Then she went through the house, got into her car, and drove away.

  Gardner numbly walked to the barbecue, and kicked open the lid. Dense smoke erupted. Gardner picked up the fork and probed into the grill. And when the smoke had cleared, he could see that the burgers had been burned to a crisp.

  The next morning Gardner was still on leave from the office. He and Jennifer had slept separately for the first time in over a year, and he spent a restless, fitful night alone in his big bed while she lay in Granville’s narrow bunk down the hall.

  Gardner drove over to Court Avenue and parked beside the donut shop on the corner. They served good breakfasts, and he had often eaten there in the lean post-divorce days.

  He sat at the counter and ordered his meal: two eggs over easy, hash browns, and country sausage. The patrons were mostly elderly retirees, talking quietly over coffee. The working people had already eaten and gone to their jobs. And in the courthouse down the street, the ten o’clock docket was now being called.

  Suddenly the door clanged open and a man entered. Dressed in a tailored suit, he looked out of place. He walked over to Gardner and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Gardner turned and confronted Kent King.

  “What a way to start the day,” he groaned inwardly.

  “Gotta talk to you, Lawson,” King huffed. He did not look happy.

  Gardner smiled coldly. “I’m eating breakfast, Kent. Please don’t bother me.”

  King didn’t budge. “What’s this about a Grand Jury summons on Purvis Bowers?”

  Gardner shrugged.

  “You promised him immunity…”

  Gardner shook his head. “Haven’t you heard? I’m not running things. Jennifer Munday’s in charge.”

  King smiled coldly. “Bullshit!” Several elderly faces suddenly turned toward them.

  “It’s true,” Gardner said calmly. “I’m out of the case. It’s a matter of record.”

  “Bullshit!” King repeated. “You’re tryin’ to pull a Reagan. No accountability for your own decisions…”

  Gardner crossed his arms. “What’s your point, Kent? My eggs are getting cold.”

  “The point is, that we had a deal. My guy does not say a word without immunity. You said it first…”

  “Maybe I wasn’t authorized to say it,” Gardner answered. His arms were still crossed.

  “Bullshit!” King barked. “You are the elected State’s Attorney. You cannot abdicate your responsibility.”

  “It seems that I did,” Gardner answered. “If you’ve got a problem with that, you’re gonna have to take it up with Jennifer.”

  King stood there fuming. “You’re a wimp!” he said suddenly.

  Gardner swallowed, and lowered his arms to his side. “What did you say?” His jaw was getting tight.

  “I said you’re a wimp,” King repeated, “letting your girlfriend cover for you…”

  Gardner stood up. “I don’t like your tone of voice,” he said, balling one hand into a fist.

  “And I don’t like this charade,” King answered. “I’m sorry your boy got hurt. Really sorry, but that’s no excuse for abandoning your job. Purvis Bowers is innocent. You’re way off base trying to jack him up.”

  Gardner stood in silence, his fist still balled. He agreed with what King said, but he would never admit it to his face.

  “I know you feel that way, or you’d never have made the immunity offer,” King went on. “Why don’t you go to your office and get this thing under control? You’re the boss, god-damnit! Why don’t you act like one!”

  “I’ll think about it,” Gardner finally grunted.

  “You’d better do more than think!” King replied sternly. Then he pushed out the door and left Gardner alone with his breakfast.

  Gardner pushed the plate away. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. Maybe King was right. Things were out of control. Maybe it was time to get back in the saddle.

  It was 2:00 P.M., and the Forest National Bank on South Street was about to close its doors for the day. The granite building had been around as long as the town. For centuries, it seemed. Brownie raced up the marble stairs, trying to sneak into the building before the security guard at the door turned the key.

  Summonses had been issued for Purvis Bowers’s financial records at every bank in town. So far, nothing had turned up. This was Brownie’s last chance to find something tying Purvis and Henry to the suspected cache.

  Brownie slipped in just in time and made his way to the manager’s office. In uniform, it was obvious he was on official business.

  “Mr. Wilkins, please,” he told the brown-haired secretary who was parked in front of the office door.

  “In reference to what?” The woman’s tone was cold.

  “Serving a summons,” Brownie said with a smile.

  Her eyes remained blank as she notified her boss.

  Brownie grinned at the woman, but she still didn’t react. Soon the door opened, and the officer was ushered inside.

  “Judd Wilkins,” the elderly manager said, extending a withered white hand.

  “Joe Brown,” Brownie answered, clamping gently, and releasing before he broke any bones.

  The man looked like an antique brass fixture, an employee since day one.

  “We need to locate some records,” Brownie said, handing over the papers. “All of the accounts of Purvis Bowers…”

  Wilkins sat down at his mahogany desk and perused the summons. Brownie took a chair opposite, and waited.

  “Purvis Bowers,” the man said.

  Brownie’s ears perked. “He has accounts here?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilkins said. “He’s got several…”

  Brownie smiled. “Can you let me see the files?”

  The old man nodded, and gave an order to his secretary through the intercom. She soon returned and dropped a stack of papers on his desk. Wilkins handed them to Brownie. “That’s the whole lot,” he said.

  Brownie picked them up and scanned the pages. Checking. Business checking. Savings. A safe deposit box. He was about to go on when he noticed a second name at the top of the safe deposit box signature card. A cosigner! Brownie’s heart began to race. There it was. The missing link! Purvis and Henry on the same account.

  Brownie handed the document across the desk. “What do you know about this one?” he asked.

  Wilkins took the page. “Henry Bowers,” he said sadly. “Poor Henry…”

  “What’s the story on him and his nephew sharing a box?” Brownie asked.

  Wilkins put the paper down. “Years ago Henry had a lot of them…”

  Brownie’s ears perked. “A lot of what?”

  “Boxes,” the old man said, “safe deposit boxes. Must have had eight or ten in the beginning. Thirty, forty years ago…”

  Brownie leaned forward in his chair. “Boxes? Wit
h an s?”

  “Yep. Let’s see… Had at least eight deposit boxes when he first started. Then, as the years went by, dropped ‘em one by one…”

  Brownie eased up to the edge of his seat. “Ever say why he needed so many?”

  Wilkins flashed a reprimand with his eyes. “We never pry, Officer Brown. What goes in is their business.” Brownie put his hand on the desk. “So all those years, you never once peeked while he was opening a box?”

  “Of course not!”

  Brownie smiled. “Take it easy, Mr. Wilkins. We have to get a handle on why Henry needed so many boxes. Didn’t seem to be a wealthy man.”

  The manager looked down at the summons, “You’re going to have to ask Purvis Bowers about that. After Henry got down to four boxes, he added his nephew to the signature card as the primary account holder—”

  “Do you know the reason he did that?” Brownie interrupted. At least it explained why no accounts were found in Henry’s name alone.

  Wilkins scratched his balding pate, “Something about taking care of Addie if Henry got sick. Seems he got a bad checkup one time, and the next thing we knew, Purvis was on the boxes, and Henry was just a cosigner. He only went to it about once a year.”

  “May I see the entry card?” Brownie asked.

  Wilkins handed it over.

  Brownie sped down the sheet. It had been signed each time the box was opened. Sure enough, Henry had come in only one time a year. And each time had been the middle of August. “What’s the status of the box now?” Brownie inquired.

  Wilkins pulled another paper from the file. “Closed out,” he said. “Purvis Bowers closed it. Within the past few weeks.”

  Brownie let out his breath and leaned back in his chair. The questions were over.

  “Should have the originals to you first thing tomorrow morning,” Wilkins said. “Meantime we’ll run copies. Is that okay?”

  Brownie said yes, and turned for the door. His head was awash with new information. Henry had eight safe deposit boxes. Eight! Enough room to keep a ton of cash.

  The security guard let him out, and Brownie hustled down the steps into the afternoon sun. Henry was rich after all. Okay. He could handle that. But there was still a burning question: where in hell did Henry get that much money in the first place?