Silent Son (29 page)

At 10:00
P.M
. that evening Gardner and Jennifer were in bed. He was asleep, and she had nothing to do but sit beside him and stare at
his back. Jennifer’s knees were pulled up, and a novel rested on her sheet-covered thighs. She was at page five, where she’d
been for the past half hour.

The summons was on its way. As they lay there, an unmarked sheriff’s car was en route to Baltimore to pick up Granville. Suddenly,
the phone rang. Jennifer answered before it could disturb Gardner.

“Hello?”

“It’s Brownie. Gard there?” He sounded excited.

“Sleeping. What’s up?”

“Gotta talk to him…”

Jennifer nudged Gardner awake and handed him the phone.

“Huh?” he said groggily into the mouthpiece, then, “What!” He sat upright in the bed. “No! Goddamn it! No!”

Gardner said good-bye and slammed down the phone. His face was ashen.

“What is it?” Jennifer’s voice was trembling.

“They’re out,” Gardner said gravely.
“Both
of them. Starke posted bond this afternoon and Miller tonight.” He looked at Jennifer with fear in his eyes. “We knew Starke
could do it, but not Roscoe too. Shit! Somehow he came up with the money!”

Granville would be in the county by morning. And
both
suspected killers were back on the street.

Gardner was bleary-eyed when he opened the door to his town house at 6:30
A.M
. and greeted Deputy Sheriff Perry Pike. His sleep had been fitful after the phone call last night, as his mind wound through
twisted scenes of pursuit and terror.

“What happened?” Gardner asked. Pike was the deputy he’d chosen to serve the witness summons on Granville. A huge man, with
a wide friendly face, he looked like a panda. He had three kids of his own, one of whom was in Granville’s class at school.
That made him perfect for the job.

“It was bad, man,” Pike said with a grimace. “Your ex-wife went bonkers…”

Gardner’s heart leaped as he looked past the deputy toward his car. Maybe he’d failed, and left the boy in Baltimore.

“Don’t worry,” Pike said. “I got him, but it wasn’t easy.”

Gardner ran to the vehicle and looked inside. Granville was curled on the back seat, asleep. His knees were pulled up, his
body turned at an awkward angle against the seatbelt.

“She went nuts when I showed her the summons,” Pike continued. “Called the city cops. Threatened me. Threatened you. Got the
boy upset.”

Gardner looked at his son’s face. It wasn’t smooth and relaxed, the way an eight-year-old’s should be. There were tension
lines on his forehead, and dirty streaks below his eyes.

Gardner’s stomach began to throb. He had been warned. “What did you tell him?” he asked.

“Said Dad asked me to pick him up,” Pike replied.

Gardner glanced back at his son. He’d shifted into another contortion, but he was still asleep. “What’d he say?” Gardner asked.

“He asked where you were,” the deputy replied. “Refused to come with me.”

Gardner put his hand over his eyes. “How’d you get him in the car?”

“Had to carry him,” Pike answered. “Mom was screaming, he was crying. Struggled a little…”

“Oh, God.”

“Finally got him calmed down,” Pike continued. “Got him talking about school and stuff. He was pretty okay after that…”

Gardner opened the car door and reached in to unbuckle the seatbelt. Granville stirred when the metal clasp clicked. Then
he opened his eyes.

“Hi, Gran,” Gardner said.

Sleep still ruled, and Granville had to blink a few times to get his bearings.

Gardner reached in and scooped him up like a baby.

“Dad!” he yelled. “Dad!” His eyes filled with tears and he began to squirm.

Gardner set him on the ground. “Gran,” he said again.

Deputy Pike cleared his throat and motioned to Gardner that he had to leave, so Gardner moved his son away from the car and
allowed it to back out of the parking space.

Then Gardner put his arms out. It was the hug signal, the sign that Granville always reacted to instantly. But the boy gave
his father a petulant look and stood his ground.

Gardner kept his arms open, then lowered them slowly. “Not going to give me a hug?” His voice quavered.

Granville shook his head no.

“Why not?”

The boy lowered his eyes. “Don’t want to.”

Gardner took Granville’s arm and led him inside. “Let’s get some breakfast.” Maybe food could break the ice.

They entered the kitchen, and Gardner took a wax carton from the refrigerator and filled a glass. “How about some milk?”

Granville again shook his head no.

Gardner’s temper flared, but he held it in. He picked up Granville and placed him in a chair at the kitchen table. Then he
sat down on the other side.

“Gran, we have to have a talk,” he said softly.

The boy eyed him sullenly, but remained silent.

“I’m sure you’re confused about what happened last night.”

Granville did not answer.

“You know that Dad puts bad people in jail,” Gardner continued. “You know that it’s my job. When someone hurts another person,
I take the bad person to court and put him in jail.”

Granville stared blankly while his father talked.

“I want you to be a witness in court,” Gardner said.

Granville’s face paled.

“I want you to help me put some
very
bad people in jail.”

Tears were beginning to form in the boy’s eyes.

“The people who killed Addie and Henry are going to court soon, and I need your help.”

Granville began to shake his head violently from side to side.

“Gran!” Gardner reached across the table and grabbed his son’s shoulder. “Listen to me!” His voice was loud. “It hurts! I
know! But we have to do it! You and me! Together!”

“But Mom…” Granville blubbered.

“Mom doesn’t want you to, I know! But Mom just doesn’t understand! That’s why the sheriff went to get you. So you could come
back here and help Dad. I
need
you, Gran! I
need
you to help me!”

Gardner walked to the other side of the table. Permission or not, he was going to hug his child.

There was another cold response, then the boy went passive and allowed his father to hold him. Gardner fought back his own
tears as he clutched Granville like a rag doll in his arms.

Gardner held tight and closed his eyes. Granville could do it. He was certain. Together, they’d solve the case and end the
nightmare.

“Want to play some ball later?” Gardner finally asked.

Granville stirred and looked up. “When?” His voice was weak.

“After breakfast,” Gardner said, standing and grabbing a box of cereal. “Right after breakfast.” He poured some com flakes
into a bowl and set it on the table.

Granville slowly picked up his spoon. “Can I hit a few?” he asked.

Brownie’s shift did not begin until 10:00
A.M
., but he was already at the lab by 7:00, well into his tasks for the day. MILLER and MONEY topped his note pad, and beneath
those words a list of items he still had to check out. The first item was “teletype.” He’d put out an alert on Roscoe to local
police departments weeks ago but received no response. Last night he’d decided to extend the range of his search. He’d faxed
a photo of Roscoe with a description of his truck to all the surrounding states. Roscoe was not only a loner, he was a wanderer.
Maybe he had dropped a clue across the border.

The teletype beeped to signify an incoming message. Brownie walked over and watched the paper slide up as the type keys jittered
out the words. Another beep signified that the transmission was complete. Brownie ripped out the paper and laid it on his
table. TO SGT JOE BROWN, COUNTY POLICE, it read. FROM LT DARRELL AVIS, WEST VIRGINIA STATE POLICE. The message followed.

ROSCOE (NMN) MILLER WAS ARRESTED OUR JURISDICTION ON JUNE 15 OF THIS YEAR AND CHARGED WITH ASSAULT. INSPECTION OF HIS PERSONAL
BELONGINGS REVEALED HE WAS CARRYING $8000.00 U.S. CURRENCY.

Brownie blinked and reread the last three words. “Eight thousand dollars U.S. currency,” he said aloud. He adjusted the paper
and read on: THE ASSAULT WAS PERPETRATED AGAINST A LOCAL MINER IN THE DRIVE INN BAR ON THE EVENING OF JUNE 14. BOND WAS SET
AT $5000.00. ON THE 15TH, MILLER POSTED BOND IN THAT AMOUNT, AND WAS RELEASED. A TRIAL DATE WAS SET, BUT THE CHARGES WERE
LATER DROPPED BY THE COMPLAINANT. AN ATTEMPT WAS MADE TO NOTIFY MILLER AT THE ADDRESS GIVEN, BUT THE LETTER WAS RETURNED.
THE BOND MONEY IS STILL BEING HELD BY THE COURT. END OF MESSAGE.

Brownie flicked the corner of the paper with his finger. A connection! Roscoe had a pocketful of cash within weeks of the
murder. He imagined Gardner’s face lighting up when he heard the news.

Brownie dialed the number for the West Virginia State Police. When it answered, he asked for Lieutenant Avis.

“Avis.” The man’s voice was rough, like he’d been screaming at criminals all his life.

“Sergeant Brown, county police, Maryland. Sent you that teletype on Miller.”

“Yeah,” the gravel voice responded. “Did you get our answer?”

“Just came in,” Brownie replied. “Got one question, though.”

“Shoot.”

“What address did Miller give you at intake?”

“Hold on a minute,” the lieutenant replied.

Brownie grabbed his pen and arranged his note pad.

In a second, the trooper was back. “Here it is,” he said.

Brownie poised his pen.

“Four twenty-six Cedar Road—”

“Huh!” Brownie thought he’d heard it wrong.

“Four twenty-six Cedar Road,” Avis repeated, “in your hometown.”

Brownie wrote it down and underlined it with a hard stroke of his pen. “Jesus,” he said under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” the lieutenant asked.

“You’re sure he gave you
that
address?”

Avis hesitated, then replied, “Positive!”

Brownie shook his head and looked at the note. The address provided by Roscoe was the home of Purvis Bowers!

Roscoe Miller slouched in the leather chair opposite Kent King’s desk. He was dressed in his usual ensemble of jeans, T-shirt,
and boots. He was tempted to put his feet up on the desk, but knew better. King would probably bust his kneecap if he did.

The lawyer was wearing his trademark double-breasted pinstripe. Unlike Gardner Lawson, he looked relaxed and rested. “Are
you gonna thank me?” he asked Miller sarcastically.

Roscoe fluffed his hair. “For what?”

“It’s customary to show appreciation to the person who arranges bail,” King said.

“Oh,” said Miller. “I get it. Thanks a lot, Mr. King.”

The lawyer smiled. “You can really thank the other guy. Starke. He put up the cash.”

“He did?”

“Uh-huh,” King replied. “Pretty generous, don’t you think?”

Miller nodded blankly.

“Seems like he wants to pay you back for something,” King said. “Care to tell me about it?”

Miller’s face was impassive. He began to fiddle with the black shiny plastic tightly encircling his wrist.

“He don’t owe me nuthin’,” he said.

King stared across the desk with a disapproving glare. “No?”

Miller shook his head. “Nuthin’,” he repeated.

“Well why would he want to put up fifty thousand dollars of his own money, then?”

“Maybe he’s got nuthin’ better to do with it,” Roscoe answered.

“What the hell happened out there, Roscoe?” King asked.

Roscoe tried to turn the monitor around on his wrist, but it wouldn’t budge. “Nuthin’,” Roscoe repeated. “Nobody done nuthin’.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid!” Roscoe snapped.

King leaned forward. “He’s gonna try to burn you…”

Roscoe looked up.

“Why else would he want you out on the street?” King went on. “He’s got something planned, and you’re part of it.”

Roscoe squirmed and rubbed the monitor again. “What if this thing quit working?” he said suddenly. “And the county shits couldn’t
track me?”

King crossed his arms. His client was changing the subject. “We’re not talking about that, Roscoe! We’re talking about Starke.”

“What would they do if the signal quit?” Miller persisted. His mind was fixated on the monitor.

King gave up trying to hold him to the discussion. “They’d probably come after you,” he said.

Miller smiled and let go of the bracelet. “But they wouldn’t know where to find me.”

King nodded condescendingly. “Right.”

“Would it be a violation of my release conditions?”

King glanced at the monitor. “If it quit working?”

“Yeah,” Roscoe said.

King shook his head. “No. I’d say not. It’s
their
damn equipment. If it goes bad, they can’t really blame you.”

Roscoe smiled again, but he did not say a word.

“Can we get back to some case prep now?” King asked. He was irritated at the diversion.

Roscoe sat up. “Whatever you say.”

The town’s main post office was located on Court Avenue in the downtown section. It was a granite building, hewn from the
quarry stone of the mountains, and assembled a hundred years ago. Although there were several small branches scattered across
the remote rural sections, the main post office was the hub of all mail operations in the county. Every letter entered and
exited at that point.

At 11:45
A.M
. Brownie pushed his way through the revolving door and into the central hall. Its vaulted ceiling echoed with the voices
of the mail handlers behind a wooden partition that ran the length of the room. Purvis Bowers’s address turning up on Roscoe
Miller’s arrest report was an unexpected jolt, as strange as Henry calling IV Starke on the phone. It had to be checked out.

Brownie entered the postmaster’s office and asked to see Mr. Jim. If there was a certified character in all of the county,
eighty-year-old James “Mr. Jim” Johnson certainly qualified. He had worked for the post office for over sixty years, and “never
missed a day on the job,” so the legend went. He was well past retirement age, but his mind still had the snap of a teenager’s.
He’d been able to obtain a waiver that kept him employed, but his real claim to fame was his hobby. He was an amateur genealogist,
and it was said that he could recite the ancestry of every man, woman, and child in the county.