Silent Son (39 page)

Gardner and Jennifer were readying themselves for bed. It had been a long day, and there was a lot more to do tomorrow. They
had to get the witness list finalized, the legal motions answered, and the opening statement outlined. Even though they were
splitting the workload, it was still going to be a major task.

Gardner turned from the sink and raised his toothbrush. “You stick with the witness lineup, and I’ll work on the suppression
motions.”

Jennifer was drying her face. She had just cleansed her makeup. “Okay,” she said.

“We have to go forward with the Purvis-Roscoe angle of attack,” Gardner continued.“We can’t wait until the last min-ute to
switch gears. If Brownie finds something, great. If he doesn’t, at least we’ll be prepared.”

Jennifer applied her moisturizing cream. “I agree,” she said.

They got into bed, said good night, kissed, and rolled back to back. Jennifer clicked off the light.

Suddenly, Gardner turned toward her. “Do you think he’s on the right track?” he said.

“Whaa?” Jennifer was sliding rapidly toward sleep.

“Brownie thinks Starke did it,” Gardner repeated. “What do
you
think?”

Jennifer put her face against his chest. “He could have…”

“But do you really think he
did
?”

“Only two people know the answer to that one…” Jenni-fer’s voice drifted off. Several more deep breaths and she’d be out.

Gardner stroked her hair in the darkness as she faded off to sleep. “Make that
three
,” he whispered.

Brownie wasted no time following up the Starke-Bowers link he’d discovered at Mr. Jim’s. He photocopied the article and phoned
a Pentagon contact he’d consulted on other inves-tigations. That got him into the military records section of the National
Archives, and soon he received a faxed list of the roster of the 118th Antitank Company, 15th Infantry Divi-sion, U.S. Army
European Command in 1944. Then he hit a snag. The first ten men on the list were dead. The next was still alive, but he’d
moved, and left no forwarding address. The next was in the Alzheimer’s ward of a veterans hospital. By the time Brownie had
worked his way down to the bottom of the list, three precious days had been used up. Now, finally, he had a name and an address:
Sergeant Raphael Romero. Active member of the Main Street chapter of the Falesville, Pennsylvania, VFW. Alive, and well.

Brownie obtained the man’s phone number and made a call. On the pretext of being a World War Two scholar, he asked Romero
if he would consent to an interview about his war experiences. There was no sense in telling the real reason for the contact.
A frontal approach might not work. Romero hesitatingly agreed. So Brownie made the two-hundred-mile drive to Falesville to
see what the man had to say.

The Pennsylvania hill town was a lot like home, with Appa-lachian peaks, rocky valleys, and old-time architecture. It was
a bright, slightly hazy summer noon. And Raphael Romero was waiting for Brownie on the front steps of his brick row house.

“Mr. Romero?” Brownie extended his hand to the elderly man. “Joe Brown.” In civilian clothes, Brownie looked quite unofficial.

Romero eyed Brownie cautiously. He wasn’t expecting a black man.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Brownie said. “I’m putting together a piece on the battle of the Belgian Woods, and I need some information.
I understand you were there.’

Romero looked like a well-aged Hollywood extra. White hair and smooth pink skin. His eyes were black olives. And he smoked
incessantly. “Who told you?” he asked.

“What?” Brownie didn’t comprehend.

“Who told you I was there?” Romero repeated.

“The archives. Came across your name in the personnel file. One hundred eighteenth Antitank Company—”

“Not many of us left,” Romero interrupted. “Most dead now…” His eyes almost crossed as he took a drag on his cigarette. “Them
that the Germans didn’t get… all cut down by time…”

“Mr. Romero?” Brownie realized he’d awakened some deep memories.

“The 118th is history…”

“But you’re not,” Brownie said. “Look pretty good to me.”

Romero glanced up and removed his cigarette. “Those were tough days, Mr. Brown. Very, very tough.”

“But you never quit,” Brownie added. “You were overrun by the Germans, but you never quit. Thanks to your commanding officer,
uh Lieutenant, uh, Lieutenant…” Brownie pretended not to remember the name, hoping Romero would pick up the slack.

“Starke,” the old man said. “Lieutenant Beef Wellington Starke.”

There was admiration in his voice, and sadness.

“Tell me about him,” Brownie said, pulling out his note pad. If he was going to play a scholar, he had to act the part. “You
called him Beef Wellington?”

Romero sucked the cigarette again, then pulled it out and smiled. “It was a joke. Beef Wellington. Rich man. Silver spoon.
Money. All that…”

Brownie scribbled on his pad.

“But that wasn’t really him,” Romero continued. “Not at all. He was kind, generous… bravest man I ever knew—”

“He saved a member of your company,” Brownie cut in. “Did you see it?”

Romero removed his cigarette and looked at Brownie. “I was there.” His expression darkened, as if he was remembering the most
horrific scene of his life.

“Sarge got cut off. He—”

“Sarge?” Brownie knew damn well who Sarge was. He just wanted to hear Romero say it.

“Henry. Sergeant Henry Bowers. He’d been sent up to a forward listening post by Lieutenant Starke. And he was up there when
the dam broke. Everything was coming in. Eighty-eights, burp guns, Tigers. They had ground forces alongside. Goddamn SS…”

Brownie was writing furiously.

“Sarge got run over by a tank. Tracks went over top, and he dropped in a hole. We were hack at the line, and they were coming
in on all sides…” His voice was breathless, as if he was reporting from the scene. “Lieutenant Starke called in the artillery.
Right on top of us! They were overrunning. And he called in a strike from our own guns…”

Brownie tried to keep the notes apace with his words.

“Sarge was screaming. He’d been hit in. the leg. Two or three times. We could hear him over the shellfire. Let him go, someone
said. But the lieutenant went out, in the middle of the shrapnel rain. With the SS shooting and slashing and chopping all
around. He went out. And damned if he didn’t bring Sarge hack alive…” Romero stopped talking and took another drag of his
cigarette, this time pulling the smoke in as deep as he could.

Brownie stopped writing. “Why do you think he did it?” he asked.

Romero exhaled a white cloud. “Because that’s the way the man was. And—” He cut off his own words.

“And?” Brownie sensed something important.

“The way he felt about Sarge,” Romero answered. “He loved the man.”

Brownie looked up. “Do you know why?”

Romero frowned, as if that was a strange question from a scholar. But he shrugged it off. “Don’t know, really. We all liked
Sarge, but the lieutenant really loved the man. Like a brother. And it went the other way around too.”

Brownie’s heart began to race. “Mind elaborating on that?”

Romero folded his hands and spoke with the cigarette still in his mouth. “They were inseparable. Sarge and Lieutenant. Lieutenant
and Sarge. Rich man, poor man. Mutt and Jeff. Starke loved Bowers, and Bowers worshipped Starke. Noth-ing either man wouldn’t
do for the other. Cut off his own arm…”

Brownie took it all down. “Did you ever see them later? After the war?”

Romero shook his head. “No. We all went back to our own worlds. I heard Lieutenant died, quite some time ago. Don’t know what
ever became of Sarge…”

Brownie opened his folder and took out the ATF photo of the handgun. He handed it over to Romero. “Ever see this before?”
he asked.

The old man’s eyes leaped. “Where’d you get this?”

“You’ve seen it?”

Romero suddenly realized he’d been had. Brownie was no scholar.

Brownie pulled out his police ID. “I didn’t want to do it this way, Mr. Romero, but I have to,” he said. “I’m a police officer
from Maryland. Henry Bowers is dead. Murdered. I’m sorry to have to tell you that. This was the murder weapon.”

Romero froze. This was too much. From the horrors of the war to the murder of a long-lost friend, all in an instant.

“Please,” Brownie said. “I need your help.”

Romero hesitated, and looked at the picture again. There was recognition in his eyes.

“Tell me about the gun,” Brownie said.

Romero handed the photo back and lit another cigarette. “Our unit was assigned to carry those things,” he said. “Some kind
of special project. Gave each man a gun, and he was supposed to report how it functioned…”

“So Lieutenant Starke had one?”

“Yup. Sergeant Bowers too. We all had ‘em.”

Brownie swallowed hard, and almost snapped his pen. Starke to Bowers. Bowers to Starke. He’d thought he was almost there,
but he wasn’t. The murder weapon could have come from Bowers
or
Starke. And that didn’t help at all.

R
EVELATIONS

Trial day dawned clear and warm. The sun pierced the shadow of the valley from the northeast, and slowly made its way to the
courthouse dome, where it burst in a dazzling golden flash.

Gardner and Jennifer were in the courtroom, rushing through final preparations. They had been moving nonstop for the past
week, trying to get ready for the trial. And now the day was upon them.

A crowd had gathered early. Unlike the arraignment, which few had attended, this one was a sellout. The bailiff had kept the
people outside until he checked how many seats would he available. Now the spectators were coming in, their throaty babble
breaking the silence that hung in the air above the counsel tables.

“All set?” Jennifer whispered to Gardner. Her hair had been pulled back and clipped with a gold clasp. She looked calm.

“No,” Gardner said. His eyelids were droopier than ever, and his skin was pallid. He’d paced the bedroom most of the night.

“All rise!” The bailiff wasn’t wasting time. At precisely 9:00 Judge Hanks mounted the bench and struck her gavel.
State v. Miller
and
State v. Starke
were under way.

There were the usual preliminary introductions, then Judge Hanks turned to the defense side. “Gentlemen, I have a list of
pretrial motions here. Which shall I consider first?”

Kent King rose and put his hand in his suit pocket. “None of those, Your Honor. Mr. Jacobs and I would like to add a new motion
to the list at this time, and ask its immediate consideration.”

Gardner looked at Jennifer, then stood up. “We’ve had no notice of a new motion, Judge!”

Carla Hanks turned to King. “Have you notified the state as to your intention?”

The defense attorney smiled. “No, Judge, we haven’t… But this issue is so central to the case that Mr. Jacobs and I have decided
to raise it now.”

“If they haven’t told us, they can’t raise it!” Gardner said righteously.

Judge Hanks looked back at King. “He’s technically correct, Counsel.”

King didn’t flinch. “I know that, Judge, but if you address this issue now, it’ll save a significant amount of court time
later. In fact, it might even alleviate the trial altogether.”

That certainly got Gardner’s attention. King and Jacobs had done it again. They’d held back on a hot potato and dropped it
in his lap at the last minute. “Judge!” Gardner begged. He was about to say, “Don’t allow this,” when Hanks spoke.

“Tell me about it, Mr. King.”

“It’s simple, really,” King said. “In their answer to discovery the state has indicated that they intend to call a witness
by the name of Granville Lawson…”

Gardner tensed as his son’s name came out in the criminal court for the first time.

“To the best of our knowledge, this witness is the only purported eyewitness to the crime. He’s eight years old. and we believe
that the state is unable to make even a prima facie case without his testimony.”

Gardner was burning. He now knew where this was headed, a last-ditch effort by the defense to disqualify Granville before
the trial even started. It was a nasty move. But the trouble was, if it succeeded, King was right. The case against both defendants
could be over. Without Granville the rest of their evidence might not do the job.

“Object to this, Your Honor,” Gardner said. He had to stop this tactic in its tracks.

“Overruled!” Hanks snapped. “Continue, Mr. King!”

“It’s quite simple, Judge,” King went on. “There are two prerequisites that must be met before the witness may testify. First,
as a minor, he must be
qualified
before he’s allowed to take the stand. And second, he has to be able to offer relevant testimony. I have here,” he raised
Dr. Glenmore Grady’s report, “a document that indicates the boy has no memory whatsoever of the events that he will purportedly
testify to. It is our position, therefore, that an examination of the child’s qualifications and the relevance of his testimony
be made now, before we proceed any further.”

Judge Hanks turned to Gardner. “What’s the state’s position?”

“We object most strenuously,” Gardner managed to say. “This is procedurally improper and premature. We have not yet called
the witness,” he swallowed hard, “so no issue of qualification is on the table.”

Judge Hanks gave Gardner a stern look. “Do you intend to call the child as a witness?”

Gardner recoiled. “Ma’am?”

“Are you going to call Granville Lawson to testify?”

Gardner looked down. “I’m not required to say at this point.”

“Your Honor!” King interjected. “If he commits to not using the witness, I’ll withdraw the motion!”

“I can handle this, Mr. King!” Hanks replied curtly. “What about it, Mr. State’s Attorney? Are you going to call the child
as a witness or not?”

This was it. In or out. Win or lose. All at once. “Yes,” Gardner said with resolve. “Yes we are.”