Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “I have to see King,” Jennifer said brusquely.

  Lin kept her standing outside on the frigid marble step. “He’s indisposed.”

  “Please un-indispose him.”

  “Wait.” Lin partially closed the door.

  A moment later, King appeared. “Well, well, well.” He wore a silk smoking jacket and the same sated smile as his co-counsel.

  “Don’t patronize me, King,” Jennifer cautioned. “I’m here on business.” She shivered as cold air knifed down her neck. “I’d appreciate being asked in.”

  King widened the door and gave an exaggerated entré signal with his hand. He ushered her to a spacious den and offered her a seat.

  Lin walked to a mahogany bar in the corner. “Would you care for a refreshment?”

  “No, thank you.”

  King settled into a green leather chair. “I’m listening,” he said.

  Jennifer cleared her throat. “I have proof that someone other than Brownie killed Thomas Ruth.”

  King looked at Lin, who had taken up a flanking position on the couch. “I thought it was suicide.”

  “That’s the official defense position, but I’m not here about that.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To offer my services to the prosecution.”

  King glanced at Lin. “I already have an expert.”

  “She’s not doing a very good job.”

  Lin frowned and started to say something, but King waved her off.

  “Despite the bad blood, the longtime feud, and all the water over the dam between you and Gardner,” Jennifer continued, “you have to take a look at what you’re doing here. You know that Brownie was investigating the killing. If he had killed Ruth, why would he bother to investigate?”

  “As a cover,” Lin suggested.

  Jennifer dismissed her with a look and turned back to King. “You’ve known Brownie a long time, almost as long as we have. You know he doesn’t behave that way. He investigated the killing, and he turned up a suspect.”

  King stifled a smirk. This was getting better by the minute. “So your boyfriend can raise that as a defense.”

  Jennifer took a breath. “You know that isn’t going to happen, and you know why. Brownie is protecting the person he identified.”

  King looked at Lin, then at Jennifer. “What does this have to do with me? The defense can assert any issue they want. If they choose not to, it ain’t my problem.”

  “Yes, it is.” Jennifer clasped her hands. “You have a duty to seek the truth and a responsibility to prosecute the right man.”

  King smiled. “Thanks for the lecture, but I am prosecuting the right man.”

  “You’re not. There’s another person out there who’s implicated more than Brownie.”

  King arched his eyebrow. “Who?”

  “Brownie’s brother, Paul.” She handed a computer printout to King. “Brownie matched his print to the print he lifted from Ruth’s shoes. Remember the fingerprint dust? This is the result.”

  “Really?” Lin moved behind King and read the note over his shoulder. “What else do you have?”

  “He was in the county when Ruth died. He had the same reason to kill: to avenge his father’s death. And he matches the description that the jogger gave of the man in the woods.”

  “Anything else?” King inquired.

  “No, but there’s enough right there for you to reopen the investigation. I’m sure he doesn’t have an alibi. You have to check it out.”

  “I don’t have to do a thing. That avenue can be pursued by the defense if they wish. I, for one, decline.”

  Jennifer faced Lin. “Tell him he’s making a mistake. As a prosecutor, you know it’s your duty to follow this up.”

  “Not necessarily,” Lin replied. “What you said does not preclude the guilt of Joe Brown. It may actually reinforce it. Maybe they were accomplices. Maybe they committed the crime together.”

  Jennifer stood. “If Paul Brown did it, he acted alone.”

  King stood also, and Lin moved close beside him. “Then let the defense prove it in court.”

  “You’re not going to do anything?”

  King shook his head. “Not my job.”

  “You’re an asshole, King.”

  “Is that so?”

  Jennifer turned and walked to the front hall. “And you’re a disgrace to the profession. No prosecutor would do what you’re doing.”

  “Thanks for stopping by,” King replied. “Have a nice evening.”

  As Jennifer walked out, a sharp wind off the mountaintop watered her eyes. She had done the right thing making an overture to the enemy, calling on the voice of reason. But tonight, reason had left town.

  “The war messed him up?” Brownie asked at the office.

  “I think he was messed up before the war,” Gardner replied. “He was talking Scripture and snakes before his unit got wiped out.”

  Brownie was awash in papers at a card table. His laptop was hooked into a modem attached to Gardner’s telephone line.

  “How did you do?” Gardner asked.

  “Not good. I couldn’t find a single reference to Barton Graves in any public record.”

  “Did you use your contacts?”

  “Every one.”

  Gardner eyed the scrawl of notes and the balled-up pages. “Criminal record?”

  “None.”

  “Employment? Social security? Income tax?”

  “None.”

  “Vital statistics? Credit references? Motor vehicle registration?”

  “None.” Brownie looked at his lawyer. “There’s nothing there.

  “Gardner wrote “Ruth” and “Graves” on his pad. “Have you ever seen anything like this before, Brownie?”

  “Like what?”

  Gardner underlined the names. Ruth. Graves. “Like a person’s entire identity being missing?”

  “It’s happened,” Brownie replied. “A guy piles alias on alias, creates a maze of paperwork that never leads to the right place.”

  “But there should be something on Graves. He was going by that name. He had to have something in writing.” Gardner put his briefcase on the desk and opened it. “Anders confirmed that he knew Graves and that Graves was Ruth.” He removed the picture.

  Brownie looked at the photo.

  “That’s Graves.” Gardner pointed.

  Brownie studied the battle-worn face.

  “Can you computer-enhance it?”

  Brownie nodded. “Got the equipment at home.”

  “Good. I’m going to D.C. in the morning to run down Graves’s military service record. There has to be a reference to his mental condition as the cause for discharge. You enhance the photo and be ready to collate whatever I come up with.”

  Brownie frowned. “Tomorrow morning? I thought we had to be in court.”

  “Rollie will have to continue the trial.”

  “What if he won’t?”

  Gardner made a fist. “He has to. The defense isn’t ready. And if I don’t come up with something tomorrow, it never will be.”

  Rollie Ransome was furious. He was in chambers, robed and ready to go, and Gardner had just asked for another continuance. “I gave you yesterday afternoon, and that was a gift.”

  Gardner tried to remain calm. “I told you there’s been a new development, new evidence we just discovered last night.”

  Rollie looked at King. He and Lin Song had objected to any further delay. “What new evidence?”

  “I have confirmed that Thomas Ruth had a history of mental disorders,” Gardner answered. “I need time to obtain documentation and witnesses to that effect—”

  “He’s bluffing,” King cut in. “It’s a ruse to disrupt the jury. There are no such records.”

  Gardner glared at King. “Kent knows they exist and that Ruth was a bona fide lunatic. Isn’t that right?”

  King shrugged casually. “The man seemed okay to me.”

  Gardner took a step in his direction. “
You’re a liar!”

  “Gentlemen!” Rollie intervened. “And I use that term loosely. You will display none of that macho crap in here!”

  Gardner turned to the judge. “This is not a bluff. It’s a genuine plea based on fact. I can prove Ruth was a mental case. You have to allow me a chance to do it!”

  “I do not have to allow anything,” Rollie replied. “I only have to conduct a trial.”

  “A fair trial,” Gardner added.

  “I’ve tried to be fair.” Rollie fluffed his robe. “I’ve given you every imaginable break so far, but I’ve got a jury in the box ready to go.”

  “Give me another day,” Gardner begged. “Please! One more day!

  “Rollie hesitated.

  “Don’t do it,” King warned.

  “What is the nature of the new proof?”

  “I have a line on Ruth, like I said. I now know his true identity, and by tomorrow I’ll be able to substantiate his psychiatric history.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Rollie pressed.

  “Ask Kent. He can tell you all about it. I don’t have time to go into the details now. Please accept my word as an officer of the court.”

  King tried to look nonchalant. “This is pure bull—”

  “All right,” Rollie interrupted. “Against my better judgment, I’ll permit it.”

  “Shit,” King muttered.

  “But this is it!” Rollie warned. “We resume trial tomorrow morning regardless of what you have accomplished. You got that?”

  Gardner thanked the judge and quickly left his chambers.

  King sneered. “You pig-brained fool.”

  Rollie gave his former associate a threatening look. “Watch it, Kent!”

  “You’ve been had,” King continued. “Lawson just jammed that ‘fairness’ bullshit up your ass.”

  Rollie looked at Lin as if to say My next words are private, and she diplomatically left the room.

  “Don’t you ever talk to me that way in front of another person, you arrogant bastard!” Rollie snarled as the door closed behind Lin.

  “Lin is family.”

  “I don’t give a shit if she’s your Siamese twin. You show me some fucking respect!”

  “Then you better damn well earn it! You’re letting Lawson skate; don’t you realize that? What the hell’s happened to you? “

  Rollie’s jowls tightened. “I told you we’re under a microscope here.”

  “You could have denied the continuance, and no one would have complained.”

  “Lawson would have.”

  “Fuck Lawson!”

  Rollie pulled off his robe. “What’s he got on Ruth?”

  King shrugged.

  “He said you knew what it was.”

  King shrugged again. “I have no idea. It’s all a bluff, I told you.”

  “For your sake that better be true.”

  King didn’t answer. Even if Lawson was on the right track, there was no way he could succeed. Frank Davis had assured him that Ruth’s records were forever buried. And for all their sakes, that had better be true.

  twenty-six

  Gardner sat in the waiting area of Colonel Samuel Higgins’s office at the Pentagon. It was eleven-thirty, and he’d driven nonstop from the county. The strategy was to go straight to the top, to confront the chief military records custodian with the situation and ask for help, since there wasn’t time to process the request through channels.

  “He’ll see you now,” the receptionist said.

  Gardner entered the inner chamber and was met by Higgins, a tall white-haired soldier. “Good morning,” he said politely. The silver eagles on his shoulders gleamed in the fluorescent light.

  Gardner shook his hand. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “My pleasure.” He ushered Gardner into a black leather chair. “What can I do for you today?”

  Gardner cleared his throat and handed the officer his business card. “I need your help. I represent a police sergeant in Maryland accused of murder. The victim was a person named Thomas Ruth, but Ruth’s real name was Barton Graves, and he was a former army medic. We contend Ruth—or Graves, rather—committed suicide. His military service records can help us prove it.”

  Higgins leaned back in his chair. “Tell me more about Graves.

  “Gardner opened his briefcase and removed his notes. “He served in Vietnam in the late sixties and was discharged after the battle of Quang Tri.”

  Higgins activated the computer console on his desk. “Spell his full name, please.”

  Gardner complied.

  “Date of birth?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Social security number?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Race?”

  “Caucasian.”

  “Any other pertinent data you can give me?” Higgins peered around the monitor.

  “He was a medic in the 215th. Force Recon company, 1969.”

  “That’s good….” Higgins keyed in the information. “The retrieval program cross-references names, units, statistical fragments. If there was anyone named Graves in that unit at that time, we should know soon.” After several minutes the colonel smiled. “Hello.”

  “You have it?” Gardner leaned forward.

  “Yes, sir. Barton Graves, PFC, Medical Corps. Recommended for the Silver Star and Bronze Star. Member of the 215th.”

  Gardner thumped his knee. “When was he discharged?”

  “January 1970.”

  “What was the reason for discharge?”

  Higgins returned to the screen. “He completed his term of service and was separated in normal course.”

  “Does it say anything about his mental condition at that time?”

  “There’s no reference to it here, but…”

  “How about any psychiatric treatment he was given after Vietnam?”

  “Those records are confidential under 28 U.S. Code section 1453-All military personnel medical and psychological treatment is kept under seal.”

  Gardner cursed inwardly. “Can you tell me if he had treatment? I am not asking for his diagnosis, just whether or not he was treated.”

  Higgins shook his head. “Sorry. The fact of receiving treatment is confidential as well.”

  “What would it take to get the records?”

  “A subpoena from the federal court, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I’ve never seen one issued. They’re strict about this confidentiality business.”

  “Please, Colonel. I’m in a jam here. I’ve got a man on trial I know is innocent and a victim I know was a mental case. Please, just tell me whether or not he had treatment.”

  “I’m not supposed to.”

  “I understand that, but a man’s life is at stake. I don’t want to waste time getting a summons if there are no records in the first place. If there are records, I’ll go the summons route. Please help me.”

  Higgins thought for a moment, then played his keyboard.

  Gardner tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee.

  Finally, Higgins shut off the machine. “There are no references to psychiatric treatment, none at all. Not by any military facility.”

  “Shit.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t treated.”

  Gardner looked up.

  “During the late sixties, early seventies, we contracted out most psychiatric referrals. There were a lot of mental problems associated with jungle combat, and our system was overloaded.”

  “You’re saying that Graves could have been treated by a civilian shrink?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you have access to those records?”

  “No. There was a blanket agreement for treatment referrals and no individual patient billing. The civilian doctors were required to keep the records in their own files. We retained nothing.”

  “Is there any way to determine if he was in that program?”

  “No.”

  “So how could I find
out whether Graves was referred?”

  “You’d need the name of the treating doctor and a release or court order. But even if he was referred, I doubt his files still exist. Civilian physicians have a twenty-year disposal rule on prior-patient medical files. After two decades, they’re usually incinerated.”

  Gardner stood up slowly. “Thanks anyway,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Higgins replied. “Good luck with your case.”

  Gardner opened the colonel’s door. So that was it; plan A was dead. He’d have to move to plan B. But the only problem was, plan B didn’t exist.

  Brownie was in the lab at his house. It was late morning, and he was upset. He’d hit a wall in the secret investigation of his father’s death, and it was similar to the one he and Gardner had hit in the case. There were too many aliases floating around out there. People were never who they purported to be.

  Brownie lifted the photo of Graves that Gardner had gotten from Anders and slipped it into the imaging receptor networked with his computer. He had installed a photo enhancement program and a “morphing” protocol into the software that allowed him to pull images out, clean them up, enlarge them, and age them. It made the computer an electronic time machine that could transform a twenty-year-old into a forty-five-year-old at the touch of a button.

  Brownie activated the program and brought the photo up on his viewscreen. He ran the cross-hairs along the first row and centered them on Graves. He was wearing a jungle hat, and it cast a sharp shadow across his nose like a streak of greasepaint.

  Brownie selected “ENLARGE.” The image grew until it filled the screen.

  Brownie then clicked “ENHANCE.” The graininess disappeared, and the image clarified.

  Brownie took his control mouse and erased the shadow. Then he selected “RECONFIGURE.” The darkness was replaced by light; the right eye and cheekbone came into focus.

  “AGE PROGRAM” blinked in the upper corner of the monitor. Brownie moved the cursor there and clicked.

  “YEARS?” the menu asked.

  Brownie selected “TEN.”

  Graves’s face changed; his skin began to sag.

  Brownie advanced the years: “FIFTEEN,” “TWENTY,” “TWENTY-FIVE.”

  Wrinkles spread, eyelids drooped, and the image morphed into middle age. “Yeah,” Brownie exclaimed, selecting “PRINT.”

  In a moment the computer-modified picture dropped into a tray. Brownie studied it under the light. Here was Barton Graves twenty five years later. There was no question about it. Here was Thomas Ruth.