Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Gardner whispered to Jennifer.

  “Accusations of impropriety, even if untrue, can undermine the integrity of our system of justice. We are absolutely certain that there has been no improper conduct in this matter, but that does not change the public’s perception. The circuit court judges have therefore, pursuant to authority granted by the state constitution and article eighteen, chapter twenty-nine of the county code, decided to intervene. As of twelve noon this date, the State’s Attorney will no longer have responsibility for the Thomas Ruth investigation. The case will be within the exclusive jurisdiction of independent counsel.”

  The chambers door opened, and a man entered.

  “No!” Gardner breathed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present the court’s unanimous choice for this position—”

  Gardner sprang to his feet. “You can’t do this, Judge!”

  Danforth peered over his glasses. “I believe I can, Mr. Lawson. I have explicit authority to make the appointment, and I direct you to cooperate fully in implementing the transition.”

  Gardner was speechless. This was the sleaziest sandbag job of all time.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Lawson, so we can get on with the presentation.”

  Gardner dropped into his seat and looked at Jennifer. Her face was ashen.

  “And now I’d like to introduce our new special prosecutor,” Danforth announced, “Mr. Kent King.”

  King took a bow. He was dressed in a new Armani suit, his dark shiny hair slicked back. Cameras flashed and recorders whirred as the newly appointed knight strutted his stuff.

  “This isn’t happening,” Gardner moaned.

  “I will do my best to see that justice is done in this important case,” King declared, looking at Gardner. “The guilty party will be apprehended and prosecuted. And no favoritism will be shown.” His eyes were riveted on the prosecutor’s. “No matter who the defendant turns out to be.”

  Gardner and Jennifer left the courtroom and retreated to their office. The sudden turn of events had put them in the spotlight again. Reporters wanted to know why he had objected. Was there something improper about what the judge had done? Gardner had declined to answer.

  “Check the law,” Gardner said as Jennifer piled a stack of books onto his desk. They were looking for the authorities Danforth had cited in making the appointment.

  Jennifer opened the constitution. “This is just the jurisdictional statement.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it,” Jennifer said. “The rest of the section talks about the right to jury trial, et cetera.”

  “Okay,” Gardner said, “now check the code.”

  Jennifer opened a thick volume of county laws. “In matters involving impeachment or conflict of interest within the office of the State’s Attorney, pursuant to jurisdictional authority in the state constitution, the circuit court may take such action as it deems appropriate, including, but not limited to appointment of an independent counsel, interim State’s Attorney, or special investigative counsel.”

  “Christ!” Gardner exclaimed. “What is the date of enactment?” It must have been slipped in during some late-night legislative session and passed by a sleeping council. There had been no fanfare, no publicity.

  “July first, two years ago.”

  “Check legislative history. Laws like that don’t come out of thin air. Who sponsored the bill?”

  “Pat Caesar. It was an amendment to the farmland registry act.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “He’s one of King’s cronies,” Jennifer said.

  “They’re tight, all right. King told him to slip this one in, and the bastard did it. No one was notified, and no one knew to protest it. It just lay dormant like a land mine, right under our feet.”

  “Can we challenge the way it was passed?”

  Gardner studied the statute for a minute, then closed the cover. “No. They did have a published agenda, and an open meeting. It was legal. The amendment was in small print, and no one noticed.”

  “That’s how King wanted it.”

  “Exactly. He’s always plotting something. And this plan was brilliant. He planted the mine and waited for the day we’d step on it.”

  “And we did,” Jennifer said.

  Gardner looked her in the eye. “Yeah. We sure did.”

  There was a commotion outside the door. Gardner picked up the phone. “What’s going on?” he asked the secretary.

  “It’s Mr. King,” she answered.

  Gardner looked at Jennifer. “The special prosecutor is here.”

  King was brandishing Judge Danforth’s appointment order when Gardner and Jennifer entered the waiting area. “Get out here, Lawson,” he commanded.

  “What’s the problem, Kent?” Gardner asked.

  “Give me all your Ruth files.”

  Gardner crossed his arms. “By what authority?”

  “This.” King dropped the order on the front desk.

  Gardner skimmed the document. “It doesn’t say that in here.”

  King smiled. “You know I’m entitled to the files. Now give them up.”

  “We’ll need time to comply.”

  “That’s not acceptable. I want them now, before they’re tampered with.”

  Gardner set his jaw. “I will assemble them tonight, and you can pick them up tomorrow morning.”

  “No. I want them now.”

  The two men stood face to face, neither intimidated. “I also need space,” King added.

  “What?”

  “You are to provide me with an office.”

  “Says who?”

  “Danforth. If you’d stayed for the entire press conference, you would have heard it from him. I am to be given full backup support from your staff, including secretarial,telephone, fax, library, files, and an office.”

  Gardner looked at Jennifer. All of their offices were occupied.

  “Your girlfriend can move in with you,” King said, motioning behind them. “And I’ll take that one.” He pointed to Jennifer’s private room.

  Gardner held his breath. King was pushing him to the limit. “Watch yourself, Kent.”

  “Excuse me. Your associate.”

  “We’re going to need some time to adjust to this arrangement.” Gardner handed the court order back to King. “And we’re going to have to confirm the logistics with Danforth. I’m not doing anything until he specifically tells me.”

  “He has told you.”

  “I didn’t hear it.” Gardner positioned himself to block King’s access to the interior.

  “You know this doesn’t look good,” King said nonchalantly.

  Gardner remained silent.

  “You’ve been accused of obstructing the investigation, and you’re still doing it. That’s bad.” His lips made a tsk, tsk sound.

  Gardner pointed a finger at him. “If you think I’ve done something wrong, then charge me. In the meantime, get the hell out of my office.”

  King knew he was outflanked. He shrugged and began moving toward the door. At the last minute, he turned around. “About that last comment,” he said smugly. “I’d like to make a little correction.” He paused for effect. “It’s my office now.”

  Dr. Alva Charles was becoming agitated. For the past two days he’d been trying to get Ruth’s fingerprints for Brownie, but he’d failed. Ruth’s body had been shipped out the day they’d talked on the phone, and the file had been misplaced. When he’d finally located the paperwork, there was no fingerprint card inside. But there was an unusual notation: “Hands retained for further testing.” If Ruth’s hands were still on ice, the fingers could be inked, and Brownie could get his prints.

  The late shift at the morgue was over. The autopsy rooms were closed and unlit. And Dr. Charles was the only living soul in the building. He obtained an ink pad and blank print sheet from the supply closet, then set out to find the hands.

  The storage
chambers were spooky at night. Echoes were louder, the glare of the lights harsher. A notation in the file had documented bin 8-C as the repository of the hands. That was on the top row of a four-level tier.

  Charles pulled a metal stepladder over to the C section and climbed up to the highest rung. There was a ticket attached to the aluminum handle: “MISC. SPECIMENS.”

  The doctor pushed the latch and opened the door, releasing an explosion of icy air. His eyes teared, and he wiped them clear. Then he peered into the vault.

  It was stacked with plastic packages from its base to the top, chunks of flesh awaiting study. Charles groaned. He hadn’t expected this much tissue. He’d have to sort through them all.

  Fifteen minutes later, the doctor still hadn’t located any part of Ruth. There were hearts, livers, brains, and feet, but no hands. Charles was getting tired and numb. He would not be able to go much longer before his own hands froze.

  At the bottom of the second column of bags was a flat piece of plastic. The doctor yanked it out and rubbed the ice off its label. “RUTH, T., D.O.D. 9/25,” it said. Charles looked in the vault to see if anything had fallen out, but everything inside was packaged. He checked the fastening and found the seal broken. The bag was empty.

  Charles closed the vault door and slowly climbed down the ladder. He’d have to tell Brownie that Ruth and his hands were gone, along with any hope of a fingerprint.

  eleven

  “Let’s get going,” Kent King said to the five people gathered in his law office. It was six o’clock on the evening of his appointment, and he was off and running with the case. He’d assembled a team from a list of ringers he’d encountered in practice. Handey Randel and Ace Dixon were former Baltimore city police officers, now private detectives. They had a combined forty years of experience in homicide investigations and were the best black-white team in the business. Handey covered the suburbs, Ace handled the projects, and nothing escaped their net.

  Dr. Art Welk was a former forensic pathologist turned consultant. He was qualified as an expert witness in most scientific fields, including hair, fiber, and fingerprint examination. He was a master of details. Next to him was Harvey Morgan, who owned an electronics business in Baltimore. He had helped King defend several electronic surveillance cases, and he would handle the wire work.

  Rounding out the group was King’s secret weapon. Lin Song was a sexy Asian attorney with long black hair and tempting eyes. She had run the high-impact trial section of the Baltimore county prosecutor’s office before entering private practice a year ago. She had the reputation of a defendant-killer in the courtroom and a man-killer on the street. And she was referred to by her detractors as the Samurai Slut, which was really a double insult, since her ancestors were Mandarin Chinese.

  “I want to set the agenda for the operation,” King said. “I had some fun with Lawson this afternoon, but it’s time to get down to business.” The hubbub over the files had been a ruse. King had already retrieved them from the police. “You know the background, history and all that. I’m not going through it again. We’re going to start the investigation from scratch, and we’re going to do it right.”

  The group was attentive. They had all worked with King before on other cases. He was precise and focused, and he paid well.

  “First, let’s get our center of operations straight. We’ll work everything out of here.”

  “What about Lawson’s office?” Handey asked. “Thought you wanted to set up there.”

  King laughed. “That was just to rattle Lawson’s cage. We’ll take a slot in the State’s Attorney’s office, but we won’t use it for anything important. I’m not letting Lawson near our files. He may try to sabotage the operation. We’ll create a diversion down there to keep him guessing.”

  “Nasty,” Lin Song said with a catlike grin.

  “Now,” King continued, “I’ve already gotten phone-tap orders signed by the court. Harv, I want you to set up the pen registers immediately. Here is the list.” He handed a paper to the pudgy fifty-year-old, which authorized the special prosecutor to learn what numbers were being called by certain phones. If there was a conspiracy afoot, this would help them prove it.

  Morgan adjusted his glasses and read the page. “All these?”

  King nodded. “Can you do it?”

  “I can do it, but…” Almost everyone on the list was either a cop or a prosecutor.

  “Let me remind you,” King said, “that we are the good guys this time. Those people are all under suspicion.”

  Morgan rubbed his double chin and walked to the door. “I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Good. Now, Ace and Handey…”

  The two private eyes looked up, like a dog-sled team ready to run.

  “I want you to trace Thomas Ruth’s final hours every step of the way. From the time he left the compound until he got fried. Every step. Where did he go? Who did he talk to? Who did he call? What happened to his car?”

  The men nodded in tandem. “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “And I want Doc with you,” King added, motioning to Art Welk. “He’s to process any hard evidence you all come up with, after he processes these.” King pulled a plastic bag out of his desk drawer and waved it in the air. Inside was the set of handcuffs that Ruth had died in. Another court order had required Chief Gray to turn them over.

  Welk took the bag. “Fingerprints, I presume?”

  “Yes,” King replied. “Use an electron microscope if you have to, but get me a print.”

  “I’m set up in the storeroom,” the doctor said.

  “Then get going.”

  Welk took the cuffs and left the room. The others stood up. “On your way,” King said to Ace and Handey. “I’ll have another job for you later, so stand by the cellular. And be prepared for an all-nighter.”

  The men gathered their things and walked out, leaving King and Lin Song alone. “What about me?” she asked in a sultry voice.

  King walked over and stroked her hair, which fell to the level of her waist. “We have to work late, too,” he said teasingly.

  She blinked her thick eyelashes. “That sounds promising. What are we working on?”

  King stopped stroking and picked up a file from his desk. “A search warrant.”

  It was dusk, and Gardner and Jennifer were jogging in Rockfield Park. After the confrontation with King they’d tried to go back to work but couldn’t. Unbelievable as it was, King, the beast of the bar, was now a prosecutor. The enemy had changed sides.

  The sun had long since disappeared behind Anderson Mountain, and darkening shadows lay across the path. It was starting to get chilly. Flat layers of ground fog were rising from the meadow, and their faces tingled in the cool air. The prosecutors were coming into the stretch, two and a half miles done, a half mile to go.

  “He’s going to screw us,” Gardner puffed. They’d run most of the course in silence. “We can’t let him into our files.”

  Jennifer kept up the pace. “But Judge Danforth…” Gardner had called after King left and confirmed the dreaded truth. Danforth did order full cooperation on the part of Gardner and crew. And that included all the amenities. And an office.

  “Danforth can stuff it. The law only authorizes appointment of a prosecutor.”

  Jennifer lengthened her stride to keep up. Gardner was pushing harder than he normally did on this section. The last hundred yards was a gentle uphill rise to the finish, and he usually took it easy. But today Gardner was sprinting. “Gard!” Jennifer called. She was falling behind.

  Gardner didn’t reply. He lowered his head and notched up the pace, opening a lead on his partner.

  “Gard!” she called again. He shouldn’t be doing this. He wasn’t in good enough shape for such a strain.

  Gardner maintained his speed until he passed between the boulders at the three-mile mark. Then he doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

  “Gard!” Jennifer yelled, racing to his side. “Are you all right?” />
  He didn’t answer. His breath was coming in convulsions and his face was beet red.

  Gardner straightened up. “I’m fine,” he said between gasps.

  “You have to take care of yourself, “ Jennifer admonished.

  Gardner’s breaths were slowing. “God, you sound like my mother.’

  Jennifer fell silent. She may have sounded like a mother, but she could tell he heard her as a wife.

  They walked slowly back to the car, cooling down from the run. It was completely dark now, and a smudge of amber in the western sky was the only light.

  “We’ve got to tell Brownie about King,” Gardner said.

  “Didn’t you call him?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yes, but he’s not answering the phone.”

  “Can’t we go see him?”

  Gardner stopped walking. “King may be watching. He’s into the conspiracy shit big-time. He’d love to catch us together and draw a conclusion.”

  “But we have a right to talk to our friend.”

  Gardner mopped his forehead. “Normally, yes. But we have pushed the ethics line.”

  “So you think it’s dangerous.”

  “Possibly. We’ve already conspired to protect Brownie, in a way, but it’s not provable, at least I don’t think it is. Brownie has to be warned about the situation before it goes any further.”

  There was a pay phone at the rest area nearby. Gardner decided to play it safe and not use his cellular. “Give me a quarter,” he said.

  Jennifer tossed him a coin, and Gardner ran to the phone. A short time later he returned.

  “What happened?”

  Gardner looked worried. “Still no answer.”

  Paulie Brown looked out of the window of his Southwest D.C. apartment. It was night, and drug dealers were cruising the crumbling street in plain view of the cops and the passersby. That was life down here, the reality suburbanites didn’t understand.

  He watched a young boy walk to a dealer’s car, make a trade, and run to the alley. He should be home, but in ten minutes he was going to be high, and in ten years he was likely to be dead. Paulie looked away from the window. His people were dying. Slowly, painfully, tormenting themselves with poison.