Raising Cain (40 page)

Gardner leaned closer to the bed

“It was in Quang Tri, 1969, the rainy season, when I met him the first time. We were dug in against the NVA, North Vietnamese
regulars, who were making assaults against our outpost almost every night. We were fighting two storms: the rain and the attacks.
It was a real mess. Graves was a medic, noncombatant. Told me he’d been a conscientious objector for a while, but then decided
to sign up to find out what it was all about—”

Anders started coughing. He took several breaths, apologized, and went on. “They sent him to the hottest spot of the war.
Our zone was drawing more casualties than anywhere else at the time. They called the road into Quang Tri the ‘highway of no
return.’ Most who went up it never came back…. Anyway, we got to know each other up at kill central,’ the northern perimeter
where the NVAs came calling after dark. He and I got posted there for different reasons. I was supposed to fight, and he was
supposed to clean up the guys who got hurt. We used to talk before the shit started, in the rain, when everything was calm
and quiet. He’d go on and on about God and the Bible and the glories of paradise.…

“He knew his Scripture and a lot of other things, like books, literature. He was well educated, very smart. Knew about snakes,
too. I think he was raised in a fundamentalist family where they used snakes in their services. He mentioned that once, but
never again. I don’know why….Anyway, we got nailed one night. Hardest ever. That was the night I took the white phosphoros
grenade. He put me in a chopper, then went back for another wounded grunt. The gooks were firing rockets, shells, rifle-launched
grenades, blowing up everything and everybody…. I was airborne, in the medevac unit, but he was still on the ground.…” Anders’s
voice dropped off.

“What happened?”

“Massacre. Worst of the war. The camp was overrun, two platoons wiped out.”

“What about Graves?”

“Went through hell, but he made it. Him and another guy. Spent five days in the bush, running, hiding, escaping, evading….
Finally rejoined our unit down south. But it messed him up bad.… He wasn’t wounded, but the whole scene screwed his bean something
awful.The CO referred him to the mental ward, then section—eighted him and shipped him home. I recommended him for a Silver
Star, but he turned it down. I never understood that, why he wouldn’t accept the medal.”

“So you think Barton Graves and Thomas Ruth are the same person.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Anders rolled his head to the side. “I knew the man, what he was like inside. I knew his mind. That’s him. No question about
it.”

Gardner opened a file he’d brought and drew out a photograph. It was an autopsy photo of Ruth, showing a view of his back.
“You spent a lot of time with Graves?”

“A lot.”

“In intimate circumstances?”

“In a foxhole.”

Gardner concealed the photo from Anders. “Can you tell me if he had any unusual marks on his body?”

“Marks?”

“Yes. Birthmarks, for example?”

Anders closed his eyes, trying to recall. “Yes, there was something…” His eyes opened. “You just reminded me…”

“What?”

“He had one of those Gorbachev blotches on his back, below the shoulder.”

Gardner looked at an ugly purplish outline in the picture. “Graves
was
Ruth!”

Anders tried to smile.

Gardner leaned over the bed again. “I want you to tell me about the mental problem,” he said. “Detail by detail, if you can.”

Anders was about to speak when the door swung open and the light came on. Anders shielded his eyes as a doctor and two nurses
came in.

“Sorry,” the doctor said, “visiting time is over.”

“I made an appointment,” Gardner protested.

“Let him stay,” Anders argued.

“Sorry. For Mr. Anders’s welfare, I have to ask you to leave.” The nurses moved by the bed.

Gardner put his hands on his hips. “I need to talk to him.”

“You can come back tomorrow.”

Gardner noticed a photograph on Anders’s wall and stepped closer for a look. It depicted a grim-faced platoon in the bush.
“May I ask a couple more questions?”

The doctor nodded reluctantly. “Hurry up.”

“Was this your unit?”

Anders still had his eyes covered to block the overhead light. He spread his fingers and peeked through. “That was us.”

“Is Graves in the picture?”

“Yes.”

Gardner reached for the frame. “Mind if I take it down?”

“Go ahead.”

Gardner removed the picture and approached the bed.

“Make it fast,” the doctor urged.

Gardner gave the photo to Anders. “Which one is Graves?”

Anders squinted and ran his finger across the men under the glass. At the end of the first row he stopped. “Him.”

Gardner bent down and studied the face. It was grainy and shadowed, but the bone structure looked right. “May I borrow this?”

“If you return it.”

“Of course. I just need it for a little while.”

Anders handed him the picture.

“Time’s up,” the doctor said. “You can come back tomorrow if you like, but this visit is through.”

Gardner thanked Anders and backed out of the room. He began walking down the hall, then broke into a jog, then a run. The
defense finally had something concrete to support the suicide theory. Now all they needed was documentation.

Jennifer rang the bell at Kent King’s Tudor residence in the upscale Hunt Meadows development. It was almost nine in the evening,
and the lights were on. She rang again, and then the door opened.

“Miss Munday…” Lin Song was dressed in a bathrobe, her eyes dreamy with afterglow.

“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.”