Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “No kidding.”

  “This is awful,” Gardner said. “What a fucked-up mess.”

  “You have to do something,” Jennifer said.

  “Do what? Manufacture evidence? We still don’t have anything concrete on anybody, much less Ruth!”

  “What about this?” Jennifer pointed to the article.

  “What about it? It’s nothing but hype, media BS. There isn’t a straight fact in the whole damn piece.”

  “You could convene the grand jury, summon the reporter, try to build a conspiracy case.”

  “No way. Their First Amendment lawyers wouldn’t let her near the place. Protected sources, all that bullshit—”

  The phone rang, and Gardner picked it up. “Lawson.” His face paled, and he made some notes.

  When the brief conversation was over, Gardner hung up the phone and said, “That was Harvis. Someone just used the CAIN sign at the quarry for target practice.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “There’s more guns in Blocktown right now than there are in the armory. Take your pick.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No. Not at the moment.”

  “You have to do something, Gard, and you have to do it now.”

  “Thanks a lot, Sallie!” Gardner closed the magazine in disgust.

  “So what’s it going to be? What’s your decision?”

  Gardner started to reply but stopped. The escalation they’d feared had begun. The first shots were off the mark, but the next ones could be fatal.

  “Well?” Jennifer was waiting.

  “We have no choice now. With or without evidence, we have to remove one factor from the equation to defuse the bomb. We have to bring in Thomas Ruth.”

  Brownie rubbed his eyes and stared at the top of his lab table. It was two o’clock, and he’d been in a fog all day. Exhausted as he was, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d wrestled his pillow well into the morning, then drifted into a half-conscious state of fragmented dreams. His pillow was soaked when he awoke, his head ached, and he was more exhausted than ever.

  Brownie examined the stack of files on his work space that he’d bootlegged from other cops. The Ruth investigation was off limits, the lieutenant said. But there were ways around that. His buddies had loaned him their case files. That would keep him up to speed until he made his next move.

  A copy of Interview magazine lay next to the files. Brownie picked it up and reread the CAIN article. He’d circled several words in red ink, and he reviewed them again: “hate” and “rattlesnakes.” He studied the page, then turned to the author’s insert. Something was wrong here. The woman was billed as an investigator, but her investigation was all conjecture. Where were the facts? Where was the smoking gun? The puff piece on Sallie Allen was as lengthy as the story itself. She was part of the story, and that made the whole process suspect.

  Brownie studied the text. The only meat in the entire piece was her description of the snake walk through the valley of death. “The rattlers are kept in a wooden barrel,” Brownie read. “They are released on the floor, and arrayed in two rows. The initiate is then required to walk through the squirming mass while the congregation chants in the background.”

  Brownie dropped the magazine. The words had triggered a memory

  “Daddy, look at this,” Brownie called from the backyard. It was late summer, and he was out trimming weeds along the back fence. That’s when he saw it, wrapped around the wire. “Daddy!” he called, grabbing it behind the head and wrestling it off the rusted strand.

  “What is it, Joe?” Daddy ambled out to the porch, newspaper in hand.

  Brownie held his arm behind his back and walked toward house. “Got something for you,” he teased.

  Joseph raised his reading glasses. “What do you have, son?” “This!” Brownie laughed and whipped his arm forward. There was a three-foot black snake wrapped around it.

  “Joe!” Daddy screamed. He fell backward and almost hit his head on the post. “Joe!” His eyes were white, his feet jumping.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

  “Get it outa here! Outa here!” Scrambling to his feet, Joseph barri-caded himself behind a chair. “Outa here, Joe!”

  Brownie backed away and tried to untangle the beast from his arm. Daddy covered his eyes. “Hurry!” he yelled. “Hurry!”

  “I’m hurrying, “Brownie said, opening the back gate and running down toward the stream. He finally got it off when he reached the water. And there he bashed its arrow-shaped head in with a rock.

  “Don’t ever, ever do that again, Joe,” Daddy said later. He was still nervous, shaky.

  I won’t, Dad,” Brownie promised. He hadn’t meant any harm.

  Daddy had never mentioned being scared of anything.

  “just something I have,” Daddy explained.

  I understand” Brownie said. And he never did it again.

  Brownie suddenly awoke and leaped up from his chair.

  “Shit!” he yelled. “Oh, shit!” He rifled through his briefcase and yanked out a folder. It was the autopsy print results, delivered the day before. He’d reviewed the photos, and begrudgingly accepted Bellini’s conclusion that the marks on his father’s neck must have come from a chemical reaction of some kind. There were no injuries to the neck whatsoever. None. The marks that showed up under the ultraviolet light were just a freak anomaly, of no real significance.

  Brownie hurriedly removed one of the black-light photos. Joseph’s head was barely visible in the darkened print, but his neck area was clearly outlined in white. Brownie tried to remain calm, detached. This was not his father, he told himself, it was another case.

  He squinted and raised the photo. Across Joseph’s neck was a clear pattern of crisscrossed lines. He grabbed his magnifier and adjusted the focus.

  The lines were enhanced under the lens. They were uniform in length, about an inch to an inch and a half each. Brownie studied them carefully, moving left to right. Then he stopped. In the lower portion of the neck four lines intersected, forming a box. Brownie sketched the image on his pad. Then he sketched an identical one next to it, and another, and another, until he’d created a chain.

  Brownie gasped when he realized what he’d drawn. “My God, no!” Brownie stared at his sketch. Daddy did die of a heart attack, no doubt about it. But it wasn’t a natural event. Something had caused it. Brownie circled the word snake again in the article. Oils from its skin must have triggered the chemical reaction. That’s what left the marks!

  Brownie stood up on shaky legs. He grabbed his jacket and rushed for the door. Brownie knew what had happened. And now he knew what he had to do about it.

  “Reverend Taylor!” Mrs. Driver called.

  The reverend pressed his brake and slowed the car. A woman in a lemon-colored derby was flagging him down. He waved back and pulled into the parking lot of the Blocktown pharmacy.

  He lowered his window and she thrust herself forward.

  “Gotta talk to you,” she said hurriedly. There was a copy of Interview magazine in her hand.

  “I saw it,” Taylor said. He looked worried and tense.

  “You need to have a council meeting. There was shooting out at the quarry today just after that story came out. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Sorry. I was busy.”

  “This is serious,” she continued. “You got everyone carrying guns, and now they’re using them. The children are scared to go outside, and the old folks are locked in their rooms.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Taylor said. He wasn’t wearing his usual suit. He was dressed in overalls and a leather jacket.

  “Please call a meeting.”

  “I will. Don’t have time to do it right now, but I will.”

  Mrs. Driver checked to make sure she’d stopped the right car. This didn’t sound like the take-charge Taylor she knew, didn’t act like him, either. This man was preoccupied.

  “When?” she persisted.

 
; Taylor looked at his watch; it was three o’clock. “Tonight, maybe. Possibly tomorrow. I’ll have to let you know.”

  “The devil is roaming free out there,” Mrs. Driver said. “I don’t think we can wait.”

  “We’ll have to,” the reverend replied. “Right now I got something to do.” He nodded politely and raised his window. Then he pegged the accelerator and roared off down the road.

  Frank Davis adjusted his radio receiver. “Say again, dispatch. Your transmission was garbled.” He was behind the ridge at the north end of the county, not the best spot for reception.

  “The chief has just issued a pick-up order on Thomas Ruth.”

  Davis turned the volume all the way up. “Has a warrant been issued?”

  “No warrant. Detain for questioning.”

  Davis spun his car around and headed down the hill. He’d been looking for Ruth all day, but the bastard had somehow eluded him. Now he was official meat, and he was nowhere in sight.

  Davis checked his map as he drove south. Ruth had been a no-show all day at his usual haunts. His car had left the quarry and hadn’t returned. That much he knew.

  The sky was a deep gray now, and the clouds looked like icebergs in an arctic sea, glinting on the horizon. Davis increased his speed. It would be night soon, and he had a stop to make. Thomas Ruth was up for grabs. And Davis had to get to him first.

  “Where is Thomas Ruth?” a follower asked. The CAIN congregation was assembled under the tin roof of the shed for a nine o’clock prayer meeting, but their leader wasn’t there this evening. Two men approached the platform, but neither was Thomas Ruth.

  “I have an announcement,” Nicholas Fairborne said, mounting the dais.

  The flock came to attention.

  “The meeting for tonight is canceled.”

  A moan drifted up from the gallery.

  “Please return to your dorms.”

  The followers stood and filed out, leaving Fairborne alone with the other man.

  “Why didn’t you tell them?” the man asked.

  “No need to cause alarm at this stage,” Fairborne replied.

  “What happened between you two earlier?”

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard Thomas yelling. Were you having a disagreement?”

  Fairborne looked over his shoulder. “No.”

  “Sure sounded like it.”

  Fairborne shook his head. “It was nothing.”

  The man put his hands on his hips. “So what do we do now?”

  Fairborne pointed to the administration building. “We try his car phone again. Maybe it’s back on the air.”

  “And if he still doesn’t answer?”

  “Then we sound the alarm.”

  The Allegheny State Park cut diagonally across the northern end of the county. It was a lush swath of pine forests, rock gorges, secluded meadows, and rushing streams. Hikers and campers trekked its trails day and night, and they always got a workout.

  Randy Allison and his two sons had driven up from Baltimore. They’d arrived at the park’s south entrance at eight P.M., signed the register, and begun hiking to the campsite they’d selected on the map. The trail was steep and demanding. It wound over two high ridges, past the electrical substation, and down a sharp grade into a hidden clearing. Most campers avoided the route as too dangerous. But Randy wanted his fifteen- and sixteen-year-old sons to exert themselves, so he’d picked the most challenging path.

  They’d been out for over an hour. The trail was very dark and deserted, and they’d seen no one since they’d left the parking area. Tom and Brett Allison were up front with the flashlight, and Randy was laboring behind. This was much harder than he’d anticipated.

  “Power station,” Tom called. It was a checkpoint on their route.

  “Okay,” Randy replied, as the light disappeared over a rise. He was proud of the way the boys were taking to the trip.

  “Dad!” Tom suddenly yelled from the darkness ahead. Randy ran forward, stumbling and slipping on the rocks.

  “Dad!” It was a cry for help.

  Randy crested the rise and raced down toward his boys. They were standing by the deserted substation, staring in.

  “Dad, look!” Tom hollered. He shined his light through the open gate.

  Randy was breathless from his run. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and tried to focus on the spot where his son had rested the beam. “My God,” he gasped.

  A man was slumped against the high-voltage panel, handcuffed to the sparking grid. He was tall and shoeless. And he was dead.

  Part Two

  CHAOS

  eight

  A chain saw ripped the predawn air as the police team cleared a pathway to the power station. The Allisons had fled to the parking area and alerted the authorities after encountering the body. And that set into motion the response sequence: a patrol officer first, then a medical unit, then the backup cops. Now, finally, at five in the morning, the lab van and paramedic truck were moved closer to the rocky site.

  Officer Billy Hill had been the first man to answer the call. He’d met with the Allisons and instructed them to remain at the ranger shed. Then he’d sprinted out alone to find the body. Hill had not been long on the force; he was a freckle-faced twenty-four-year-old strong on enthusiasm but weak on experience. When he reached the grid he’d tried to follow procedure: confirm the condition of the victim, secure the scene, locate evidence. He was moving fast, trying to get it all right. But this was his first encounter with a corpse.

  Hill had radioed the power company to shut down the electricity. The grid was still smoking and spitting out sparks, making access to the body impossible. The juice was cut, and the fireworks stopped. Then Hill lowered the dead man to the ground before anyone else had reached the site.

  Now Gardner and Jennifer held hands as they struggled over the slippery stones. They’d been alerted and advised to come out to the scene.

  In the darkness, the trail was hazardous. The slimy dew had made the flat shale as slick as ice. They skated across the slate and soon saw the glow of portable floodlights beyond the rise.

  It looked like a movie set. Five beacons lit the empty grid with harsh white beams while police, medics, and park rangers milled in and out of the shadows. Gardner spotted Lieutenant Harvis on the periphery, talking to Frank Davis.

  Harvis ran over when he saw the prosecutors.

  “What’s the word?” Gardner asked.

  “Pretty sure it’s Ruth,” the lieutenant replied. “Davis has ID’d him, but there’s some charring on the body and the face is messed up. We’re waiting on someone from CAIN to make a final identification.”

  Gardner glanced at Davis. The officer shrugged sheepishly as if he’d screwed up his assignment. “When did he get here?”

  “Frank arrived when we did. Billy Hill was first on site, Davis and the rest of us got called in when they ran the alert roster.”

  Gardner looked toward Davis again, but he’d wandered off. “Where’s the body?”

  Harvis pointed into the darkness. “Medics have him. They cut an access path on the south side so they could drive up. They’ll hold him until we get a confirming ID, then transport to the medical examiner’s for autopsy.”

  “Who removed the body from the grid?”

  “Hill. He shut off the power and laid him down.”

  Gardner looked at Jennifer. The rule was to leave the body in place until the investigators completed their preliminaries. “Did Hill take photos?”

  Harvis shook his head. “No.”

  “No photos?” Exact body position was crucial in determining what happened.

  “Sorry.”

  Gardner sensed irony. “Really? You don’t seem sorry.”

  Harvis checked around for eavesdroppers. “This isn’t a normal situation. There’s a complication.”

  “What?”

  “Looks like an inside job.”

  “Inside the church?”

  Harvis looked over h
is shoulder again. “No. Inside the department.”

  Gardner’s eyes met Jennifer’s, then moved back to the lieutenant’s.

  “What do you mean, Harv?”

  “I mean we might have a problem here. A real problem.’

  Gardner began to understand. “An officer is implicated?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What evidence do you have?” Jennifer asked.

  “One item in particular. Take a look at the body.” Harvis motioned toward the grid with his chin.

  “What item?” Gardner asked.

  “You’ll see,” Harvis replied.

  The body had been placed in a plastic bag before being laid on the gurney. It was unzipped, awaiting the arrival of a person from CAIN who could confirm its identity.

  Gardner stared at the gruesome face emerging from the dark green bag. The sky had lightened now, and the features were visible. There was charring on the forehead and cheeks, and the pale hair had been burned away, leaving a Mohawk of blackened scalp down the center of his skull.

  “Ugh,” Jennifer groaned.

  “That’s what a couple hundred thousand volts will do to you,” Gardner pointed out as he zipped the bag open. The zipper was at waist level now. “Look.” Gardner lifted the plastic.

  Jennifer glanced inside the fold. The hands were laid across his abdomen, and the wrists were handcuffed. The logo of the county police department was imprinted in the shiny metal.

  Gardner quickly zipped the bag back up to the neck.

  Voices echoed behind them. “Over here, sir.”

  Gardner and Jennifer moved aside as two officers escorted a man to the gurney. He was about Ruth’s age, bearded and dressed in denim. As soon as he saw the ravaged face, he nodded. “That’s him.”

  “You’re certain?” an officer asked.

  “Yes, no question.”

  Gardner introduced himself. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Nicholas Fairborne eyed Gardner cautiously. “Yesterday morning.”

  “When did he leave the quarry?”