Raising Cain (34 page)

King walked to the door. “You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

King shook his head and ran down the stairs. Lin was a great lawyer, but she didn’t know Gardner Lawson. If there was a way
to resurrect Ruth, Lawson would find it.

Jennifer removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes as the television set ran the credits to
Fugitives at Large
. She was staying at Charlotte’s apartment. Her friend was at a movie, and she was alone.

Jennifer lay back on the sleeper sofa and surveyed the room. It was decorated in college dorm decor: an assortment of mismatched
tables, chairs, and bookshelves. There were some decent paintings on the walls and a plant or two, but the overall effect
was depressing. Jennifer remembered the tiny warren she’d occupied in the pre-Gardner days. Her taste was different from this,
but the ambience was the same. For her there was a loneliness to the woman-on-her-own way of life.

She thought of Gardner and their situation. “Is this about marriage?” he’d asked. “No,” she’d replied. But now, on reflection,
she realized it might be about their relationship after all. Gardner had become a bully. He set the agenda. He decided when
they could talk. He made the monumental decisions. She loved him, yes. But she couldn’t continue to live this way. Something
had to give.

Get back to the case, she told herself. If she couldn’t work
with
Gardner and Brownie, maybe she could work
for
them. On the outside, maybe she could come up with something that could help the two hardheads in spite of themselves.

Frank Davis was angry. King had no right to order him around, berate him, and then ask for favors. Davis had just left King’s
office to return to the trailer park where he lived. The night was clear, but bitterly cold. He turned up the heat in the
squad car to full blast and kicked the accelerator, spitting out blackened snow behind the wheels.

Davis drove down Valley Road, then turned onto Mountain. There was no other traffic as he shot through a narrow chute of windswept
drifts. Davis slowed as he passed his secret hiding spot, a rock formation near the runaway truck exit. This is where he had
set himself up to trap Ruth.

*   *   *

“
I have nothing else to say, Officer,” Ruth declared. “I told you everything at the quarry.”

“
Get out of the car,” Davis ordered
.

“
What?”

“
Out ofthefuckin’ car!”

Ruth’s eyes went wide. “Why? What did I do?”

“
Get out of the car, or I’ll drag you out!”

Ruth complied.

“
Lean forward and spread your legs!”

“
Why?
“

Davis grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Against the door!”

“
But
—”

“
Shut the fuck up and do what I say, shithead!”

Ruth unsteadily assumed the position. “What have I done?”

Davis frisked him. ‘You know what you did, you stupid fuck!”

“
No, I don’t!”

Davis patted him down hard, then went through his pockets “What the fuck is this?”

Ruth tried to turn his head
.

“
Stay put!” Davis was examining something in his hand.

“
Transporting an illegal substance? That’s a crime.”

“
No,” Ruth protested. “It’s not illegal.”

Davis laughed and tossed the contraband into his squad car
.

“
I need that, “ Ruth complained
.

“
Shut up!”

“Butyou don’t understand
—”

Davis yanked Ruth’s shoulder, turned him around, and jammed his finger in his face. “No. You don’t understand. I run this
part of the county. That’s my quarry, and this is my road. I make the rules!” Davis suddenly walked away and opened the cruiser
door.

Too shaken to speak, Ruth stood by his car.

The officer started up and pulled alongside. Ruth’s face was a pasty white. “Have a nice day, sir,” Davis said. Then he drove
away
.

Davis was on the access road to the mobile home park now. A few rusty mailboxes and silver trailers to pass, and he’d be home.

Davis roared around the corner and slid to a stop in front of his snow-piled unit. He got out holding a book King had given
him and walked to a small storage shed in the backyard. The snow had drifted against it, and Davis kicked and shoveled his
way to the locked door. In a minute, he was inside, rummaging through piles of debris. Soon he emerged with a small cardboard
box.

Davis entered his trailer and went straight to his desk, where he turned on the light and dumped out the contents of the box.
A tiny cellular phone and three plastic bottles rattled onto the December calendar mat. This was his secret take. He’d confiscated
these unreported and unrecorded objects from Ruth during his private sting. The phone was a clone job that he’d tried to connect
to the 911 call the night of Joseph Brown’s death, but records showed that this phone was not involved. The pills were prescription,
so they were legal, and, at the time, insignificant.

He opened the
U.S.F.D.A. Official Registry of Pharmacology
and selected a pill bottle. He raised the small canister, scanned the label, and turned to the index.

Davis flipped to the correct page and located the entry.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Phenothiozene,” the heading read. “Anti-depressant and anti-psychotic narcotic. Recommended for usage with severe manic depression
and schizophrenia patients.”

“Goddamn motherfucker,” Davis cursed. King was right. Ruth was one fucked-up mess. But even they didn’t know how bad off he
really was.

Brownie locked the door of the police lab from the inside. He had entered the service bay with his passkey and made his way
down the hall without being seen. He’d been barred from the premises since the indictment. But it was after eleven P.M., and
the cop crew was at minimum strength. No one would know he was there.

Brownie walked to the Teletype machine and switched it on. He was in the dark, but there was enough light coming through the
frosted glass door to make out the keyboard. He sat down and switched the instrument into quiet mode. Then he pulled a piece
of paper out of his pocket and input the five names on his list.

The
Fugitives
show had run earlier that night, and the producer had called to say they were already receiving tips. By the next day they
should have a rundown on the leads. But in the meantime, Brownie had some follow-up work of his own to do.

The Teletype allowed retrieval of criminal records from around the United States. If the correct name, reference number, date
of birth, and social security number were entered, a list of prior crimes and convictions could be obtained. But the problem
was aliases. Criminals usually gave false names, false birth dates, and other misleading information. In some smaller jurisdictions
the cops didn’t bother submitting all of their cases to the FBI master file. That meant that a crime committed under a false
identity might not show up on the person’s official rap sheet.

Brownie selected “SEARCH” and “ALL CRIMINAL JUSTICE REGIONS.” This ensured that the names submitted would be run against every
record database there was. If a crime was committed under any of the aliases, it should show up.

Brownie completed his entries and sat back. It should take about an hour to complete the electronic circuit.

The Teletype purred as a sheet of paper emerged. Brownie tore it off. “NORTHEAST,” the printout said. “NO KNOWN RECORD.” Brownie
crumpled it and put it in his pocket as the machine sent its inquiry to another geographic area.

The official book on his father’s death had been closed long ago. The autopsy report had finally clinched it. The fibers embedded
in his wrists had been identified as cotton similar to the shirt he was wearing, and the “natural cause” verdict was unassailable.
The fingerprint test on his skin was not even attached, so the scale markings weren’t considered. And after Ruth was killed
it was all but forgotten. For everyone but Brownie the cause of Joseph Brown’s death was no longer an issue.

There was another sound in the machine. Brownie tore off the next sheet. “SOUTHWEST,” the report said, “NO KNOWN RECORD.”

Brownie crumpled that one, too.

The Thomas Ruth case was settled also, as far as Brownie was concerned. He knew what really happened to the man, and that
truth would never see daylight, regardless of how the jury ruled. But his father’s case was different. Someone had murdered
him. And Brownie was determined to find out who it was, no matter what the fates hadarranged for his own future. He might
end up in prison. But he would solve the case. And he would exact his revenge.

Gardner was on his third martini at Paul’s Place, the hangout he’d frequented in the gap between Carole and Jennifer. Country
music still whined on the jukebox, and the singles still swarmed, but he was disoriented. He didn’t recognize one tune or
face. It had been a long time.

“One more?” Big Paul asked.

Gardner looked at his favorite bartender. He was even bigger in girth than before, at least three hundred pounds. But his
dark beard and baby face hadn’t changed. “No,” Gardner said. “Better not.” He was feeling the effects, and he had a long day
tomorrow, preparing for trial.

“Want to talk about it?” Paul asked. Until Jennifer came on the scene, he’d been Gardner’s surrogate therapist.

“Why don’t you give me a beer,” Gardner requested.

Paul pulled a long-necker out of the cooler and placed it on the bar. Gardner took a sip and put it down. “Am I a fuckhead,
Paul?” he asked suddenly.

The barman smiled. “Sometimes.”

Gardner took another swallow. “I try to do the right thing, but it seems I’m fighting everyone all the time.”

“It’s not easy to please people.”

Gardner pushed his stool closer to the bar. “I’m trying to hold it together, to learn this new job, to protect Brownie, to
love Jennifer the way she wants.”

Paul shrugged. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”

“We were so close,” Gardner rambled on. “All of us. We took hits, but we kept it together. Now we’re falling apart.” Gardner
chugged the bottle and plunked it down. “
Another
.”

Paulie raised an eyebrow.

“
Another
, Paul.”

A new bottle came up.

“Why should I fight?” Gardner asked. “Why?” He took a long swig.

“Because that’s
you
. You like to fight.”

“I really don’t. These things just happen.”

“You know what your problem is?” Paul remarked.

Gardner looked over his beer.

“You’re one of those control… control…”

“Freaks?”

“Yeah. You always have to have things
your
way. When you can’t get it exactly right, you blow up.”

“Bullshit!”

Paul put his hands on his hips. “See? You’re doing it now.”

Gardner finished his beer. “Doing what?”

“Being a fuckhead.
You
have the answer.
You
know the solution. Everybody has to listen to
you
. Why don’t you let someone else have an opinion once in a while, try to understand where they’re coming from—”

“Even if they’re wrong?”

“Even if,” Paul replied. “People got to be allowed to make mistakes. You can’t carry responsibility for the whole damn planet.”

Gardner stood up.

“Want me to get you a ride?” Paul asked.

“I’m okay.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.” Gardner started for the door.

“Take care,” Paul said.

Gardner waved behind his head and left the building. The air was frigid, and mountains of plowed snow in the parking lot glinted
in the floodlights. Gardner suddenly felt isolated. He walked to his car and began to unlock it when a wave of dizziness struck.
He hesitated with the key, then put it in his pocket. His place was only two miles away. He trudged out to the street and
began jogging west. The hard-packed snow crunched under his feet. Gardner speeded up, and soon the jog was a full run. Breath
streamed white from his nostrils, and his arms swung frantically. Gardner ran hard, and he didn’t stop until he reached the
door of his empty house.

T
RIAL

Brownie’s trial began promptly on the morning of January eighth, a day of freezing temperatures, cloudy skies, and bitter
winds. In the ornate amphitheater of courtroom one, however, the heat was on.

Gardner, Jennifer, and Brownie had each spent the previous day pursuing private agendas, working on solutions to their secret
puzzles. The
Fugitives
producer had faxed some leads on Ruth’s identity, but Gardner was too busy with last-minute legal details to check them out.
Because the state led off, there was still time to prepare the defense. That was a reprieve, a last chance to find support
for the self-destruction theory.

By noon, the first stage of trial was almost complete. Jury selection had proceeded quickly as the lawyers culled and weeded
the human pool. Now the jury box was full, and they were ready to move to the next event.

“Are you satisfied with the jury, Mr. King? “Judge Ransome asked. Buddha-like, he sat behind the bench, his robe a tent around
him.

“We are, sir,” King replied. He was dressed in navy twill. Lin Song, impeccably groomed beside him, wore a dark green suit.

“What about you, Mr. Lawson?”

“A moment, please, Judge.” Gardner turned to Brownie. Lawyer and client were both wearing charcoal outfits and muted silk
ties. Jennifer watched from the gallery, surrounded by off-duty police officers, reporters, and townies. “We only have two
strikes left,” Gardner whispered.

Brownie looked at the twelve white faces in the box. “Whatever you say,” he replied.

“The next two on the list are even worse,” Gardner said. “This is the best we’re gonna get.”