Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

  He then closed the door to the van, started the engine, and headed down the road, trying to figure out just when “later” was going to be.

  Brownie placed the plaster cast under the optical scanner as soon as he returned to headquarters. Immediately, its computer image was recorded and sent on an electronic journey to the FBI and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms labs in Washington, D.C., where it would be run against thousands of weapon profiles until it found a match.

  As Brownie waited for the computers to compare notes, he walked over to the table where he’d stacked the yearbooks, one volume for each year between 1955 and 1970.

  He opened the 1955 and thumbed through. Henry had come to see football games. Regularly, Conley had said. Never missed a game. And he was upbeat, in a good mood, happily dispensing cash. But the question was: who did he come to watch?”

  The first volume was no help. Nothing in the football category stood out. The same with ‘56, ‘57, ‘58, and ‘59. But in 1960, a familiar name appeared. Then again in ‘61,’62, and ‘63. A player on the varsity football team. A running back with a phenomenal record of touchdowns. Team cap-tain starting in his sophomore year. A gifted player and revered leader. The person who Henry Bowers must have come to see. The only one in the books that made any sense. A superstar from a wealthy family in New York State: WELLINGTON STARKE III.

  It was 9:00 P.M. and Gardner was getting ready for bed. He was totally wrung out. Despite the fact he’d “won” the custody battle, he felt no elation.

  Granville was already bedded down in his room. He had accepted the news about the court ruling stoically and vowed to help his dad. But there was still fear in his eyes. He too was exhausted by the day’s events and he had fallen right to sleep.

  Jennifer had gone hack to the office to untangle the indict-ment problem. Arraignments were tomorrow morning and they had to prepare, so Jennifer volunteered.

  Gardner had just turned off the light when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “I hope you’re happy!” a voice said sarcastically. It was Carole.

  Jeez! Gardner thought. Not again. “What do you want?”

  “Visitation. Like the judge ordered.”

  Gardner sat up. “We’ll make the arrangements tomorrow. Have your lawyer call my office, and we’ll set up a schedule.”

  Carole went silent.

  “Is that okay?” Gardner asked. “Tomorrow we’ll hammer it all out. You can see him as much as you want.”

  Carole did not answer.

  “Please, let’s come to an understanding,” Gardner said. “Gran needs to feel that we’re both behind him. Our fight is hurting him, more than the case.”

  Carole seemed to be listening.

  “Let’s try to get along until this thing is over,” Gardner said. “For Gran’s sake, how about a truce?”

  Carole hesitated. “I don’t know if I can…”

  “Fake it, then,” Gardner said.

  “I’ll… I’ll try,” Carole said hesitantly.

  “Good. The less dissension the better.”

  “But when it’s over—” Her voice turned cold.

  “Shoot me if you want,” Gardner interjected. “But for now let’s keep it civil.”

  “You can count on it,” Carole replied.

  “Okay,” Gardner said. “It’s a deal. No more arguing.”

  “Agreed.”

  The players were all in court. Gardner and Jennifer on one side, and the four horsemen across the room. King. Jacobs. Miller. And Starke. Each one seemingly confident, ready for battle.

  The arraignments in State v. Miller and State v. Starke were to be heard this morning, one day after the indictments had come down. The cases had been expedited. And Judge Carla Hanks was ready to roll.

  “All rise!” The bailiff announced the entry of Her Honor. “Good morning, Counsel,” Judge Hanks announced. “We have arraignments and scheduling matters to attend to today. Mr. King, Mr. Jacobs, have your clients received copies of the indictments?”

  Before either attorney could answer, Gardner stood up. “Excuse me, Your Honor…” He was dressed in a charcoal suit and a burgundy tie. Despite his exhaustion, he still cut a sharp figure.

  “What is it, Mr. Lawson?” Hanks asked in an irritated voice.

  “Before you proceed with the arraignments, there’s a matter that needs to be addressed.”

  Judge Flanks nodded a “go ahead” signal with her lead.

  “The tracking devices on both defendants have failed, and they have been virtually unsupervised for the past week. I request that you permit an immediate inspection of the devices by the sheriff to determine if any tampering has taken place.”

  King and Jacobs both bounded to their feet. “Objection!”

  Judge Hanks glared at Gardner. “This is an arraignment, Mr. Lawson! We can’t do that now.”

  “The armbands have gone off the air,” Gardner argued.

  “You ordered the defendants to wear them, Judge,” King said arrogantly. “You did not specify that they had to function properly.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Gardner cut in. “There’s no point in using them if they don’t work.”

  “My point exactly,” King retorted. “If the monitors are defective, they shouldn’t be used at all!”

  “All right, gentlemen!” Judge Hanks interrupted. “This is not the time or place for tinkering with those… those, things. You’ll have to arrange for that to be done later, Mr. Lawson.”

  Gardner’s face began to burn. “You don’t understand, Judge. I need your authority to unhook the monitors and check them out—”

  Judge Hanks fired a nasty look at the prosecutor. “No, sir, you don’t understand. We’re not turning this courtroom into a Radio Shack. Let the sheriffs do it later.”

  King and Jacobs both waived the formal reading of the charges against their clients. They each had copies of the indictments. How did the defendants plead, the judge asked. Guilty or not guilty?

  “Not guilty,” King said on behalf of Roscoe Miller.

  “Not guilty,” Jacobs echoed on behalf of IV Starke.

  “How do you elect to be tried?” the judge asked.

  “Trial by jury,” King said.

  “Jury trial,” Jacobs said.

  “Are the cases to he consolidated or tried separately?” Judge Hanks asked.

  Gardner stood up. “Your Honor, we move to consolidate the cases. They involve the same set of incidents, the same witnesses, the same legal theories…”

  Joel Jacobs stood and put his hands on his hips the same way as Gardner. “Excuse me, Judge, I’m not seeking a separate trial.” He then glanced at King, who gave him a signal. “And neither is Mr. King.”

  Hanks turned to Gardner. “You heard him. They don’t want separate trials.”

  Gardner was surprised. An ideal defense strategy would be to split the cases apart and wear out the prosecution.

  “All right,” Judge Hanks said, “the cases will be tried jointly. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s move on. I have here a defense motion for the witness Granville Lawson to be examined by a psychiatrist. I am inclined to grant the motion.”

  Gardner said nothing. He was already under orders by the domestic court to have Granville evaluated. It was going to come to pass one way or another, so why fight it.

  “I have determined that Dr. Glenmore Grady should do the examination and I have scheduled an appointment for the child tomorrow afternoon at three P.M. Any problem with that, Mr. Lawson?”

  Gardner rose to his feet. “No, Judge.” Dr. Grady was a local psychiatrist who specialized in child trauma. He’d appeared against the state a few times as a defense witness in abuse cases, but he wasn’t a paid whore. He would be as fair as any.

  “Good,” Hanks said, writing on her pad. “That’s settled. Now, motions and trial date…”

  Gardner propped his arm under his chin. Give me some time, he prayed.

  “Motions set for Wednesday, July 6�
�”

  Okay, Gardner thought.

  “And trial to follow immediately. July 7.”

  Gardner jumped up. That was only two weeks away. Here was a complicated, consolidated murder trial, without evi-dence, without a witness, without preparation. It couldn’t he done. “We need more time, Judge. At least ninety days.” Gardner tried to keep his voice steady.

  “I’m under a mandate to move these cases without delay,” the judge replied, “and the trial date is the trial date. Is that clear?”

  Gardner was fighting a battle within. There was no way he could be ready on time. Granville wasn’t ready. Brownie wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready. They needed more time. And that’s precisely why they were not going to get it.

  “Trial date is set, and we stand adjourned!” Hanks barked, slamming the gavel without giving Gardner a chance to respond.

  Gardner looked at Jennifer after the judge left the bench, his face a deep red.

  “Take it easy,” she whispered.

  “I am,” Gardner said in a forced voice, “but we’re being railroaded. The word’s come down not to cut us a break.”

  “That’s why the rush,” Jennifer said.

  “They know we can’t be ready.”

  “So maybe we surprise them.” Jennifer smiled bravely.

  “Yeah,” Gardner answered. “We do three months’ work in the next two weeks.”

  There was noise in the rear of the courtroom as King, Jacobs, and their clients walked out, gloating as if they’d just kicked the state’s ass.

  The arraignment had concluded by 11:00 A.M., and there was nothing further on the docket for the day. Gardner had hung around the State’s Attorney’s office until 11:30, then grabbed Granville and headed out. The trial would begin in fourteen days. Ready or not, the state was going to trial. And Granville was still the key. He had what they needed inside his head, and Gardner could not wait a second longer to try to get it out.

  They drove out Mountain Road, toward the ridge line. The air was dry. A cool front had rolled in and deposited a dome of high pressure over their heads, and that gave the entire valley the shimmering clarity of October.

  “Where we goin’, Dad?” Gardner had snatched him by the hand without fanfare and rushed him to the car. There was no discussion of purpose or destination.

  “Going for a drive,” Gardner replied. “It’s such a beautiful day. Too nice to sit up in the office.” He tried to sound upbeat and happy. There was a plan, but he didn’t want to spring it on Granville too soon. It had to be done gradually. “How are you comin’ along with that Ray Man?” The boy had brought along his hand-held electronic alien zapper, which he fiddled with as they drove.

  “Okay,” Granville replied as a bing! and a zyzz! erupted from the small gray box.

  “Those things are really cool,” Gardner said. “Wish we’d had something like that when I was little.”

  Granville was still engrossed in the liquid crystal figures zigging and zagging across the tiny screen. “What did you have, Dad?” he asked without looking up.

  Gardner had to think about that. He was so engrossed in his adult problems, his thoughts hardly ever drifted back to his own childhood anymore. There seemed to be a wall deep in his brain that blocked any attempt to retreat to his youth. “Little dinosaurs,” he finally said with a smile.

  Granville looked up from his game. “You had your finger bitten by your stegosaurus.”

  “Thanks for remembering,” Gardner answered. His strategy was working.

  The sign up ahead read CRYSTAL GROTTO-15 MILES. Gardner stole a glance at his son. The boy’s eyes were back with the aliens. Gardner slowed for the turn and guided the vehicle off the main highway. His heart began to pick up the tempo as the miles unrolled. Pastures and woodlands flew past as they neared the spot where the tragedy had begun. He glanced at Granville again. The aliens were still jumping. The boy still didn’t know what was happening.

  Suddenly, there was another sign: CRYSTAL GROTTO—NEXT RIGHT. The car slowed again, and this time Granville looked up. He saw the sign, and looked at the surrounding scenery. “Dad…” His eyes widened with surprise.

  “Take it easy, son,” Gardner said calmly. “You’re all right. I’m here.”

  Granville put down the game and looked out the window. He was studying the landscape nervously.

  Gardner put his hand on Granville’s knee. “It’s okay, Gran. Nothing’s gonna happen. You just stick with Dad.”

  Granville was starting to squirm against the seatbelt. Why had his father brought him to this place?

  Gardner pulled into the parking area and shut off the engine.

  “Listen to me, Gran,” he said.

  The boy was still looking out the window. He was now subdued, his legs pulled under him on the seat.

  “I want to take you inside,” Gardner said. “We’ll go take a peek, then we’ll come out. Okay’?”

  Granville turned to face his father, the smile from the dino-saur joke long gone. He was very pale. “Do we have to’?” He could sense that if he got out of the car, he’d have to start remembering. And that was something he really did not want to do.

  Gardner rubbed his flaxen hair. “We have to start some-where, son,” he said. “You came here on the day you got hurt. You and your classmates. You all came up here and had a fine time. It was only later that the bad things happened. Nothing happened up here.”

  There was a slight relaxation in the boy’s face.

  “Why don’t we get out, walk around, and if you can remem-ber anything, maybe you can tell me. What do you say? Can we try that?”

  Granville nodded weakly. He didn’t want to get out of the car, but he did want to try to help Dad.

  Gardner unbuckled Granville’s seatbelt and opened his door. “Let’s go.”

  As soon as they were out of the car Granville gripped Gardncr’s hand like a two-year-old. They paid the entrance fee at the gate house and headed for the opening to the cave, which was set in rippling rock against the bottom of a five-hundred-foot cliff.

  As they reached the gateway, Granville began to drag his feet, so Gardner stopped. “We’re just gonna pop inside, then come out.”

  Granville looked like a toddler about to be forced into a funhouse. The therapist had said he’d probably blocked out the entire day of the shootings. That included anything that happened before, as well as after the savagery, and that included the cave. But, Gardner thought, maybe if he recalled something here, it might crack the door a little. With time running out, he had to give it a try. “Ready?” he said, giving Granville’s hand a squeeze.

  Granville gave a nod. Then he closed his eyes and accompa-nied his father into the shadows.

  Carla Hanks sat at the desk in her chambers, reviewing the case file on a civil matter that was overdue a ruling. She was under the gun to finish her busywork in a hurry, to make ready for Miller and Starke. She had given orders to her secretary not to be disturbed, but her phone rang.

  “Yes?” She was irritated at the interruption.

  “Chief Judge Biddington on line one,” her secretary said.

  Hanks put down the file. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take it.

  “Judge Biddington, this is an honor.” It was rare for the number one judge in the state to contact a circuit court mem-ber, especially one as low in the ranks as she.

  “Judge Hanks, the pleasure is mine. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “Well, uh, good.” His voice sounded strange.

  Hanks waited for him to continue, but there was an embar-rassing pause.

  “Sir?”

  “Uh, yes, Judge Hanks,” Biddington said. “Just called to check in with you. Everything okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything you need? Anything at all? Extra law clerk? Secretarial help? Anything like that?”

  “No, sir.” She was overworked, but not to that extent.

  �
�Well, if you need something, just let me know.”

  Hanks drew a breath. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

  “Okay then. Nice talking to you.”

  “Nice talking to you too, sir.”

  “Okay then, good-bye.”

  “Bye, sir.”

  Hanks hung up and leaned back in her chair. That had to be one of the weirdest phone calls of her life. The senior judge in Maryland was suddenly interested in her welfare. But he didn’t say why.

  Jennifer walked up to the door of the county police labora-tory and knocked. She had seen Gardner and Granville zoom out earlier but she had no idea where they were going. After the setbacks of the last few days, Jennifer needed a dose of optimism. And the place for that was Dr. Brownie’s lab.

  “Come in!” Brownie called.

  Jennifer opened the door and found the officer hunched over the lab table. As she entered, he didn’t turn around.

  “It’s me,” she said from behind.

  “Hi, Jennifer.” He was still engrossed in his work.

  Jennifer peeked over his shoulder. Brownie was peering through a giant magnifier at a plaster cast.

  “What have you found?” she whispered.

  Brownie finally looked up. “Got an ID on the gun. ATF had it in their archives…” He picked up a computer printout and handed it to the prosecutor.

  Jennifer examined the strange-looking gun depicted on the page. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Prototype for a new sidearm the U.S. was developing in World War Two,” Brownie said. “Bigger than a forty-five, with a whole lot of knockdown power…”

  “Can you trace it?”

  Brownie shook his head. “That’s a problem. These things were scattered to the winds after the war. It was too heavy for combat use, so the government abandoned the project. Only a couple hundred made, and they all became souvenirs or collector’s items. Pretty hard to trace…”

  “So where would Roscoe have gotten it?” Jennifer asked.

  “He could have stolen it, or picl-ed it up off a gunrunner workin’ the interstate. Only one thing’s for certain. This gun fires massive slugs. And that’s what killed the Bowers.”