Silent Son (9 page)

Soon, Granville put the pad down on the floor.

Gardner pushed his forehead against the glass. The page was empty.

Jenneane Dorey was a wide-eyed, alert eight-year-old. Her hair had been plaited by her mother, and she wore a bright blue
jumpsuit. She fidgeted with one of her plaits as she talked to Brownie. Both were seated at the kitchen table. Mom was in
the living room, watching the evening news.

“Did you know my daddy?” she asked, looking at the detective.

Brownie smiled. “No. Afraid not.”

“He was a narcotics officer.”

Brownie was beginning to understand what her mother had said earlier. This child was mature beyond her years. Her words were
grown-up. “I heard that,” Brownie said softly. “He was a good man.”

Her eyes showed no grief, no clouding over like her mother’s. She had accepted the loss as if it was natural. Daddy was home,
and then he wasn’t. If the hurt was there, it was long buried.

“Jenneane, I’d like to talk about the day you went to see the cave,” Brownie said, easing the subject matter back on track.
“Do you think we can talk about that?”

The little girl nodded. “All right.”

“Good. Now I’m just gonna ask you a few questions, and if you can, maybe you can answer them. Okay?”

Jenneane nodded again. “Okay.” It was clear that she liked Brownie and trusted him. She would try very hard to help.

“After you left the cave, you got on the bus, right?”

“Yes.”

“And do you remember where you were sitting? In the front or the back of the bus?”

The girl twisted her hair and answered immediately. “All the way in back. By Wendy.”

“Wendy Leonard?” That was one of his earlier witness rejects.

“Yes. She and me are friends. We always sit together.”

“Okay.” Brownie made a note on his steno pad. “And did you sit by the window, or by the aisle?”

“Window.” Again, there was no hesitation.

“And did you look out the window while you were driving from the cave, or were you talking to Wendy?”

“Lookin’,” she said, “and talkin’.”

Brownie smiled. “Was it more lookin’ or more talkin’?”

Jenneane switched plaits. “Lookin’ and talkin’…”

“Okay.” Brownie got the picture. Two eight-year-olds chatting and sightseeing as the bus cut its path through the countryside.
“Now, did you see any cars pass as you were going down to the Bowers’ store? While you were looking and talking to Wendy.”

“Couple.”

“Okay. Now, do you remember anything about the cars. What kind they were? What color? Anything at all?”

“Two cars and a truck,” Jenneane said.

Brownie blinked. This was unbelievable. Such recall. And from a kid no less. Adult witnesses seldom came out with that kind
of detail.

“Uh, Jenneane, are you sure? Two cars and a truck?”

“Uh-huh. A blue one. A black one, and a red one.”

Brownie was writing furiously. It was incredible, but it might be true. Traffic was scarce on the western end of Mountain
Road. Maybe the vehicles somehow imprinted themselves on her fertile young mind. He had to follow it up. “Jenneane, do you
remember which way the cars were going? I mean, did they pass you going the same direction, or were they coming the other
way?”

This time she hesitated, as if she was trying to piece the scene back together. “Two of ‘em goin’ the other way, and one zoomed
past us…”

Brownie was still writing. “Now, sweetheart, can you tell me which one passed you. Car or truck?”

“Truck.” No hesitation on that one.

Brownie tensed. “And can you tell me what color it was?”

“Red. Old red truck.”

Brownie let out his breath. “Did you see any people, driving or inside?”

She looked up, as her mind scanned the scene again. “Guy was in the back…”

“In the back?”

“The place where they carry stuff.”

“Truck bed,” Brownie noted. “Now, Jenneane, can you tell me what he looked like? Do you remember that?”

She squinted her large brown eyes. “White guy. Like the boy on TV, you know, Randy Sands.”

Brownie squeezed his pen. Randy Sands was a teenage idol with a prime-time show,
Hollywood High
. He had distinctive features, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. The girls went nuts over him. But the poor guy had one nasty
flaw that not many knew about. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a no-good shit named Roscoe Miller.

Brownie wrote MILLER in large letters on his pad. Another possible link to Roscoe! It looked like his initial instincts might
have been right. “Jenneane, did you ever see the truck again? After it passed you?”

“No.” The response was quick.

“How about at the store? Did you see it anywhere near the store?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

The girl gave Brownie a teasing look. “I didn’t see it ever again!”

That sounded positive. If it
was
Roscoe’s truck, they must have pulled off on a side road, parked it, and walked to the store.

“Okay,” Brownie said. “Now, when you got to Bowers Corner, what did you see?”

Jenneane lowered her head. “1 was still in the bus…”

“When the Lawson boy ran inside,” Brownie interjected.

“Yes, but I looked out the window…” Her voice faded.

“And what did you see?”

“Didn’t see anything… heard some bangs.”

Brownie glanced up from his pad. “
Bangs
?”

“Yes. From the store. Bangs.”

“How many bangs did you hear, Jenneane?”

“One when we got there… then one more… then another after Granny went in…”

Brownie looked into her eyes. They were steady. Sincere. “You heard
three
bangs. One, two, three.” He extended three fingers to illustrate.

“Yes. The window was down, and I put my head out, and I heard ‘em.”

Brownie wrote THREE SHOTS on his pad. This was new information. Fahrnam had reported only one shot. The elderly, hard-of-hearing
bus driver, none. And he’d not heard from the other kids. “You’re absolutely sure you heard three bangs?” Brownie repeated.

“Yes,” Jenneane said. “I’m sure.”

Brownie underlined THREE. They knew one shot went into Henry, and another into Addie. That left one unaccounted for.

“Listen to me!” Roscoe Miller yelled on the phone. He was parked at Carlos’ Cantina, using the pay booth beside the building.
The glass had been busted out on the lower panels of the enclosure, but the equipment still functioned. Roscoe kicked a jagged
shard with the toe of his boot as he spoke. “I want my money!”

The voice on the other end was subdued and calm. “Take it easy. You’ll get your money. Just be patient.”

The booth was shrouded in darkness. The dome light had burned out long ago.

Roscoe’s face contorted in anger. “Goddamn it, we made a deal!”

“And it will be honored,” the voice replied.

“How long?” Miller was still seething.

“Soon. I can’t say exactly when.”

“Shit!” Roscoe spotted a familiar blue van slowly glide by on the street. It slowed but did not stop. He pulled away from
the phone, then came back.

“What is it?” The voice was still calm.

“The cops. That bastard Brown again!”

“Where?”

Roscoe craned his neck out of the booth. The van had turned the corner and headed west. “Just drove by. Probably checkin’
up on
me
.”

“Why?” The tone of voice was clinical, as if what he’d just heard was no big deal.

“He’s after my ass!”

“Still? He doesn’t have a thing on you.”

“He’s not gonna give up tryin’.”

“Don’t sweat it. Just be cool.”

“I’d be a lot cooler if I had my money!”

“I told you before not to worry. You’ll get the money.” The voice was steady.

“You got three more days.” Roscoe replied.

“You’ll get your money.”

“Three days.”

“Good-bye, Roscoe.” The calm voice ended in a click.

“Damn!” Miller smashed the phone against the metal hook, bouncing it off and making it jump and twist like a headless snake.

How could he have gotten himself into this? He was a tough guy. Always in charge. Always ahead of the game. But things had
been switched around. He’d lost control, and there was not a hell of a lot he could do about it now.

* * *

Bowers Corner looked eerie at night. With no interior lights to soften the outline, it was as imposing as a witch’s castle
on a stony mountaintop. The roofline jutted with sharp angles where the gables joined the structure, and the antique glass
in the attic windows reflected a rippled moon.

Brownie parked his van by the porch and got out. His meeting with Jenneane had exceeded any possible expectations. For some
reason, the child had absorbed the day of the shooting like a sponge. All it took was a gentle squeeze, and the details had
squirted out like rainwater.

The Miller angle was puzzling. If it
was
Roscoe, why was he riding in the back of his truck? He guarded that piece of junk like a Rolls-Royce. It would be odd for
him to turn it over to someone else, and then to take a seat in the bed. That didn’t sound like the Miller he knew. But it
was a beginning. Maybe now he could start to put together a case that was more than speculation.

Brownie mounted the porch and inserted a key into the lock. The tumblers clicked, and the glass door creaked open. He shone
his flashlight into the room and looked for the switch that would illuminate the brass fixtures on the wall. He found it and
threw the small toggle. Nothing. He crossed to the far side and tried the one by the back door. Again, nothing. There was
no power. Someone had shut it off.

Brownie beamed his flashlight around the room. Somewhere in there was the evidence of a third shot. The field detectives had
assumed only two shots and never scoured the perimeter for another bullet. Brownie had thought the same thing and had not
wasted time poking around the shelves. But Jenneane’s recollection was not to be ignored.

Brownie walked to the position where the bodies were found, and began sighting possible trajectories. The shooter’s back had
been to the rear wall. That much was obvious. The bodies had both lain with their heads toward the front door. Brownie sighted
forward and down, to the place where the fragments were found, on the floor several feet past the victims. Brownie turned
slightly and aligned himself with the chalk mark where Granville had fallen. It was at right angles to the other bodies. The
officer stepped back and imagined the gun barrel pointed at Granville’s head. Then he sighted twenty degrees to either side.
Then ninety degrees up. Then ninety degrees down. Following those sight lines he walked to the shelves that intersected the
path. But nothing had been disturbed.

Brownie walked back and adjusted the angle so that Granville would have been facing directly toward the spot where Addie was
shot. Projecting trajectories from that location brought several additional shelves into view. He carefully examined each
one, finally arriving at a high wall shelf by the front door. Using a chair as a stepladder, he slowly went from bottom to
top, turning cans, moving boxes, looking for any sign of a bullet’s path.

When he reached the top shelf, his light picked up a metallic glint on the side of a soup can. He grabbed it and pulled it
out. There was a slight crease on the side, enough to cut the red paper label and expose the silver of the can. He pushed
the other cans aside and illuminated the wall behind the shelf. There was a hole! A jagged hole blasted into the plaster.
Brownie had a sudden vision of Addie’s and Henry’s shattered heads at the morgue. He swallowed hard and directed his light
into the hole. As far as he could see, it was empty. He pulled out his penknife and inserted it into the opening. He probed
and probed, looking for the bullet, but it was gone. Someone had gotten there first!

Gardner and Jennifer sat at the dining room table of the town house, staring across their plates. Gardner’s baked chicken
had been barely touched, and he repeatedly rubbed the back of his neck, a sure sign that the tension of recent events had
lodged in his shoulder muscles. The interim police report lay to the side of his place mat, creased and rumpled by repeated
handling.

“Do you want more tea?” Jennifer was trying hard to maintain the appearance of normalcy. She had never seen Gardner so depressed
as he’d been after visiting Granville.

“Uh, no. No thanks, Jennifer,” Gardner replied, lost in thought.

“Are you going to finish that, or do you want me to wrap it for tomorrow?” Jennifer asked.

Gardner pushed the plate. “I’m done. Just can’t eat right now.”

Jennifer stood and cleared her place.

Gardner began to stand, but she motioned him down. “No. You sit there. I’ll take care of it. I have a surprise for dessert.”

Gardner flopped back into his chair. “Surprise?” A brief smile flickered on his lips. Jennifer was a jewel: a brilliant attorney
and a loving companion. She was tough as nails in the courtroom, and soft as satin at home.

Jennifer soon returned with a chocolate eclair on a plate, his absolute favorite.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling her down for a quick kiss on the cheek.

Gardner took several bites of his dessert as Jennifer watched. When he was finished, he picked up the police report. “Did
you read this thing?”

Jennifer moved to a side chair, where she could see the writing. “You put me in charge, remember?”

Gardner turned to the last page. “No suspects,” he quoted. “They’re not even referring to Miller as a suspect.”

Jennifer touched the page and traced the words that Gardner had just read aloud. “Brownie’s hunch does not make him a suspect.”

Gardner nodded. “But his instinct’s usually right on the money. I can’t believe they don’t have more evidence than this!”

Jennifer’s hand moved to his arm. “Relax, Gard.”

“God!” Gardner groaned. “Two people gunned down, Granville injured, and they still haven’t got any suspects!” Jennifer rubbed
his arm. “Gard…”

“Gotta do something. We, uh… you…” Gardner corrected himself. “It’s killing me. Just sitting here…”