Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “Exterior examination complete,” Bellini said. Now it was time to see what lay inside. He picked up a scalpel.

  Just then the phone rang. He picked it up. “Bellini.”

  “Who?”

  “This is Dr. Tony Bellini. Who’s calling?”

  “Sergeant Joe Brown. County police.” Brownie was caught off guard by the unfamiliar voice. He had been told there would be a delay until tonight, not that there had been a roster switch.

  Bellini suddenly realized who was on the line. “Sergeant,” he said.

  “Have you started yet?” There was apprehension in his voice.

  “Just the external.”

  Brownie hesitated. “Did you check his wrists?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you find?”

  Bellini thought for a moment. It was not proper to discuss findings midstream, not even with next of kin. “Are you sure you want to talk about this now?”

  “Yes,” Brownie said. “I have to know. What’s your reading on the abrasions? I thought they looked like ligature wounds.”

  “They’re minor cuts,” Bellini said, “but they did contain embedded fibers.”

  Brownie swallowed. That was consistent with a rope burn. “So his hands might have been tied?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but the marks could be consistent with that, yes.”

  “Did you find any other marks or wounds?”

  “No. Except for the wrists, there were no other injuries.”

  “You’re sure?” Maybe he’d missed something when he’d checked the body himself.

  “Yes. I went over him very carefully. He was clean.”

  Brownie went silent for a second. “I would like you to run a fingerprint test,” he said at last, “on his skin.”

  Bellini looked at his admission document. Any tests beyond those forming part of a normal autopsy had to be enumerated on the form. “It’s not on the chart,” he apologized.

  Brownie sighed. “Do you have the equipment available? The spray and the UV lamp?”

  “Just a minute.” Bellini checked the supply cabinet and returned.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you qualified to lift prints from human skin?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Run the test,” Brownie begged. “Please.”

  Bellini looked at the chart again, then at the body of Joseph Brown. He hadn’t done one of these in quite a while, but Brownie’s tone of voice made it hard to refuse. “Okay,” he conceded, “I’ll do it.” He could always pencil in the request authorization after the fact.

  “Thank you,” Brownie replied. “I’m very grateful. Let me know if you turn up any prints.”

  “Will do,” Bellini said. Then he hung up the phone.

  Bellini rolled Joseph onto his stomach and extended his arms away from the body.

  Several years earlier a fingerprint examiner for the San Diego Police Department had conceived a method for developing fingerprints on human skin. It was a controversial process utilizing aerosol spray and ultraviolet light. Similar to a neutron test for gunpowder residue, the test was successful in detecting fingerprints on skin in about ten percent of the cases.

  Bellini checked the date on the developer spray can to see if it was current. Expiration was a year away. He removed the cap and began spraying the body, beginning with the arms, then moving to the face and neck, covering the exposed skin with a fine sticky mist. He looked at the checklist printed on the can: “Allow mixture to remain on the skin for three minutes before exposing to UV light.” Bellini checked his watch and hooked up the black lamp. “Three minutes,” he said aloud. Then he extinguished the overhead light and switched on the lamp.

  The upper half of Joseph’s body glowed purple under the rays. Discounting the paramedics and doctors, who always wore gloves, anyone who touched Joseph within the past forty-eight hours might have left a fingerprint on his skin. Bellini scanned the lamp toward the head, looking for a white oval mark that would signify a print. Each arm was scanned. Nothing. Then up to his shoulders. Again, they were clean.

  Bellini played the lamp across Joseph’s neck. “Huh?” he gasped. He moved the lamp closer, then away.

  “What the hell?” He was looking at a strange jagged pattern that had suddenly appeared across the back of the dead man’s neck.

  Bellini put down the lamp and felt his way to the closet, fumbling inside until he located a camera filled with special film.

  In a moment he was back. He raised the lamp with one hand and the camera with the other, clicking images of the unusual lines from every angle. He’d run a lot of these tests before and developed fingerprints on skin. But in all the tests he’d ever done, he’d never seen anything like this.

  Jennifer sat at the counter of Russel’s Deli waiting for Gardner. The restaurant was a block down the street from the courthouse. Jennifer checked her watch. It was almost nine in the evening.

  After their meeting with Lieutenant Harvis, Gardner had put her back to work. A string of felony cases needed indictments drawn up. Could Jennifer do it? Of course. Plowhorse Jennifer could do it all: try cases, interview witnesses, draw up indictments. Gardner had taught her well, and she’d been a great student. Her own work ethic demanded no less. Work, work, work, day and night. The fight song of the law profession.

  “More milkshake?” Ida Russel asked. The hefty proprietor lifted a metal cup and poured chocolate into Jennifer’s glass.

  The prosecutor shook her head. “I’m full, Ida. Thanks.” She’d had one of them today already, and that was her limit. She was as concerned about keeping fit as Gardner, but every now and then she craved a sweet. Jennifer swiveled her stool and looked out at the empty street. Suddenly she was struck by a déjà vu. She’d been in the same spot earlier, at lunch. And she’d swiveled her stool the same way.…

  It was bright outside. The sun had painted gold streaks across the plate-glass window. The door opened and a young woman entered. She was pregnant, holding a young child’s hand, pushing a stroller. Blond and pretty, she was a suburban supermom. Jennifer studied her face. It was flushed and anxious as she struggled to keep her toddler under control.

  “Can I, Mom?” the boy asked in a whiny voice. He pointed to the candy counter. The mother dug into her purse and handed a quarter to Ida. Then the infant in the stroller began to cry. As the boy sucked a lemon stick, the woman rocked the tiny one gently against her chest. A picture perfect grouping.

  Jennifer turned away suddenly, grabbed her sandwich and took a bite. The baby looked like Molly: a little round face with big round eyes and a fluff of red hair. Jennifer’s law books had blocked Molly out, and then the cases, and then Gardner. Work, work, work. The little face had been covered up, obscured. But lately, it was everywhere.

  Jennifer had special pictures of her past printed in her mind. Molly in her crib. Molly in her highchair. Molly on her bike. Molly in her coffin. But she’d spent most of her life trying not to look at them.

  “Jen?”

  She glanced up. “Gard!” The prosecutor had sneaked into her reverie.

  “Ready?”

  Jennifer stood up from the stool and stretched. “Yes.”

  “You okay?”

  “Uh-huh. I was just waiting for you.”

  “Sorry. It took longer than I’d expected.”

  “How’s Brownie?”

  “Not good, really messed up.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Working. On his father’s case.”

  “He’s not supposed to.”

  Gardner shrugged. “Right. But who can stop him? You know Brownie. He investigates in his sleep.”

  “Did you try?”

  “I tried.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. He’s got to rest soon. He can’t go on like this.”

  “Speaking of rest…” Jennifer said plaintively, “can we leave now?”

  Gardner took her arm in his. “Sure.” It had been a long day for bot
h of them. “Let’s go home.”

  four

  The day of Joseph Brown’s funeral was miserably hot. A front had moved in from the Gulf, and the air was heavy as Gardner drove to Smith’s Mortuary in Blocktown. The leaves on the trees dangled listlessly, and a hush filled the streets. No mothers hung out wash, no children played. The town was in mourning.

  Gardner tugged at the collar of his shirt as he parked in the lot. He was sweating, and his back was damp. Brownie had asked him to be a pallbearer. He’d dropped Jennifer off at the church, and now he was ready to do his duty.

  Brownie greeted him at the door. He was dressed in a dark blue suit. “Hey, Gard,” he said softly.

  Gardner squeezed his hand.

  “Like you to wear these.” Brownie handed Gardner a pair of white silk gloves like the kind he was wearing. Gardner tugged them on.

  “Almost ready,” Brownie said. “Just waiting on one more pallbearer.” They walked down a dim corridor past a bubbling fish tank to the viewing room. Several black angels made their rounds, and the odor of flowers choked the air. Inside, several men talked quietly by the bronze casket.

  “Like you all to meet Gardner Lawson,” Brownie announced, “county prosecutor.”

  The men lined up, and each pressed his gloved hand against Gardner’s.

  “Sam Ellison, Ernie Jones, Harry Dugan,” Brownie said in turn.

  “Glad to meet you,” Gardner replied. The men all looked like Joseph, dignified and proud. But today there was no laughter, no story, no joke. They were as solemn as the mortician who stood at attention by the door.

  Gardner knelt on a cushion beside the casket. To the rear lay a massive floral arrangement: roses, carnations, and lilies. Gardner closed his eyes. Suddenly a sharp pain skated across the surface of his heart. Suddenly it was his dad in the metal box. His father, lying cold and still. He’d just kissed his wooden cheek, tucked a linen handkerchief in his pocket, and gagged on his own tears.

  Joseph’s folded hands were inches away. Gardner studied them, trying to fight his memory. He kept his eyes open and said a prayer.

  There was a noise by the door. “Let’s move,” a voice said.

  Gardner turned around. Another man had just entered the room. Heavyset and dark-skinned, he looked like Brownie, but he wore a tribal African cap and a striped scarf over his suit.

  One of the elders handed him a pair of gloves. Brownie walked over to the prosecutor.

  “Who’s that?” Gardner whispered.

  “My brother.”

  “Brother?” Gardner was taken aback. “You have a brother?”

  Brownie shook his head. “Not really.”

  Gardner waited for an explanation, but Brownie had stopped talking.

  “Let’s go!” the brother demanded.

  “This man here is still praying.” Brownie pointed to Gardner, and the prosecutor started to rise. “Take your time,” he whispered. Gardner dropped back down to his knees.

  “Yeah,” the brother said. “Take your time. He isn’t going anywhere.” He pointed to the body.

  “Watch your mouth,” Brownie warned. “Show some respect.”

  The elders moved between the two men.

  “I got respect, Mr. Detective. Whole hell of a lot of respect.”

  Gardner stood up.

  “Don’t rush,” Brownie said.

  “I’m done.”

  One of the elders led the brother back toward the door.

  “What was that all about?” Gardner asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” He’d seen less friction between heavyweight fighters.

  “Nothing,” Brownie repeated. “And now, as the man said, it is time to go.”

  Brownie signaled the funeral director to wheel the casket toward the door. Silently, the six men took their places. The brother and an elder were up front; two elders held the middle; Gardner and Brownie carried the rear.

  “You okay?” Gardner whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m right beside you.”

  Brownie nodded.

  They marched to the door. “On my signal, lift,” Brownie said. “One, two, three!”

  The casket came up from the trolley, and the bearers carried it through the threshold and down the steep steps.

  Gardner strained under the weight, his gloved hand slipping against the polished handle. He glanced at the casket shimmering in the heat. Then he noticed Brownie’s reflection in the shiny surface. From that perspective, it looked like he was screaming. But no sound was coming out.

  Frank Davis stopped his cruiser outside of the quarry gate. There was a sign attached to the bars: CHURCH OF THE ARK, INC., CAIN. NO TRESPASSING. The rest of the department was at the funeral, but he’d declined. His investigation was more important than sucking up to the chief of the crime lab.

  The inquiry was rolling right along. It turned out that the checkers boys at the senior center were jumping more than game chips in their leisure time. They’d set up a regular little love shack in the back row of Shantyville. The black bitch he’d rousted was a homeless gal who’d hitchhiked out from the city. The old guys had chipped in and set her up with a place to stay. And when the mood struck, they’d amble over for some grab-ass and some hooch.

  But that didn’t solve the mystery. It might explain the scratches on Joseph’s wrists, but then again, it might not. The slut refused to explain what went on in her greasy cot. So Davis went back to the “crime” scene, the place where Joseph had been found. As with the first time out, there was nothing definitive, no physical evidence to speak of. The only thing he’d found was a rub mark on a tree and some broken twigs off the trail. But a deer’s antler could have caused the rub, and the paramedics could have crushed the twigs. So he didn’t have a lock on any proof at the moment.

  The entrance to CAIN was blocked by a heavy gate. On either side, a ten-foot wire fence ran for a hundred yards, turned ninety degrees, then ran a mile back to the woods. The camp was secure on all sides. Davis sounded his horn.

  He’d been trying to figure out motive since getting the case. If someone had whacked Brown, he had to have a reason. It wasn’t robbery, that was certain. Brown’s gold watch, wallet, and cash were still on him. And it didn’t appear to be jealousy or revenge. The old lady was in a state of denial about his drinking and his catting. To her and everyone else around town, the fucker was a saint. So it had to be something else. Davis had put out the word with his roughneck street network: Any strangers in town? Any Klan activity brewing? Any rumors making the biker-bar rounds? Maybe this was a race thing. Maybe someone decked Old Man Brown because they didn’t like the color of his skin.

  And that’s what led him to CAIN. “Some weird shit going on out there,” Wally Pete had told him. “They got a lily-white preacher, a bunch of babes, and they’re buying up ammo at the hardware mart like crazy.”

  That got Frank’s attention. He checked the tax map and found something else interesting. The quarry property backed up to Cutler Road. There was a stretch of woods in between, but a path connected the two sectors: the same path on which Joseph Brown had died.

  Davis found a phone listing for the church and asked the dispatcher to call and say the police were on their way. Except for CAIN, the rumor mill was silent. But it was a lead. And it was worth checking out.

  Davis lowered his window. The air was still, and soggy heat rolled into the car. A man appeared at the top of the rise beyond the fence. He ran down and unfastened the lock. Then he waved the vehicle forward, stopping it at the boundary.

  “You’re here to see Thomas Ruth?” the man asked. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair tucked under a baseball cap.

  “That is correct.”

  “Do you have a search warrant?”

  Davis shook his head. “No, I do not, but I would like consent to enter the premises.”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “I’ll take that up with Mr. Ruth.”

&nbs
p; “All right, but would you mind telling me in the meantime?”

  Davis studied the man. Tall and conditioned, he was probably a security guard. “We had an incident earlier this week over in Blocktown….” He pointed toward the woods.

  “What kind of incident?” The man didn’t look like the fundamentalist freaks they grew back in West Virginia. He looked like a high school teacher.

  “Father of one of our police officers died under strange circumstances. We suspect foul play.”

  “Died?” The man looked alarmed.

  “Dead as last year’s tick. We think someone tied him up, tortured him to death.”

  “Who did it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “Do you think Thomas Ruth was involved?”

  “We’re not ready to make formal accusations. We’re just checking on a few things. If Ruth was not involved, he’s got nothing to worry about.”

  The man stroked his chin and squinted into the bright sun.

  “I’d like you to take me to him,” Davis said.

  “You’re with him now,” the man finally replied. “I’m Thomas Ruth.”

  Ruth entered the cruiser and directed Davis into the compound a half mile beyond the gate. “Sorry about the deception,” he said as they drove. “I make it a practice to learn the agenda before I talk with people I don’t know. Please forgive me.”

  “No problem.” The preacher sounded sincere.

  As they drove, Davis made mental notes of the layout. Everything was like the schematic in the land records plat: a wide-open space, a dirt road, several buildings, and a giant granite pit.

  They parked by the administration building and exited the cruiser. Davis looked around. There was no one in sight. “Where are all your people?”

  “Chores, prayer, meditation. I thought you were here to see me.”

  “I am. You got a cool place we can talk?” The sun was burning through his uniform cap.

  Ruth motioned to a covered porch.

  They stepped into the shade. Pinholes in the rusty roof let a shotgun spray of light through, but it was cooler. Davis opened his notebook. “Where were you three nights ago, between eight o’clock and twelve-thirty?”