“That’s him!” Jenneane exclaimed. “That’s him!” she repeated. There was no hesitation. No pause for reflection as she’d done over Roscoe’s mug shot. The blowup of the skeet team picture lay under her pointing finger, and she was jabbing him in the nose.
“You’re sure?” In all his years, Brownie had never seen such an instantaneous, explosive identification.
“That’s him!” Jenneane said for the third time. “I’m sure. Thought it was this one at first,” she continued, picking up Roscoe, “but he looks mean… That’s the boy I saw.” She touched the picture in Brownie’s hand. “He looks nice. Like Randy.”
“Was he wearing a hat?” Brownie asked.
Jenneane reflected for a moment. “No.”
“What about his hair? Was it long or short?” Brownie had to be sure she had picked the right one.
“Short. Real short,” Jenneane replied.
Brownie smiled. That definitely ruled out Roscoe. He turned the photo over and wrote the date, the time, and “100% ID, Jenneane Dorey” at the top.
Then he stood up and patted Jenneane on the back. “You did good, girl,” he said. “Real, real good.”
“So that’s one of the killers, huh?” Mrs. Dorey said.
“We think so,” Brownie replied. “Already got the other one locked up. Shouldn’t be long before we know for sure that this guy was with him. They were seen together out at the private school, and now,” he looked at Jenneane, “on the way to the crime.”
“Will she have to testify?” the mother asked, a worried expression crossing her face.
Brownie frowned. “Don’t know yet. Depends on how far this thing goes.”
“When will you know?” Mrs. Dorey continued.
Jenneane had maneuvered herself so she could hug Brownie around the waist. He lifted his arm, and hugged her back. “Gotta get with the State’s Attorney first, then we’ll contact you.”
Jenneane was still hugging, looking up at Brownie like he was her idol.
“Maybe you could come over for dinner. We could talk about it.” Mrs. Dorey was giving Brownie the same type of look as her daughter.
Brownie smiled. “Sounds nice. If I can get some time… real nice.”
The officer gently detatched Jenneane’s arm. “I’ll give you a call this week,” he told the mother. “Right now I gotta get back to town.”
Brownie said good-bye and rushed to his van. IV Starke was man number two. Sidekick to his evil twin. He radioed the station, and patched into the phone lines.
Gardner answered the page when the call came into the State’s Attorney’s office.
“Positive ID,” Brownie said.
Gardner sighed. “All set here. Application’s done. All we need is a judge’s signature and we’re on our way.”
“Next step?” Brownie had started driving, and needed to know which direction to head.
“Call the stop squad, and go out to the school. We’ll bring the paperwork. Find Starke, and detain him until we get there.”
“Roger!” Brownie said.
“And Brownie…” Gardner’s voice sounded expectant. “Take it easy on him…”
They’d already pegged Starke as Roscoe’s tagalong. Miller was the violent bastard who’d hurt Granville and wiped out the Bowers. Maybe they could get a confession from Starke that could ice Roscoe for good. No deals or promises. Just an incriminating statement from a schoolboy who hooked up with bad company. If they played it right, Starke would crack and bury Roscoe for good.
“No sweat, Gard,” Brownie replied. “I’ll be polite.”
“Okay,” Gardner replied. “Just hold him till we get there.”
Brownie agreed and clicked off the mike. Suspect number two was in the bag.
Gardner and Jennifer stood in the outer sanctum of Judge Carla Hanks’s chambers. She had been appointed to the bench six months ago, and assigned paperwork duties until her courtroom certification came through. The other judges were in court, languishing through the civil docket. With court in session, they could not be easily approached.
“She’s busy now,” the judge’s gray-haired secretary said. “May be able to fit you in late this afternoon.”
Gardner put both hands on her desk. “We’ve got a warrant application. It can’t wait…”
The secretary smiled uncomfortably and looked at his hands.
“It won’t take long!” Jennifer interjected.
“Let me tell her you’re here,” the secretary said.
Gardner flashed Jennifer a wordless thank-you. In the protocol department, judge’s secretaries were goddesses. They controlled access to the black robes.
The secretary announced the prosecutors on the intercom. There was a hesitation, followed by an audible sigh. “Book them in for five fifteen,” the judge said. It was clear she did not want to be disturbed.
“Tell her it’s an emergency,” Jennifer said.
The message was conveyed, and the judge sighed again. “Can’t they get another judge?”
“They’re all busy!” Gardner said in a voice loud enough to pierce the closed door. “We’ve got to get this thing signed now!”
The secretary’s expression shifted to annoyance. “Mr. Law-son—”
But Gardner rushed past her and entered the inner chamber.
“Sorry, Judge. I know you’re busy, but we got a bad situation here…”
Judge Hanks was practically invisible behind the paperwork on her desk, buried in her files, playing catch-up with the county judiciary’s backlog.
“Mr. Lawson!” She did not appreciate the intrusion.
“I said I’m sorry!” Gardner repeated. “Please look over this warrant application, and we’ll get out of here.” Jennifer had silently joined him and was standing by his side. The judge acknowledged her with a glance.
Gardner handed over the three-page document, and the judge snapped it out of his hand. Like it or not, it was her job to review and sign search warrants. And if no one else was available, she’d have to do it, despite the inconvenience.
Carla Hanks was a chubby dark-haired woman in her late forties. A former civil law practitioner, she was not comfortable in the criminal arena. From what Gardner had heard, she’d never handled a criminal case in her life.
“Who’s the affiant?” the judge barked suddenly, looking up from the documents.
“Sergeant Joe Brown, and myself. Co-affiants,” Gardner said, reaching across the desk, and pointing to Brownie’s signature at the bottom of the last page, and his own signature higher up on the preceding page.
“Why’s there such a gap between the text and the signatures?”
Gardner gulped. They’d had Brownie sign the page blank before he went out to see Jenneane Dorey, and he and Jennifer had filled it in later. The only contact Brownie had with the page was to sign it. Technically, that was a no-no.
“Standard format,” Jennifer piped up. “Signatures do not have to coincide.” She knew that Hanks had seen very few of these documents.
The judge nodded and went back to the text.
Gardner let out his breath, and thanked Jennifer again with his eyes. An admission as to how the papers had been prepared might have invalidated them on the spot. No way they were going to tell Carla Hanks that the application was possibly defective.
The judge bought it and administered the oath to Gardner, making him swear that everything in the application was true, based upon his own personal knowledge and belief.
“I do,” the prosecutor said solemnly after she had finished.
There was another pause as the judge’s eyes returned to the application. She was still having trouble with something.
“Identification near the scene. Association with another suspect prior to the incident—what else do you have to support probable cause?” Hanks asked.
Gardner shook his head. “We’re still investigating…” That was the whole purpose of the warrant in the first place. Find more evidence to tie Starke to the crime. �
�You have enough facts there to support the search, Your Honor.”
Judge Hanks put the paper down. “This investigation is incomplete. You just said so.”
Gardner’s face heated up. She was hesitating. Flailing about in ignorance. Maybe she wouldn’t sign.
“The level of proof one needs at this stage is minimal,” Jennifer said softly. “More than mere suspicion, but far less than certainty.”
The judge looked at Jennifer with surprise. “Are you requesting I sign this, Miss Munday?”
Jennifer nodded. “The facts cited establish an adequate level of probable cause, Your Honor…”
Gardner held his breath again.
Judge Hanks picked up her pen, scribbled her signature, and tossed the papers at Gardner. Then she looked at Jennifer and smiled. “You are very persuasive. More so than your colleague.” Then she lowered her head and disappeared behind the stack of files.
Gardner mumbled thank you, and they headed for the door. Outside, he gave Jennifer a kiss.
“What was that for?” she asked with a smile.
“Working your feminine wiles in there,” Gardner said. “Hanks wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
Jennifer smiled again and squeezed his arm. “What now?”
Gardner fell silent for a moment. “We nail Starke, and shake out a statement. And then…” His voice faded out.
“Then what?” Jennifer prodded.
Gardner’s expression turned resolute. “Then we go after Granville!”
The clouds had built into majestic thunderheads that sat on the horizon like unwanted guests. Commencement activities at the Prentice Academy were in progress, and the quadrangle was filled with the families and friends of the graduates. The parking lot was clogged with cars. And Brownie stood cross-armed on the edge of the grass, unsmiling and agitated, waiting for Gardner.
The State’s Attorney zigzagged through the maze of vehicles and came to a stop beside the officer. The window was down, and Gardner brandished the warrant triumphantly in the air.
Brownie shook his head. “He’s not here.”
Gardner and Jennifer quickly exited the car. “What’d you say?” Gardner asked hurriedly.
“Said he’s not here,” Brownie repeated. “Left early this morning…”
Gardner glanced at the graduation gathering. “What about that?”
Brownie shook his head again, “He’s not gonna graduate this time…”
The prosecutor’s face flinched. Starke was listed as a senior in the yearbook. And he was an old senior at that. They had counted on grabbing him as he came down the platform, but now he’d apparently run. “Where’s the squad?” Gardner asked suddenly, noting that the other officers he’d ordered earlier were nowhere in sight.
“Went up to the room,” Brownie said. “We got it sealed off—”
“But no entry,” Gardner interjected.
“Nope,” the officer answered, “no entry.” Without the warrant in hand, the police could not conduct a search. The best they could do was blockade the premises until the warrant arrived.
“And what about Starke?” This time Jennifer spoke.
Brownie looked at her, then turned to Gardner. “I put a call out to the state cops. He’s driving a red BMW convertible. Vanity tags BOOM. Shouldn’t be too hard to find…”
“Just our state?” Gardner asked.
Brownie always had the bases covered. “West Virginia. Virginia. Ohio. Pennsylvania. Delaware. New Jersey. Every state between here and New York.”
“That’s where he’s heading?” Jennifer asked.
“Don’t know for sure,” Brownie answered. “He’s from up there, and best info we got was he just packed up and left. No hurry. No worry. Just clearing out at the end of the school year.”
Gardner rubbed his cheek. “So he wasn’t running?” Evidence of flight could always be used in court to prove the guilt of a defendant. He was fleeing to escape capture and punishment. That was the theory, but if the exit was nonchalant and routine, they might have trouble with that argument at trial.
“Didn’t seem to be spooked,” Brownie answered. “At least that’s what the folks we talked to said.”
“Okay,” Gardner said. “We can’t worry about that now. Let’s hit the room.”
They hustled past the ceremony toward a vine-covered dormitory at the far end of the campus. Gardner caught the headmaster’s eye as they passed. He was busy handing out diplomas, certifying his “eagles” for flight. He stared at them nervously, wondering what they were doing. But he was trapped on the dais, and couldn’t cry out for King.
The dorm was a two-story stone building in the same Gothic tradition as the rest of the campus. There was a main stairwell in the center, and halls trailing out on each side, at each level. IV Starke’s room was at the far end of the second-story south wing.
Three uniformed officers guarded the closed door. They were part of the department’s stop squad, a special team that served search warrants and arrested fugitives. Trained in the legal and physical aspects of their particular job, the men were experts at busting down doors, sniffing out evidence, and bringing down felons.
“Any activity?” Brownie asked the team leader.
“Nothing,” the bulky V-shaped officer replied.
“Okay,” Gardner said, pushing to the front of the entourage and handing the warrant to the head man. “Let’s do it.”
The team leader nodded and tried the doorknob with his hand.
“Locked,” the muscleman said, looking at Brownie.
Brownie nodded and swept his hand toward the door.
In an instant, another squad member produced a thick black battering ram, and the three of them powered it into the wooden door. Wham! The door crashed off its hinges and fell into the room.
When the dust cleared, they entered.
“Holy shit!” Brownie whispered. The electronic gear was still there. Top-of-the-line stereo, recorders, TV, telephone, computer. The best that money could buy. “Rich kid,” Brownie said wistfully.
“Most students here can’t complain,” Gardner answered. He’d attended a similar school closer to Baltimore. Another all-male prep, packed with privileged sons.
Brownie pulled open a desk drawer, then another. “School papers.” Gardner peeked over his shoulder as he rifled through the stack of lined composition sheets. Nothing incriminating.
“Sarge!” a team member cried out suddenly. The others had fanned out in the room, rooting and picking through the student’s possessions in search of any clue that he was tied to Roscoe Miller or any of the shootings. “Take a look!”
They gathered at a sliding-door closet and peeked in.
“Jeez!” Brownie exclaimed. “I see what you mean by not complaining!” Inside the closet was a large industrial-strength safe, bolted to the side wall and the floor. It was large and heavily reinforced. More suitable for a bank than a dorm room. Brownie signaled to the officer, and he tried the handle. It was locked. The officer gave Brownie a “what do I do now?” look. Brownie passed the same expression on to Gardner.
“Can you drill it?” Gardner asked.
The officer shrugged. “Never had one this big…”
“Okay,” Gardner sighed. “Call for reinforcements and get this thing open.”
Brownie nodded and waved one of the team out to make the call. Then they all resumed the search.
“Check this,” Brownie said to Gardner a few moments later. He was standing next to the window, pointing down.
Gardner approached and encountered a fire-escape platform below the sill. A winding spiral stairway curled down to the ground below. And just a few feet from the bottom was a parking lot. Behind the lot was a dense growth of foliage and trees.
“Guess what’s over there,” Brownie said, pointing toward the trees. Gardner’s eyebrows raised.
“’Bout two miles that way is Bowers Corner.” Brownie had studied some aerial photos and discovered that there was a straight line betwe
en the school and the store. It was miles and miles by road, but across country, through some very heavy and uncharted bush, lay the scene of the crime.
Gardner looked at the fire escape, and beyond, at the woods.
“Convenient,” he said solemnly.
“Looking better all the time,” Brownie said with the same tone of voice.
“So you think he left his room this way and cased out the Bowers’ before the crime?” Jennifer said. She’d been eavesdropping.
Gardner turned to face her. He was pale and serious, thinking about the Bowers, Granville, and the gun. “Can’t rule it out,” he said. “Might explain how they disappeared. Miller took the truck, and Starke came back here.”
“Sergeant!” Another stop teamer had found something.
They gathered by the bed as the officer unloaded an armful of magazines onto the spread. “They were in the closet, behind some clothes,” he said.
Gardner picked up one of the books. Mercenary Soldier its glossy cover proclaimed.
Jennifer picked up another one. It was a copy of Gang Bikers.
They fanned through the lot. More of the same. Guns. Outlaws. Glorified violence.
Brownie walked over to the night table and picked up the telephone. There was no inscribed number. He hit the operator button and a voice answered. “May I help you?”
“Yeah. Can you give me the number I’m callin’ from?”
There was a pause. “You don’t know, sir?”
Brownie took a breath. “No, ma’am. That’s why I’m asking.”
There was another pause. “I’m afraid it’s unlisted.”
Brownie silently counted to ten. “You’re not gonna give it to me?”
“Sorry, sir. I can’t—”
Brownie hung up and cut her off, then dialed 911.
“Emergency operator.”
“This is Sergeant Joe Brown, county police. What number are you painting?”
“Eight-eight-seven, six-five-four-three. What’s your problem?”
“No problem,” Brownie said. “Just a phone check. Police business.” Then he hung up and made a notation on his pad. By tomorrow he would have every number IV Starke ever dialed.
“Sergeant Brown!” This voice was coming from outside the room. The officer they’d left downstairs to guard the perimeter rushed in and handed Brownie a piece of paper. “Pennsylvania State Police just called! They picked up your suspect!”
Silent Son Page 16
