Raising Cain (32 page)

“How?” she finally asked.

Gardner concentrated on his driving. A thin layer of snow had coated the road, and the lines were obscured. “I’ll make it
up,” he said at last. The magic words still wouldn’t come.

Gardner braked near the entrance to the mansion and tooted the horn. There was no use haggling about it now, especially in
front of Granville. “Let’s talk about it later. Please?”

Jennifer assented silently. Everything important was always “later.”

Granville soon appeared, bundled in outerwear. “Four-thirty,” Carole hollered from the door. “Have him back then!”

“Fine,” Gardner yelled as his son leaped into the car.

“Hi, Dad. Hi, Jennifer,” Granville said excitedly.

Jennifer kissed him on the cheek.

“Hey,” Granville protested.

Gardner touched his son’s head. “Let’s have fun. How about it?” They started out of the driveway, and the car spun wheels
several times.

“Hang on,” Gardner warned, “and put your seat belt on, Gran.”

After twenty minutes, they reached Hempstead’s farm. Gardner paid thirty dollars to a man in a booth and turned onto a gravel
road. The man directed them to a rise a hundred yards away, where he said the best trees were. Gardner drove in as close as
he could and parked. “Let’s go get her.”

Granville carried the pruning saw and held on to his dad’s hand while Jennifer followed close behind. The conditions were
worsening, and the icy gusts burned their faces. Granville spotted a tree he liked and ran to it. “This one, Dad!” he exclaimed.

“You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh!” The boy was certain.

They took turns sawing, and soon the six-foot, perfectly shaped evergreen toppled. “Merry Christmas,” Gardner said, patting
Granville’s back and looking into Jennifer’s eyes.

“Whoopie!” Granville hooted.

But Jennifer said nothing. Her cheeks were wet, her expression suddenly sad. And any sign of joy was lost in the blowing snow.

Gardner answered the knock on the door of the law office. With no secretary or support staff, he and Jennifer had managed
everything alone since their resignations. And now, on January second, a week before trial, their ten o’clock appointment
was here.

“Dr. Sand?”

An elderly man in a blue topcoat extended his hand. “Julius Sand.” He was wearing glasses and an obvious toupee.

“Thank you for coming.” Gardner drew him inside. “I’m Gardner Lawson, and this is Jennifer Munday.”

“Nice meeting you both.” Sand removed his coat. He was a psychiatrist and forensic pathologist by profession, an expert witness
for hire. His specialty was suicide, which put him in heavy demand across the state.

“Coffee?” Jennifer offered.

“Might stunt my growth,” Sand joked through a row of yellow teeth.

Gardner began, “Mind if we get to work?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Sand sat at the card table, opened his battered briefcase, and withdrew an envelope.

Gardner glanced at his papers. “You have our letter with the case summary and court documents?”

“Yes, and I’ve reviewed them.” The doctor looked fragile, but his voice was strong.

“What do you think?”

Sand laid out the papers in front of him. “Not much, I’m afraid. It’s too thin.”

“How so?”

Sand peered over his glasses. “When a person dies under suspicious circumstances and suicide is alleged, there
must
be evidence showing a propensity for self-destruction in the final hours. I don’t see it here, not in the facts you’ve asserted.
There was no note. The deceased was chained to the power station—”

“I explained that,” Gardner interrupted. “He wasn’t attached.”

“No matter. He was in handcuffs, which implies third-party involvement. I’ve seen
one
hand cuffed in a suicide, but never two.”

“I explained that also,” Gardner argued. “He was wearing the cuffs when he drove away.”

“All right. We might be able to discount it, then. And the trance-like behavior of the decedent observed by Officer Brown
is a favorable point. But other than that we have nothing to go on, nothing on which to base the defense.”

“What about the magazine article?” Jennifer pointed to a photocopy of Sallie Allen’s exposé on CAIN. “Doesn’t playing with
snakes show mental imbalance?”

The doctor perused the page, then looked at Jennifer. “To some degree, perhaps, but it doesn’t get us where we want to go.
Do you remember the Winters case down in Baltimore?”

Gardner and Jennifer both nodded.
Winters
was a blockbuster defeat for the Baltimore State’s Attorney’s office about four years earlier. The media had deified Dr.
Sand and crucified the prosecutor.

“We had little to go on there, either. No eyewitnesses, little physical proof. But we were able to conduct a psychological
autopsy on the victim. The deceased, Betty Layton, had been severely depressed before she died. She talked about death and
seeing God. She acted confused and complained of hearing voices. That laid the groundwork for the argument that she used the
gun. That, and the psychiatric history…. The police charged Mrs. Layton’s brother, Henry Winters, with the crime because he
was in the house when the gun was fired, and there was no note. He also stood to inherit a substantial estate. There were
no fingerprints on the gun, and the gunpowder tests were botched by police so they couldn’t tell
who
had actually pulled the trigger. But my psychological autopsy showed that she had a pathology of suicidal tendencies and
a history of mental hospitalizations. That’s what got the brother off.”

“Can’t you do the same thing here?” Gardner asked.

“That’s the problem. Other than Officer Brown, we have no witnesses who will say he was suicidal, and we have no mental or
physical records on the man. If he had any mental history at all, we could make a case. But without it, there’s not much I
can do.”

Gardner looked at Jennifer, knowing Sand was right.

“Your problem is the victim,” Sand declared suddenly.

Gardner glanced up.

“He’s a complete cipher. There’s no way to do a psychological autopsy on someone you know nothing about. According to the
case summary, you don’t have a clue as to who the victim really is, and until you find out, my hands are tied.” Sand realized
he’d made a macabre pun. “Sorry.”

“I get the picture,” Gardner said. “But would you be willing to give it a shot anyway, without the records? Base the defense
on Brownie’s testimony, the public information on Ruth’s personality, and anything else we can come up with?”

“If you asked me to, I could give it a try, but…”

“Don’t count on success,” Jennifer finished.

“We’d have a lot better chance if we could dissect Ruth,” Sand said.

“No question about that,” Gardner added. “But how?”

After Dr. Sand had left the office, Gardner and Jennifer contemplated what they’d just heard. Gardner fiddled with the file,
then raised the telephone.

“Who are you calling?” Jennifer asked.

“The only other person who might help us.”

The connection went through, and a woman answered. “
Interview
magazine.”

“Sallie Allen, please,” Gardner said.

“Sorry, she’s unavailable at the moment. Who’s calling?”

“Gardner Lawson, an attorney from Maryland. It’s urgent that I speak with her. Can you tell her I’m calling about the piece
she did on Thomas Ruth and his Church of the Ark?”

“She’s on assignment.”

“Can you get a message to her? This is very important.”

Gardner repeated his name and added the phone number.

“We’ll let her know.”

“Thank you.” Gardner hung up and turned to Jennifer. She had a skeptical expression on her face. “It’s worth a try. What else
do we have?”

Several minutes later the phone rang. Jennifer answered, and her eyes widened. She handed the receiver to Gardner. “It’s
her
.”

Gardner grabbed the phone. “Miss Allen?”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“Thank you for returning my call so promptly.”

“No problem. They beeped me. What can I do for you?”

Gardner explained who he was and why he was calling. “We need background information on Thomas Ruth,” he continued. “We’re
alleging he killed himself, and we need to show that he was mentally imbalanced. What do you know about his true identity?”

There was a muffled sound as Sallie covered the phone. “What do I know about who he was?”

“Yes.”

“Zero. Our research people couldn’t come up with anything concrete. I tried to pump him, but I was pulled out before I could
get him to talk.”

“So you have no idea who he really was.”

“Not really.”

“In your
personal
contact with Ruth, would you say he acted strangely?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So he
was
whacked-out.”

“In a controlled way.”

“What does that mean?”

“He was crazy, but like a fox. Calculating, intense, but definitely not suicidal in my opinion. He was a lot more likely to
kill someone else. Not himself.”

“So you don’t believe he committed suicide.”

“No.”

“But would you be willing to testify about his mental condition anyway?”

“Testify…” Sallie hesitated. “Maybe. If our lawyers okayed it. But I have to be honest with you, Mr. Lawson, I don’t buy the
suicide bit at all.”

“So you think Sergeant Brown is guilty of murder.”

“From the information that’s been reported so far, yes, I do.”

“Thanks for your time,” Gardner said. Then he smacked down the phone.

“No help, huh?”

“Help? She’d be a great help… to
King
.”

Jennifer stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got something to do.”

“What?” Gardner asked.

“I have to
think
.”

Jennifer left the office, and Gardner sat at the table staring at the case file. Then he muttered “Shit!” and knocked the
folder across the room with his fist.

Reverend Taylor handed the teller at the Forest National Bank a check. She was very familiar with his account, and she smiled
through the iron grate. Her name tag read Mary Burt.

“Where’s the deposit slip?” she asked.

“It’s not a deposit,” Taylor replied. “I’d like you to cash it out.”

Mary glanced at the check. “The whole thing?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m going to have to get authorization on a check this large.”

“But you know me.”

“That doesn’t matter. The check’s not drawn on our bank, and it’s over the limit. I’ve got to get authorization.”

Taylor glanced behind him. A queue was building.

“Sorry,” Mary said. “I’ll be right back.” She left her alcove and entered the manager’s office. They spoke for a moment, and
the manager peeked over her shoulder. Soon Mary returned. “You’re sure you want to cash this?”

Taylor smiled and tried to stay calm. “Yes, I would.” It had taken him long enough to get the damn thing. Of course he wanted
it cashed.

“Put your social security number below the endorsement.”

Taylor stopped smiling. That wasn’t normal procedure. “Do what?”

“Put your social security number below the signature.”

Taylor glanced around. The people in line were getting restless.

“The check is okayed. We just need your social security number.”

Taylor folded the check and put it in his pocket. “Never mind,” he said. Then he stepped away from the counter and left the
bank.

Brownie arrived at Gardner’s office after Jennifer had left.

“Where were you?” Gardner demanded.

Brownie unbuttoned his coat. Snow flurries had been sweeping the valley all morning, and his hair was wet. “Got held up,”
he said.

“You missed Sand.”

“Sorry. How did it go?”

Gardner glanced at his notes. “Not good. He can’t work his magic without explicit background information on Ruth. We’re in
a bind, here, Brownie. If we keep going in this direction, you’re going to get convicted. Do you understand that? We’ve got
absolutely nothing on Ruth and it doesn’t look like we’re going to get anything, not at this rate. Sand says his personal
history is crucial for the psychological autopsy. Without it, we’re in serious trouble.”

Brownie crossed his arms. “Is he willing to proceed without it?”

Gardner nodded. “He will…”

“Okay, then.”

“If we do, it won’t fly. We’ve got to change tactics.”

Brownie cocked his head.

“Trial begins in a few days, and we have no defense. Do you realize that?”

“Take it easy.”

“Take it easy? Jennifer and I quit our jobs to defend you on a murder charge, and you give us no support in return.”

“I do,” Brownie argued.

“Really? That’s bullshit. You’ve eliminated every viable defense and forced us into a dead end. I thought we could get through
this before, but now I’m not so sure. You won’t let us pursue other suspects, and we’re stuck with a defense that won’t work.
We’re fucked, Brownie.”

“Exactly what did the doctor say?”

Gardner gave his client an exasperated look. “That we need records to confirm Ruth was a nutcase.”

“And he could make a go of it if he had them?”

“Yes. If they establish any history of psychotic behavior, Sand says he can pull it off.”

“Do you believe him?”

Gardner nodded. “Yes. He can do it, no question. But there’s another problem here. We’re not sure that Ruth ever had any records
to begin with.”

“He had ‘em.”

“How do you know?”

“He
was
a nutcase. Somewhere along the line he either committed himself or someone committed him.”

“How can you
say
that?”

“I’ve been around enough flakes in my life, Gard. This guy was definitely one. Sometime somebody had to treat him. He was
way out over the edge.”

“But if he was treated, it was not under the name of Thomas Ruth.”

“Right. He had another identity.”

“Which we don’t know, and don’t have any hope of knowing. Without fingerprints, a body, or witnesses, we’re out of luck.”