Silent Son (26 page)

“Baloney,” King retorted. “My client always went to court on his criminal cases. Ignoring a few traffic tickets doesn’t mean
he’s a risk to flee.”

Judge Hanks turned to Jennifer. “Did he always appear at his criminal trials?”

Jennifer nodded. “Yes, but he had no choice. He never made bond on any of those cases. He was held in detention until the
trial.”

Hanks shifted back to King. “Still think the traffic cases aren’t relevant?” That sounded like a challenge.

“Yes,” King answered without hesitation. “They were minor matters.”

“If he couldn’t be responsible on a minor matter, he’s not going to be responsible on a murder charge,” Jennifer replied.

Judge Hanks nodded. She was convinced. “Mr. Miller’s bond is set at five hundred thousand dollars!”

King remained calm. “How about ten percent acceptable, Judge?”

Hanks did a rapid calculation in her head, “All right, Mr. King. that’s probably reasonable. Five hundred thousand with ten
percent posted.”

Gardner jumped to his feet. “But Your Honor!”

The judge shook her head. It was too late. “That’s my ruling, Mr. Lawson.” She was not going to change her mind.

Gardner clenched his jaws and sat down. “Thanks for the help,” he whispered to Jennifer. He’d overlooked the traffic ticket
argument.

But there was still a major problem. If Roscoe could somehow come up with fifty thousand dollars, he’d be back on the street.

“Let’s move to Mr. Starke,” Judge Hanks said. They were finished with Roscoe, and it was time to set IV’s bond. “What is your
recommendation on this one, Mr. Lawson?”

Gardner pushed to his feet. “No bond, Your Honor.”

Judge Hanks gave him a quizzical look. “You’re putting him in the same category as Mr. Miller?”

“The comparison is appropriate,” Gardner said. “He’s from out of state. Has no roots here whatsoever. And would be a substantial
risk to flee if given the chance.”

“Has he ever failed to appear for court?” Judge Hanks looked at Jennifer.

“Not that I’m aware of, Your Honor,” Gardner said as Jennifer shook her head no.

“I see,” Her Honor replied. “But you’re still insisting on a no-bond status.”

Gardner felt his jaw tighten again. “If he’s released, we have no guarantee he’ll ever come back. He’s got nothing to keep
him here. Nothing whatsoever.”

Judge Hanks adjusted her glasses and picked up Starke’s charging document. Then she looked at IV. “What’s your bond recommendation,
Mr. Jacobs?”

The attorney smiled and stood up. “Well, Your Honor, the bond should be at least as low as Mr. Miller’s. Certainly not higher—”

“He’s going to run!” Gardner blurted out. “Any bond you set but no bond is going to be a mistake. He’s going to flee!”

Judge Hanks glared at the prosecutor. “You have proof of that?”

Jennifer stood. “His lawyer advised him to fight extradition.”

Jacobs frowned. “You can’t punish my client for asserting his rights. Your Honor,” he argued. “He was under no obligation
to waive extradition, and my advice not to do so cannot be used as proof that he’s a threat to abscond.”

Hanks removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Okay. Okay. Everyone has made their point.” She was ready to rule.

Gardner gave it one last shot. “The Maryland code permits you to add restrictions to pretrial release,” he argued. “Please,
I beg you, don’t make it unconditional!” If Starke did run, they’d never get Miller. It was crucial to keep him in the jurisdiction.

“Okay!” Judge Hanks snapped. She was getting tired. “Bond is set in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars, ten percent
acceptable, with a restriction to the State of Maryland as a specific condition of release.”

Gardner wrote the figure on his pad and circled it with disgust. Starke had that kind of cash in his pocket. He’d be out within
the hour. “Request an arm monitor, Judge,” Gardner declared, leaping to his feet.

“What?” Judge Hanks had never heard of it. “Arm what?”

“Monitor,” Gardner said. “A device that tracks the location of released prisoners. Electronic beeper.”

Judge Hanks looked at Jacobs for his reaction.

He frowned. “You’re kidding, of course,” he said.

“No,” the judge answered. “I think it’s a reasonable request. Monitors are to be installed on both Roscoe Miller and Wellington
Starke in the event that either makes bond… We stand adjourned!” Then she hit the bench with a resounding blow of the gavel
and left the courtroom.

Gardner glanced over at the defense counsel table. Jacobs and King had their heads together, conferring. When King noticed
him, he stopped. “Do you mind?” he asked in a sarcastic voice.

Gardner smiled. “If it bothers you, go somewhere else.”

King ignored the remark and went back to his conversation. They were really into it now. Whispering and chuckling, hatching
a plot for round two.

“Starke’s gonna get out,” Jennifer said, nodding toward the defendants, who were being led away by the sheriffs.

“Yeah,” Gardner replied sullenly.

“For sure.”

“I guess it was expected.” Gardner stood up and tucked the file under his arm.

“At least we’ll know where he is,” Jennifer said.

“Yeah,” Gardner said, looking at Jacobs and King, “at least we’ll know that. And if he comes within five miles of my son,”
he raised his voice, “he won’t need a lawyer. ’Cause I swear to God I’ll kill him!”

Brownie had finally finished examining the evidence retrieved from IV Starke’s safe. He’d analyzed and catalogued everything,
making notes as he went along as to the significance of each piece. Then he’d drawn up a list of follow-up inquiries.

He picked up a manila envelope from his In box. There was no return address, but he recognized the scrawly handwriting as
Greg Gavin’s, his man at the phone company. This was the answer to the request for Starke’s phone calls for the past half
year. The envelope was thick, and he ripped it open with his lab knife.

“Whoa!” Brownie exclaimed. There was a sheaf of computer paper inside, filled with numbers, four columns to a page, fifty
numbers to a column. There were about a hundred pages in all, documenting thousands of calls.

Brownie scanned the notations for the key. “O” meant the number was outgoing from Starke’s. “I” meant that the number was
incoming. Brownie flipped through the pages, noting that there were about as many I’s as O’s. The phone lines were buzzing
in both directions.

Returning to the first page, Brownie ran down the columns of numbers looking for patterns or familiar exchanges. NY. NY. NY.
NY. Dozens of outgoing New York calls. Two, in particular, repeated again and again as he backtracked toward, and then beyond
the date of the shootings at Bowers Corner.

Brownie made a notation on his pad: “212-775-3222” and “212-543-8000.”

He picked up his phone and dialed the first number. After several rings, an accented female voice answered, “Starke residence.”

Brownie cleared his throat. “Is this the home of Wellington Starke the fourth?”

“Yes, sir, it is. Who is calling please?”

“Phone company, ma’am,” Brownie answered. “Thanks for your time.” He hung up and wrote “home #” below the digits.

Brownie picked up his phone again and dialed the second number.

It answered immediately. “Udek Investigations.”

“This is 543-8000?” Brownie asked.

“Yes it is.” The voice sounded irritated.

Brownie thought fast. He would need to use a ruse this time. “I need an investigator,” Brownie said, lowering his voice.

“What type of case?”

Brownie took a shot in the dark. “Need to locate a missing person.”

“Okay. Can you tell me how you were referred to us?”

Brownie sucked in his breath. “Mr. Starke sent me.”

“Mr. Starke?” The voice sounded surprised.

“Uh-huh. Wellington Starke the fourth. Said you people did good work.”

There was a hush on the line for a moment, then the voice came back. “We don’t know anyone named Starke.”

“Huh,” Brownie mused. “Maybe I got that wrong.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Uh, could you give me your address? I’d still like you to help me out.”

“Who is this?” the voice demanded angrily.

“Just told you,” Brownie answered. “A man who needs some help.”

“Can’t help you!” the voice snapped. Then the line went dead.

Brownie wrote “investigator” below the number and put a giant question mark beside it. This was odd. IV Starke had contacted
a New York investigator about something. He’d called dozens of times from the school. And now they disavowed any knowledge
of him.

Brownie flipped the pages and checked the dates when the investigator’s number was called. The first call came three months
before the Bowers Corner murders. Then there were a lot of O’s and a few I’s for two months. Then the phone calls stopped,
and there were none in either direction from that point on.

Brownie went back to the beginning of the printout and rechecked. He scanned page after page without a reference to the number.
He was right. There was no contact with Udek Investigations until three months before Addie and Henry were killed.

Brownie returned to the first date the number appeared and prepared to make a notation when an I call caught his eye.

It had come in at 11:35
P.M
. and lasted seven minutes.

“Seven-two-seven, three-three-five-five,” Brownie said out loud. The number awakened a dim memory in the officer’s head.

“Seven-two-seven, three-three-five-five,” he repeated, struggling to put the numbers with a name.

He said it one more time, and pulled a phone book from the bottom drawer of his desk. “That can’t be right…” he said to himself.
“No way it could be right…”

He turned to the B section and ran his index finger down a page. “No way,” he mumbled to himself absently as he searched.

“Jesus Christ and Mother Mary!” His finger had hit the reference he was looking for.

“Seven-two-seven, three-three-five-five,” he repeated again, then he jumped to the printout and confirmed the number: 727-3355.
It was identical.

“No way,” Brownie said with disbelief.

But there it was. A phone call had been made from that number to IV Starke’s private phone at 11:35
P.M
., exactly three months
and one day prior to the murders.

Brownie shook his head. “Got to be a mistake,” he mumbled. The number was listed to BOWERS, H. It was the upstairs phone at
Bowers Corner. The private line of Addie and Henry.

S
TRATAGEM

Gardner was gripping the office telephone so tightly his fingers ached. “I
know
she’s there,” he told his mother-in-law.

“I said before that I haven’t seen them,” Kathryn Andrews replied, her voice quaking slightly with emotion. It was obvious
she didn’t like being in the middle. “Please stop calling here.”

“Did you give Carole my message?” Gardner persisted. “We picked up the suspects.”

“She knows,” Kathryn answered.

“She
is
there!” Gardner repeated.
“Please
let me speak with her!” There was a muffled sound as his mother-in-law covered the mouthpiece. A delay so she could ask Carole
one more time to take care of her own problems and leave her out.

“I’m sorry, Gardner, there’s really nothing I can do,” she finally said, her voice filled with sad resignation. “Please don’t
call again.”

“Kathryn—” Gardner stuttered, but it was too late. She’d already hung up.

“Damn it!” Gardner snarled, slamming the phone so hard against the cradle that it bounced back and skittered off the desk.

He watched it jerk back and forth on the end of its twisted cord. That was him in reality. A yo-yo on the end of a string.
Since the divorce his role in life had been to go wherever Carole yanked him. She had custody of Granville, and that left
her in control. He was helpless. Unable to defend himself because he might hurt his son in the process.

Gardner loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Carole was not bringing Granville back soon, that was obvious.
He’d seen this type of behavior before. When she ran, she stayed away a long time. Two months, when they separated. Two months
without seeing Granville. Two months not knowing where they were. He could keep calling, begging for her to come back, but
he knew it wouldn’t do any good. When Carole decided to act, there was no stopping her, no reasoning with her. It was time
to consider more drastic action.

He walked to his bookshelf and removed the “Court Proceedings” article of the Maryland code. After running through the index,
he opened to the “Material Witness” page. The words of the statute were clear. A State’s Attorney had the right to take a
material witness to a crime into custody, and it was unlawful for
anyone
to interfere.

Gardner rubbed his chin and reread the page. A summons could be issued for the witness, and the sheriff could go pick him
up. It was that simple. And no one could stop it.

He stood at the shelf and read the page four more times. The power to secure a witness was absolute. There were no exceptions
and no exemptions. If the State’s Attorney ordered it, it could be done.

Gardner slowly walked to his desk and laid out the statute. Then he picked up his pen and began to draft a summons. When he
got to the section where the witness’s name was to be inserted, he hesitated. If he went through with this, the war with Carole
would be escalated to a level he could not even contemplate. Knowing her, there would be massive retaliation. And what about
Granville? What would it do to him? The prosecutor skipped the name and went on to the next line.

The prosecuter completed the form, then sat at his desk, staring at the space for the witness’s name. It was blank. Granville,
he thought. Granville Alcott Lawson. Such a big name for such a little boy. “Gran-What?” people had asked when they saw the
tiny infant and asked for a name. “Gran-Ville” Gardner always replied patiently. “It’s a family name.” It had come from a
great-great-grandmother, Emily Granville, who’d married Thaddeus Lawson III. Later generations changed it to a first name
for their eldest males. And although Gardner had missed out, he revived the name and bestowed it on his son.