Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

“But who fired it?” Jennifer picked up the printout again.

  “I’m workin’ on that,” Brownie said. “And if I can run down where it came from, we’ll have the answer.”

  Gardner and Granville walked the curving pathway through the damp cavern hand in hand. There was a hollow resounding sound as their feet crunched on the gravel floor, and an occasional melodic ping as drips of water fell in the darkness.

  Gardner had forgotten how beautiful this place was. An underground river had cut away the limestone under the earth and left a maze of honey-glazed rock. Suddenly, Gardner’s own memories began to creep back. He’d been a lot like Granville as a child. Sensitive. Insecure. Lonely at times. He’d gotten along with his father, but there was a distance between them. It was the old style of raising children. Kids were to be seen but not heard. Gardner felt a pang of sadness. When he had visited the cave long ago, his father hadn’t held his hand.

  “Look, Gran!” They had just entered the main chamber, a high-ceilinged room filled with glistening stalagmites and stalactites. It was spectacular, and the owners had backlit the stone with dramatic effect, like a grand cathedral.

  “Gran!” Gardner repeated.

  The boy had kept his eyes shut most of the time, gripping his dad’s hand with a strength that surprised Gardner. But he kept moving and didn’t whimper. Now, finally, he opened his eyes.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it,” Gardner said, waving his finger around like a pointer.

  Granville kept his eyes open. “Uh-huh.” The hand still gripped tightly.

  “Took millions of years to form,” Gardner said. “Did you know that?”

  Granville was still studying the dazzling display. “Uh-huh.”

  “They told you about that?” Gardner held his breath as he broached the subject of the school visit.

  The boy began to respond, but suddenly shook his head and shut his eyes. The grip on Gardner’s hand was tighter than ever.

  They started moving again, on the pathway that wound through another twisting corridor, and then back to the entrance.

  They were almost out now. Just a few more turns and they’d he back in the sunlight. Granville was still silent. As they neared the final curve, Granville suddenly pulled Gardner to a stop. “Dad!” he said urgently.

  Gardner looked at his son. Something was going on. “What is it, Gran?”

  The boy’s eyes were wide now, and they seemed to look past Gardner into the shadows of the pathway ahead. Gardner turned around, but he could see nothing. “What is it, son?” he repeated.

  Granville pulled free of his father’s grip and put his hands together in front of him as if he was praying.

  Gardner grabbed Granville’s hand, and they raced around the corner. Fifty steps down the trail they turned the bend and arrived beside a lit-up rock alcove. There was a sign spiked in the stone: THE ANGEL OF CRYSTAL GROTTO.

  “She’s beautiful,” Gardner told his son.

  “Uh-huh,” said Granville.

  And the two of them marveled at the rock formation that a million years had molded into being: a glossy ten-foot stalagmite in the exact shape of a praying angel.

  eighteen

  Dr. Glenmore Grady’s office was in the center of town, near the courthouse. He had been at that location for over thirty years, and he wasn’t about to move out to Veil Valley.

  Granville sat in the elderly psychiatrist’s consultation room in a soft leather chair. Dr. Grady was beside him, on the couch. He wore a plaid shirt and cotton pants. Gardner was out in the waiting area. The court order forbade him from observing.

  “Heard you got a knock on the head,” Grady said, looking at a folder containing the boy’s medical files. “How’re you feeling now?”

  “Okay,” Granville said tentatively. Dad had told him to cooperate, that Dr. Grady was a pretty good old guy.

  “Still having headaches?”

  Granville stirred, but didn’t answer.

  “It’s all right, son,” Grady said. “You can talk to me. I talk to young fellas like you all the time. Haven’t eaten one yet…”

  Granville relaxed slightly.

  “Have you been getting any more headaches’?” The medical reports said there was no organic brain damage.

  “No,” Granville said.

  “That’s good.” Grady made a note on his pad. “How about nightmares? Your mom said you’d had some bad dreams.”

  Granville shrugged his shoulders.

  “Have you had any bad dreams?”

  Granville shrugged again.

  Grady got up from his chair and opened the drawer of the credenza against the wall. “Want a piece of candy?”

  “Okay,” Granville said. He was always ready for sweets.

  Grady brought a handful of lollipops and presented them to the boy. Granville surveyed the selection, then grabbed a lemon pop and pulled off the paper.

  “Go ahead,” Grady said, pulling the paper off a red one of his own.

  Granville put the sucker in his mouth.

  Grady sat down and picked up his note pad. “Mmmmm!” he said through his teeth. “Tastes good.”

  Granville nodded, his face relaxed.

  Grady made another note on his pad, watching his patient as he wrote. The lollipops were a special order, brought in this morning just for Granville.

  The prosecution team was assembled at the State’s Attor-ney’s office, reviewing the case. Earlier, Gardner had spent two hours at the psychiatrist’s office, waiting for Granville. “The report will be ready in three days,” Dr. Grady had told him. Then he gave the prosecutor an off-the-record rundown on his son’s condition, including a few observations that he was not going to write in the report.

  Gardner stood at the blackboard, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. The previous markings were still up, delineating the progress they’d made in proving the guilt of Miller and Starke.

  “This is how it goes,” Gardner said. Brownie and Jennifer were seated at the table, also casually dressed. Granville was next door in Gardner’s private office, laden with video games, happy to have some playtime after this morning. “Henry Bowers was a rich man. Somehow he’d amassed a fortune, and he kept it in a set of safe deposit boxes in the bank. He never spent the money. He hoarded it, and only occasionally gave it away.” Gardner wrote SCHOOL, CLARENCE CONLEY, and FOOTBALL PROGRAMS on the board. “Meanwhile, nephew Purvis, ostensibly the only living relative, was allowed access to the safe deposit boxes by Henry to help dispense the money to Addie if he became incapacitated.”

  Jennifer and Brownie listened intently as Gardner spoke. This was the first time that anyone had officially articulated the big picture, and so far it was making sense.

  “But it has to be noted,” Gardner said, “that by putting Purvis on the boxes that Henry was not making a gift of the money. Purvis was only to be the caretaker if Henry got sick.” Gardner wrote KNOWLEDGE OF MONEY under Purvis’s name.

  “Now we come to Roscoe Miller,” Gardner continued, “good old cousin Roscoe. The black sheep of the family. We know that Roscoe and Purvis were connected.” He wrote COUSIN, ADDRESS, and ADMISSION on the board. “He admitted to you, Brownie, that he’d seen Roscoe around.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Brownie.

  “And that confirms that they knew each other, in addition to the fact that Roscoe used Purvis’s address on the West Virginia State Police arrest form.”

  Gardner turned from the board. “So Purvis Bowers is lan-guishing in this town. An accountant with a two-bit practice. Unknown, and very unrich. He’s going nowhere fast, while his old uncle is sitting on a pile of money that he, Purvis, has access to but cannot touch. It begins to eat at him. Each day passes, and his uncle gets older and older and doesn’t get sick and doesn’t die. So Purvis decides to help it along a little. He formulates a plan to get the money. He can legitimately withdraw the funds. All he needs is for Henry and Addie to be dead.”

  “And that’s where Roscoe comes in,” Jennifer interjected.
r />   “Right,” Gardner said. “A murder in the course of a robbery would do nicely. Purvis makes a deal with Roscoe to hit the store and wipe out his aunt and uncle. Purvis agrees to pay Roscoe a major sum of cash to do the deed.” Gardner wrote CONTRACT on the hoard and drew a line connecting Purvis and Roscoe. Then he circled $8,000, a figure already written under Roscoe’s name.

  “While this is going on,” Gardner continued, “Roscoe is working at the school, and he comes in contact with IV Starke, a man who bears a strange resemblance to him. Roscoe Miller and Starke become friends, and start sharing common interests like guns and disdain for authority. One thing leads to another, and Roscoe decides to bring Starke in on the deal. Not for money. Just for the thrill. And Starke is more than happy to oblige.” He then underlined ID and JENNEANE DOREY. “There’s no doubt he’s with Miller when the crime goes down.” Gardner stopped and took a breath.

  “Then, something goes wrong,” Gardner said, picking up the pace again.

  “Granville,” Jennifer replied softly.

  Gardner frowned. “No. I’ll get to that later.”

  Jennifer gave an apologetic nod.

  “Something goes wrong between Miller and Purvis Bow-ers,” Gardner said. “Could have been money. Who knows? Maybe Miller was supposed to get more from Purvis, and he reneged. Maybe Miller found out about the full amount… Whatever the reason, now Miller comes in and blows away Purvis Bowers.” Gardner circled the FINGERPRINT notation.

  “And now the money could all end up here!” Gardner angrily circled the word KING. “Right, Brownie? Give us the rundown on that again.”

  The officer stood up and walked to the board, gently remov-ing the chalk from Gardner’s hand. “Like I told you,” he said, “Kent King is the only man with legal title to the money. He’s in the will. Put himself in there, and unless Roscoe makes a claim against the estate, King could get all the cash.” He looked at Gardner. “That’s it.”

  “But, in the meantime, where’s the money?” Gardner asked.

  Brownie shook his head. “Wish I knew,” he said.

  * * *

  Across town, Roscoe Miller was meeting with Kent King in his law office. They had not accomplished much in the past hour.

  “I’m getting tired of repeating it, Roscoe,” King said. “You gotta give me something I can use against Starke!”

  Miller was playing with the new monitor the sheriffs had strapped on him.

  “Look at me, please,” King said. “I don’t like talking to the top of your head.”

  Roscoe’s face slowly came up and his blue eyes met King’s.

  “They are tryin’ to burn your ass,” King said. “Don’t you understand that?”

  Miller fluffed his hair. “That’s why I hired you,” he said casually, “to keep ‘em from doin’ it.”

  “How much money did you get?” King asked.

  “Dun’no,” Roscoe said, lowering his attention back to the bracelet. This one was a new model. More durable, the cops said.

  King pushed Roscoe’s wrist down to his side. “Give me your full attention, Roscoe. Stop playing with that thing.”

  The blue eyes came up again. “Okay, sorry.”

  King put his hands on the desk. “How many times we been over this now, Roscoe? Thirty? And every time it’s the same. You didn’t do a thing. And you don’t know a thing. But you had a fistful of cash after the first shooting, a fingerprint on a shotgun shell, and Starke lays out your bond…”

  Roscoe stayed silent.

  “What are you afraid of ?”

  Miller’s expression wavered for an instant, then returned to his personal version of normal. “I ain’t afraid of nuthin’,” he finally said. “Just don’t have nuthin’ to say.”

  “I think I could get you a deal with Lawson,” King said. “Maybe get him to drop everything down to accessory. I’ve already talked to him about it…”

  Roscoe suddenly looked alarmed. “You made a deal?”

  “No. Just suggested the possibility. I need your authority to work it out. And I need you to provide some information…”

  The alarm had changed to fear. “Told you I ain’t got any information!”

  King opened a folder on his desk. “Starke is not the nice boy he appears to be.” He pulled out a set of documents. “He’s been kicked out of six prep schools for misbehavior. Some really weird shit too. Challenged some freshman kid to jump off a dormitory roof, and the kid did it. Now he’s paralyzed for life…”

  “Why are you telling me?” Roscoe asked.

  “To show you what this guy’s all about. He may have put up your bond, but he’s definitely not your friend. You’ve got to turn him in!”

  “Thought you already had the case worked out,” Roscoe replied, “thought they didn’t have good evidence, and that that kid…” he squinted his eyes, “that kid can’t remem-ber…”

  King smiled. “That’s true,” he said, “but you never know about these things. Trials can sometimes bite you in the ass.”

  “So the kid might testify…” He had a look of expectation in his eyes. “You said he couldn’t. That he was messed up…

  King shook his head. “At this point, he’s incapable. I’ll know more in a few days, after I get the psychiatrist’s report. Right now I’d still count him out.”

  “He drew a tattoo,” Roscoe said suddenly.

  “Don’t sweat it,” King said. “You’re not the only guy in town with a tattoo.” If push came to shove, he’d convince the jury it was one of Starke’s stick-ons. “Right now we have to decide which way we’re going. Trial or deal. You finger Starke now, give me something to back it up, and you’re home free.”

  “And if I don’t?” Roscoe was thinking.

  “Then we go to trial and pray that the kid doesn’t take the stand.”

  “But what if he does?” Roscoe was still thinking.

  “Then pray he doesn’t remember.”

  Roscoe fell silent. Ile was considering his options.

  “Well?” King said, “What’s it going to be? Turn in Starke and cut a deal, or go to trial?”

  Roscoe looked his attorney in the eye. “I’ll take my chances with the kid,” he said.

  At the State’s Attorney’s office the strategy session was still in progress. Gardner was back at the blackboard, and Jennifer and Brownie were seated at the table. Granville was dozing in the next room after one too many alien encounters.

  “So King ultimately ends up with the money,” Gardner said disgustedly, “and from everything I can see, it’s perfectly legal. He represented both Henry and Purvis. And there was a contingency to leave the residual to him…”

  “So maybe he engineered the whole scheme,” Jennifer sug-gested.

  Gardner shook his head. “No,” he said. “I wanted to believe that. That King was behind it from the start, but it doesn’t fly. King is a number one asshole. Devious. Unscrupulous. But he’s not stupid, and he’s not a murderer. Check the dates on the documents.”

  Jennifer glanced at Henry’s and Purvis’s wills.

  “They were drawn long ago. The connection is too clear. Too obvious. The logical suspect would be King if everyone wound up dead.”

  “So maybe that’s what he wanted you to think,” Jennifer replied. “That he’d never do something that could Ix traced to him so easily.”

  “No,” Gardner said firmly. “I don’t think King has anything to do with any of this. At least not with the murders. What do you say, Brownie?”

  Brownie had been uncharacteristically quiet all day. He’d responded when spoken to, but, except for his brief presenta-tion, he’d hardly offered a thing. “What do I think?” he asked. “About the money. And King. And all that stuff ?”

  Gardner nodded.

  “I don’t think any of it is relevant!” Brownie stood up and walked to the blackboard. Without warning, he began to draw diagonal lines across the evidence.

  “Brownie!” Gardner had been taken by surprise.

 
“Take it easy!” Brownie said. “I’m just trying somethin’ out.” Most of the words were now crossed through. The only ones remaining were HENRY, PRENTICE ACADEMY, WELLINGTON STARKE III, TELEPHONE CALL, and HANDGUN. “Your scenario sounds pretty good,” Brownie said, “and it’ll probably do okay in court, but that line of thinking doesn’t begin to explain this.”

  Gardner leaned against the wall. “What’s your point?”

  Brownie gestured with the chalk. “Point is, that maybe everything started from another direction. Maybe Starke had some reason to take out the Bowers, and maybe he dragged Roscoe along with him.”

  Gardner crossed his arms. “Got anything to substantiate that?”

  Brownie smiled. “Other than a hunch? No. I do not.”

  “So what am I supposed to do with it,” Gardner asked. “Tell the jury one version, then say, wait a minute, we may have another theory? Jesus, Brownie, the trial starts next week.”

  The officer walked over to Gardner. “I got some ideas. Maybe they’re crazy. Maybe got nothing to do with the case at all. But I’m putting together an alternate theory, and I’ve got to check it out.”

  Gardner closed his eyes. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” They were in the final stages of laying out the theme that would be played to the jury. Purvis, Roscoe, and greed were the main storyline. A last-minute switch to Starke as the villain could undermine the entire presentation.

  “Stick with what you got now,” Brownie said. “If my hunch pans out, none of that’s gonna make any difference anyhow.”

  Gardner jerked his head toward the inner office. “What about Granville?” His testimony was still the ultimate key. “I’m still going to work with him.”

  “That’s up to you,” Brownie replied. “But if I find what I’m looking for, you can send the boy home to his momma.”

  * * *

  Gardner and Granville were eating a late lunch in the kitchen of the town house. The strategy meeting had lasted most of the afternoon, and mealtime had been skipped. Jenni-fer had gone out to talk to witnesses while Brownie had gone off chasing his mysterious lead.

  “Want some more?” Gardner asked, pushing a plate of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches across the table.