Silent Son (15 page)

Gardner’s relaxed expression changed. He was obviously not pleased.

“That’s not gonna do it, Jennifer,” he sighed. “This was a robbery that went sour, not some diabolical family plot.”

“How can you say that?” Jennifer asked.

“Twenty years, Jennifer. Twenty years of robberies. This was a robbery attempt…”

“Brownie doesn’t think so,” Jennifer retorted.

“Why not?”

“It was too deliberate. Too well planned—and nothing seems to have been taken.”

Gardner frowned deeply. “It got interrupted…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I thought you trusted Brownie’s judgment.”

Gardner put his elbows on the table. “I do, Jennifer, but…”

Jennifer began to say something, but held back. She took several deep breaths and calmed herself. “Well, Mr. Lawson, how do
you propose we proceed, then?”

Gardner looked into her eyes with resolve. “Granville,” he said.

“Granville?” She was shocked.

“He saw the killer,” Gardner replied.

“But, he’s…” Jennifer was searching for a polite way to describe his condition.

“I think he’s starting to remember,” Gardner cut in. “He broke down today when we talked about it.”

“But you’re not supposed to…” Jennifer stuttered.

Gardner frowned deeply. “Not supposed to what? Talk to my own son? Not supposed to give a damn that he was beaten and two
of the nicest people on this earth were killed? Not supposed to interfere with the investigation? What? What am I not supposed
to do?”

Jennifer’s discomfort was mounting rapidly. She wanted to say that he was not supposed to get involved in the case, but she
couldn’t. “You might hurt Granville,” she said at last.

“What?” Gardner replied. “More than he’s hurt right now? The boy’s a mess!”

Jennifer sat stoically, not responding.

“While you and Brownie fool with Purvis Bowers, the killer is still on the street, and it won’t take him long to realize he’s
got a potential witness…”

Jennifer nervously fluffed her hair behind her ear.

“We don’t have any time. No more damn time!”

“So you’re going to try to force it out of your son,” Jennifer said.

“You got any better ideas?” Gardner snapped.

Jennifer fell silent. There was no reasoning with him. Nothing she could say or do was having any effect. She got up from
the table.

“This isn’t going anywhere,” she said sadly. Then she went through the house, got into her car, and drove away.

Gardner numbly walked to the barbecue, and kicked open the lid. Dense smoke erupted. Gardner picked up the fork and probed
into the grill. And when the smoke had cleared, he could see that the burgers had been burned to a crisp.

The next morning Gardner was still on leave from the office. He and Jennifer had slept separately for the first time in over
a year, and he spent a restless, fitful night alone in his big bed while she lay in Granville’s narrow bunk down the hall.

Gardner drove over to Court Avenue and parked beside the donut shop on the corner. They served good breakfasts, and he had
often eaten there in the lean post-divorce days.

He sat at the counter and ordered his meal: two eggs over easy, hash browns, and country sausage. The patrons were mostly
elderly retirees, talking quietly over coffee. The working people had already eaten and gone to their jobs. And in the courthouse
down the street, the ten o’clock docket was now being called.

Suddenly the door clanged open and a man entered. Dressed in a tailored suit, he looked out of place. He walked over to Gardner
and tapped him on the shoulder.

Gardner turned and confronted Kent King.

“What a way to start the day,” he groaned inwardly.

“Gotta talk to you, Lawson,” King huffed. He did not look happy.

Gardner smiled coldly. “I’m eating breakfast, Kent. Please don’t bother me.”

King didn’t budge. “What’s this about a Grand Jury summons on Purvis Bowers?”

Gardner shrugged.

“You promised him immunity…”

Gardner shook his head. “Haven’t you heard? I’m not running things. Jennifer Munday’s in charge.”

King smiled coldly. “Bullshit!” Several elderly faces suddenly turned toward them.

“It’s true,” Gardner said calmly. “I’m out of the case. It’s a matter of record.”

“Bullshit!” King repeated. “You’re tryin’ to pull a Reagan. No accountability for your own decisions…”

Gardner crossed his arms. “What’s your point, Kent? My eggs are getting cold.”

“The point is, that we had a deal. My guy does not say a word without immunity. You said it first…”

“Maybe I wasn’t authorized to say it,” Gardner answered. His arms were still crossed.

“Bullshit!” King barked. “You are the elected State’s Attorney. You cannot abdicate your responsibility.”

“It seems that I did,” Gardner answered. “If you’ve got a problem with that, you’re gonna have to take it up with Jennifer.”

King stood there fuming. “You’re a wimp!” he said suddenly.

Gardner swallowed, and lowered his arms to his side. “What did you say?” His jaw was getting tight.

“I said you’re a wimp,” King repeated, “letting your girlfriend cover for you…”

Gardner stood up. “I don’t like your tone of voice,” he said, balling one hand into a fist.

“And I don’t like this charade,” King answered. “I’m sorry your boy got hurt. Really sorry, but that’s no excuse for abandoning
your job. Purvis Bowers is innocent. You’re way off base trying to jack him up.”

Gardner stood in silence, his fist still balled. He agreed with what King said, but he would never admit it to his face.

“I know you feel that way, or you’d never have made the immunity offer,” King went on. “Why don’t you go to your office and
get this thing under control? You’re the boss, god-damnit! Why don’t you act like one!”

“I’ll think about it,” Gardner finally grunted.

“You’d better do more than think!” King replied sternly. Then he pushed out the door and left Gardner alone with his breakfast.

Gardner pushed the plate away. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. Maybe King was right. Things were out of control. Maybe it
was time to get back in the saddle.

It was 2:00
P.M
., and the Forest National Bank on South Street was about to close its doors for the day. The granite building
had been around as long as the town. For centuries, it seemed. Brownie raced up the marble stairs, trying to sneak into the
building before the security guard at the door turned the key.

Summonses had been issued for Purvis Bowers’s financial records at every bank in town. So far, nothing had turned up. This
was Brownie’s last chance to find something tying Purvis and Henry to the suspected cache.

Brownie slipped in just in time and made his way to the manager’s office. In uniform, it was obvious he was on official business.

“Mr. Wilkins, please,” he told the brown-haired secretary who was parked in front of the office door.

“In reference to what?” The woman’s tone was cold.

“Serving a summons,” Brownie said with a smile.

Her eyes remained blank as she notified her boss.

Brownie grinned at the woman, but she still didn’t react. Soon the door opened, and the officer was ushered inside.

“Judd Wilkins,” the elderly manager said, extending a withered white hand.

“Joe Brown,” Brownie answered, clamping gently, and releasing before he broke any bones.

The man looked like an antique brass fixture, an employee since day one.

“We need to locate some records,” Brownie said, handing over the papers. “All of the accounts of Purvis Bowers…”

Wilkins sat down at his mahogany desk and perused the summons. Brownie took a chair opposite, and waited.

“Purvis Bowers,” the man said.

Brownie’s ears perked. “He has accounts here?”

“Yes, sir,” Wilkins said. “He’s got several…”

Brownie smiled. “Can you let me see the files?”

The old man nodded, and gave an order to his secretary through the intercom. She soon returned and dropped a stack of papers
on his desk. Wilkins handed them to Brownie. “That’s the whole lot,” he said.

Brownie picked them up and scanned the pages. Checking. Business checking. Savings. A safe deposit box. He was about to go
on when he noticed a second name at the top of the safe deposit box signature card. A cosigner! Brownie’s heart began to race.
There it was. The missing link! Purvis and Henry on the same account.

Brownie handed the document across the desk. “What do you know about this one?” he asked.

Wilkins took the page. “Henry Bowers,” he said sadly. “Poor Henry…”

“What’s the story on him and his nephew sharing a box?” Brownie asked.

Wilkins put the paper down. “Years ago Henry had a lot of them…”

Brownie’s ears perked. “A lot of what?”

“Boxes,” the old man said, “safe deposit boxes. Must have had eight or ten in the beginning. Thirty, forty years ago…”

Brownie leaned forward in his chair. “Boxes? With an s?”

“Yep. Let’s see… Had at least eight deposit boxes when he first started. Then, as the years went by, dropped ‘em one by one…”

Brownie eased up to the edge of his seat. “Ever say why he needed so many?”

Wilkins flashed a reprimand with his eyes. “We never pry, Officer Brown. What goes in is their business.” Brownie put his
hand on the desk. “So all those years, you never once peeked while he was opening a box?”

“Of course not!”

Brownie smiled. “Take it easy, Mr. Wilkins. We have to get a handle on why Henry needed so many boxes. Didn’t seem to be a
wealthy man.”

The manager looked down at the summons, “You’re going to have to ask Purvis Bowers about that. After Henry got down to four
boxes, he added his nephew to the signature card as the primary account holder—”

“Do you know the reason he did that?” Brownie interrupted. At least it explained why no accounts were found in Henry’s name
alone.

Wilkins scratched his balding pate, “Something about taking care of Addie if Henry got sick. Seems he got a bad checkup one
time, and the next thing we knew, Purvis was on the boxes, and Henry was just a cosigner. He only went to it about once a
year.”

“May I see the entry card?” Brownie asked.

Wilkins handed it over.

Brownie sped down the sheet. It had been signed each time the box was opened. Sure enough, Henry had come in only one time
a year. And each time had been the middle of August. “What’s the status of the box now?” Brownie inquired.

Wilkins pulled another paper from the file. “Closed out,” he said. “Purvis Bowers closed it. Within the past few weeks.”

Brownie let out his breath and leaned back in his chair. The questions were over.

“Should have the originals to you first thing tomorrow morning,” Wilkins said. “Meantime we’ll run copies. Is that okay?”

Brownie said yes, and turned for the door. His head was awash with new information. Henry had eight safe deposit boxes. Eight!
Enough room to keep a ton of cash.

The security guard let him out, and Brownie hustled down the steps into the afternoon sun. Henry was rich after all. Okay.
He could handle that. But there was still a burning question: where in hell did Henry get that much money in the first place?

Deputy Sheriff Amy Falcon drove her white county car down the shadowy corridor of evergreens. She had drawn the duty at roll
call to serve summonses in this sector of town. It had taken her most of the afternoon to catch up with the names on her list,
and now, as evening approached, there was one final name to cross out.

Purvis Bowers’s house lay at the bottom of a dead end in the Cedars section of town. The structure, like the other relics
on the shaded avenue, was Gothic and austere. Most of the homeowners were shut-ins or recluses, and along the secluded street
the voices of children were never heard. It was sterile and deserted most of the time. And that was just the way the neighbors
liked it.

The deputy maneuvered her car through the curve at the end of the cul-de-sac, and backed up so that the rear of her vehicle
was perpendicular to Bowers’s driveway. A small sedan was parked beside the house, so Deputy Falcon ran a tag check on her
mobile computer console, and confirmed that it belonged to Purvis Bowers. He was at home.

She walked up the winding brick pathway and stepped onto the wide wooden porch. The shades and curtains were drawn on every
window, and the door was shut. She rang the bell and waited, rocking back and forth nervously in her black brogans, wishing
that Bowers would hurry up so she could drop the papers on him and leave. The place was giving her the shivers.

There was no answer, so she tried the bell again.

Again, nothing moved.

“Mr. Bowers?” Her voice rattled the glass in the front door.

Again, nothing.

The deputy walked to the end of the porch and looked around the corner. There was a screen door to the rear of the house that
seemed to be lagging off its hinges. Something was wrong. Not only was the door hanging, it had a large jagged hole cut in
the middle of the screen.

Falcon ran over to it and shuddered to a stop.

“Four-two-five to dispatch!” she screamed into the radio strapped to her epaulet. “Dispatch!” Her voice sounded like a siren.

“Dispatch here. What’s your problem 425?”

The deputy had drawn her sidearm and pushed the screen door aside. “Got a man down!” she yelled breathlessly, scanning the
area for any sign of movement.

“State your 20,” the voice on the radio said calmly.

Deputy Falcon looked into the kitchen. She could see a man on his back, just inside the door, a hole in his midsection. “Four-two-six
Cedar Road,” she whispered into the mike. “Bowers residence.”

“Do you need medical assistance?” the voice asked.

Falcon walked to the body, and bent down. The tile floor was visible beneath the area where his chest used to be, and there
was very little flesh connecting the top half of his torso to the bottom.

Falcon gagged, and ran outside.

“I say again,” the voice repeated. “Do you require medical assistance?”