Silent Son (3 page)

“Uh, this ain’t right,” he finally said.

Gardner took the paper from his hand and held it aloft. “Are you denying you drank ten beers?”

Karr was caught. If he denied it, he’d be a liar, and if he agreed, he’d be a drunk. He decided to hedge. “I jus’ said that
bill ain’t right.”

Gardner plunked it on the rail and pointed to the top. “It’s got your name right here: Bill Karr. What’s wrong with it?”

The witness was outmatched, but he was not going to quit. “They got the number wrong. Wrote it down wrong…”

Gardner pushed in close. “We have the bartender on call, Mr. Karr. Think before you answer again. How many beers did you have
that night?”

The witness squirmed again, but didn’t answer. His options were gone.

“How many, Mr. Karr?” Gardner repeated.

The witness remained silent, his face down.

Gardner tossed the bar bill on his trial table, glanced at the jury, and sat down. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

The courtroom was sparsely sprinkled with spectators. The victims of the arson were there, and a few retired townies. But
other than that, the seats were empty.

Gardner had been too wrapped up in his work to notice county police Sergeant Joseph Brown enter the courtroom. “Brownie” was
a detective in the department and close personal friend of the prosecutor. The black officer had put his life on the line
many times for Gardner, and there was no question that Gardner would reciprocate in an instant.

Brownie moved to the front row and sat down. As Gardner worked the witness, Brownie tried to catch his attention.

Gardner finally noticed the officer when he returned to his seat. As their eyes met, an icy hand seized Gardner’s heart. Brownie’s
face looked like a wrought-iron mask. He’d seen that expression before, on Brownie, and on others. The bad news look.

Gardner swallowed and motioned Brownie forward. Something devastating had just happened. “Brownie?”

The officer grimaced. “There was a shooting out at Bowers Corner,” he whispered. “Bowers both dead…”

Gardner paled. The Bowers. Addie and Henry, dead. He looked to Brownie for a softening of his eyes, but there was an even
darker expression of pain. Gardner’s heart began to race. There was more…

“And?” Gardner tensed against the words.

“There was another victim…” Brownie was stalling. “Still alive, but med-evaced to shock-trauma…” There were tears in the officer’s
eyes.

“Who? Goddamn it!” Gardner shouted.

The courtroom fell silent, as if everyone suddenly knew what Gardner didn’t.

Brownie put his arm around Gardner’s shoulder. “Take it easy, man. He’s gonna be okay…”

Gardner stood up. He was trembling, and his face had drained to a dull shade of gray. “Granville!”

Brownie tried to restrain him, “Gard! He’s gonna make it!”

But it was too late. Without asking leave of court, Gardner bolted from the room, blasting through the swinging panels at
the base of the gallery and slamming past the outer door with a double blow of his fists.

Assistant State’s Attorney Jennifer Munday had just heard the news about Bowers Corner, and she didn’t know what to do.

Gardner was more than her boss. They had been lovers for the past year, ever since they had joined forces on a sensational
murder case that had rocked the county. Before that, they had been friends and colleagues, developing an attraction that neither
had acted upon until it spontaneously erupted into a heated affair. And now they were so deeply embedded in each other’s lives
that the pain of one instantaneously affected the other.

Jennifer was on the telephone in her office, trying to get information. “Yes, Officer Lowell, I do understand…”

The cops were not giving out many details.

“But the boy—what about the boy?” Jennifer brushed her dark hair behind her left ear and adjusted her glasses. “How is… he?”

Granville came with the Gardner package, but he had never interfered with the relationship. Jennifer had become his surrogate
stepmother. She loved the boy. He was so full of spunk. A miniature Gardner, that’s what she saw whenever the blond head popped
into view.

“Okay, okay. University Hospital, Baltimore. Shock-trauma unit.”

Jennifer was jotting notes as she spoke. “No. I don’t know where he is right now. He left the courtroom. Never came back here.”
Her words were slow and deliberate.

“Please. Let me know if you hear something. I’ll be at the office number.”

Jennifer hung up the phone and lay back in her chair. The sun had just dropped behind the western ridge of the Appalachian
mountain range that bordered the outskirts of town, and the orange glow from its aura suddenly lit up the room. Jennifer shaded
her eyes and looked out the window. The pointed church tower in the square, illuminated from behind, looked like a black spear
against the sky. An ominous symbol.

Just then, Jennifer flashed back to a chill November day at Bowers Corner. The five of them had spent the afternoon around
the wood stove in the store, rocking in the old-fashioned chairs that Addie kept for visitors. Gardner was badgering Henry
for war stories. Granville was alternating laps between Addie, Jennifer, and his dad. And they were all drinking hot chocolate.

“What was your scariest moment?” Gardner asked.

Henry rocked back and took a sip from his china cup, his eyes closed briefly in thought. “Came face-to-face with a German
tank,” he said somberly.

Gardner perked up. The others kept rocking. “What happened?”

“It was two days after the invasion. Near St. Lo. We had been moving for fifty hours, nonstop. Most of the men were so dog-tired
they were asleep on their feet…”

Gardner was listening intently, stroking Granville’s head as the boy curled in his lap, listening also.

“They told us to set up a gun position on a road outside of town. Antitank unit.” Henry could see it clearly in his mind as
he talked. “It was a foggy morning. We set up the gun and then some of the guys laid down for some rest.” His voice picked
up a suspenseful tone. “All of a sudden, we could hear it. Clank! Clank! Clank! out of the fog. Clank! Clank! Clank!”

Granville stirred, and Gardner calmed him with another stroke of his hair.

“Then, we could see him. Big Tiger tank, ’bout a hundred yards away, rumbling out of the fog. Clank! Clank! Clank!”

Addie and Jennifer were now absorbed in the tale, their eyes bright with expectancy.

“Tried to wake two of the gunners, but they were too far gone. Couldn’t even kick ’em awake.” Henry was rolling, caught up
in his own story. “Then he opened up with his fifty caliber. Rat-ta-ta-ta! Tracer bullets flyin’ past us like lightnin’ bugs.
One hit Charley Jones in the head, and he went down—”

Henry stopped suddenly, leaving his audience in suspense.

“Well?” Gardner said anxiously. “What happened?”

The old man took another sip of cocoa. “Got a shell in the breach, and pulled the cord. Boom! Like ta knocked out our eardrums.
Then another boom! Even bigger. Got ’im in the turret and blew it clear off. Smoke. Fire. And a popppp! poppp! poppp! as his
ammo went off. That woke the boys up good. There wasn’t any sleeping after that.”

Gardner praised Henry for his bravery, and Granville shook his hand. And they drank another round of chocolate and thanked
the fates for saving Henry’s life.

Jennifer’s mind wandered back as she realized that the bullets that had missed that day in France had finally found their
mark. Henry was gone. And Addie too…

She picked up the phone and dialed long distance. “Shock-trauma, please.”

“Trauma center.”

“Calling to inquire about a med-evac patient, Granville Lawson.”

“The county boy?”

“Uh-huh.” Jennifer suddenly pictured Granville on a gurney, plugged with tubes and wires.

“He just arrived. Can’t tell yet. All I know is that he’s alive but unconscious.”

Jennifer’s lip trembled and she began to cry. “Can you… Can I…” She couldn’t go on with the call, so she hung up. Granville
and Gardner were linked by a secret lifeline. If the boy went under, the father would follow.

At 9:30
P.M
. the commercial section of the town was deserted. The shop owners and workers lived in the residential zone that
stretched from the base of the mountains to the foot of Court Avenue. Beyond that, the square containing the post office,
the courthouse, Saint Michael’s Church, and four low Gothic-style office buildings made up the heart of the town. After sunset,
when the workaday chores had ended, the heart stopped beating.

The Bowers killing had hit Brownie hard. He, like many others, had been captivated by the old couple, and had done his share
of time in a rocker by the stove. Who on God’s earth would ever want to kill them? And Granville—comatose in the hospital,
injured in the same insane outburst. What the hell had happened out there?

Brownie shuttled his crime lab van through the silent streets at the center of town, en route to the Strip on the southern
outskirts. It was a string of country-western bars, liquor stores, and pool parlors where muscled farm boys and townie toughs
came to strut, and drink, and tangle violently as they acted out their daily frustrations.

Brownie tried to analyze the case as he drove. He’d been to the scene earlier and received a briefing from the other investigators.
There were no witnesses. When Miss Fahrnam entered the store, the Bowers were dead, and Granville was unconscious on the floor.
She and the children went into hysterics. The 911 call was almost unintelligible. Screams, and wails, and on and on about
the blood. It took the cops a long time to get anything out of anyone, and what they got was worthless. No one saw anything.
And all they heard was a loud bang. No car. No running footsteps. No hard evidence. No obvious suspects.

Brownie had taken it upon himself to tell Gardner. He wanted to ease the shock, to let him down slowly. But it hadn’t worked
out that way. The prosecutor had lost it, and now, in retrospect, Brownie scolded himself for not anticipating his reaction.
After the courtroom scene, he had followed Gardner to the state police barracks, and to an empty helicopter pad where the
western Maryland chopper had been parked only moments before. It hadn’t taken long to get it airborne, heading eastward toward
the hospital. The state cops respected Gardner as much as the county boys, and when he asked a favor, they could never bring
themselves to turn him down.

So now it was going to be up to Brownie to track the killer. The county detectives were still working the scene, and the state
police crime lab had sent reinforcements, but from what Brownie had observed in his brief visit to Bowers, it was not promising.
There was only one clue out there that gave him some hope. Behind the store, Brownie had found some smeared footprints in
the dirt. Too messed up for any kind of ID, but clear enough to peg as recent. And one of the prints was unusual. The heel
had been dragged across the ground before the foot came to rest. It had grabbed Brownie’s attention immediately. There was
at least one person in town who walked with a boot-dragging gait: a nasty punk with a record for violence named Roscoe Miller.

Brownie had begun the investigation in the usual way. He made a list of the local thugs who might be involved. Bad guys who
did this sort of thing as a career, and whose whereabouts this afternoon had to be checked out. He had seven names on his
list, and the alibis of three had already been verified. One was in jail in a neighboring county. One had left town weeks
ago. And one was in the hospital recovering from an overdose. The next name on Brownie’s list was Roscoe Miller.

Brownie pulled his lab van into the parking lot of Carlos’ Cantina, a honky-tonk joint at the top end of the Strip. The cinder
block building was bordered in red and green neon, and the sign was dotted with yellow light bulbs.

Brownie adjusted a uniform button that had popped loose at his midriff. He was stocky, but not fat. And the cut of his dark
blue outfit showed the outline of well-defined muscle. He liked to eat, but it hadn’t softened him. “Time for some cowboys
and Indians,” Brownie said to himself as he entered the door.

The gang at Carlos’ was milling around in the smoke that filled the void between the bar, jukebox, and pool table, and they
glared at the intruder as he marched in. Brownie returned the cold stares and walked to the bar. He was not prone to be intimidated.

“Evenin’, Carlos,” he said to the tan face behind the counter.

“Sergeant.” The owner nodded politely.

“Lookin’ for Roscoe Miller,” Brownie said, turning to peer into the cigarette haze. “Seen him tonight?”

“Roscoe?” The owner’s cars seemed to perk. He was a man who always needed to know why.

“That’s the one,” Brownie said casually. “Need to talk to him.”

“Hasn’t been in,” Carlos replied. “Hey, Willy, seen Roscoe today?”

A smoky face turned toward Brownie with a “what’s he done now?” expression. “Nope,” the man grunted.

Miller was well known by the local police. His rap sheet included strong-arm robbery, car theft, and disorderly conduct. When
there was trouble, he was usually nearby. But he always got a hotshot lawyer and skipped around the fringes of conviction,
usually ending up with probation.

“Roscoe in hot water again…” Carlos said with resignation.

“No,” Brownie replied. “Just want to talk to him. That’s all.”

Carlos shot the officer a skeptical look. “What’s goin’ on, Brownie?” He could see emotion seething behind the solid facade.

“Had a shooting at Bowers Corner,” Brownie said gravely. “Two dead, and a little boy hurt bad. Lawson’s son.”

Carlos’s face paled in the dim light. “Heard about that,” he said. “You think Roscoe’s involved?”

Brownie leaned across the bar. “Not that I
know
.” Roscoe was not an official suspect; at least, not yet. “I just want to talk to him. Just talk.”

Carlos nodded silently, and Brownie left the bar. In about twenty minutes everyone in town would know that Brownie was looking
for Roscoe. Including the man himself.