Silent Son (17 page)

Gardner took a breath. “I need to see him, and we don’t have much time.”

“What’s this really about?” Carole asked.

“Granville knows something,” Gardner answered. “He’s trying to communicate. I’m certain of it.”

Carole picked up on what he was saying. “The drawings.”

“Right. I think he’s drawing a picture, but it’s not clear—”

“But he already had his session,” Carole interrupted.

“He’s got to have another one,” Gardner said. “Tonight.”

“No!” That was the old Carole talking. Intransigent to the max.

“Damnit, Carole!” Gardner exploded. “Don’t you understand what’s going on here?”

“No I don’t! Why don’t you tell me!”

“The person who killed Addie and Henry just killed their nephew! With a shotgun!”

The phone suddenly went silent.

“Carole?”

“Another murder! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just did,” Gardner mumbled.

“And it’s the same one? The same one who killed Addie and Henry?”

“We think so,” Gardner said softly.

“And now he’s after my son!”

“Our son, goddamnit! Our son.” Even at a time like this, the possessiveness came through. “He can help. I know he can. Just
give me some time with him—”

“No!”

“It may be our only hope,” Gardner continued.

“You’ve got the police. You don’t need my son!”

Gardner let that one pass. “Please!” he begged.

“No!” She was sounding firmer all the time. “You told me that Addie and Henry were killed by a robber, and he was long gone.
You said not to worry. But you lied!”

“Jesus!” Gardner whispered.

“He’s still here!” There was outright panic in those words.

“Carole, please!”

“I’m leaving!” she announced.

“Please!” Gardner pleaded.

“We’re going away. Now!”

“Granville may be the only one who can solve the case!” Gardner yelled. “I’ve got to see him!”

“Never!” Then Carole hung up the phone.

At 9:00
P.M
. Brownie was on a roll. He’d rushed back to the lab from the Purvis Bowers house and begun processing the shotgun
shell. The preliminary dusting came up negative, so he lasered it. While the macro photos were developing in the darkroom,
he manned his computer console and keyed in a name search for Roscoe Hiller in the county tax records. If Roscoe had worked
under that name in the last six months, and his employer had filed the required employee withholding information, the records
should be available. Previous search attempts using Roscoe’s known aliases had come up empty. They’d already found two Social
Security numbers he’d used, but the weasel was suspected of having others. According to an old police report that Brownie
had just dug up, Roscoe had once used the name Hiller. That was the only name they hadn’t run in a financial records search.
With time running out, it was worth one last try.

The inquiry was fed in, and the screen replied that a search was under way. While he was waiting, Brownie picked up the phone
and dialed the number of his contact at the telephone company. A billing clerk permanently on the night shift, the man had
access to the records of every phone call made and received in the jurisdiction.

After two rings, a male voice answered. “Gavin.”

“The Brown man here,” Brownie said softly. “Gonna need your services.”

“Hold on,” the voice whispered, “gotta switch phones.”

There was a click as the call went on hold, and soon another click as the line reopened. “Okay, give it to me.”

“All calls made in the past twenty-four hours from 887-5000.”

“Local or L.D.?”

“Local first, then I’ll decide if I need the long distance.”

“Okay. Hold on.”

The line came up again. “Got quite a few here, how do you want ‘em?”

“Read the list,” Brownie said, adjusting his note pad.

“You got it,” Gavin replied. Then he began reciting the forty numbers that were called from Kent King’s office in the past
two days. Gardner had told Brownie to check on King’s possible tip-off of the killer, and Jennifer had okayed a search of
his phone records. If there was a tip-off, it might have been by phone.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yep… yep…” Brownie scribbled the rapid-fire numerals as they came across the line, noting to himself that
most of them were familiar. Courthouse. Police department. County jail. Routine numbers for a defense attorney. “Whoa!” he
called suddenly. “You said 747-3222?”

“Yes.”

Brownie circled the number. It was familiar. Then it hit him. “Carlos’ Cantina” he wrote beside it. “Gav, when did that last
one go out?”

There was a pause as the time was checked on the computer screen. “Eight forty-five last night.”

Brownie wrote “8:45
P.M
.” beside his other note and underlined it. “Okay, keep going.”

The list continued but there was nothing else of note, so Brownie thanked his friend and hung up. He’d heard enough. King
had called Carlos’ last night, after the decision was made to subpoena Purvis before the Grand Jury. If Roscoe was the shooter,
that may have been the tip-off call.

Just then, the computer buzzed an announcement that the data search Brownie had requested earlier was complete. He walked
to the console and scanned the information on the screen. There was a Roscoe Hiller listed. His employer had turned in his
Social Security number on intermittent dates since December. Wages were paid in the total amount of $6,080.45. And withholding
was duly recorded.

Brownie scanned past the individual payment schedule, and screened ahead to the next page in search of the employer’s name.

“All right!” He whistled. There was the name of the employer. At the top of the glowing green monitor. The place where Roscoe
Hiller had been secretly hanging out over the past half year.

Brownie traced the words with his pen, and then wrote them down in giant letters at the top of his pad:

ROSCOE HILLER
GROUNDS CREW
PRENTICE ACADEMY

A pair of eyes nervously watched from the woods as Carole packed her bags. She was rushing from room to room, gathering belongings.
He could sec her figure as it flashed across the windows. The cops were parked in front, watching the entrance road. They
were too stupid to look in this direction.

The lights went out upstairs, and for a moment the lady disappeared. The man shifted his position to get a better angle on
the front door.

Something was happening, that was for sure. The lady was spooked. Freaked out. The man smiled and thought to himself: they
must have gotten the message.

Suddenly there was movement out front. The lady ran to her car, dragging the kid with her. She threw some suitcases in the
back and started to open her door. The male cop came over and tried to talk to her, but she shrugged him off and opened her
car door. The cop said something else, but she wasn’t having any of it. Again, the man smiled as he adjusted the binoculars
to get better focus on the lady’s ashen face. She’s really sweating, he thought to himself.

Just then, another car pulled in, and a middle-aged man jumped out. The State’s Attorney! He looked more upset than the lady.
By now she had started her engine and had backed up a few feet to get away from the cops. The prosecutor ran toward the car.
It looked like he was shouting. The lady backed up a few more feet, then swerved, and roared toward the road. The prosecutor
screamed and tried to block the car, but it changed course again, went over a low hill, and disappeared into the trees.

The prosecutor ran back to the cops and started yelling at them. They stood there and took it, then they got in their cruiser
and left. They did not look happy.

The prosecutor stood in front of the house after the cops pulled out. For five minutes he was immobile, staring at the building.
Then he walked to his car, leaned against it with his elbows and buried his face in his hands.

The man rolled over in the darkness and looked up toward the summer sky. The tree canopies were spread enough so a few of
the stars shone through. It was peaceful and quiet. The way it was supposed to be. No more screwups. No more loose ends. From
now on everything was gonna run smooth.

He pushed up to his knees, then stood and stretched. From the looks of things, he would not have to come back here. The little
punk was no longer a problem. Mamma would see to that. No way she was gonna let him testify, even if he could. She was scared
shitless.

The man began to trot along his secret trail out of the woods. The kid was no problem, his thought repeated, noooo problem
at all.

But what if… A sudden doubt seized his mind. What if… What if mamma changed her mind? His pace slowed for a second.

Okay. It was gonna be okay. If that happened, he’d just have to return one more time and finish the job himself.

Brownie was hunched over his magnifier in the lab when the door opened and Gardner ran in. It was 11:00
P.M
., and Brownie
squinted at the apparition that had just ruined his concentration. “Gard! What the hell happened?” The prosecutor looked terrible.

“Carole’s taken Granville,” Gardner said. “Got spooked and ran…”

Brownie adjusted the giant lens that was poised over two parallel fingerprint cards and stood up. “She got what?”

“Scared. The shotgun shell in the mailbox… She blew up and took off.”

Brownie’s face registered total confusion. “Back up a second, boss. You’re losing me.”

Gardner scanned the lab table for an envelope and a shell, but they were not in sight. “Did you get the evidence package from
my house?”

Brownie shook his head. “No.”

Gardner’s face contorted. “Those idiots! I told them to send it over to you immediately. Around eight
P.M
.”

Brownie shook his head again. “Been here the whole shift, and then some. Nothin’s come in.”

Gardner pulled a chair over to the lab table and motioned Brownie to sit down. Then he sat, and took several deep breaths
to calm himself. “They’re after Granville,” he began, then went on to explain the shell in the mailbox, his call to Carole,
and the escape scene at the Watson Road house. “She’s probably headed for Baltimore,” he concluded, “to her mother’s.”

Brownie patted his friend on the back. “The boy’s gonna be okay with his mom…”

“But I need him herel” Gardner moaned. “He’s trying to remember! A little more time and I think he can do it!”

“Take it easy, Gard,” Brownie said reassuringly. “Might not be necessary. I’m that close to shutting this case down.” He pinched
his fingers to within a quarter of an inch of each other. “Got a partial print off the Purvis Bowers shell, and I’m matching
it up now.” He moved the magnifier back into place.

Gardner looked over his shoulder. “Who are you comparing with?”

Brownie flashed an annoyed look at the prosecutor. “Who do you think?”

“Miller?”

“The one and only,” Brownie said as he aimed a sharp metal pointer at the known print of Roscoe Miller. “Look here. Got one…
two… three points of comparison.” He waved the wand back and forth between the two fingerprint images, touching identical
ridge markings on either side.

Gardner frowned. “Three points on a partial print? Is that enough?”

Case law did not require a fixed number of points of comparison to make a positive identification of a fingerprint. All the
examiner had to do was rule out the possibility that there was a nonconforming pattern somewhere in either print. But if there
were any nonconforming patterns in the missing segment, it could mean there was no match.

“Don’t think we’ve got a lot of choice in the matter,” Brownie said, peering fish-eyed through the magnifying glass. “Only
got a fingertip, but there’s no doubt in my mind it belongs to Miller!”

Gardner confirmed that the three points of comparison were, in fact, identical. “So, assuming the print is Miller’s, what
else do we have tying him in to Addie and Henry?” The print alone was not sufficient to close the book on the case.

“Possible ID by a girl in the schoolbus. Possession of twelve-gauge shells. Possible tie-in to Purvis Bowers—he said he knew
Roscoe—weird behavior ever since this thing went down, and a phone call from Kent King yesterday evening.”

Gardner stirred. “You ran King’s phone records?”

“Yeah. Jennifer said it was okay. King called Carlos’ Can-tina last night. It’s Roscoe’s hangout.”

Gardner sighed. “That proves nothing. King could have been ordering a pizza…”

Brownie shook his head. “I disagree. King called the cantina last night, the summons for Purvis went out this morning, and
Bang! Bowers is subdivided. There has to be a connection!”

Gardner ran his hand through his disheveled hair, “Okay, okay. You think we have enough to pick up Miller?”

“Yeah,” Brownie replied.

Gardner nodded. It was time to do something. Arrest now, and worry about conviction later. Get the bastard into custody as
soon as possible.

Just then the door opened and Jennifer rushed in.

“Gard!” she looked frazzled.

Gardner and Brownie stood up. “You got my note?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Hi, Brownie.”

“Ma’am,” the officer replied politely.

“What happened?” She looked at Gardner.

“Bad scene. Carole grabbed Granville and ran. I couldn’t stop her.”

Jennifer grimaced. “Where did they go?”

“Baltimore, probably,” Gardner answered.

“So what now?”

“We nail Miller!” Gardner said with resolve. “Brownie’s got a print. Maybe with that and the other bits and pieces we can
justify an arrest!”

“What about this?” Jennifer asked suddenly, pulling a sheaf of papers out of her purse. She unfolded them and placed four
sheets on the table.

“You got the drawings!” Gardner said excitedly. He’d sent Jennifer out earlier to pick up Granvillevs scribbled pages from
the therapist.

“Wouldn’t let me have the originals, only copies.”

Brownie bent over the table. “What is this?”

Gardner separated the pages and put them in order of the dates they’d been drawn. On each page, the clarity of the strange
atomic symbol seemed to become more refined, more detailed. “Granville’s subconscious,” Gardner replied. “It’s a clue. I’m
convinced.”