Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “Nothing, really. The car was clean, real clean, right out of the showroom.”

  King turned to Ace. “A scrub job?” A clean car was as suspicious as one full of bloodstains.

  “Don’t think so,” Ace answered. “It was untouched.” That ruled out a struggle.

  King motioned to Doc Welk, his forensic man. “Did you dust for prints?”

  Welk opened a large folder. “Yes.”

  “How many did you lift?”

  The doctor sorted through a stack of four-inch cards. On each one was a taped latent fingerprint. “Thirty-five in all. I’ll be running the classifications and comparisons later this morning.” King had provided him with a computer and an optical scanner linked to the law enforcement network of fingerprint files. It would not take long to match a name to each print.

  “Speaking of prints,” King digressed, “what about the handcuffs?”

  Doc smiled and pulled a single card from a pouch in his briefcase.

  “Got one print from the cuffs.”

  “Good. Who does it belong to?”

  Welk put the card on the table. “Haven’t run it through yet, but it’s the first one on my list.”

  “Let me know as soon as you have a hit.” He turned back to the detectives. “Great job at Brown’s last night. The shoes are dynamite, and the files on his father’s death case are going to fill the ‘motive’ blank.”

  Ace and Handey smiled at the mutual pat on the back.

  King picked up a file. “Brown had been specifically ordered off the investigation of his old man’s demise. Can anyone here tell me why?”

  “They didn’t want him messing with Ruth,” Ace said.

  King arched his eyebrows. “Now, why wouldn’t they want that to happen?”

  “They were afraid of what he might do.”

  King smiled and picked up another file with the county seal on it. “Precisely.” Inside was Brownie’s disciplinary record. Over the years there had been fifteen charges of police brutality filed against him, all unsubstantiated. King raised the document in the air. “Brown has a tendency to be a hothead. You put him with Ruth, and wham!”

  “The cops knew that and tried to keep him away,” Ace said.

  “Yeah,” Handey echoed. “But it obviously didn’t work.”

  After another hour of evaluating evidence, King pointed to Handey.

  “Did you obtain the ranger station sign-in sheet?”

  Handey dropped several photostats on the table. “Right here.”

  “Excellent. What about calls?”

  “As soon as we get done here, Ace and I are on it.” Again, the police had been lax. The register listed every person who had come to the park on the evening Ruth died, a list of potential witnesses.

  “Run down each name and get a statement,” King said.

  “Will do.”

  King surveyed his team. So far, the electronics man, Morgan, had said very little. The special prosecutor nodded at him. “So what are our chickens up to?”

  “They’re busy,” the wire expert said. “Lawson keeps calling Brown.”

  King smirked. “Lawson and Brown, the ‘righteous’ brothers. It figures they’d increase communication about now. But it’s not going to do them any good. You all get back to work.” He dismissed the troops, closed the door, and picked up the phone. Soon he had Betty Harrison of the circuit court clerk’s office on the line. “Betty, Kent King. How soon can you bring in the grand jury?”

  “How soon do you need them?”

  “Tomorrow, or the day after.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Fine,” King replied. “We’re preparing the indictment now.”

  Gardner had planned to go right to his office after meeting Brownie, but he was sidetracked by a call from Granville’s school. The boy had been injured on the playground. They’d tried to call his mother, but she was out. Did Gardner want to come and pick him up? Despite the fact the child lived with his mom, Gardner, it seemed, always received the call. And he always answered.

  Sixth-graders are rambunctious. They run with abandon, and sometimes they get hurt. Granville had chased a classmate around the building and bumped his head on a wooden swingset frame.

  “It’s not serious,” the school nurse had said. “Cold compresses have brought the swelling down, and he won’t need stitches.” Granville smiled guiltily and followed his dad out to the car. It hurt too much to stay in school.

  “Better?” Gardner asked as they drove toward town. Granville had a pretty hard head. He’d taken quite a few bumps and survived.

  “Yeah,” Granville replied.

  “Yes,” Gardner gently corrected.

  “Yes.”

  “You want to go home?” They’d finally located his mother, and she was waiting for him at the house.

  “Now?”

  “Mom’s waiting.”

  “Can we stop by Chico’s first?”

  Gardner looked at his son. He’d lowered the compress from his temple.

  “I thought you were hurt.” Chico’s was a restaurant that featured a video game room. Granville’s crowd loved it.

  “I’m better,” the boy answered.

  Gardner had a lot on his mind. How could he justify Chico’s?

  “Can we?” Granville asked.

  Gardner thought about it again, then clicked his turn signal. “Why not?”

  Granville had all but forgotten his head. He was ten dollars into the machines and back for more. “Sit down a minute,” Gardner said. “Take a break.”

  Granville flopped himself into a chair.

  “Who’s winning? You or the Martians?”

  The boy crinkled his nose. “They aren’t Martians, Dad.”

  “Venusians, then.”

  Granville laughed. “Not Venoosians.”

  “Jupiterians?”

  “No!”

  Gardner shook his head. “Who are those little guys you’re always blowing up?”

  Granville looked into his father’s eyes. “They’re Megatrons from the Tenth Dynasty of Zaar.”

  “Oh,” Gardner said.

  Granville laughed and leaned his head against Gardner’s arm. The swelling was almost gone. Gardner touched the outline of the bump.

  “Getting better.”

  Granville hugged him, and Gardner felt a tiny pain in his heart. He pictured Jennifer, a baby, and himself, and Granville in trouble. And he suddenly realized that he might not be able to answer the call.

  Handey Randel and Ace Dixon were on the final leg of their witness quest. They had followed King’s advice and obtained the ranger log from the night Ruth died on the electrified rack. Seven people had signed the register in addition to the Allisons, who had found the body. The detectives had tracked down six of them and taken statements. No one had seen anything, knew anything, or was particularly anxious to talk. They’d all hiked in the woods and come home.

  Now the former cops had one more name: Julie Beane. She’d signed into the park at 4:45 P.M., and out at 6:30, the time frame of the electrocution, according to the medical examiners. She was the final hope for obtaining an eyewitness.

  Julie was a hard-bodied twenty-six-year-old with a blond ponytail and perfect teeth. She had no problem talking about what she did that night.

  “So you were power-walking,” Handey confirmed as they sat in the living room area of her efficiency apartment. “What exactly is that?”

  “High-aerobic, low-impact exercise,” Julie replied.

  “I see. And you were wearing your Walkman.”

  “Yes. My ‘Stormy Seas’ tape.”

  “And what route did you take?” Ace laid out a map of the park on the coffee table.

  “Let’s see,” Julie mused, “I started here, walked to here, cut across to here, and ended up back here.”

  Ace looked at Handey. She had come very close to the crime scene.

  “Now, did you see anybody when you were out there?”

  Julie touched h
er chin, then looked at the map. “I did see someone in this area.” She pointed to a spot that was within several hundred yards of the power station.

  “Can you describe the person?”

  “It was a quick glimpse. I was on the trail, and he was off in the woods. I was startled and wanted to get out of there.”

  “Can you describe him?” Ace repeated.

  “He was big, I remember that much. Well built.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  Julie closed her eyes for a second. “Can’t say. He was behind some bushes, moving away.”

  Handey turned up the volume on the recorder. “What else can you tell us about him?”

  “That’s about it,” Julie said. “He was big. He was a man. He was moving away from me.”

  “What was his race?’

  Julie hesitated.

  “Was he white or black?”

  Julie closed her eyes again.

  “Try to remember, Miss Beane.”

  Her eyes opened. “There was no way to know.”

  “Why not?”

  “He had a hood over his head.”

  The grand jury had been in session all day, and the jurors were tired. They had been listening to Kent King lay out his case in the death of Thomas Ruth. Fingerprint cards, handcuffs, documents, witness statements, photographs, clothing, and a pair of shoes lay on the table. King had summarized it all in a persuasive and effective argument. His prime suspect had motive, opportunity, and the means to carry out the crime. There was physical evidence against him, eyewitness testimony, and a propensity for violence. Now all the jurors had to do was vote. If they agreed that there was probable cause to hold the suspect for trial, they should cast their ballots to indict.

  Kent King left the room, and the grand jury foreman took over. Legal precedent required secrecy. Whatever the jurors did behind closed doors was inviolate. But today there was no possible dissent, no argument. Their decision could go only one way.

  “You’ve heard the presentation,” the foreman said. “Is there any discussion on the facts?”

  No one spoke a word.

  “Is there any discussion on the law?”

  Again, silence.

  “Very well,” the foreman said, “it’s time to vote. All in favor of the indictment as drawn, please signify.”

  Every hand went up.

  “Very well. I certify this a true bill of indictment.” The foreman turned the page and signed it.

  At the top was the caption: “STATE OF MARYLAND V. JOSEPH BROWN, JR.” And the charge: “FIRST DEGREE MURDER.”

  * * *

  “Place your hands on the car, and don’t move,” Ace Dixon said. He was pointing his sidearm at Brownie’s head. “I got nothing against you personally. The warrant says we got to arrest you, and that’s what we’re doing. You can make it easier on everybody if you just cooperate.”

  Brownie put his hands against the unmarked vehicle and leaned forward in the spread position. He’d been pulled over on his way home from the grocery store, and his bag of ice was beginning to melt.

  Brownie felt Ace’s hand slide along his leg. “If you’re packing, please tell me,” Ace said. “I hate surprises.”

  Brownie gritted his teeth as Ace’s hand hit the bulge on his ankle. It was his backup gun, a Walther PPK strapped to his leg in a velcro holster. Ace raised his trouser leg and snatched the weapon. “That’s one. What else you got?” Ace tossed the weapon to Handey Randel, who was standing guard several feet away.

  Brownie closed his eyes and didn’t respond. His mind was beginning to play tricks. He was the arresting officer, and someone else was against the car. That was the history, the only past he knew. He was the one giving the orders, immobilizing his prey.

  “One more,” Ace said, removing Brownie’s 9-millimeter from his waist holster.

  “Cuff him, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Handey said. King had suggested that they ride Brownie a little and try to provoke a reaction. Resisting arrest would be a nice charge to add to the list; it would verify his temper and imply guilt on the murder charge.

  Handey glanced at the sky. Darkness was encroaching, and in a few more minutes it would be night. They were on a lonely road, and there were no backup cops upon the direction of King. Their authority derived from the court order; King could use his mercenaries to make the arrest. He didn’t want the local police involved, not even Frank Davis. Too much could go wrong.

  “Place your hands behind your back,” Ace ordered. “You know the routine.”

  Brownie took a breath and tried to stay calm. Then he slowly put his hands behind his back.

  “That’s good,” Ace said, tightening the cuffs down as far as they would go.

  “Read his rights and let’s get out of here,” Handey said.

  Ace pulled out a plastic card and read the Miranda warnings. When he finished, he looked at Brownie. “Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”

  Brownie didn’t answer.

  “That’s a yes,” Handey said.

  “Knowing your rights, do you or do you not wish to make a statement?”

  Brownie remained silent.

  “That’s a no.” Handey took Brownie by the arm and guided him toward the backseat.

  “Watch his head.” Ace pushed the prisoner from behind.

  Brownie wanted to break his chains and run away. This was demeaning, humiliating. With King as prosecutor, he’d expected an arrest. But he’d never imagined that it would feel like this.

  The detectives locked the doors and began driving. “How about a bedtime story?” Ace joked. “In case he has trouble sleeping down at the jail.”

  “Leave him alone,” Handey said.

  “Better not sleep on your stomach”— Ace chuckled—“if you know what I mean.”

  “Can the shit,” Handey scolded. “We picked him up, and our job is done. Cut the man some slack.”

  “Guess he’s gonna need it,” Ace replied.

  “Yes, he is, but it’s not our concern anymore. From now on Sergeant Brown is the exclusive property of Kent King.”

  thirteen

  Reverend Taylor had called an emergency meeting of the elders in the basement of his Blocktown church. The inner circle was there, and so was Officer Bobbie Thompson. It was late on the evening of Brownie’s arrest. Taylor rose from his chair and spoke to the group.

  “You all know what’s happened.”

  “Brother Joseph Brown has been selected as the scapegoat for the CAIN man’s killing. He’s incarcerated at the county detention center.”

  Taylor looked at Bobbie. “Can you elaborate, Brother Thompson?”

  “Sergeant Brown was taken into custody by two auxiliary detectives assigned to Special Prosecutor Kent King. He was charged with the murder of Thomas Ruth, taken to the station, processed, and locked up on a no-bond status.”

  A murmur rose among the crowd.

  Thompson looked at Taylor. “That’s all I know. King isn’t letting anyone from the department near the case. He’s using his hired goons to do the fieldwork.”

  Reverend Taylor unbuttoned his coat and swept it open with his elbows. “We have to do something, friends. We cannot allow one of our lambs to be slaughtered.” He began to pace, then stopped suddenly and looked at Thompson again. “Did Brother Brown really kill the man?”

  “They got a ton of evidence that says he did.”

  “What do you think?”

  Bobbie looked down. “He might have.”

  A rumble swept the room.

  “If he did, he did it for us,” the reverend said. “Threw himself on the spear.”

  “Yes, sir!” a man declared.

  “Sacrificed himself.”

  “Amen!”

  “We’ve got to help him.”

  “Uh-huh!”

  Taylor pointed to Bobbie. “Does he have a lawyer?”

  Bobbie stood up again. “Don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Then I sa
y we get him one.” Taylor began pointing around the room. “We got to help, brothers. You going to help?”

  An elder said yes.

  “What about you?”

  Another yes.

  “And you? And you?” Taylor pulled out his offering dish and held it aloft. “Pile it high, friends, the brother needs help, a lot of help.” He produced a stack of hundred-dollar bills and dropped them in. “A lot of help,” he repeated.

  The dish made the rounds, and at each stop, a handful of bills was added. When it was returned to the reverend, he smiled and put it on a table at the front of the room. “At this point I would like to nominate Brother William Stanton as Sergeant Brown’s legal defender.” Stanton was the only black attorney in town.

  Bobbie Thompson frowned. “What’s the problem, brother?” Taylor asked.

  Thompson looked around self-consciously. “Do you think he’s up to it?” Stanton had taken the bar exam six times before passing, and he was often steamrollered by other lawyers.

  Taylor squared his shoulders. “I believe he is. We can put it on the floor for discussion and take a vote, if that’s what you people want.” You people was meant for Bobbie Thompson. None of the congregation dared challenge Taylor’s judgment, especially now. “What about it? Shall we vote?”

  The elders agreed.

  “I suggest we hire William Stanton to represent Brother Brown,” Taylor said. “Any discussion on the issue?”

  Thompson looked down.

  “Let’s vote. All in favor so signify.”

  Every hand but Thompson’s went up. Then he slowly raised his as well.

  “It’s unanimous. William Stanton will defend Brother Brown.”

  There was a murmur of approval.

  “Anticipating this, I took the liberty before the meeting to ask Brother Stanton if he could do it, and he said yes.”

  There was another rumble of approval.

  “Let’s keep the faith, friends. We have to stand by Brother Brown at all costs. He’s one of us.” There was a burst of applause, and Taylor adjourned the meeting.

  Bobbie Thompson waved good-bye and walked to his car. Taylor seemed sincere in his desire to help Brownie; he’d raised a lot of money and contributed a bankroll of his own. But his choice of Stanton didn’t make sense. Sure, Stanton was black, part of the community. But he was a lightweight at trial. And his chances of beating Kent King were just about zero.