Raising Cain (33 page)

Brownie leaned back in his chair. “All the conventional routes to get the skinny on Ruth have been tried, right? Records checks,
teletype inquiries, all that stuff.”

“You know that.”

Brownie’s expression changed. “Maybe it’s time we went unconventional.”

Gardner listened. At this point any suggestion was better than what they had.

“A friend of mine produces the
Fugitives
at Large TV program out of D.C. He could air a blurb on the show, display Ruth’s picture, and ask if anyone in the audience
knows who he was. They get some heavy-duty ratings. A viewer might be able to give us a lead.”

Gardner wrote “Fugitives” on his pad. It was a good idea. The show was seen by millions and helped capture a lot of dangerous
criminals. Someone had to know the real Ruth, and maybe his psychiatric history as well. “I like it,” Gardner said, “but…”

“What?”

“It’ll probably smoke out a lot of kooks. We may waste time following false trails.”

“What else have we got?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. So we go straight to the people and pray someone recognizes Ruth.”

“At this point it’s our only hope. If we don’t get him identified before it’s time to put on a defense, we’re sunk.”

Brownie picked up the telephone. “I’ll call my buddy right now. The show airs tomorrow night.”

“Tell them it’s an emergency,” Gardner advised.

Brownie began dialing. “That it is.”

Jennifer moved cautiously through the file storage room at police headquarters. It was dark, musty, and smelled of mildew.
She covered her nose and skirted the shadows of the metal cabinets. She checked the reference number the administrative officer
had given her. There had been several notations for Brownie in the report index. Over the years the police had secretly investigated
his activities on a number of occasions. This was normal. Cops were always spying on their own; it was a part of the program.

“Twenty-eight, thirty-nine, zero, zero, B,” Jennifer read from the note in her hand, flipping the dividers until she reached
her letter. Then she sorted through the folders, and finally, there it was: “BROWN, JOSEPH—SUSPICION OF ILLEGAL ACTIVITY.”

Jennifer set the file on top of the cabinet. The overhead light was weak, and she had to squint to see. This case was related
to the Paul Brown break-in at Valley High School. She had procured the vandalism report after her meeting with Miss Bertie
and confirmed that Brownie had indeed arrested Paul Brown for the crime. But there had been a strange notation in the file:
a reference to an internal investigation of Brownie himself.

Jennifer read the specification of charges: “Collusion, insubordination, conduct unbecoming an officer.” She swept through
the preamble. On the night of the break-in a silent alarm had been triggered at the school. Two officers were dispatched to
the scene: Maas and Pringle. They investigated and found no one on the premises, but fingerprints were lifted and a suspect
was identified: Paul Brown. Jennifer skipped down the page. Several of the spray-painted epithets on the walls were racial,
and the Civil War sections of the history books had been ripped out. The cops decided to bring young Brown in. At that point
Brownie volunteered to make the arrest. Miss Bertie had assumed that Brownie was forced to do it, but that wasn’t true. Brownie
had asked for the job.

Jennifer turned to the overleaf. After the arrest and processing, Paul Brown was released on his own recognizance upon the
recommendation of Brownie. That wasn’t surprising. First-time offenders usually got personal recog. But the problem arose
later. As the case was being prepared for trial, the fingerprint cards vanished from the evidence room. It was then that Brownie
came under investigation. Internal affairs formulated the theory that Brownie had entered the case so he could obstruct it.
They interviewed him and made the accusation. Brownie denied the allegations and took a polygraph examination, which he passed.
The investigators couldn’t find any other proof to confirm their suspicions, so the case was terminated.

Jennifer closed the file. There it was, the missing page in the Brownie-Paulie story. This had happened before Gardner had
come to the prosecutor’s office and befriended Brownie. Surely Gardner knew nothing about it. A long time ago Brownie had
risked everything to protect his brother. And now, it appeared, he might be doing it again.

It was midnight, and Gardner rolled and tossed in the bedcovers. He was exhausted, but his mind was still sorting out the
ups and downs of the day.

“It’ll be all right,” Jennifer whispered beside him.

Gardner switched on the light. “Don’t patronize me, Jen. I know I’m in trouble.”

“Gard—” she started to say.

“Let it go, Jen,” Gardner interrupted. “
I
made the decision.”

“It’s still
we
.”Jennifer touched his neck. The muscles were knotted like a rope. “I think I may be able to get us out of it,” she said.
“I have a theory.”

“No!” Gardner barked. “Don’t start with that second suspect crap again. It’s useless. It wastes time, energy, and confuses
the issues. I tried that road with King and it didn’t work. We have to wait for the
Fugitives
show to air. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Jennifer tried to massage his shoulders, but Gardner pulled away. “I may have figured it out,” she said.

“What?”

“Why Brownie’s acting the way he is, who he’s protecting.”

“Don’t,” Gardner warned. “We’ve dropped that ball.”

“Maybe you have, but I haven’t.”

“Damn it! We cannot keep doing this. We have to stick to
one
plan. Don’t you understand that? Legally and logically, suicide and a second suspect do
not
go together! For the millionth time! Whatever you’re up to, stop it! I mean it, Jen. You’ll mess up my mind even worse than
it is now. Do you hear me?”

Jennifer recoiled. “Don’t talk to me that way. I know something, and it’s time you heard it. Brownie is—”

“Stop it!”

Jennifer leaped out of bed. “You’re impossible!” she cried, grabbing her clothes.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Why?”

“Because of you! You won’t look at the truth.”

“Not
won’t
,” Gardner protested. “
Can’t
. We’re killing ourselves running up blind alleys.”

“This one isn’t blind. It has an ending.”

“Does it end with suicide?”

Jennifer looked him in the eye. “No.”

“Then
don’t
say it.”

Jennifer continued dressing. “Fine. If that’s how you want it. This was all a mistake anyway.”

“What?”

“Trying to play your stupid game. I can’t sleep here tonight.”

“Jesus, Jen!”

“I’m leaving.” Jennifer rummaged in the closet for her suitcase.

“Please!” Gardner begged.

“I have to.”

Gardner stood up. “Jen, please…” He tried to hold her, but she shrugged out of his embrace. “Is this about marriage?”

“No! It’s about a lot of things.” She walked to the head of the stairs. “You’re too damn rigid. And I can’t take it anymore.”

“Please!” Gardner called. But a moment later the door slammed.

Gardner was up the rest of the night looking for Jennifer. After phoning several friends, he started on the staff list of
the State’s Attorney’s office. Finally, as the morning sun sparkled on the snow outside his window, he reached the right number.

“Charlotte, I need to talk to Jennifer,” Gardner said to the junior assistant prosecutor, who was a friend of Jennifer’s.

“Why, Jen?” Gardner asked when she came to the phone.

“It’s the situation, Gardner…. I don’t agree with what you’re doing. It’s wrong. I want to help Brownie as much as you do,
but you cannot allow him to control—”

“For God’s sake, Jennifer!”

“See how you react?”

“Sorry. I’m getting tired of trying to explain this to you. I know Brownie. He’s not bluffing. If we don’t go his way, he
will jump ship.”

“Maybe you should let him go.”

“What?”

“This obviously isn’t working.”

“What isn’t? The case or us?”

“Both.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“I need time.”

“There isn’t any time. Trial starts in a few days and we—rather, I—have to be ready.”

Jennifer sighed. “Does that mean I’m fired as co-counsel?”

“No. Of course not. But we have to agree on strategy.”

“So you’re the boss, and I have to do what you say?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Are you going to let me tell you what’s going on?”

Gardner hesitated. “Just give me the general subject, no specifics.”

“I think I know who Brownie’s covering for, why he’s being so tight-lipped.”

“Jesus,” Gardner moaned. “Do you have any proof?”

“Proof that the person committed the crime? No. But I have proof of the relationship and the cover-up.”

“What good does that do? We already figured out he’s hiding something—”

“It’s his brother,” Jennifer said.

“Shit!”

“Sorry, Gardner, but I had to tell you.”

“So what am I supposed to do now? Jack up my own client? Force him to turn over a member of his own family? He’s not going
to give in. He’s as stubborn as… stubborn as…”

“You.”

“Yes, me. But even if what you say is true, there’s nothing we can do about it, not without Brownie’s cooperation. That leaves
us back at square one, with the suicide defense.”

“I can’t go along with that,” Jennifer countered. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

“Jen…”

“It’s best if I stay out of your way until I sort it out. Then we won’t argue.”

“We’re not arguing.”

“What do you call it? I don’t like being yelled at in my own bed.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I’ll think it through and get back to you,” Jennifer said at last.

“Are you coming home?”

“Not right now.”

“I do love you,” Gardner avowed.

“I’ll talk to you later.” Jennifer hung up.

Gardner put down the phone and looked out the window. The sun was higher in its southeastern arc, coldly illuminating the
frozen day. He was tired and upset. And Jennifer was gone. But that wasn’t the biggest problem. If he confronted Brownie with
the current situation, he would go ballistic. He’d apparently gone this far to protect his brother. There was no way he’d
turn on him now, so Jennifer’s revelation meant nothing. They were still committed to suicide, and that was that.

Kent King reached for the TV remote control as Lin Song slumbered beside him. King switched on the television and looked at
Lin’s exposed breasts. King felt another tingle of desire. The rumors had been right: she was one hot babe, in and out of
court. Asking her to join the prosecution had been brilliant. She knew tactics, strategy, and some incredible bed maneuvers.
Together, they made a hell of a team.

King propped his pillow and channel-surfed with the remote. Sitcoms, news shows, and sports events all raced by on the screen.
He speeded up the search. TV really wasn’t his game. He preferred to do rather than watch. Suddenly he saw a familiar face.
He overran and backtracked several clicks.

There was a picture of Thomas Ruth on the monitor. Above was the logo:
Fugitives at Large
. King nudged Lin. “Wake up,” he ordered.

Lin stirred and sat up.

“Do you know this man?” a voice demanded. “His name was Thomas Ruth and he died in September of last year.…”

“What is this?” Lin asked groggily.

“Shhhh!”

“But his true identity remains a mystery,” the announcer continued. “As the leader of the notorious CAIN church, he received
national attention, and ultimately death by electrocution. A police officer has been charged with his murder, but he maintains
that Ruth, or whatever the man’s real name was, committed suicide….”

“Shit!” King exclaimed.

“The police officer needs your help in preparing his defense.” A toll-free telephone number appeared under Ruth’s picture.

Lin was fully awake now, and she looked at King. He was seething.

“If you know anything at all about this man—who he really was, where he came from, any psychiatric history he might have had—please
call our Fugitives Hotline. Operators are standing by twenty-four hours a day. An officer is in trouble, a man with a long
record of devoted service to the community. Please, if you can help, call our hotline. There is no charge for the call and
callers may remain anonymous if they wish. Please. An officer needs your help.”

The show switched to a commercial, and King shut off the TV.

“Son of a bitch!”

“I told you,” Lin said.

King turned. “Not about
this
.”

“You might have expected it. With nothing else available, where were they going to go?”

King began to pace the floor, muttering. Suddenly he stopped. “Get my book.”

“Where is it?”

“Downstairs. In my briefcase. Hurry!”

“Yes,
sir
,” she responded sarcastically as she wrapped a shirt around herself and followed his directions.

King had resumed pacing when she returned a moment later. He snatched the phone book from her hand and thumbed the pages.
Then he picked up the phone.

“Davis, this is Kent King. Were you just watching TV? You saw the program? Meet me at my office in twenty minutes This isn’t
a
request
, Frank. It’s an
order
. We have work to do.”

He hung up and began to get dressed.

“You want me, too?” Lin asked.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“This is no big deal,” Lin said. “I hope you realize that.”

“How so?”

“If anyone identifies him, there’s still the problem of proof. No one can prove who Ruth really was, not now. Not without
a body or fingerprints.”

King listened as he buttoned his shirt. “So what do we do, ignore it?”

“No. But there’s nothing to worry about. The whole thing is a red herring. His true identity cannot be proven. Lawson has
to establish that anyone the
Fugitive
people come up with is the genuine article before he can get it to the jury. And that’s impossible.”