“No,” Granville said.
“No, what?” Gardner prompted.
“No thanks, Dad.”
“Better,” Gardner said, reaching over with a napkin and dabbing a blob of peanut butter off the boy’s bottom lip. “So you liked Dr. Grady,” Gardner said.
“Uh-huh.” Granville took a drink of milk, then wiped the white mustache off with his own napkin.
“He said you’re a really smart boy,” Gardner said.
Granville’s shoulders drooped. “He asked me……Granville said softly, the sentence incomplete.
“I know,” Gardner replied. “That’s his job. To find out how you’re doing.”
“I cried some.”
“I know,” Gardner said. He’d heard the sounds behind the door.
“Can we go outside?” Granville asked. “Play catch?” The electronic aliens were starting to get boring.
“Yeah,” Gardner answered. “In a little while. But first, I want you to look at something.”
Granville’s eyes took on an expression of dread as Gardner pulled a stack of papers out of his briefcase and laid them on the table.
Granville glanced down, then back at his dad. They were the copies of the drawings he’d done for Miss Meyers.
“You used to he the best drawer I ever saw,” Gardner said. “You could draw the best spaceships, and cars, and trucks…”
Granville’s eyes were blank.
“But I’ll he darned if I can tell what this is…” He picked up one of the earlier scribblings.
Granville remained immobile.
“Or this one,” Gardner said.
Granville looked at the next page, then shot his eyes away.
“Or this one…” Gardner picked up the last drawing that Granville had done. The one with the hidden skull. “I can’t really make it out.” He laid the page in front of his son.
Granville turned his body to the side.
“Gran,” Gardner said gently, “take a look, and tell me what you drew.”
The boy silently refused to turn his head.
“Please?” Gardner begged. “Just one quick look.”
Granville’s face began to contort, but no tears had come.
Gardner scooped the papers up and put them back into his briefcase. “Okay, no problem. No problem,” he said. “Base-ball. That’s a much better idea.”
Granville stepped down from the chair.
“Wait a minute,” Gardner said.
Panic flickered across the boy’s face.
“What do you say?”
Granville suddenly realized what his father meant. “May I be excused?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gardner said. “You may. Now run and get your glove.”
Brownie had decided not to lay out the particulars of his new theory for Gardner. The Purvis-Roscoe scenario made sense, and their evidence came close to backing it up. Brownie had no proof at all for his hypothesis, and until he did, for the sake of the prosecutors’ sanity, it was best to keep the theory under wraps.
By crossing out the other evidence on the blackboard, Brownie had left a list of three names: HENRY. WELLING-TON STARKE. PRENTICE ACADEMY. And when it came to names, there was only one man who could possibly connect them: Mr. Jim Johnson, the town genealogist.
Brownie drove to Mr. Jim’s house on Maple Avenue. The post office was closed, and Mr. Jim had gone home. Brownie parked and walked to the cream-colored Victorian structure.The glass in the windows and doors was clean, and the paint on the shingles was fresh. It looked like a museum.
Mr. Jim answered the door. “Sergeant Brown, Sergeant Brown, Sergeant Brown…”
“Evenin’, Mr. Jim.”
“It is an honor to have you in my abode.” He directed Brownie into the foyer, then into the library.
“Whew!” Brownie exclaimed. “See you got some books in here!” The walls were all shelves, filled to the top row with hardcovers.
“My life,” Mr. Jim said, “studying the trek of humanity.” He motioned Brownie to sit in a tufted chair. “What can I do for you tonight? You said it was important.”
Brownie had written the three names on a piece of note paper. He handed it to Mr. Jim. “What can you tell me about these? Do you remember any kind of…” Brownie was grop-ing for words. “Uh, any reason that these three might be tied together?”
Mr. Jim took the paper and read the names.
“Bowers… Starke… Prentice…” His eyes seemed to roll back the way they’d done at the post office. “Bowers… Starke…”
Brownie watched in amazement as the old man worked on his memory.
“Bowers… Starke…” he repeated. Then, suddenly, his eyes came open. “Starke!” he said.
Brownie sat up straight. “Mean anything?” he asked. There was definite recognition in Mr. Jim’s eyes.
“Wellington Starke…” the old man said, getting up from his chair, and pulling a thick book from one of the shelves. It looked like a scrapbook. “Wellington Starke…” Mr. Jim was paging through a section of newspaper clippings. Yel-lowed and brittle, they were from a long time ago.
Brownie looked on from the side as Mr. Jim’s fingers lifted page after page of pasted clippings.
Finally, he stopped, scanned the page, and turned the book so Brownie could read it. “Wellington Starke,” he said proudly.
Brownie adjusted the book on his lap and read the headline: WELLINGTON STARKE JR. AWARDED THE SILVER STAR FOR BRAVERY. The story was from the New York Times, dated September 10, 1944.
Brownie swallowed, and began reading the text:
Lieutenant Wellington Starke Jr., son of prominent New York businessman Wellington Starke, was awarded the Silver Star on Friday, September 8, for bravery in battle, the European Command announced. Lieutenant Starke, member of the 118th Antitank Company of the 15th Infantry Division, distinguished himself in a fierce tank and infantry battle with members of the 6th Panzer Division and supporting troops of the Nazi SS.
Brownie slowed his reading. This was a story about IV’s grandfather. He went back to the text.
The battle, which took place in France, near the Belgian border, cost the lives of 455 American sol-diers, but has been listed as a victory for the Allied forces. In a particularly bloody skirmish, which included a point-blank artillery duel and hand-to-hand combat, Lieutenant Starke was able to hold his position and turn back the enemy. It was during this period of the conflict that Lieutenant Starke so bravely deported himself.
The story ended at that point, and was continued on another page, which Brownie turned to.
Under blistering enemy fire, Lieutenant Starke res-cued one of his men, who had been overrun by the advancing enemy. Crawling into the face of the most murderous barrage, Lieutenant Starke covered the soldier with his own body until they were both able to crawl back to friendly lines. This act of courage,it was said, inspired the other men in his company to hold their ground and repel the assault.
Brownie stopped reading. Below the text was a grainy photo of two men in battle gear, their young faces beaming with triumph. They had their arms locked, like blood brothers.
MIRACULOUS REUNION the caption said.
Brownie let his eyes drift down to the line under the photo’s caption. “Jesus Christ,” he said, looking at Mr. Jim.
The old man nodded knowingly.
Under the picture was the name of the man whom Welling-ton Starke, Jr., had saved. A young man like himself. Brave and proud, happy to be alive. A simple man from a simple background: SERGEANT HENRY BOWERS.
“Bowers and Starke,” Mr. Jim said.
Brownie smiled. There it was.
Gardner and Jennifer were readying themselves for bed. It had been a long day, and there was a lot more to do tomorrow. They had to get the witness list finalized, the legal motions answered, and the opening statement outlined. Even though they were splitting the workload, it was still going to be a major task.
Gardner turned from the sink and raised his toothbrush. “You s
tick with the witness lineup, and I’ll work on the suppression motions.”
Jennifer was drying her face. She had just cleansed her makeup. “Okay,” she said.
“We have to go forward with the Purvis-Roscoe angle of attack,” Gardner continued.“We can’t wait until the last min-ute to switch gears. If Brownie finds something, great. If he doesn’t, at least we’ll be prepared.”
Jennifer applied her moisturizing cream. “I agree,” she said.
They got into bed, said good night, kissed, and rolled back to back. Jennifer clicked off the light.
Suddenly, Gardner turned toward her. “Do you think he’s on the right track?” he said.
“Whaa?” Jennifer was sliding rapidly toward sleep.
“Brownie thinks Starke did it,” Gardner repeated. “What do you think?”
Jennifer put her face against his chest. “He could have…”
“But do you really think he did?”
“Only two people know the answer to that one…” Jenni-fer’s voice drifted off. Several more deep breaths and she’d be out.
Gardner stroked her hair in the darkness as she faded off to sleep. “Make that three,” he whispered.
Brownie wasted no time following up the Starke-Bowers link he’d discovered at Mr. Jim’s. He photocopied the article and phoned a Pentagon contact he’d consulted on other inves-tigations. That got him into the military records section of the National Archives, and soon he received a faxed list of the roster of the 118th Antitank Company, 15th Infantry Divi-sion, U.S. Army European Command in 1944. Then he hit a snag. The first ten men on the list were dead. The next was still alive, but he’d moved, and left no forwarding address. The next was in the Alzheimer’s ward of a veterans hospital. By the time Brownie had worked his way down to the bottom of the list, three precious days had been used up. Now, finally, he had a name and an address: Sergeant Raphael Romero. Active member of the Main Street chapter of the Falesville, Pennsylvania, VFW. Alive, and well.
Brownie obtained the man’s phone number and made a call. On the pretext of being a World War Two scholar, he asked Romero if he would consent to an interview about his war experiences. There was no sense in telling the real reason for the contact. A frontal approach might not work. Romero hesitatingly agreed. So Brownie made the two-hundred-mile drive to Falesville to see what the man had to say.
The Pennsylvania hill town was a lot like home, with Appa-lachian peaks, rocky valleys, and old-time architecture. It was a bright, slightly hazy summer noon. And Raphael Romero was waiting for Brownie on the front steps of his brick row house.
“Mr. Romero?” Brownie extended his hand to the elderly man. “Joe Brown.” In civilian clothes, Brownie looked quite unofficial.
Romero eyed Brownie cautiously. He wasn’t expecting a black man.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Brownie said. “I’m putting together a piece on the battle of the Belgian Woods, and I need some information. I understand you were there.’
Romero looked like a well-aged Hollywood extra. White hair and smooth pink skin. His eyes were black olives. And he smoked incessantly. “Who told you?” he asked.
“What?” Brownie didn’t comprehend.
“Who told you I was there?” Romero repeated.
“The archives. Came across your name in the personnel file. One hundred eighteenth Antitank Company—”
“Not many of us left,” Romero interrupted. “Most dead now…” His eyes almost crossed as he took a drag on his cigarette. “Them that the Germans didn’t get… all cut down by time…”
“Mr. Romero?” Brownie realized he’d awakened some deep memories.
“The 118th is history…”
“But you’re not,” Brownie said. “Look pretty good to me.”
Romero glanced up and removed his cigarette. “Those were tough days, Mr. Brown. Very, very tough.”
“But you never quit,” Brownie added. “You were overrun by the Germans, but you never quit. Thanks to your commanding officer, uh Lieutenant, uh, Lieutenant…” Brownie pretended not to remember the name, hoping Romero would pick up the slack.
“Starke,” the old man said. “Lieutenant Beef Wellington Starke.”
There was admiration in his voice, and sadness.
“Tell me about him,” Brownie said, pulling out his note pad. If he was going to play a scholar, he had to act the part. “You called him Beef Wellington?”
Romero sucked the cigarette again, then pulled it out and smiled. “It was a joke. Beef Wellington. Rich man. Silver spoon. Money. All that…”
Brownie scribbled on his pad.
“But that wasn’t really him,” Romero continued. “Not at all. He was kind, generous… bravest man I ever knew—”
“He saved a member of your company,” Brownie cut in. “Did you see it?”
Romero removed his cigarette and looked at Brownie. “I was there.” His expression darkened, as if he was remembering the most horrific scene of his life.
“Sarge got cut off. He—”
“Sarge?” Brownie knew damn well who Sarge was. He just wanted to hear Romero say it.
“Henry. Sergeant Henry Bowers. He’d been sent up to a forward listening post by Lieutenant Starke. And he was up there when the dam broke. Everything was coming in. Eighty-eights, burp guns, Tigers. They had ground forces alongside. Goddamn SS…”
Brownie was writing furiously.
“Sarge got run over by a tank. Tracks went over top, and he dropped in a hole. We were hack at the line, and they were coming in on all sides…” His voice was breathless, as if he was reporting from the scene. “Lieutenant Starke called in the artillery. Right on top of us! They were overrunning. And he called in a strike from our own guns…”
Brownie tried to keep the notes apace with his words.
“Sarge was screaming. He’d been hit in. the leg. Two or three times. We could hear him over the shellfire. Let him go, someone said. But the lieutenant went out, in the middle of the shrapnel rain. With the SS shooting and slashing and chopping all around. He went out. And damned if he didn’t bring Sarge hack alive…” Romero stopped talking and took another drag of his cigarette, this time pulling the smoke in as deep as he could.
Brownie stopped writing. “Why do you think he did it?” he asked.
Romero exhaled a white cloud. “Because that’s the way the man was. And—” He cut off his own words.
“And?” Brownie sensed something important.
“The way he felt about Sarge,” Romero answered. “He loved the man.”
Brownie looked up. “Do you know why?”
Romero frowned, as if that was a strange question from a scholar. But he shrugged it off. “Don’t know, really. We all liked Sarge, but the lieutenant really loved the man. Like a brother. And it went the other way around too.”
Brownie’s heart began to race. “Mind elaborating on that?”
Romero folded his hands and spoke with the cigarette still in his mouth. “They were inseparable. Sarge and Lieutenant. Lieutenant and Sarge. Rich man, poor man. Mutt and Jeff. Starke loved Bowers, and Bowers worshipped Starke. Noth-ing either man wouldn’t do for the other. Cut off his own arm…”
Brownie took it all down. “Did you ever see them later? After the war?”
Romero shook his head. “No. We all went back to our own worlds. I heard Lieutenant died, quite some time ago. Don’t know what ever became of Sarge…”
Brownie opened his folder and took out the ATF photo of the handgun. He handed it over to Romero. “Ever see this before?” he asked.
The old man’s eyes leaped. “Where’d you get this?”
“You’ve seen it?”
Romero suddenly realized he’d been had. Brownie was no scholar.
Brownie pulled out his police ID. “I didn’t want to do it this way, Mr. Romero, but I have to,” he said. “I’m a police officer from Maryland. Henry Bowers is dead. Murdered. I’m sorry to have to tell you that. This was the murder weapon.”
&
nbsp; Romero froze. This was too much. From the horrors of the war to the murder of a long-lost friend, all in an instant.
“Please,” Brownie said. “I need your help.”
Romero hesitated, and looked at the picture again. There was recognition in his eyes.
“Tell me about the gun,” Brownie said.
Romero handed the photo back and lit another cigarette. “Our unit was assigned to carry those things,” he said. “Some kind of special project. Gave each man a gun, and he was supposed to report how it functioned…”
“So Lieutenant Starke had one?”
“Yup. Sergeant Bowers too. We all had ‘em.”
Brownie swallowed hard, and almost snapped his pen. Starke to Bowers. Bowers to Starke. He’d thought he was almost there, but he wasn’t. The murder weapon could have come from Bowers or Starke. And that didn’t help at all.
Part Seven
REVELATIONS
nineteen
Trial day dawned clear and warm. The sun pierced the shadow of the valley from the northeast, and slowly made its way to the courthouse dome, where it burst in a dazzling golden flash.
Gardner and Jennifer were in the courtroom, rushing through final preparations. They had been moving nonstop for the past week, trying to get ready for the trial. And now the day was upon them.
A crowd had gathered early. Unlike the arraignment, which few had attended, this one was a sellout. The bailiff had kept the people outside until he checked how many seats would he available. Now the spectators were coming in, their throaty babble breaking the silence that hung in the air above the counsel tables.
“All set?” Jennifer whispered to Gardner. Her hair had been pulled back and clipped with a gold clasp. She looked calm.
“No,” Gardner said. His eyelids were droopier than ever, and his skin was pallid. He’d paced the bedroom most of the night.
“All rise!” The bailiff wasn’t wasting time. At precisely 9:00 Judge Hanks mounted the bench and struck her gavel. State v. Miller and State v. Starke were under way.
There were the usual preliminary introductions, then Judge Hanks turned to the defense side. “Gentlemen, I have a list of pretrial motions here. Which shall I consider first?”
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