Raising Cain (17 page)

“Sounds serious, Susan,” the anchorman said.

“It
is
, John. The credibility of law enforcement is on the line. And I’m sure we haven’t heard the last of it.”

“You stay on the story,” John said.

“I
will
,” Susan replied.

The light went dim and the camera clicked off. Down the hall, several other remote broadcasts were in progress. Gardner may
have asked the reporters to leave, but they were all still there. And that’s where they intended to remain for the duration.

Kent King and Chief Judge Danforth were lunching at the Anderson Mountain Inn. It was a secluded mansion at the four-thousand-foot
mark on the side of the ridge. The food was delicious, the view breathtaking, the clientele discrete.

The two men sat in a private alcove on the enclosed balcony. Below, the trees were turning colors, and Summer Lake cast a
shimmering reflection in the distance. From that vantage point the county seemed at peace.

“The Ruth case is out of control,” King said. He and the judge were longtime golfing partners and unofficial buddies away
from the bench. Despite the fact that King was a regular in his courtroom, they often chewed the legal fat.

The judge sampled his broiled trout and put down his fork. “Lawson has it covered,” he said.

King laughed. “How long did it take you to get to your chambers this morning?”

“Normal time.”

“How many reporters did you have to climb over?”

Danforth smoothed his linen napkin. “What’s your point, Kent?”

“The media’s swarming. Haven’t you noticed?”

“I noticed. So what?”

“You don’t
get it
, do you? They’re playing hide-the-bad-guy with the investigation.”

“Stay out of it, Kent. It’s not your concern. The State’s Attorney has the ball. Lawson will get it resolved in due course.”

“Lawson is the
problem
.”

“He’s honest,” the judge said. “Pigheaded sometimes, but honest. I don’t believe he’d do anything improper.”

“That’s not the point. The integrity of his office has been challenged, and the appearance of impropriety is as bad as impropriety
itself. That makes his judgment suspect.”

Danforth played with his fork. The county was definitely under attack. Allegations of cover-up, corruption, and conspiracy
dominated the news. But that wasn’t really a
judicial
matter.

“You can’t let the fox guard the henhouse,” King said.

Danforth looked him in the eye. “How would
you
handle it?”

King pulled a paper from his jacket and handed it across the table.

“What’s this?” the judge asked.

King smiled. “Article eighteen of the state constitution, and chapter twenty-nine of the county code, the enumeration of a
certain power you were accorded recently. The statutes allow the court to take control of situations like this. Lawson does
not have exclusive control over the Ruth case. You can bring in an independent contractor.”

“I can do
what
?” He read the document and folded it.

“Surprise!” King said.

Danforth shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, Kent.”

“I’m here to serve, Dan.”

Danforth put the papers in his pocket. “How can I
ever
repay you?”

“I think you know,” King said. “When you make the appointment, you’re going to need a volunteer.”

The judge understood. “You son of a bitch!”

King grinned. “At your service.”

Brownie sat at the table in his home laboratory studying the fingerprint he’d just lifted from Thomas Ruth’s shoe. It was
the full thumb of a right hand, removed from the side panel of the footwear. The print was clear, and it was recent. Now all
Brownie needed was a match.

After the meeting last night, Gardner had ordered him to stay home and keep quiet. And Brownie had agreed. The prosecutor
was rightly upset and angry, but that couldn’t be helped now. Brownie had agreed to stay out of sight. But he had
not
agreed to stay out of the case.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the medical examiner, Dr. Alva Charles, senior pathologist and old friend.

“Doc, this is Joe Brown,” Brownie said.

“Brownie! So sorry about your dad.”

“Thank you.”

“We all support you down here, you know that.”

“I know, thanks. Listen, Doc, I need a favor. You still have Thomas Ruth in the freezer, right?”

“Ruth? Electrocution victim? I think so. I’ll have to check; a bunch of corpses were picked up this morning.”

Brownie shifted the latent print card in his hand. “I need a copy of his fingerprints.”

Dr. Charles paused. “I can arrange that,” he finally said. “How soon do you need them?”

“Immediately.”

“I’ll do it this afternoon. Where do you want them sent?”

“Can you fax ‘em to me?” Brownie gave his home number.

“Certainly.”

“And this is confidential,” Brownie added.

“I understand.”

Brownie thanked the doctor and hung up. He looked at the print he’d lifted from Ruth’s shoe, an elongated pattern of lines
under a piece of tape. The number one rule in fingerprint identification was to eliminate the prints of anyone who had known
access to the object that was touched. Brownie traced the lines with his finger. If the print came from Ruth, he could relax.
If not, he still had a problem.

Frank Davis had a hot lead. He’d canvassed the Mountain Road area from top to bottom, looking for witnesses. Had anyone seen
Thomas Ruth driving on the afternoon he died? he wanted to know. That’s when Amos Rudd told him that Brownie was asking the
same thing on that very day.

Davis throttled back his cruiser and looked for the house on Clayton Avenue where Eunice Land lived. Amos had told him that
both Ruth
and
Brownie had gone south on the twenty-fifth. South! No wonder Frank had missed him. He was working the back roads to the north.
But there was only one major thoroughfare south, and that was Dunlop Road. Davis had set up out there for two days and copied
tag numbers. Regular travelers on the route were easy to spot. They commuted or carpooled or took that road shopping on a
regular basis. He accessed the Motor Vehicle Administration computer for the tags that repeated and obtained several names,
addresses, and phone numbers. And that’s how he located Eunice Land.

Davis parked on Clayton and walked to the door of a small Cape Cod with enclosed porch. He checked the street number again
and rang the bell.

A small dog barked, and a woman appeared.

“Ms. Land?”

She nodded her bleached head. “Yes?”

“Frank Davis. County police.” He wasn’t in uniform, so he showed his badge. “We talked on the phone. May I come in?”

The woman opened the door and directed him to a damask-covered table in the kitchen. The room was bright, decorated with plants
and ceramics. A Yorkshire terrier bounded in from another room and sniffed his ankle.

“Duchess,” the woman scolded.

“No problem,” Davis said, scratching the animal’s head. “I like dogs. Can I get your full name?”

“It’s Eunice Land,” the woman replied, “but most folks call me Eunie.”

“May I call you Eunie?”

“Sure. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

Davis declined. “I want you to tell me again what you saw on Dunlop Road the afternoon of the twenty-fifth, what you told
me on the phone.”

“I saw the man who died.”

“You mean Thomas Ruth.”

Eunie nodded. “I didn’t know his name at the time, but I recognized him later… from the newspaper.”

“Where was he when you saw him?”

“Outside a police car.”

Davis wrote it down. “What kind of police car?”

“Don’t really remember. It was white, said ‘Police’ on the side.”

“Was it a
van
-type vehicle?”

Eunie nodded again, and Davis made a note. “Who else did you see?”

“There was another person with the man, but I didn’t really get a good look at him.”

“It was a
him
?”

Eunie shook her head. “Think so… I can’t say for sure. All I remember is the man who died.”

Davis pulled a personnel photo from his pocket and showed it to her. “Is this the person he was with?”

Eunie studied the picture. “Could be….”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Eunie. We’ve got a murder investigation here. Was this or was this
not
the man you saw with the deceased?”

Eunie hesitantly looked at the face again.

“This is important,” Davis said. “
Very
important.”

“I think that’s him…” Eunie ventured, “but…”

Davis raised his hand. “No ‘buts,’ Ms. Land. This is the man.” Davis wrote “Positive ID” in the margin and had her sign her
name underneath. Then he put the photo of Sergeant Joseph Brown, Jr., back in his pocket and closed his notebook.

The courthouse was in an uproar. The judges had called a news conference for ten
A.M.
and no one seemed to know what it was about. Judges
never
called news conferences. In fact, they rarely spoke to the press.

Gardner and Jennifer pushed their way into the door of courtroom one. They, too, had been caught off guard by the announcement.
They’d been struggling with their private Ruth investigation for the past few days, with little success. The entire county
had clammed up, so they were still in the starting blocks. At least the Brownie connection remained hush-hush.

The prosecutors fought through the throng of reporters and found some empty spots in the front row. They sat down just as
the judges entered.

Judge Danforth smacked his gavel and called for order. He was flanked by the rest of the circuit bench: Simmons, Harrold,
Cramer, and Hanks. The courtroom went silent.

“As you all know,” Danforth began, “it has recently been suggested that the county police and prosecutor’s offices have committed
certain improprieties in the Thomas Ruth investigation. These allegations have impugned their reputations, and caused embarrassment
to elected and appointed officials alike.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Gardner whispered to Jennifer.

“Accusations of impropriety, even if untrue, can undermine the integrity of our system of justice. We are
absolutely certain
that there has been no improper conduct in this matter, but that does not change the public’s perception. The circuit court
judges have therefore, pursuant to authority granted by the state constitution and article eighteen, chapter twenty-nine of
the county code, decided to intervene. As of twelve noon this date, the State’s Attorney will no longer have responsibility
for the Thomas Ruth investigation. The case will be within the exclusive jurisdiction of independent counsel.”

The chambers door opened, and a man entered.

“No!” Gardner breathed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present the court’s unanimous choice for this position—”

Gardner sprang to his feet. “You can’t do this, Judge!”

Danforth peered over his glasses. “I believe I can, Mr. Lawson. I have explicit authority to make the appointment, and I direct
you
to cooperate fully in implementing the transition.”

Gardner was speechless. This was the sleaziest sandbag job of all time.

“Please sit down, Mr. Lawson, so we can get on with the presentation.”

Gardner dropped into his seat and looked at Jennifer. Her face was ashen.

“And now I’d like to introduce our new special prosecutor,” Danforth announced, “Mr. Kent King.”

King took a bow. He was dressed in a new Armani suit, his dark shiny hair slicked back. Cameras flashed and recorders whirred
as the newly appointed knight strutted his stuff.

“This isn’t happening,” Gardner moaned.

“I will do my best to see that justice is done in this important case,” King declared, looking at Gardner. “The guilty party
will be apprehended and prosecuted. And no favoritism will be shown.” His eyes were riveted on the prosecutor’s. “No matter
who the defendant turns out to be.”

Gardner and Jennifer left the courtroom and retreated to their office. The sudden turn of events had put them in the spotlight
again. Reporters wanted to know why he had objected. Was there something improper about what the judge had done? Gardner had
declined to answer.

“Check the law,” Gardner said as Jennifer piled a stack of books onto his desk. They were looking for the authorities Danforth
had cited in making the appointment.

Jennifer opened the constitution. “This is just the jurisdictional statement.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s it,” Jennifer said. “The rest of the section talks about the right to jury trial, et cetera.”

“Okay,” Gardner said, “now check the code.”

Jennifer opened a thick volume of county laws. “In matters involving impeachment or conflict of interest within the office
of the State’s Attorney, pursuant to jurisdictional authority in the state constitution, the circuit court
may
take such action as it deems appropriate, including, but not limited to appointment of an independent counsel, interim State’s
Attorney, or special investigative counsel.”

“Christ!” Gardner exclaimed. “What is the date of enactment?” It must have been slipped in during some late-night legislative
session and passed by a sleeping council. There had been no fanfare, no publicity.

“July first, two years ago.”

“Check legislative history. Laws like that don’t come out of thin air. Who sponsored the bill?”

“Pat Caesar. It was an amendment to the farmland registry act.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“He’s one of King’s cronies,” Jennifer said.

“They’re tight, all right. King told him to slip this one in, and the bastard did it. No one was notified, and no one knew
to protest it. It just lay dormant like a land mine, right under our feet.”

“Can we challenge the way it was passed?”

Gardner studied the statute for a minute, then closed the cover. “No. They
did
have a published agenda, and an open meeting. It was legal. The amendment was in small print, and no one noticed.”