Raising Cain (6 page)

Davis clicked on the light and put his hand on his service revolver, but didn’t unholster it. “County police,” he called.
“If there’s anyone inside, come out!”

Silence.

“This is the police!” he repeated. “Come out!”

The door opened slowly. “Okay,” a female voice called, “I’m coming out. Please don’t shoot!”

Davis shone his light in the face of a young black woman.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” she protested.

Davis directed the beam inside the shed. It was set up with a cot, a camper’s stove, tables, and chairs.

“I live here,” she said. “That’s not a crime.”

“Stand over there, keep your hands up, and your mouth shut!” Davis barked.

The woman padded out into the dust in her bare feet.

“Is there anyone else inside?”

“No.”

“There’d better
not
be.” Frank raised his weapon in the ready position and stepped into the shed. There was a sharp odor of burned food in the
air.

“I’m getting
cold
,” the woman said.

“Keep quiet!” Davis was busy surveying the room. The light landed on a bottle of rum by the sink. He looked closer and saw
that it was almost empty.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a picture of Joseph Brown, and stepped back outside.

“Ever see this man before?” He shoved the picture into her face. The woman didn’t react.

“If you know him, you’d better fuckin’ tell me. The son of a bitch is dead.” Davis shone his light on the photo.

The woman looked at the picture and closed her eyes. And then she shook her head and began to cry.

Joseph Brown lay on a table at the medical examiner’s office, awaiting autopsy. There had been a delay after the body came
in because none of the pathologists wanted to open him up. They all knew Brownie and couldn’t face the task. A replacement
had to be called in, and now, at 8:45
P.M.
, he was ready to go.

Dr. Anthony Bellini stood at the head of the aluminum trough and dictated into a suspended microphone. He was thirty-eight
and handsome, with curly black hair and a square jaw.

“The body is that of a well-nourished African-American male,” Bellini said, “younger in appearance than seventy-six years.”
He placed a latex-gloved finger in Joseph’s mouth. “Teeth are all natural, and in good condition.” He shone a light inside.
“Palate normal. Throat clear.” He rolled back the eyelids. “Pupils normal and dilated, irises clear.”

Bellini proceeded down the body, noting his findings: “Clear.” “Unremarkable.” “Normal.”

He picked up a wrist. “Small abrasion on the under portion of the right wrist.” He placed a ruler next to it. “Approximately
seven centimeters in length. Straight line cut, with serrations on each side.” Bellini adjusted his headband magnifier and
bent close to the arm. “Several fibers embedded in the wound.” He picked up a pair of forceps and carefully extracted the
tiny hairlike strands. “Samples removed for analysis.” He placed them on glass slides and sealed the slides in plastic.

“Similar markings on the left wrist,” Bellini continued. “Four-and-one-half-centimeter abrasion, uneven edges, and…”—he eyed
the wound through his magnifier—“similar fibers affixed.” Again he removed samples.

Continuing down the body, Bellini found no other marks or wounds. Everything was “clear,” “normal,” or “unremarkable.”

“Exterior examination complete,” Bellini said. Now it was time to see what lay inside. He picked up a scalpel.

Just then the phone rang. He picked it up. “Bellini.”

“Who?”

“This is Dr. Tony Bellini. Who’s calling?”

“Sergeant Joe Brown. County police.” Brownie was caught off guard by the unfamiliar voice. He had been told there would be
a delay until tonight, not that there had been a roster switch.

Bellini suddenly realized who was on the line. “Sergeant,” he said.

“Have you started yet?” There was apprehension in his voice.

“Just the external.”

Brownie hesitated. “Did you check his wrists?”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

Bellini thought for a moment. It was not proper to discuss findings midstream, not even with next of kin. “Are you sure you
want to talk about this now?”

“Yes,” Brownie said. “I have to know. What’s your reading on the abrasions? I thought they looked like ligature wounds.”

“They’re minor cuts,” Bellini said, “but they did contain embedded fibers.”

Brownie swallowed. That was consistent with a rope burn. “So his hands might have been tied?”

“Can’t say for sure, but the marks could be consistent with that, yes.”

“Did you find any other marks or wounds?”

“No. Except for the wrists, there were no other injuries.”

“You’re sure?” Maybe he’d missed something when he’d checked the body himself.

“Yes. I went over him very carefully. He was clean.”

Brownie went silent for a second. “I would like you to run a fingerprint test,” he said at last, “on his skin.”

Bellini looked at his admission document. Any tests beyond those forming part of a normal autopsy had to be enumerated on
the form. “It’s not on the chart,” he apologized.

Brownie sighed. “Do you have the equipment available? The spray and the UV lamp?”

“Just a minute.” Bellini checked the supply cabinet and returned.

“Yes.”

“Are you qualified to lift prints from human skin?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Run the test,” Brownie begged. “Please.”

Bellini looked at the chart again, then at the body of Joseph Brown. He hadn’t done one of these in quite a while, but Brownie’s
tone of voice made it hard to refuse. “Okay,” he conceded, “I’ll do it.” He could always pencil in the request authorization
after the fact.

“Thank you,” Brownie replied. “I’m very grateful. Let me know if you turn up any prints.”

“Will do,” Bellini said. Then he hung up the phone.

Bellini rolled Joseph onto his stomach and extended his arms away from the body.

Several years earlier a fingerprint examiner for the San Diego Police Department had conceived a method for developing fingerprints
on human skin. It was a controversial process utilizing aerosol spray and ultraviolet light. Similar to a neutron test for
gunpowder residue, the test was successful in detecting fingerprints on skin in about ten percent of the cases.

Bellini checked the date on the developer spray can to see if it was current. Expiration was a year away. He removed the cap
and began spraying the body, beginning with the arms, then moving to the face and neck, covering the exposed skin with a fine
sticky mist. He looked at the checklist printed on the can: “Allow mixture to remain on the skin for three minutes before
exposing to UV light.” Bellini checked his watch and hooked up the black lamp. “Three minutes,” he said aloud. Then he extinguished
the overhead light and switched on the lamp.

The upper half of Joseph’s body glowed purple under the rays. Discounting the paramedics and doctors, who always wore gloves,
anyone who touched Joseph within the past forty-eight hours might have left a fingerprint on his skin. Bellini scanned the
lamp toward the head, looking for a white oval mark that would signify a print. Each arm was scanned. Nothing. Then up to
his shoulders. Again, they were clean.

Bellini played the lamp across Joseph’s neck. “Huh?” he gasped. He moved the lamp closer, then away.

“What the hell?” He was looking at a strange jagged pattern that had suddenly appeared across the back of the dead man’s neck.

Bellini put down the lamp and felt his way to the closet, fumbling inside until he located a camera filled with special film.

In a moment he was back. He raised the lamp with one hand and the camera with the other, clicking images of the unusual lines
from every angle. He’d run a lot of these tests before and developed fingerprints on skin. But in all the tests he’d ever
done, he’d never seen anything like this.

Jennifer sat at the counter of Russel’s Deli waiting for Gardner. The restaurant was a block down the street from the courthouse.
Jennifer checked her watch. It was almost nine in the evening.

After their meeting with Lieutenant Harvis, Gardner had put her back to work. A string of felony cases needed indictments
drawn up. Could Jennifer do it? Of course. Plowhorse Jennifer could do it all: try cases, interview witnesses, draw up indictments.
Gardner had taught her well, and she’d been a great student. Her own work ethic demanded no less. Work, work, work, day and
night. The fight song of the law profession.

“More milkshake?” Ida Russel asked. The hefty proprietor lifted a metal cup and poured chocolate into Jennifer’s glass.

The prosecutor shook her head. “I’m full, Ida. Thanks.” She’d had one of them today already, and that was her limit. She was
as concerned about keeping fit as Gardner, but every now and then she craved a sweet. Jennifer swiveled her stool and looked
out at the empty street. Suddenly she was struck by a déjà vu. She’d been in the same spot earlier, at lunch. And she’d swiveled
her stool the same way.…

It was bright outside. The sun had painted gold streaks across the plate-glass window. The door opened and a young woman entered.
She was pregnant, holding a young child’s hand, pushing a stroller. Blond and pretty, she was a suburban supermom. Jennifer
studied her face. It was flushed and anxious as she struggled to keep her toddler under control
.

“Can I, Mom?” the boy asked in a whiny voice. He pointed to the candy counter. The mother dug into her purse and handed a
quarter to Ida. Then the infant in the stroller began to cry. As the boy sucked a lemon stick, the woman rocked the tiny one
gently against her chest. A picture perfect grouping
.

Jennifer turned away suddenly, grabbed her sandwich and took a bite. The baby looked like Molly: a little round face with
big round eyes and a fluff of red hair. Jennifer’s law books had blocked Molly out, and then the cases, and then Gardner.
Work, work, work. The little face had been covered up, obscured. But lately, it was everywhere
.

Jennifer had special pictures of her past printed in her mind. Molly in her crib. Molly in her highchair. Molly on her bike.
Molly in her coffin. But she’d spent most of her life trying not to look at them.

“Jen?”

She glanced up. “Gard!” The prosecutor had sneaked into her reverie.

“Ready?”

Jennifer stood up from the stool and stretched. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

“Uh-huh. I was just waiting for you.”

“Sorry. It took longer than I’d expected.”

“How’s Brownie?”

“Not good, really messed up.”

“What’s he doing?”

“
Working
. On his father’s case.”

“He’s not supposed to.”

Gardner shrugged. “Right. But who can stop him? You know Brownie. He investigates in his
sleep
.”

“Did you try?”

“I tried.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. He’s got to rest soon. He can’t go on like this.”

“Speaking of rest…” Jennifer said plaintively, “can we
leave
now?”

Gardner took her arm in his. “Sure.” It had been a long day for both of them. “Let’s go home.”

The day of Joseph Brown’s funeral was miserably hot. A front had moved in from the Gulf, and the air was heavy as Gardner
drove to Smith’s Mortuary in Blocktown. The leaves on the trees dangled listlessly, and a hush filled the streets. No mothers
hung out wash, no children played. The town was in mourning.

Gardner tugged at the collar of his shirt as he parked in the lot. He was sweating, and his back was damp. Brownie had asked
him to be a pallbearer. He’d dropped Jennifer off at the church, and now he was ready to do his duty.

Brownie greeted him at the door. He was dressed in a dark blue suit. “Hey, Gard,” he said softly.

Gardner squeezed his hand.

“Like you to wear these.” Brownie handed Gardner a pair of white silk gloves like the kind he was wearing. Gardner tugged
them on.

“Almost ready,” Brownie said. “Just waiting on one more pallbearer.” They walked down a dim corridor past a bubbling fish
tank to the viewing room. Several black angels made their rounds, and the odor of flowers choked the air. Inside, several
men talked quietly by the bronze casket.

“Like you all to meet Gardner Lawson,” Brownie announced, “county prosecutor.”

The men lined up, and each pressed his gloved hand against Gardner’s.

“Sam Ellison, Ernie Jones, Harry Dugan,” Brownie said in turn.

“Glad to meet you,” Gardner replied. The men all looked like Joseph, dignified and proud. But today there was no laughter,
no story, no joke. They were as solemn as the mortician who stood at attention by the door.

Gardner knelt on a cushion beside the casket. To the rear lay a massive floral arrangement: roses, carnations, and lilies.
Gardner closed his eyes. Suddenly a sharp pain skated across the surface of his heart. Suddenly it was
his
dad in the metal box.
His
father, lying cold and still. He’d just kissed his wooden cheek, tucked a linen handkerchief in his pocket, and gagged on
his own tears.

Joseph’s folded hands were inches away. Gardner studied them, trying to fight his memory. He kept his eyes open and said a
prayer.

There was a noise by the door. “Let’s move,” a voice said.

Gardner turned around. Another man had just entered the room. Heavyset and dark-skinned, he looked like Brownie, but he wore
a tribal African cap and a striped scarf over his suit.

One of the elders handed him a pair of gloves. Brownie walked over to the prosecutor.

“Who’s that?” Gardner whispered.

“My brother.”

“Brother?” Gardner was taken aback. “You have a brother?”

Brownie shook his head. “Not really.”

Gardner waited for an explanation, but Brownie had stopped talking.

“Let’s go!” the brother demanded.

“This man here is still praying.” Brownie pointed to Gardner, and the prosecutor started to rise. “Take your time,” he whispered.
Gardner dropped back down to his knees.