Raising Cain (15 page)

“It isn’t that simple. When the new model came out, we issued it to
all
officers. The older set”—Gray gestured to the cuffs—“we allowed the men to keep as a backup. All we know is that twenty-five
officers now on the force had sets of these cuffs in eighty-one.”

“So call them in and demand an accounting.”

The chief shook his head. “That won’t work. These men are tight. They’ll never put one of their own in jeopardy. They’ll cover
for each other, say they all lost their backup sets.”

“Does that include Davis?”

“Davis never owned cuffs like these. He joined too late.”

“He could have picked them up from another cop.”

The chief frowned. “Frank Davis didn’t kill Ruth. The medical examiner said that Ruth died at approximately six
P.M.
Frank was at the Mountain Road station servicing his cruiser at that time. That has been verified.”

Gardner and Jennifer exchanged glances. Medical examiners were notorious for miscalculating the exact moment of death.

“Anyway, I wish you’d get off Frank’s back. He’s a good officer. Harvis is assigning him to head up this investigation.”

“Davis?” Gardner was stunned. “He’s not even a detective.” It was bad enough they put him on the Joseph Brown case, but this
could be a disaster.

“He’s the best-qualified person at this point. He knew more about Ruth than anyone.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Gardner said.

“Frank can do the job.”

Gardner and Jennifer shared another look. The chief had a right to manage his own personnel, and they were not going to win
the loose cannon argument. “So what are you planning to do next?”

Gray fiddled with the plastic bag. “That depends on
you.
“

Gardner leaned forward.

“You know the rumor,” Gray went on. “Someone in the shop iced Ruth.”

“More like
burned
,” Gardner interrupted.

“Burned, iced, what the hell is the difference? The son of a bitch is dead. But now, under the circumstances, I need to know
from you, how far do we push it?” He stared into Gardner’s eyes.

“Are you asking me what it sounds like you’re asking me?”

Gray did not respond.

“You want
my
permission
to shit-can the investigation?”

Gray shook his head. “I’m not doing that,” he said. “You know me. I can take the heat. That’s not where I’m coming from. I
need your input on this one, your help. If we proceed, we may hurt someone we all care about. I just wanted to be sure that
you knew the consequences before we went any further.”

Gardner reflected for a moment. If he gave the word, the wheels would stop right now. But that was unethical and illegal.
They both had a duty to seek out the perpetrator of the violent crime. “What is your next investigative step?” he finally
asked.

The chief picked up the bag. “These have not yet been processed for fingerprints. I can send them out to an independent agency
or have them done in-house.”

Gardner gritted his teeth. A fingerprint on the cuffs would produce an instant suspect.

“But we still have to get something straight,” Gray resumed, “before deciding about that.”

“How far we intend to go?”

The chief nodded grimly. “Right. If we
start
the race, we have to finish. All I was trying to say before is that I see no reason to rush. Things are quiet at the moment.
People in Blocktown are breathing easier. There is no reason right now to push. Nobody seems to give a damn that this guy
is dead, not even the people out at the quarry. They won’t even answer questions. All they seem to care about is getting his
carcass back.”

That was strange, Gardner thought. Fairborne had been most uncooperative at the power station, and the CAIN church wasn’t
screaming for blood. An unusual response, to say the least.

Gray continued, “We have time to think it through.”

“So you could hold the cuffs awhile longer,
before
processing?”

“As long as no one is making a fuss, why not?”

Gardner considered the options. More time would give him a chance to contact Brownie and get his version. If he was clean,
they could green-light a full inquiry. And if he wasn’t, they’d have an opportunity to think of another plan.

“So what’s it going to be?” the chief asked. “Can I slow this thing down?”

Gardner took a deep breath. This was a solemn moment, a circumstance that could later be called a conspiracy in the making
or a cover-up.

Gardner stood. “An investigation
must
be conducted. There is no way around that. But the time frame is flexible.”

“You’re taking your time as a precaution against error,” Jennifer suggested.

“Right,” Gray replied.

“You proceed, but
slowly
.” Gardner picked up his briefcase.

The chief nodded. “So I can hold the cuffs? Delay processing them?” He lifted the bag.

Gardner hesitated at the door. If the handcuffs went to the lab now, and there was a print on them, they might identify the
killer. But that was the question. At this point, did they really
want
to know?

Gardner turned and faced the chief. “Hold the cuffs,” he said, “until you hear from me.”

Kent King pulled the Thomas Ruth file from his desk drawer and laid it under his lamp. The petition he’d drafted after Ruth’s
visit was the only document inside. King studied it carefully and closed the folder.

He grabbed the phone and dialed an outside line. The court clerk, Judy Field, answered.

“Judy, this is Kent King. I need you to run down a paper I filed yesterday.”

“Sure. What’s the caption of the case?”

“In the Matter of Thomas Ruth…”

“Thomas Ruth,” the clerk replied. “As in ‘crispy critter.’ “

“That’s the one.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

King doodled on his yellow pad. “Pull it out and return it to me.”

“I have to log it in,” Judy replied. “It’s an official pleading.”

“Do not log it in,” King said. “Put it in an envelope and send it back.”

“All pleadings have to be logged.”

“They do
not
,” King said firmly. “I am withdrawing it before filing, just like it never arrived. The man is dead, and the petition is
moot. Send it back, please.”

“Okay, Mr. King,” Judy said.

“And no logging,” King added.

“Uh-huh,” Judy replied. Then she opened the court docket and placed a notation in the miscellaneous section: “Petition
in re Ruth
, filed on 9/23, abated by death, withdrawn by order of K. King, attorney for the deceased.”

King put down the telephone. That was a close one. There was no use airing Ruth’s complaints now that he was dead. That could
lead to complications, especially if King somehow got drawn into the case.

King looked at a framed set of Chinese characters on his wall. It was the word for
crisis
and it was formed by combining characters from two other words:
risk
and
opportunity
. King smiled. That simple concept had been the key to his success. With every crisis there was an opportunity. And he never
let one pass him by.

At four o’clock in the afternoon, Brownie knocked on the door of his aunt’s house, absently fingering a hole in the screen
while he waited for her to respond. Her face appeared in the doorway. “Joseph Junior!” she exclaimed.

“Afternoon, Aunt Gladys.” She pushed the screen and allowed him in. As he entered, he hugged her around the shoulders.

“Good to see you, boy,” she whispered.

They walked to the kitchen, and Brownie sat at the small table by the window. There was a valley view to that side of the
house, and a ripple of mountain ridges beyond. The sun was dipping in that direction, casting a golden sheaf of rays into
the room.

“How about some cake?” Gladys asked. The air smelled of butterscotch icing.

Brownie hesitated. His regimen, of late, had been lack of food, lack of sleep, and lack of human contact. “Okay,” he finally
said. “Small piece, please.”

Gladys lifted the cover of her cake container and unveiled a sculpted masterpiece. “Let you have a big one,” she replied.

Brownie smiled as she cut a large wedge and placed it in front of him. “Your mama asked if I’d seen you,” his aunt said.

Brownie took a bite of cake and shook his head. He’d been to see his mother two times since Daddy died, and each visit was
bad. The emptiness of the house, Mama’s crying, and his inability to comfort her had made things worse. Finally he’d stopped
going. The aunts and cousins would take care of her. Right now he couldn’t help.

Brownie swallowed. “How is she doin’?”

“Misses Daddy and
you
,” Gladys replied. “I know it’s hard, but we need to keep the family together. Right now you’re the only man she’s got.”

Brownie looked through the window and his mind wandered. Several youngsters had just hopped out of a school bus across the
street. Chattering and roughhousing, they ran around the corner and disappeared. Brownie refocused on his aunt’s yard. An
old wooden swing hung from the oak tree, swaying slowly in the breeze. Brownie closed his eyes for a second. When he opened
them the swing was new, and he could see two boys playing baseball. The younger one was trying to throw, and the older one
was coaching him. “Take your time and aim,” the older boy said. The little one reared back and let loose a wild pitch that
almost hit the house. The older boy retrieved the ball and tossed it back. “Again!” he yelled. The ball flew off at another
awkward angle. The older boy retrieved it. “Again,” he said. “But this time,
aim
.” The younger boy took a World Series stance, set, wound, and unleashed the ball. It zapped through the air, homed on the
target, and smacked into the center of the catcher’s mitt.

“Joseph?” Gladys asked.

Brownie blinked and looked out of the window again. The boys were gone.

“You all right?” Gladys touched his forearm with her wrinkled fingers.

“Yeah,” Brownie replied, taking a deep breath. “But I need to ask you something.”

Gladys adjusted her glasses.

“You seen Paulie this week?”

She shook her head sadly. “Paulie…”

Brownie played with his fork. “When did he go back to D.C.?”

Gladys stood, went to the refrigerator, and returned with a glass of milk that she set by his plate. “Think it was day before
yesterday.”

“So he was here the night the man got killed at the power station.”

Gladys nodded silently.

“He
was
staying with you, right?”

“Yes. He stayed here…. What’s this about, Joseph?”

“Can you tell me what he did that night?”

“He was going over to see Reverend Taylor. That’s what he said.”

“What time was that?”

Gladys looked at her watch, then at the clock on the wall. “Evenin’. Around suppertime.”

“When was the next time you saw him?”

Gladys frowned.

“Do you remember what time you saw him later?”

“No.”

“How was he dressed? Was he wearing the African outfit?”

“Why are you asking?”

Brownie stared at the table.

“Oh my God.” Gladys suddenly sat upright. “I
know
why.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Gladys,” Brownie said. “Nothing is going to happen.”

“You’re the boy’s
brother
. How can you do this to him again?”

Brownie took her hand. “I’m not
doing
anything. I’m just asking questions.”

“For the police,” Gladys replied.

Brownie squeezed her hand. “No,” he repeated. “This is not for the police.”

“You just got to be a policeman. Always a policeman!” Tears filled her eyes. “Why can’t you be a brother?”

“I
am
, Aunt Gladys. That’s what I’m trying to be.”

“You got to
help
that boy! You can’t keep tryin’ to hurt him!”

“I’m not trying to hurt him. Please understand that. I just need to know what he was doing the other night.”

“For the police,” Gladys repeated.

“No,” Brownie answered. “Not for the police. For
me
.”

*   *   *

Frank Davis scanned the hallway outside the police lab and reached into his pocket for the passkey. He’d waited all day for
his chance, and now the coast was finally clear. He inserted the key, slipped into the room, and relocked the door.

Without turning on the light, Davis went directly to Brownie’s desk, trying several other passkeys until he found the right
one. Soon the desk was piled high with purloined files.

The chief had issued a slow-down order on the investigation, confiscated the handcuffs, and told the force to belay the rumors.
The lid was on. But Davis still had a job to do, and his ultimate goal was still in sight.

Davis screened several files and confirmed that Brownie had been a bad boy. He’d disobeyed the lieutenant’s directive to lay
off his father’s investigation and he’d set up his own secret inquiry. It was all here: confidential reports, notes, and sketches.
Then Davis noticed an aerial map at the bottom of the stack. He pulled it out and placed it on the desk. It was an overview
of the county, and Brownie had outlined two sections in red ink: Blocktown and the quarry. Then he’d drawn dotted lines between
the locations, writing “Possible access routes to Cutler Road” by the markings.

Davis smiled. Brownie was a jerk, but he was a good investigator. He’d found the back-country passageway between Blocktown
and the quarry that no one else had noticed.

Davis turned the page to an enhanced view of the sector. Brownie had put marks there as well. There were three circles along
the route. Davis lifted the page to his face to see it better in the dark. Then he laughed out loud and put the page down.
“Got you, you black-assed bastard,” he declared. Inside the first circle was the fire tower; inside the second, the waterfall.
But it was the third that made him laugh. Brownie had highlighted another spot where he might encounter Mr. Ruth, and this
one was very familiar. Inside the third circle was the notation “Power station.”