Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “Shit! So what happened in the van?”

  “The man went nuts. Denied doing anything to Daddy, denied hurting anyone. Said he wanted to be left alone, he didn’t hate anyone, why were people after him?”

  “And then?”

  “He started crying, quoting the Bible, talking nonsense.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I let him go,” Brownie said.

  “What about the handcuffs?” Jennifer asked. “They were on him when he died.”

  Brownie rubbed his face. “They were mine. I cuffed him before I questioned him in the van. Used my extra set.”

  “Why?” Gardner asked. “Was he under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “So you put him in cuffs, asked questions, then let him go?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you removed the cuffs.”

  Brownie did not reply.

  “You removed the cuffs,” Gardner repeated.

  “No. I left them on.”

  Gardner stood up. “You released him in handcuffs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Please, dear God, tell me why.”

  Brownie shrugged. “I wanted to jack the motherfucker up. He was loosely cuffed in front. He could still drive. I just didn’t want to make it easy for him. Let the fucker sweat for a while, find his own way out, I thought.”

  “That’s not going to hack it, Brownie!” Gardner snapped. “No one’s going to believe that explanation.”

  “But that’s what happened, Gard, I swear to God. I was gettin’ ready to unlock the handcuffs, and I thought, what the fuck? Why not let him squirm? So I put the keys back in my pocket and turned him loose.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “He was blubbering some kind of Scripture. But he did go back to his car. And he did drive away.”

  “Still locked in your handcuffs,” Gardner said.

  “Yeah.”

  Gardner looked at Jennifer. There was enough circumstantial evidence against Brownie right now to support a murder charge. “We have to keep this to ourselves,” he said. “Until we get a lead on the killer, we have to keep this quiet.”

  “I know it looks bad,” Brownie said.

  “That’s why no one can know,” Gardner replied. “If the truth gets out of this room,you’re dead.“

  ten

  Gardner and Jennifer were barricaded in the conference room of the State’s Attorney’s office. A battalion of reporters was camped outside the door, and the chief prosecutor had left word that he was unavailable. Sallie Allen’s CAIN article had stirred a national interest in Ruth, and now that the man was dead, the dominoes were falling in the rest of the news world. Every paper and tabloid show in the country wanted a piece of the action.

  “You have to say something,” Jennifer advised.

  “I do not,” Gardner replied. “The case is under investigation, and I am under no obligation to discuss it.”

  “They’re construing your silence as a cover-up. They’ve heard the rumors, and they’re looking for a public denial. If you had nothing to hide, you would answer their questions. That’s what they’re thinking.”

  Gardner swiveled his chair. “I have a right to run this case the way I want. I don’t have to answer to anybody.”

  Jennifer picked up a file. “Speaking of the case,” she said, “what have you decided to do about Brownie?” Gardner had been in a state of shock since last night, barely talking since his friend confessed.

  “What do you mean, do?”

  “We have to find Ruth’s killer, that’s first priority. But what do we do with Brownie in the meantime?”

  Gardner squinted. He was still ticked that Brownie had put himself in such a dangerous situation. If the handcuffs were identified as his, it would all be over. They’d never be able to keep that under wraps. Thank God Chief Gray was sitting on them. “We keep him secluded while we follow other leads.”

  Jennifer was studying the file. “What leads?” So far all of the circumstantial evidence pointed to Brownie.

  “There must be something else the investigators came up with, some other evidence.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “They didn’t find anything at the scene. No physical evidence. And we know there were no witnesses. The cops exerted very little effort after they saw which direction it was heading.”

  Gardner made an entry on his legal pad. “Then it’s up to us to get it back on track, in the right direction this time. Let’s look at motivation. Who, other than Brownie, had a motive to whack Ruth?”

  “Someone from Blocktown?” Jennifer asked. “As a preemptive strike in response to the Sallie Allen article?”

  Gardner nodded. “Possibly. There was gunfire out at the quarry. That puts everyone in Blocktown in the kill column.”

  “What about Reverend Taylor?”

  “He’s got the rhetoric down pat.”

  “So do we include him as a suspect?”

  “Yeah. Might as well.” Gardner noted his name.

  “How about Fairborne? Like you said earlier, there could have been a power struggle within the church.”

  Gardner added that to his list. “No question. His attitude alone makes him suspect.”

  “Davis?”

  Gardner smirked. “You heard the chief. He’s innocent.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  Gardner wrote “Frank Davis” on his pad. “He was bird-dogging Ruth, and he hates Brownie’s guts. That makes him a qualifier, too.”

  “But what would his motive be?”

  Gardner put his pen to his lips. “Motive…” There was something odd about Davis, something he couldn’t pinpoint. The man was a schemer.

  “Maybe he still wants that promotion,” the prosecutor said finally.

  “So there are a lot more possibilities than just Brownie.”

  “Right,” Gardner answered. “Now all we need is some evidence to support the suspicions.”

  “But Davis is still on the case, and the chief knows nothing about Brownie’s true involvement. Who is going to investigate, dig out the proof? Us?”

  Gardner was about to answer when the phone buzzed. Jennifer picked it up, listened for a moment, then recradled. “Reporters are disrupting the office. They’re trying to interview the secretaries and law clerks. You have to stop it.”

  Gardner rubbed his eyes. He’d rather wrestle alligators than go out there.

  “Give them a statement,” Jennifer said. “Something pithy, noncommittal. Just get them out of there.”

  Gardner stood up. He couldn’t hide forever. Sooner or later he would have to face the press.

  When the door opened, the reporters swarmed. They were gathered in the waiting area and the hall outside. “Mr. Lawson! Mr. Lawson!” they called, elbowing each other for position.

  Gardner raised his hand. “Please. I have a comment to make, then I’ll have to ask you all to leave.”

  “Was it a police officer?” a reporter called.

  Gardner stared her down as the others thrust their microphones forward. “There’s been a lot of speculation about the Ruth investigation,” Gardner began, “but let me assure you now that there have been no conclusions drawn at this point. The case is still open, and there are no suspects that I can discuss publicly. When we have something conclusive, you will be notified. In the meantime, I have nothing further to say.”

  “Is the suspect a police officer?” a reporter asked.

  “Are you withholding evidence?”

  “Is an officer on suspension?”

  Gardner raised his hand again. “I’ve said all that I can say. Please have the courtesy to vacate my office. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Lawson!” they called.

  But Gardner retreated into the conference room and cut them off.

  * * *

  Outside the office, a reporter had set up for a remote broadcast. She was dressed in a silk blouse and wool skirt, her face freshly blushed. “You’ve heard it from the
man in charge, John,” she said to the camera. “’No conclusions.’ That would support the rumors that are flying all over town. They say a police officer was involved in the death of Thomas Ruth, and the authorities are dragging their feet because they want to protect him.”

  “Sounds serious, Susan,” the anchorman said.

  “It is, John. The credibility of law enforcement is on the line. And I’m sure we haven’t heard the last of it.”

  “You stay on the story,” John said.

  “I will,” Susan replied.

  The light went dim and the camera clicked off. Down the hall, several other remote broadcasts were in progress. Gardner may have asked the reporters to leave, but they were all still there. And that’s where they intended to remain for the duration.

  Kent King and Chief Judge Danforth were lunching at the Anderson Mountain Inn. It was a secluded mansion at the four-thousand-foot mark on the side of the ridge. The food was delicious, the view breathtaking, the clientele discrete.

  The two men sat in a private alcove on the enclosed balcony. Below, the trees were turning colors, and Summer Lake cast a shimmering reflection in the distance. From that vantage point the county seemed at peace.

  “The Ruth case is out of control,” King said. He and the judge were longtime golfing partners and unofficial buddies away from the bench. Despite the fact that King was a regular in his courtroom, they often chewed the legal fat.

  The judge sampled his broiled trout and put down his fork. “Lawson has it covered,” he said.

  King laughed. “How long did it take you to get to your chambers this morning?”

  “Normal time.”

  “How many reporters did you have to climb over?”

  Danforth smoothed his linen napkin. “What’s your point, Kent?”

  “The media’s swarming. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “I noticed. So what?”

  “You don’t get it, do you? They’re playing hide-the-bad-guy with the investigation.”

  “Stay out of it, Kent. It’s not your concern. The State’s Attorney has the ball. Lawson will get it resolved in due course.”

  “Lawson is the problem.”

  “He’s honest,” the judge said. “Pigheaded sometimes, but honest. I don’t believe he’d do anything improper.”

  “That’s not the point. The integrity of his office has been challenged, and the appearance of impropriety is as bad as impropriety itself. That makes his judgment suspect.”

  Danforth played with his fork. The county was definitely under attack. Allegations of cover-up, corruption, and conspiracy dominated the news. But that wasn’t really a judicial matter.

  “You can’t let the fox guard the henhouse,” King said.

  Danforth looked him in the eye. “How would you handle it?”

  King pulled a paper from his jacket and handed it across the table.

  “What’s this?” the judge asked.

  King smiled. “Article eighteen of the state constitution, and chapter twenty-nine of the county code, the enumeration of a certain power you were accorded recently. The statutes allow the court to take control of situations like this. Lawson does not have exclusive control over the Ruth case. You can bring in an independent contractor.”

  “I can do what?” He read the document and folded it.

  “Surprise!” King said.

  Danforth shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, Kent.”

  “I’m here to serve, Dan.”

  Danforth put the papers in his pocket. “How can I ever repay you?”

  “I think you know,” King said. “When you make the appointment, you’re going to need a volunteer.”

  The judge understood. “You son of a bitch!”

  King grinned. “At your service.”

  Brownie sat at the table in his home laboratory studying the fingerprint he’d just lifted from Thomas Ruth’s shoe. It was the full thumb of a right hand, removed from the side panel of the footwear. The print was clear, and it was recent. Now all Brownie needed was a match.

  After the meeting last night, Gardner had ordered him to stay home and keep quiet. And Brownie had agreed. The prosecutor was rightly upset and angry, but that couldn’t be helped now. Brownie had agreed to stay out of sight. But he had not agreed to stay out of the case.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the medical examiner, Dr. Alva Charles, senior pathologist and old friend.

  “Doc, this is Joe Brown,” Brownie said.

  “Brownie! So sorry about your dad.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We all support you down here, you know that.”

  “I know, thanks. Listen, Doc, I need a favor. You still have Thomas Ruth in the freezer, right?”

  “Ruth? Electrocution victim? I think so. I’ll have to check; a bunch of corpses were picked up this morning.”

  Brownie shifted the latent print card in his hand. “I need a copy of his fingerprints.”

  Dr. Charles paused. “I can arrange that,” he finally said. “How soon do you need them?”

  “Immediately.”

  “I’ll do it this afternoon. Where do you want them sent?”

  “Can you fax ‘em to me?” Brownie gave his home number.

  “Certainly.”

  “And this is confidential,” Brownie added.

  “I understand.”

  Brownie thanked the doctor and hung up. He looked at the print he’d lifted from Ruth’s shoe, an elongated pattern of lines under a piece of tape. The number one rule in fingerprint identification was to eliminate the prints of anyone who had known access to the object that was touched. Brownie traced the lines with his finger. If the print came from Ruth, he could relax. If not, he still had a problem.

  Frank Davis had a hot lead. He’d canvassed the Mountain Road area from top to bottom, looking for witnesses. Had anyone seen Thomas Ruth driving on the afternoon he died? he wanted to know. That’s when Amos Rudd told him that Brownie was asking the same thing on that very day.

  Davis throttled back his cruiser and looked for the house on Clayton Avenue where Eunice Land lived. Amos had told him that both Ruth and Brownie had gone south on the twenty-fifth. South! No wonder Frank had missed him. He was working the back roads to the north. But there was only one major thoroughfare south, and that was Dunlop Road. Davis had set up out there for two days and copied tag numbers. Regular travelers on the route were easy to spot. They commuted or carpooled or took that road shopping on a regular basis. He accessed the Motor Vehicle Administration computer for the tags that repeated and obtained several names, addresses, and phone numbers. And that’s how he located Eunice Land.

  Davis parked on Clayton and walked to the door of a small Cape Cod with enclosed porch. He checked the street number again and rang the bell.

  A small dog barked, and a woman appeared.

  “Ms. Land?”

  She nodded her bleached head. “Yes?”

  “Frank Davis. County police.” He wasn’t in uniform, so he showed his badge. “We talked on the phone. May I come in?”

  The woman opened the door and directed him to a damask-covered table in the kitchen. The room was bright, decorated with plants and ceramics. A Yorkshire terrier bounded in from another room and sniffed his ankle.

  “Duchess,” the woman scolded.

  “No problem,” Davis said, scratching the animal’s head. “I like dogs. Can I get your full name?”

  “It’s Eunice Land,” the woman replied, “but most folks call me Eunie.”

  “May I call you Eunie?”

  “Sure. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  Davis declined. “I want you to tell me again what you saw on Dunlop Road the afternoon of the twenty-fifth, what you told me on the phone.”

  “I saw the man who died.”

  “You mean Thomas Ruth.”

  Eunie nodded. “I didn’t know his name at the time, but I recognized him later… from the newspaper.”

  �
�Where was he when you saw him?”

  “Outside a police car.”

  Davis wrote it down. “What kind of police car?”

  “Don’t really remember. It was white, said ‘Police’ on the side.”

  “Was it a van-type vehicle?”

  Eunie nodded again, and Davis made a note. “Who else did you see?”

  “There was another person with the man, but I didn’t really get a good look at him.”

  “It was a him?”

  Eunie shook her head. “Think so… I can’t say for sure. All I remember is the man who died.”

  Davis pulled a personnel photo from his pocket and showed it to her. “Is this the person he was with?”

  Eunie studied the picture. “Could be….”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that, Eunie. We’ve got a murder investigation here. Was this or was this not the man you saw with the deceased?”

  Eunie hesitantly looked at the face again.

  “This is important,” Davis said. “Very important.”

  “I think that’s him…” Eunie ventured, “but…”

  Davis raised his hand. “No ‘buts,’ Ms. Land. This is the man.” Davis wrote “Positive ID” in the margin and had her sign her name underneath. Then he put the photo of Sergeant Joseph Brown, Jr., back in his pocket and closed his notebook.

  The courthouse was in an uproar. The judges had called a news conference for ten A.M. and no one seemed to know what it was about. Judges never called news conferences. In fact, they rarely spoke to the press.

  Gardner and Jennifer pushed their way into the door of courtroom one. They, too, had been caught off guard by the announcement. They’d been struggling with their private Ruth investigation for the past few days, with little success. The entire county had clammed up, so they were still in the starting blocks. At least the Brownie connection remained hush-hush.

  The prosecutors fought through the throng of reporters and found some empty spots in the front row. They sat down just as the judges entered.

  Judge Danforth smacked his gavel and called for order. He was flanked by the rest of the circuit bench: Simmons, Harrold, Cramer, and Hanks. The courtroom went silent.

  “As you all know,” Danforth began, “it has recently been suggested that the county police and prosecutor’s offices have committed certain improprieties in the Thomas Ruth investigation. These allegations have impugned their reputations, and caused embarrassment to elected and appointed officials alike.”