Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

Gardner smiled coldly, then looked at the headmaster. “You’d better be sure your insurance is paid up.”

  Charles frowned.

  “The last time Mr. King made an offer like that, his client wound up dead.”

  King grimaced and began to speak, but Gardner raised the window and cut him off. Then he spun his wheels and left the headmaster and his lawyer in the dust.

  Brownie and Roscoe Miller were in the interrogation room of police headquarters. It was a small cubicle, with a table, two chairs, and a -mirror on the side wall. Behind the mirror, in an adjoining room, the scene was being videotaped through the one-way glass.

  Brownie had taken off his blue uniform jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.

  Roscoe, in hand and leg cuffs, sat sullen and silent. He had a small bandage on his forehead, covering a minor cut sustained in the crash.

  “I’m gonna ask you again, Roscoe,” Brownie said firmly. “Who was with you on the Bowers hustle? And I’m talkin’ about the first one. The one at the store.”

  Roscoe’s eyes stared defiantly, their pale, pale, blue cold and sinister in the harsh light. He said nothing.

  “Okay,” Brownie said sarcastically, “I see. Well, don’t worry about me askin’ you questions about the Purvis Bowers shooting. We’ve got you nailed six ways to Sunday on that one…”

  Roscoe cocked his head but remained silent. They’d told him nothing so far about the evidence against him. Only the charges. Murder. Murder. Murder. And attempted murder.

  Roscoe’s only comment so far: “Fuck you!”

  “Oh, yeah,” Brownie continued. “We’ve got you cold on the Purvis murder. Fingerprints. Hair samples. Witnesses.” Brownie was lying, trying to push Roscoe to talk by showing him the hopelessness of the situation. And it was perfectly legal. The U.S. Supreme Court had ruled long ago that police could use deception to elicit a statement. If the suspect was too dense to realize he was being tricked, too bad. Stupidity was no defense.

  “Oh yeah. You’re going down hard this time,” Brownie continued. “Real, real hard.”

  “Didn’t kill nobody!” Roscoe said suddenly.

  Brownie smiled. The tactic was working. “Well I say you did, and the State’s Attorney says you did, and the evidence says you did, and pretty soon, the jury’s gonna say you did.”

  Roscoe pushed his shoulders against the back of the uncomfortable metal chair. “1 didn’t do nuthin’!”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Roscoe! This time we got you by the balls!”

  Miller’s face turned defiant. “Like hell you do! You’re lyin’!”

  Brownie’s smile tried to cover his disappointment. Miller knew exactly what was happening. He knew the game, and he wasn’t going to incriminate himself. Brownie shifted to plan B.

  “You’re wrong, buddy-boy,” the officer said, “but let’s not worry about that now. We’ve got another problem…”

  Roscoe’s expression reverted to studied nonchalance.

  “You see, at this point in time, you are the only fish we got in the frying pan…”

  Roscoe didn’t even blink.

  “We know we have another one swimmin’ around out there, but we haven’t caught him yet!”

  There was a hint of movement around Roscoe’s eyes. The last comment had him thinking.

  “So all we have is you! Just little old you to do the time for both bad fish. A lotta time, Roscoe. Whole lotta time down at the penitentiary…”

  Roscoe shifted his body again but remained silent. His ears were open, his brain in gear.

  “Oh yeah!” Brownie laughed. “The brothers down there are gonna love gettin’ a shot at you! White butts go for a premium down at the pen. You’re gonna havta order in the K-Y Jelly by the case!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Roscoe barked.

  “Yes, sir!” Brownie continued. “You’re gonna be the one’s gotta shut up. Gonna have your mouth so full’a black dick!”

  “Stop it!” Roscoe screamed.

  “No!” Brownie screamed. “I’m not gonna stop it!” He then put his hands on the table and pushed his face into Roscoe’s. “You’ve got no idea how bad it is down there. Makes our jail look like Disneyland.”

  Roscoe’s jaw was set, and he was trying to pull away from the wide-bodied monster who was crowding closer and closer into his space.

  “And you’re gonna do it all alone!” Brownie continued. “Butt-fuck after butt-fuck while that other fish, your buddy, the one that was with you up at the store, is free! Laughin’ and jivin’ and havin’ a ball while you get stuffed downtown—”

  Roscoe suddenly straightened up. “Are you offerin’ me a deal?”

  Brownie leaned back and let out his breath. Roscoe was not going to reveal the accomplice unless the state made him a concession. Brownie’s mind began to consider possible offers.

  “So you do know something,” Brownie responded.

  Roscoe hesitated. Admission that he knew something was as close to a confession as you could get. “I never said that,” Roscoe answered. “I just asked you if you was plannin’ to give me sumpthin’.”

  Brownie froze. He was attempting to maneuver Roscoe into making an incriminating statement, but Roscoe was maneuvering him instead. If a promise is made in return for a statement, anything said thereafter is inadmissible in court. The bastard must have learned that trick from King.

  Brownie swallowed, and sat back in his chair. He’d just come within a hair of making an offer for Roscoe’s statement. And it was all on videotape.

  “I’m not offering you anything,” Brownie finally said.

  “Are you gonna?” Roscoe persisted.

  Brownie stood up. “If you want to tell me who the other fish is, that’s up to you. I’m not giving a thing in return.” He raised his voice for the video recorder. “Just remember, he’s out there and you’re in here. And a couple months from now, he’ll still be out there, and you’ll be a nigger pincushion. Better think about it.”

  Roscoe suddenly smiled. “You don’t have shit on me!”

  This time Brownie went silent.

  “If you did, you wouldn’t try to jack me up for a statement! You wouldn’t need it!”

  Brownie remained immobile.

  “I want my lawyer, and I want him now!”

  That was it. When a lawyer is requested, all questioning must cease. It’s the law of the land.

  “You’ll get your call,” Brownie said wearily. At first, when Roscoe had gotten his rights, Brownie thought it strange that he’d not requested King. But now, in retrospect, the motive was becoming clear. King had already told Roscoe what to do. Tipped him off about the impending arrest, and advised him not to request counsel. Told him to play dumb and try to sucker the state into making an offer that would set up a guaranteed suppression of evidence. King was diabolical with that kind of tactic. And the scary thing was, it almost worked.

  “You can still waive counsel, and give me a statement,” Brownie said, trying one last time to get Roscoe to talk.

  “Gonna cut me a deal?” Roscoe had now taken charge of the entire proceeding.

  “Can’t do it,” Brownie said solemnly.

  “Then fuck you!” Roscoe quipped.

  Brownie turned and left the room. There was nothing more he could do with Miller at this point. Thanks to the Constitution, his hands were tied.

  * * *

  As Brownie left the interrogation room, he ran into Gardner and Jennifer. They looked excited.

  “You got him!” Gardner exclaimed.

  Brownie ushered them back toward the lab. “Tried to run, but I jammed him.”

  They walked to the lab and sat around the table.

  “Did you have to bust him up?” Gardner’s voice sounded hopeful.

  Brownie grimaced. “Nope. He let me put the cuffs on, no problem.”

  Gardner shook his head. “To be expected.” Criminals ran like hell when the heat approached, but once they were caught, they usually submitted.

  “You
interrogated him,” Jennifer said.

  Brownie laughed ironically. “Sort of. More like the other way around.” He then filled in the prosecutors on the details of the questioning, ending with his supposition that the whole thing had been engineered by Kent King.

  When Brownie finished he looked at Gardner. “King’s in this thing. Up over his head.”

  The State’s Attorney nodded. “Seems to be…”

  “He’s connected to Purvis Bowers and Roscoe…” Brownie continued, “and then, there’s the money. The unaccounted for cash. I tell you, King’s pulling some strings out there.”

  “Are we really suggesting that he’s involved in the killings?” Jennifer asked suddenly. “Or just the cleanup?”

  That had been Gardner’s question at the Purvis Bowers crime scene. Had King really gone the way of his clients? Had he finally turned into an actual criminal?

  “I don’t think we can rule anything out at this point,” Gardner said gravely. “Brownie’s right. There’s too much going on here, and King’s always in the middle of the action.”

  “So what are you saying?” Jennifer asked. “We bring King in?” The hatred between Gardner and King was legendary, but the playing field had always been the courtroom. They were soldiers in the system, each on his own side. This would take the battle to a new level.

  “We keep working the case, and see what happens,” Gardner answered. “Run the evidence all the way out to the end of the line. If King is criminally involved, we charge him too!”

  “There’s still a missing link,” Brownie interjected. “Another fish on the loose. And Roscoe won’t lead us to him.”

  Gardner placed the yearbook on the table. “Maybe he already has,” he said.

  They then reviewed the information they’d dug up at the school, and showed Brownie the picture.

  “Holy mother!” Brownie exclaimed when he saw IV Starke.

  “Shotguns,” Gardner said. “Miller and this Starke guy seem to have an affinity for shotguns—”

  “And one could spit out the other’s mouth,” Brownie interrupted, “they look so much alike!” Then he stood up suddenly, as if he’d been hit in the head by a club. “Jenneane Dorey!”

  “Huh?” Gardner and Jennifer said in unison.

  “Jenneane Dorey!” Brownie repeated. “The girl on the school bus. My witness! She saw someone in the back of Roscoe’s truck on the day Addie and Henry got killed. Description fit Roscoe, but maybe it was really…”

  Three sets of eyes flashed to the yearbook picture. “Set her up for a photo lineup!” Gardner exclaimed.

  “No problem!” Brownie replied. He’d pull some photos out of his mug shot book, transpose Starke’s picture into a five-by-seven enlargement, and head over to the Doreys’ immediately.

  “Jennifer, let’s get to work on a search warrant application for Starke’s room,” Gardner said, his excitement rising. “We’ll key it in to the ID. If the girl identifies him, we’ll shoot the warrant out there and serve it…”

  “Right,” Jennifer answered.

  The prosecutors stood and prepared to leave. Brownie had already removed the photo from the book and was inserting it into the copier. Things were finally moving. After weeks of chasing their tails, they were finally on their way. One suspect in custody. And another identified. With any luck at all, they should have the case locked down by nightfall.

  Part Four

  DEALING

  WITH THE DEVIL

  ten

  “Time for lunch, Granny!” Carole called.

  The boy stirred on the couch in the TV room of his grandmother’s house but didn’t answer. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. And a cartoon was on the screen.

  “Granny!” Carole repeated. “Come in here now.”

  “Not hungry,” the boy answered. His voice barely cleared the door.

  “What?” Mom was still rustling around in the kitchen.

  “Not hungry!” Granville said louder.

  Carole finally came to the door of the darkened room and looked in. The child was lying on the couch with his knees up. “You’ve got to eat something,” she said softly. “You hardly touched your breakfast.”

  “Not hungry,” Granville said for the third time.

  Carole walked over and sat beside her son. “What’s wrong?” she asked, as if she didn’t know. Let him vent, the therapist had said.

  “Nothin’,” Granville answered, locking arms across his raised legs. First he’d hurt his head, and now Mom and Dad were having a fight. He just didn’t want to eat.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Carole said softly, “but your father did something bad. I couldn’t allow it to go on…”

  Granville listened quietly.

  “That’s why we had to leave. So you wouldn’t be hurt…”

  “Dad wouldn’t hurt me,” Granville suddenly said.

  Carole stroked his face. “What he was doing was wrong…”

  The boy gripped his legs tighter and forced his head down into the soft cushion.

  Carole stopped talking. It was obvious that her son didn’t want to hear another word.

  A line of cumulonimbus clouds had already begun to build beyond the mountain ridge. It was 11:00 A.M., and at the rate the white giants were billowing a thunderstorm would form and invade the town by midafternoon. That was the usual summertime drill. Cool clear nights, followed by slowly humidifying days. And by 4:00 P.M., the clouds burst, and the process started all over again.

  Brownie bounced his lab van down the road that led to Jenneane Dorey’s house. He was in a hurry. The wheels of the investigation were finally grinding out solutions to the mystery, and now another question could be answered. When Jenneane had hit him with the Roscoe look-alike in the back of the red truck, it had not computed. Why would Roscoe be riding in the bed and not in the cab? He didn’t have many possessions, but what he did own was jealously guarded. No way he’d ever let another hand guide his personal chariot. No way.

  Brownie chugged to a halt at the Dorey house and rang the bell. Jenneane answered. Her hair had been combed out and straightened, and she wore bright red jeans. Her face beamed when she saw the officer. “He’s here!” she yelled over her shoulder.

  Mrs. Dorcy suddenly appeared behind her daughter, and assisted in pushing open the door. “Thanks for getting here so soon, Sergeant Brown,” she said. “We do have plans this afternoon.” The mother was wearing a dark green outfit that clung to her shapely body. Her hair was gathered up in a topknot, and her makeup was fresh and glowing.

  Brownie beamed a warm smile. “Thank you, Ms. Dorey, for seeing me on such short notice.” Then he turned to the child. “How’s the little lady doing today?”

  Jenneane cast her eyes down shyly. “Fine,” she said in a coquettish voice. It was obvious she was happy to see him again.

  The three of them walked to the kitchen and sat at the table.

  “You said you had some pictures,” the mother said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brownie answered. “This is what we call a photo lineup. I’m going to show Jenneane a set of eight photographs. She can look at them as long as she wants. What I need to know, is if she recognizes anybody…”

  “From the day the people got killed,” Jenneane said.

  Brownie looked at the mother, then back at the little girl. “That is the day we’re talking about. You told me you saw a boy in the back of a red truck—”

  “Randy Sands,” Jenneane interrupted.

  “Yeah,” Brownie said. “Like Randy Sands, the actor. That’s what you told me last time.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jenneane nodded.

  “Do you think you might recognize him if you ever saw him again?” Brownie fiddled with the manila envelope he was holding, but he did not open it.

  “Yes,” Jenneane said. “I think so.”

  Brownie opened the envelope and laid the eight photos facedown on the table, arranging them in a line in front of the girl. “I’m gonna turn these pictures
over one by one, but I do not want you to say anything until you see them all, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” Jenneane’s eyes were roving the photo backs, as if she couldn’t wait to get at them.

  Brownie reached for the first photo, then hesitated. This whole thing was crazy. Really crazy. An eight-year-old girl in a school bus got a flashing glimpse at a guy in the back of a truck. She was talking to a friend, lazily glancing out the window when the truck passed. A fraction of a second. No more. That’s all the time she had. And now, weeks later, she was being asked to make an ID. Adult crime victims had problems with IDs every day. Often they couldn’t remember a thing, not even eye color.

  Brownie held his breath and began to turn the photos over. One by one, the faces appeared. All white males with dark features and clear eyes. A fair array under the Constitutional guidelines laid down by the Supreme Court. No one’s appearance stood out above the rest.

  Jenneane focused on the pictures from left to right. Her mother watched from the other side of the table, following the movement of her daughter’s head.

  Suddenly, Jenneane picked up a photo and stopped. Brownie tensed but said nothing. It was the Roscoe Miller mug shot, taped over and sanitized to obliterate the police markings. Brownie had to include it. With the look-alike issue unavoidable as it was, to keep Roscoe out of the array would have been legal suicide. Starke had to go one-on-one with Roscoe in the lineup to avoid the charge of a setup. With only one Randy Sands look-alike in the array, the results would look like they were rigged. With two, the charge could not be made. The ID had to come from recollection, not manipulation, and including both photos was the only way to make it fair.

  Jenneane studied Roscoe’s photo. It was his scowling self. Ratty hair and piercing blue-eyed stare. She started to say something, but Brownie tapped her arm. “Don’t say anything until you’ve looked at them all, okay?”

  The girl reluctantly put down the picture, and Brownie turned up the next and the next. There was only one to go. All of the faces were upended except IV Starke’s. Brownie had put him last to avoid any inference of favoritism. He reached down slowly and flipped the corner of the photo. It raised up to the edge and flopped over.