Silent Son (19 page)

“Well, who would know?” Gardner asked.

Charles hesitated again.

“How about the business manager? Can he tell us?” Gardner could see that this was going nowhere. Charles had clammed up.

“He’s busy right now. With the commencement.”

“It won’t take long,” Gardner insisted. “Where can I find him?”

Charles swallowed and waved his hand toward the window.

“I see,” Gardner said sarcastically, “somewhere in the great outdoors.” The prosecutor stood up, motioning Jennifer to join
him. “So you’re not going to tell us anything further?”

The headmaster shook his head. “No.”

Gardner took a deep breath. “And why not?”

“Because I don’t know anything,” Charles answered.

Gardner stared at the man in silence, then took Jennifer by the arm and led her from the room, slamming the door behind them.

Charles remained immobile behind his desk for a moment after the door closed. Then he wiped his face, and rewiped his hands
with the handkerchief. Finally, he picked up his phone and dialed a number.

A recording answered, and he looked at his clock: 8:30
A.M.
Too early for contact. When the beep sounded, he spoke. “This is
Ed Charles. I have a major problem here. Please call as soon as you get in. It is extremely urgentr Then he hung up and walked
to the window in time to see Gardner and Jennifer heading toward the maintenance shed on the far side of the running track.

“He’s hiding something,” Gardner said as they shuffled down an embankment toward a group of green-suited workers loading a
stack of chairs onto a flatbed truck.

“What could it be?” Jennifer asked, once again hustling to keep up with her boss.

“Don’t know,” Gardner answered as they reached level ground. “He’s either involved or he’s trying to protect someone. Did
you see how he reacted?”

“Didn’t want to tell us anything,” Jennifer answered, “not even a name…”

After several steps, they arrived at the truck.

“Mornin’,” Gardner said to a burly man who seemed to be directing the action. “Can you point me to the crew chief?”

The man eyed both of them warily.

Gardner flashed his State’s Attorney’s badge, and Jennifer followed suit.

“Need to speak with the chief. Official business,” Gardner said in his jury voice. “Murder investigation.”

The man moved away from the work crew so they wouldn’t hear. “You’re talkin’ to him,” he said in a lowered voice, glancing
nervously toward the administration building as he spoke.

“I’m Gardner Lawson. This is Jennifer Munday.”

“Ralph Lambert.”

“Okay, Mr. Lambert, need to ask you some questions about this guy.”

Gardner handed the man the mug shot. When Lambert saw who it was, he glanced at the administration building again.

These people are spooked! Gardner thought. “He worked for you,” the prosecutor said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Off and on for the past six months.”

“Uh-huh.” Lambert was getting more and more uncomfortable.

“Who did he hang out with on the work crew?”

“On the crew?”

Gardner nodded.

“Uh, nobody. Always kept to himself.”

Gardner kept probing. “He must have spent more time with some. More than others.”

“On the crew? No. Just did his job. Never said a word.”

Gardner sighed. This was going nowhere. “In six months he never spoke a word to a living soul?”

“No. Not on the crew.” The chief sounded hesitant.

“How about elsewhere?” Gardner asked. “Maybe you saw him with someone outside of the work crew.”

Lambert glanced up the hill again, then looked at Gardner with a resigned expression. “There was a kid I seen him with…”

Gardner’s senses sharpened. “Kid?”

“Uh-huh. Student…”

Gardner’s eyes prompted Lambert to continue.

“Down at the skeet range. We done a lot of work down there, over the winter. Gettin’ it ready for the season…”

“Yeah…”

“Seem like this kid was always down there while we was workin’.”

“Yeah…”

“Well, Ross an’ him seemed to hit it off.”

“Ross?” That was a new one.

“Ross Hiller. The guy in your picture. That’s who we’re talkin’ about, right?”

Gardner nodded. “Right.” Ross Hiller. Roscoe Miller. Clever play on words for a backwoods punk.

“Anyway, they was always together when the boys took a break.” Lambert’s eyes shifted toward the sky as he thought back. “An’
one time…” His voice faded as he glanced over his shoulder. “Uh, one time the kid even let Ross shoot his gun,” Lambert whispered.

“What was the student’s name?” Gardner asked excitedly.

“Name?” Lambert was hesitating, maybe to play for time.

“Yeah,” Gardner urged. “What was his name?”

The headmaster suddenly appeared, almost at a full run. His eyes were on his crew chief.

“Don’t know none of the kids’ names. We jus’ work here, but—”

“Mr. Lambert!” The headmaster called.

“There was somethin’ strange,” Lambert’s voice dropped very low.

Gardner’s stomach tensed.

“He looked a lot like Ross. Yep. No question about it. Them two could’a been brothers.”

Just then the headmaster arrived. “Mr. Lambert, you’re needed at the podium,” he said breathlessly. “The wiring needs to be
checked.”

The crew chief nodded and rushed off.

Gardner glared at Charles. “For the last time,” he said angrily, “I want the name of the student in the skeet picture. You
give it to me now, or I’m going to charge you with obstruction of justice!”

Charles’s face blanched. “Okay,” he said, “okay.”

Gardner waited. “Okay, what?”

“I’ll give it to you,” the headmaster said, “as soon as my lawyer gets here.”

“Lawyer? Now why would you” he glanced at Charles, “need a lawyer?”

The headmaster crossed his arms. “To protect the school,” he said.

Gardner suddenly grabbed Jennifer’s hand and pulled her toward the commencement area. The headmaster was caught by surprise
and left behind. Soon the prosecutors were sprinting toward a stand that had been set up by the podium. Several students were
milling around it, carrying boxes.

They halted in front of the stand. “How much for a book?” Gardner asked, trying to catch his breath.

“Twenty-five dollars,” a student answered, laying a square black volume on the counter.

Gardner dug in his pocket, retrieved several bills, and handed them over.

Silver Linings was the title of the Prentice Academy yearbook. Gardner flipped open to the index, and ran through with his
finger until he found the “Skeet” reference. Then he fanned the pages. Jennifer pressed close as the photo came to light.
It was the same one in Charles’s office.

Gardner skimmed his finger under the names until he came to the third one from the end. “IV Starke,” he said aloud.

Just then Jennifer nudged him and pointed toward the parking lot where a familiar burgundy Jaguar was pulling in. “King,”
she announced.

“I might have guessed,” Gardner said sarcastically. “Let’s get out of here.” He snugged the book under his arm and they walked
toward his car.

King was getting out when they arrived. “Heard you wanted some questions answered,” he said.

Gardner ignored him and opened his car door.

“So. Do you want to talk, or not?” King persisted.

Gardner shrugged and entered his vehicle while Jennifer got in on the other side.

King stood there in silence, and by then the headmaster had caught up and run to him like a lost calf.

King whispered a few words to Charles, then motioned for Gardner to lower his window.

Gardner backed out, and hit the power button, pulling to within a few feet of King.

The defense attorney smiled. “My client is ready to talk now. In case you’re interested.”

Gardner scowled. “What’s it going to cost me?”

King smirked. “The usual. Full transactional immunity.”

Gardner smiled coldly, then looked at the headmaster. “You’d better be sure your insurance is paid up.”

Charles frowned.

“The last time Mr. King made an offer like that, his client wound up dead.”

King grimaced and began to speak, but Gardner raised the window and cut him off. Then he spun his wheels and left the headmaster
and his lawyer in the dust.

Brownie and Roscoe Miller were in the interrogation room of police headquarters. It was a small cubicle, with a table, two
chairs, and a -mirror on the side wall. Behind the mirror, in an adjoining room, the scene was being videotaped through the
one-way glass.

Brownie had taken off his blue uniform jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.

Roscoe, in hand and leg cuffs, sat sullen and silent. He had a small bandage on his forehead, covering a minor cut sustained
in the crash.

“I’m gonna ask you again, Roscoe,” Brownie said firmly. “Who was with you on the Bowers hustle? And I’m talkin’ about the
first one. The one at the store.”

Roscoe’s eyes stared defiantly, their pale, pale, blue cold and sinister in the harsh light. He said nothing.

“Okay,” Brownie said sarcastically, “I see. Well, don’t worry about me askin’ you questions about the Purvis Bowers shooting.
We’ve got you nailed six ways to Sunday on that one…”

Roscoe cocked his head but remained silent. They’d told him nothing so far about the evidence against him. Only the charges.
Murder. Murder. Murder. And attempted murder.

Roscoe’s only comment so far: “Fuck you!”

“Oh, yeah,” Brownie continued. “We’ve got you cold on the Purvis murder. Fingerprints. Hair samples. Witnesses.” Brownie was
lying, trying to push Roscoe to talk by showing him the hopelessness of the situation. And it was perfectly legal. The U.S.
Supreme Court had ruled long ago that police could use deception to elicit a statement. If the suspect was too dense to realize
he was being tricked, too bad. Stupidity was no defense.

“Oh yeah. You’re going down hard this time,” Brownie continued. “Real, real hard.”

“Didn’t kill nobody!” Roscoe said suddenly.

Brownie smiled. The tactic was working. “Well I say you did, and the State’s Attorney says you did, and the evidence says
you did, and pretty soon, the jury’s gonna say you did.”

Roscoe pushed his shoulders against the back of the uncomfortable metal chair. “1 didn’t do nuthin’!”

“Don’t bullshit me, Roscoe! This time we got you by the balls!”

Miller’s face turned defiant. “Like hell you do! You’re lyin’!”

Brownie’s smile tried to cover his disappointment. Miller knew exactly what was happening. He knew the game, and he wasn’t
going to incriminate himself. Brownie shifted to plan B.

“You’re wrong, buddy-boy,” the officer said, “but let’s not worry about that now. We’ve got another problem…”

Roscoe’s expression reverted to studied nonchalance.

“You see, at this point in time, you are the only fish we got in the frying pan…”

Roscoe didn’t even blink.

“We know we have another one swimmin’ around out there, but we haven’t caught him yet!”

There was a hint of movement around Roscoe’s eyes. The last comment had him thinking.

“So all we have is you! Just little old you to do the time for both bad fish. A lotta time, Roscoe. Whole lotta time down
at the penitentiary…”

Roscoe shifted his body again but remained silent. His ears were open, his brain in gear.

“Oh yeah!” Brownie laughed. “The brothers down there are gonna love gettin’ a shot at you! White butts go for a premium down
at the pen. You’re gonna havta order in the K-Y Jelly by the case!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Roscoe barked.

“Yes, sir!” Brownie continued. “You’re gonna be the one’s gotta shut up. Gonna have your mouth so full’a black dick!”

“Stop it!” Roscoe screamed.

“No!” Brownie screamed. “I’m not gonna stop it!” He then put his hands on the table and pushed his face into Roscoe’s. “You’ve
got no idea how bad it is down there. Makes our jail look like Disneyland.”

Roscoe’s jaw was set, and he was trying to pull away from the wide-bodied monster who was crowding closer and closer into
his space.

“And you’re gonna do it all alone!” Brownie continued. “Butt-fuck after butt-fuck while that other fish, your buddy, the one
that was with you up at the store, is free! Laughin’ and jivin’ and havin’ a ball while you get stuffed downtown—”

Roscoe suddenly straightened up. “Are you offerin’ me a deal?”

Brownie leaned back and let out his breath. Roscoe was not going to reveal the accomplice unless the state made him a concession.
Brownie’s mind began to consider possible offers.

“So you do know something,” Brownie responded.

Roscoe hesitated. Admission that he knew something was as close to a confession as you could get. “I never said that,” Roscoe
answered. “I just asked you if you was plannin’ to give me sumpthin’.”

Brownie froze. He was attempting to maneuver Roscoe into making an incriminating statement, but Roscoe was maneuvering him
instead. If a promise is made in return for a statement, anything said thereafter is inadmissible in court. The bastard must
have learned that trick from King.

Brownie swallowed, and sat back in his chair. He’d just come within a hair of making an offer for Roscoe’s statement. And
it was all on videotape.

“I’m not offering you anything,” Brownie finally said.

“Are you gonna?” Roscoe persisted.

Brownie stood up. “If you want to tell me who the other fish is, that’s up to you. I’m not giving a thing in return.” He raised
his voice for the video recorder. “Just remember, he’s out there and you’re in here. And a couple months from now, he’ll still
be out there, and you’ll be a nigger pincushion. Better think about it.”

Roscoe suddenly smiled. “You don’t have shit on me!”

This time Brownie went silent.

“If you did, you wouldn’t try to jack me up for a statement! You wouldn’t need it!”

Brownie remained immobile.

“I want my lawyer, and I want him now!”

That was it. When a lawyer is requested, all questioning must cease. It’s the law of the land.