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Authors: Gallatin Warfield

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BOOK: Raising Cain
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Sallie gulped. He was pointing directly at her.

“Yes,” she said tentatively.

“Come.” Ruth beckoned her up to the stage. “Come to me.” Sallie made her way forward, and as she did, the crowd began to chant,
“Fear no evil! Fear no evil! Fear no evil!”

Ruth took Sallie’s hand and helped her onto the platform. Up close, he was even more handsome. His blond hair was thick, his
skin unblemished. He could play himself in the movie, Sallie thought. He was wearing a gold medallion around his neck, but
she couldn’t make out the raised image. “Be not afraid,” Ruth said gently.

Sallie nodded, but she was too nervous to speak. Ruth motioned to two men at the side of the shed, who then left the lighted
area. In a moment they returned with a large wooden barrel.

“Fear
no
evil! Fear no evil!” the crowd repeated. The men set the barrel in front of the stage. It was sealed with a metal cover.

Ruth detached the lid. “Tonight you and I will walk the valley of
death
.”

Sallie’s knees shook, and she tried to hide it. She looked into the barrel and saw something move.

“Be not afraid,” Ruth repeated, tipping the barrel over.

A cluster of rattlesnakes slithered out. And Sallie felt like she was going to faint.

“Trust the Lord,” Ruth said. Snakes were still gushing out of the barrel. “Take my hand.” Ruth slipped his slender fingers
into hers as the assistants used sticks to arrange the snakes in two writhing columns on the dirt floor. Sallie squeezed his
hand and leaned against him, inhaling a sweet male aroma from the sleeve of his silk shirt. She felt dizzy.

“Walk with me,” Ruth said. “Fear
no
evil.”

Sallie balked. She couldn’t do it.

The earlier chanting of the crowd had given way to an expectant hush. “Walk,” Ruth said calmly, holding her hand in a powerful
grip.

Sallie took a deep breath and looked at the floor. The snakes were coiling and uncoiling across one another. She’d worked
hard for this assignment, jockeying ahead of other reporters, pulling strings. It was showtime, and she had to perform. If
she didn’t, they’d bounce her out of the compound.

“Walk,” Ruth repeated, tugging her forward.

Sallie kept her eyes on his face, not daring to look down. Maybe they’d defanged the snakes, milked out the venom. Maybe it
was hocus-pocus, theater. Maybe they wouldn’t bite. Sallie took a step.

“Walk….” Ruth cooed.

Sallie took another step. She felt a snake slide across her foot, and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. But she kept
moving. Drawn by Ruth’s eyes, and hand, and voice, Sallie kept moving. Step by step by step. Until she made it through.

Ruth helped her up on the platform and raised her hand in the air.

“Praise God! Praise God!” the congregation wailed.

Sallie tried to smile, but her lips trembled.

Ruth squeezed her hand as he held it aloft. “I
knew
you could do it,” he said triumphantly. “Praise God.”

Sallie smelled that sweet smell again and felt another tingle. But this one was an earth-shaker. “Praise God!” she screamed.

And the crowd went wild.

Sergeant Joe Brown arrived at County General Hospital at ten o’clock. He’d been out in the field, working a case, when the
call came in. Known as “Brownie” to his friends, the stocky fifteen-year veteran of the police force was a master detective
and crime lab chief, an intelligent, deadly stalker of criminals when he was on the job. But tonight the call was personal:
his father had collapsed.

Brownie’s mother greeted him as he rushed into the waiting area, but her eyes said he was too late.

“Daddy?”

Althea Brown put her arms around her son. “Gone,” she whispered.

Brownie hugged his mother in silence as a collection of relatives gathered close. Then he turned to see his mother’s face.
She was trying to be stoic, but the pain was immense. “How?” he asked.

“Heart gave out coming back from checker club.”

Brownie could hear his dad chuckling as he pulled off a quadruple jump on the board. “Where?”

“On the path by Cutler Road. He tried to make it home in the dark.”

“Dark?” Checkers usually ended by five.

“Yes.” Althea lowered her eyes.

“So he was
late
coming home.”

“A little… yes.” Althea’s voice was barely audible.

Brownie stopped talking. No use getting into old business now. He hugged his mother in silence, acknowledging several relatives
and local clergy with a glance over her shoulder. Reverend Taylor had formed them into a circle, and they were praying. The
Brown family was strong. They always came together in a crisis. “When did it happen?”

“Seven, eight o’clock, not really sure. Someone called nine-one-one.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know exactly. They found him on the road and called an ambulance.”

Brownie kissed her damp cheek. “Where is he?”

Althea pointed to a curtained-off section of the emergency room.

Brownie gently removed his arms.

“Son?”

“I’ve gotta see him.”

Althea moved to the prayer circle as her son stepped to the curtain.

Brownie hesitated as a thousand victim gurneys reeled through his mind. Then he held his breath and went in.

Joseph lay under a white sheet, and Brownie slowly lifted it. Daddy’s eyes were closed, his face frozen in a scream.

“Jesus, oh, Jesus,” Brownie gasped. Daddy looked like an asphyxiated fish. His lips were contorted, his skin taut against
his skull. “ Jesus,” Brownie moaned. He must have
suffered
.

Brownie tried to smooth out the lines, but they were set in the flesh. The skin was cool, leathery. Brownie took his father’s
hand; it was beginning to stiffen.

“Daddy,” Brownie cried softly. “Daddy…” He knelt by the bed and placed his head against the sheet.

“Come on, Joe!” Daddy called. He was standing by the Ferris wheel at the county fair, reaching out for his son.

“Don’t want to,” little Joe replied.

“Yes, you do. It’s gonna be fun.”

The line was moving forward, filling the blue metal baskets as they rotated down from above.

“No,” Joe said.

“It’s okay,” Mama urged. She was standing outside the chain, holding the baby. She wore bright red lipstick and a wide-brimmed
hat.

“You, too.” Joe pointed at her. “Bring him.”

“Too little. Next year for sure.”

“Come on!” Daddy appealed.

“Go!” Mama said.

Joe ran forward and entered the cart. The attendant slammed down the bar and engaged the gears, and soon they were wooshing
up, into the purple summer sky.

“Ohhhhhhh!” Joe screamed as they accelerated over the top.

“Wheee!” Daddy laughed.

They roared earthward in the fragrant air. And then they were skyward again, rocking into space. Joe snuggled next to Daddy,
hollering and clutching his giant hand. And he didn’t let go the rest of the night.

Brownie blinked back tears and started to place Joseph’s hand under the sheet. Suddenly he stopped. He’d seen something through
the salty fog. He wiped his eyes and examined the wrist. Then he lifted the sheet and checked the rest of the body: head,
neck, chest, arms, and legs. Finally, he rolled the sheet back into place. “Mama,” Brownie yelled. “Mama, come in here!”

Althea entered expectantly.

“Did you see this?” Brownie raised an arm.

Althea didn’t understand.

“Look!” Brownie pointed to a small straight-line mark on the wrist.

Althea shook her head.

“Did he have that before he left home?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Don’t remember….”

“There’s one over here, too.” Brownie lifted the other arm.

Althea was still dazed.

“Mama, get the doctor.”

She nodded listlessly and returned moments later with a young Middle Eastern man. His green robe was stained with blood, and
his name tag said GIBOUTHI.

“Did you work on my father?” Brownie asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Massive coronary.” The doctor pointed to an entry on the chart.

“Did you see these marks?” Brownie raised the wrists.

The doctor bent down. “Yes. They were like that when he came in.”

“Do you know how he got them?”

“When he fell, probably. They’re just minor abrasions.”

“They look like rope burns to me,” Brownie said, “like his hands were tied.”

“I’m not familiar with that. Whatever caused the cuts had nothing to do with his death.”

“How can you say that?”

“His medical history. Past heart problems. By the looks of it, a coronary was inevitable.”

Brownie stared in disbelief. “I want him reexamined.”

The doctor shrugged. “I’m not qualified for pathology.”

Brownie pulled the chart from the doctor’s hands. In the section headed “Disposition of the body,” the “Transfer to funeral
home” block had been flagged. Brownie crossed it out and checked another block: “Autopsy.”

“I want to know exactly how he died,” Brownie said. Then he returned to the gurney, placed a finger in his father’s mouth,
ran it along his lip, and smelled it. “Did you do a blood-alcohol analysis?”

“No. Didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Do one.” Brownie suddenly noticed his mother backing out of the room. “Sorry, Mama. Something’s not right here.”

Althea didn’t reply. She returned to the mourners in the hall.

“It was a heart attack,” the doctor insisted.

Brownie shoved the clipboard against the doctor’s chest. “That’s what
you
say.
I’m
not so sure.”

two

Dawn came quickly to the mountain valley. The sun sneaked over the southern ridgeline and raced across the meadows and woods
to a gray two-bedroom town house on the outskirts of the central village. Jennifer rose at first light, as usual, stretch-exercising
and drinking her coffee before Gardner rolled down the stairs, bleary-eyed, grumpy, and sore. He was favoring his leg, and
hadn’t slept well. Another day of work in the prosecution fields lay before them. Soon they were speeding through the morning
mist toward the golden dome of the courthouse that ruled the miniature skyline like St. Peter’s Basilica.

Lieutenant Harvis of the county police was waiting in the reception area of prosecution headquarters when they arrived. “Got
some bad news,” he announced.

Gardner ushered him into the inner office. Jennifer followed, closed the door, and the three of them were alone.

“Hit me,” Gardner said anxiously.

Harvis placed a file on the desk. He was a twenty-year veteran of the force with a regulation haircut and ice-blue eyes. “Brownie
lost his dad last night.”

“God, no,” Gardner moaned. “What happened?”

“Heart attack on the way home from the senior center.”

Gardner pictured Joseph on his front porch, a kindly, gentle old man, telling stories on a lazy Sunday. “How’s Brownie taking
it?”

“Not good. He was still on the Payson case, finishing up at the farmhouse when it happened. Didn’t make it to the hospital
till after his dad was dead. Stirred up some trouble in the emergency room.”

“Trouble?” Gardner looked at Jennifer.

“He hassled the doctor, insisted there was a problem with the diagnosis, ordered an autopsy.”

Gardner frowned. Autopsies were only performed in suspicious death situations. “You said heart attack.”

Harvis nodded. “That’s what the doctor told Brownie, but he found some scratch marks on his father’s wrists, something like
that. I only got it secondhand. Brownie thinks there might have been foul play. He asked for a departmental investigation.
Wants me to assign
him
to do it.”

Gardner clasped his hands. “You can’t
do
that, of course.”

“Of course.” The department had a policy against personal involvement in a case. It was classic conflict of interest.

“So who are you assigning?”

“Frank Davis was in that sector when the ambulance call came in. He went to the scene and did some preliminaries, then volunteered
to do a follow-up. I’m assigning him.”


Davis
?” Gardner rose up in his seat. “He’s a damn troublemaker.”

“Don’t start with that again. He’s a decent officer and not a half-bad investigator. Besides, he’s already begun. I’m not
taking him off now.”

Gardner did not respond. Davis was an abrasive cop with an attitude problem who’d been passed over for promotion four times.
“Don’t you have anyone
else
?”

“No. Not at the moment. We’re short-handed now, and if Brownie goes out, we’ll have to use the other investigators to pick
up his caseload.”

“So you’re giving him administrative leave?”

“I’m going to offer it, but he doesn’t have to take it.”

“Knowing Brownie, he won’t,” Gardner said.

Jennifer had been reflecting on her own memories of Joseph. She’d spent time on the porch with Gardner and Brownie and his
dad. She’d played checkers and listened to his stories. “Who would want to kill him?” she finally asked.

“It’s not certain he was
killed
,” Harvis replied. “Not certain at all.”

“But
Brownie
thinks so,” Jennifer said. “Was there anything other than scratches? Any bruising, money taken, anything like that?”

Harvis glanced at the preliminary report. “No. Davis came up clean on the first sweep, and there was nothing else amiss as
far as we know.”

“Have you talked to Brownie yet?” Gardner asked.

“No. He took off after he left the hospital, faxed me the investigation request, and disappeared. We haven’t been able to
reach him by phone.”

“So he doesn’t know about Davis being assigned.”

“No.”

Gardner put his hands on the desk and drummed his fingers. “Brownie is not going to sit by and let someone else, especially
Davis
, run this investigation. You know that, don’t you?”

BOOK: Raising Cain
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