Raising Cain (41 page)

“Can you be more specific?” Rollie pressed.

“Ask Kent. He can tell you all about it. I don’t have time to go into the details now. Please accept my word as an officer
of the court.”

King tried to look nonchalant. “This is pure bull—”

“All right,” Rollie interrupted. “Against my better judgment, I’ll permit it.”

“Shit,” King muttered.

“But this is
it
!” Rollie warned. “We resume trial tomorrow morning regardless of what you have accomplished. You got that?”

Gardner thanked the judge and quickly left his chambers.

King sneered. “You pig-brained fool.”

Rollie gave his former associate a threatening look. “Watch it, Kent!”

“You’ve been had,” King continued. “Lawson just jammed that ‘fairness’ bullshit up your ass.”

Rollie looked at Lin as if to say
My next words are private
, and she diplomatically left the room.

“Don’t you
ever
talk to me that way in front of another person, you arrogant bastard!” Rollie snarled as the door closed behind Lin.

“Lin is family.”

“I don’t give a shit if she’s your Siamese twin. You show me some fucking respect!”

“Then you better damn well earn it! You’re letting Lawson skate; don’t you realize that? What the hell’s happened to you?
“

Rollie’s jowls tightened. “I told you we’re under a microscope here.”

“You could have denied the continuance, and no one would have complained.”

“Lawson would have.”

“Fuck Lawson!”

Rollie pulled off his robe. “What’s he got on Ruth?”

King shrugged.

“He said you knew what it was.”

King shrugged again. “I have no idea. It’s all a bluff, I told you.”

“For your sake that better be true.”

King didn’t answer. Even if Lawson was on the right track, there was no way he could succeed. Frank Davis had assured him
that Ruth’s records were forever buried. And for all their sakes, that had better be true.

Gardner sat in the waiting area of Colonel Samuel Higgins’s office at the Pentagon. It was eleven-thirty, and he’d driven
nonstop from the county. The strategy was to go straight to the top, to confront the chief military records custodian with
the situation and ask for help, since there wasn’t time to process the request through channels.

“He’ll see you now,” the receptionist said.

Gardner entered the inner chamber and was met by Higgins, a tall white-haired soldier. “Good morning,” he said politely. The
silver eagles on his shoulders gleamed in the fluorescent light.

Gardner shook his hand. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“My pleasure.” He ushered Gardner into a black leather chair. “What can I do for you today?”

Gardner cleared his throat and handed the officer his business card. “I need your help. I represent a police sergeant in Maryland
accused of murder. The victim was a person named Thomas Ruth, but Ruth’s real name was Barton Graves, and he was a former
army medic. We contend Ruth—or Graves, rather—committed suicide. His military service records can help us prove it.”

Higgins leaned back in his chair. “Tell me more about Graves.

“Gardner opened his briefcase and removed his notes. “He served in Vietnam in the late sixties and was discharged after the
battle of Quang Tri.”

Higgins activated the computer console on his desk. “Spell his full name, please.”

Gardner complied.

“Date of birth?”

“Unknown.”

“Social security number?”

“Unknown.”

“Race?”

“Caucasian.”

“Any other pertinent data you can give me?” Higgins peered around the monitor.

“He was a medic in the 215th. Force Recon company, 1969.”

“That’s good….” Higgins keyed in the information. “The retrieval program cross-references names, units, statistical fragments.
If there was anyone named Graves in that unit at that time, we should know soon.” After several minutes the colonel smiled.
“Hello.”

“You have it?” Gardner leaned forward.

“Yes, sir. Barton Graves, PFC, Medical Corps. Recommended for the Silver Star and Bronze Star. Member of the 215th.”

Gardner thumped his knee. “When was he discharged?”

“January 1970.”

“What was the reason for discharge?”

Higgins returned to the screen. “He completed his term of service and was separated in normal course.”

“Does it say anything about his mental condition at that time?”

“There’s no reference to it here, but…”

“How about any psychiatric treatment he was given after Vietnam?”

“Those records are confidential under 28 U.S. Code section 1453-All military personnel medical and psychological treatment
is kept under seal.”

Gardner cursed inwardly. “Can you tell me
if
he had treatment? I am not asking for his diagnosis, just whether or not he was treated.”

Higgins shook his head. “Sorry. The fact of receiving treatment is confidential as well.”

“What would it take to get the records?”

“A subpoena from the federal court, but…”

“But what?”

“I’ve never seen one issued. They’re strict about this confidentiality business.”

“Please, Colonel. I’m in a jam here. I’ve got a man on trial I know is innocent and a victim I know was a mental case. Please,
just tell me whether or not he had treatment.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“I understand that, but a man’s life is at stake. I don’t want to waste time getting a summons if there are no records in
the first place. If there are records, I’ll go the summons route. Please help me.”

Higgins thought for a moment, then played his keyboard.

Gardner tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee.

Finally, Higgins shut off the machine. “There are no references to psychiatric treatment, none at all. Not by any military
facility.”

“Shit.”

“But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t treated.”

Gardner looked up.

“During the late sixties, early seventies, we contracted out most psychiatric referrals. There were a lot of mental problems
associated with jungle combat, and our system was overloaded.”

“You’re saying that Graves could have been treated by a civilian shrink?”

“Possibly.”

“Do you have access to those records?”

“No. There was a blanket agreement for treatment referrals and no individual patient billing. The civilian doctors were required
to keep the records in their own files. We retained nothing.”

“Is there any way to determine if he was in that program?”

“No.”

“So how could I find out whether Graves was referred?”

“You’d need the name of the treating doctor and a release or court order. But even if he was referred, I doubt his files still
exist. Civilian physicians have a twenty-year disposal rule on prior-patient medical files. After two decades, they’re usually
incinerated.”

Gardner stood up slowly. “Thanks anyway,” he said.

“Sorry,” Higgins replied. “Good luck with your case.”

Gardner opened the colonel’s door. So that was it; plan A was dead. He’d have to move to plan B. But the only problem was,
plan B didn’t exist.

Brownie was in the lab at his house. It was late morning, and he was upset. He’d hit a wall in the secret investigation of
his father’s death, and it was similar to the one he and Gardner had hit in the case. There were too many aliases floating
around out there. People were never who they purported to be.

Brownie lifted the photo of Graves that Gardner had gotten from Anders and slipped it into the imaging receptor networked
with his computer. He had installed a photo enhancement program and a “morphing” protocol into the software that allowed him
to pull images out, clean them up, enlarge them, and age them. It made the computer an electronic time machine that could
transform a twenty-year-old into a forty-five-year-old at the touch of a button.

Brownie activated the program and brought the photo up on his viewscreen. He ran the cross-hairs along the first row and centered
them on Graves. He was wearing a jungle hat, and it cast a sharp shadow across his nose like a streak of greasepaint.

Brownie selected “ENLARGE.” The image grew until it filled the screen.

Brownie then clicked “ENHANCE.” The graininess disappeared, and the image clarified.

Brownie took his control mouse and erased the shadow. Then he selected “RECONFIGURE.” The darkness was replaced by light;
the right eye and cheekbone came into focus.

“AGE PROGRAM” blinked in the upper corner of the monitor. Brownie moved the cursor there and clicked.

“YEARS?” the menu asked.

Brownie selected “TEN.”

Graves’s face changed; his skin began to sag.

Brownie advanced the years: “FIFTEEN,” “TWENTY,” “TWENTY-FIVE.”

Wrinkles spread, eyelids drooped, and the image morphed into middle age. “Yeah,” Brownie exclaimed, selecting “PRINT.”

In a moment the computer-modified picture dropped into a tray. Brownie studied it under the light. Here was Barton Graves
twenty five years later. There was no question about it. Here was Thomas Ruth.

Brownie exited the enhancement program, and the image on the screen returned to normal. He was about to shut off the unit
when another soldier in the group photo caught his eye. He moved the cross-hairs over and reactivated the enhancement program.
There was something about the man next to Graves that seemed familiar.

Soon the other face was enhanced, clarified, and aged twenty-five years. When the process was complete, Brownie’s mouth gaped
in shock.

“Son of a bitch! I don’t fuckin’ believe it!” He’d been searching high and low for months, but it had been in front of him
all the time.

Brownie grabbed the photo from the enhancer. Anders had written each soldier’s name on the back. Brownie circled the next
to last one. “Son of a bitch!” he hollered again. He’d been searching for months, and finally, there it was. Brownie had found
his man.

Gardner was woozy. What the hell was he doing? He’d anticipated that things might turn out this way, and sure enough, they
had. Now he was in Washington, miles from home, with no defense and a case that wouldn’t wait another day. That called for
a drink.

Gardner maneuvered his car off Constitution Avenue. Chinatown was just up the street. He could take a breather there and gather
his thoughts.

Traffic was light, and soon the ornate dragon gateway passed over his head. On either side of the street, Chinese letters
touted food and goods. He parked at a meter and entered the Orchid Inn, a small restaurant on the corner, BEST PEKING DUCK
IN TOWN, the sign said. Gardner entered a dim hallway and was ushered into an even dimmer dining room. He took a seat in a
booth.

“Cocktail, sir?” the waitress asked.

“Martini. A double.”

The waitress slipped behind the bar and returned with a heavy glass. Gardner took a sip. The chill made his eyeballs ache,
but the alcohol warmed his throat.

“Order food now?”

“In a minute.” Gardner t(x)k another sip, and then another. Soon the drink began to kill the pain.

The waitress returned again. Gardner ordered spareribs and asked for the telephone.

“In the back.” She pointed.

Gardner found the phone near the men’s room. He dialed a number, and Lieutenant Anders’s doctor came on the line. “We met
last night,” he said.

“I remember.”

“I want to summon the lieutenant to court tomorrow. I need his testimony.”

“Forget it.”

“This is an emergency, Doc. Life or death.”

“Anders can’t make it into court.”

“He’s that bad off?”

“He has a bacterial infection that isn’t responding to antibiotics. He may not last the week.”

Gardner closed his eyes. “How is he doing right now?” Maybe they could get a videotape deposition.

“Semi-comatose, on life support.”

“Since yesterday?”

“He had a relapse after you left.”

“He seemed all right when we talked.”

“He was acting. The man is very sick, too sick to help you with your case, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

He hung up and dialed another number. “Judge Thompkins?”

“Gardner!”

“I’m in deep trouble.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I think I made the wrong decision switching sides. I can’t take a chance on reasonable doubt. I know that now. Jennifer said
it best: I’m no defense attorney.”

“Jennifer is here as we speak. Do you want to talk to her?”

“In a minute.”

“Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s this damned suicide defense. I’m trying like hell to prove a man killed himself when I know it’s not true. I’m only
playing games, going after Ruth’s alter ego. And just now, the thought hit me: so I come up with the psychiatric records and
witnesses, and I prove Ruth was a lunatic, then what do I get?”

“You get your client off.”

“Maybe,” Gardner replied. “Maybe I get him off if the jury buys it, but…”

“But the killer walks free.”

“Correct.”

“And the prosecutor in you is uncomfortable with that.”

“Correct again. You told me to check out another perspective before I quit my job.”

“Don’t blame me, Gardner. You made the choice. I didn’t push you…. You know what your problem is? You’re a perfectionist.
That’s the number one obstacle in your life. It’s got you turning circles.”

Gardner sighed.
Everyone
seemed to know his problem.

“Defense attorneys are eternal pragmatists. They go where the wind blows; they ride the waves; they take whatever they can
get. If they can raise a doubt, they’ve done their job. That’s satisfaction enough for them, and it’s all any client has a
right to expect.”

“But you said I could do that,” Gardner argued. “You encouraged me.”

“You can do it if you choose to. I just told Jennifer that there comes a time in every attorney’s career when he has to let
things work out the way they will. That time has come for you.”

Gardner sighed again. The truth about himself was finally emerging.