Silent Son (37 page)

“Chief Judge Biddington on line one,” her secretary said.

Hanks put down the file. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take it.

“Judge Biddington, this is an honor.” It was rare for the number one judge in the state to contact a circuit court mem-ber,
especially one as low in the ranks as she.

“Judge Hanks, the pleasure is mine. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“Well, uh, good.” His voice sounded strange.

Hanks waited for him to continue, but there was an embar-rassing pause.

“Sir?”

“Uh, yes, Judge Hanks,” Biddington said. “Just called to check in with you. Everything okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything you need? Anything at all? Extra law clerk? Secretarial help? Anything like that?”

“No, sir.” She was overworked, but not to that extent.

“Well, if you need something, just let me know.”

Hanks drew a breath. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

“Okay then. Nice talking to you.”

“Nice talking to you too, sir.”

“Okay then, good-bye.”

“Bye, sir.”

Hanks hung up and leaned back in her chair. That had to be one of the weirdest phone calls of her life. The senior judge in
Maryland was suddenly interested in her welfare. But he didn’t say why.

Jennifer walked up to the door of the county police labora-tory and knocked. She had seen Gardner and Granville zoom out earlier
but she had no idea where they were going. After the setbacks of the last few days, Jennifer needed a dose of optimism. And
the place for that was Dr. Brownie’s lab.

“Come in!” Brownie called.

Jennifer opened the door and found the officer hunched over the lab table. As she entered, he didn’t turn around.

“It’s me,” she said from behind.

“Hi, Jennifer.” He was still engrossed in his work.

Jennifer peeked over his shoulder. Brownie was peering through a giant magnifier at a plaster cast.

“What have you found?” she whispered.

Brownie finally looked up. “Got an ID on the gun. ATF had it in their archives…” He picked up a computer printout and handed
it to the prosecutor.

Jennifer examined the strange-looking gun depicted on the page. “What is it?” she asked.

“Prototype for a new sidearm the U.S. was developing in World War Two,” Brownie said. “Bigger than a forty-five, with a whole
lot of knockdown power…”

“Can you trace it?”

Brownie shook his head. “That’s a problem. These things were scattered to the winds after the war. It was too heavy for combat
use, so the government abandoned the project. Only a couple hundred made, and they all became souvenirs or collector’s items.
Pretty hard to trace…”

“So where would Roscoe have gotten it?” Jennifer asked.

“He could have stolen it, or picl-ed it up off a gunrunner workin’ the interstate. Only one thing’s for certain. This gun
fires massive slugs. And that’s what killed the Bowers.”

“But who fired it?” Jennifer picked up the printout again.

“I’m workin’ on that,” Brownie said. “And if I can run down where it came from, we’ll have the answer.”

Gardner and Granville walked the curving pathway through the damp cavern hand in hand. There was a hollow resounding sound
as their feet crunched on the gravel floor, and an occasional melodic ping as drips of water fell in the darkness.

Gardner had forgotten how beautiful this place was. An underground river had cut away the limestone under the earth and left
a maze of honey-glazed rock. Suddenly, Gardner’s own memories began to creep back. He’d been a lot like Granville as a child.
Sensitive. Insecure. Lonely at times. He’d gotten along with his father, but there was a distance between them. It was the
old style of raising children. Kids were to be seen but not heard. Gardner felt a pang of sadness. When he had visited the
cave long ago, his father hadn’t held his hand.

“Look, Gran!” They had just entered the main chamber, a high-ceilinged room filled with glistening stalagmites and stalactites.
It was spectacular, and the owners had backlit the stone with dramatic effect, like a grand cathedral.

“Gran!” Gardner repeated.

The boy had kept his eyes shut most of the time, gripping his dad’s hand with a strength that surprised Gardner. But he kept
moving and didn’t whimper. Now, finally, he opened his eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Gardner said, waving his finger around like a pointer.

Granville kept his eyes open. “Uh-huh.” The hand still gripped tightly.

“Took millions of years to form,” Gardner said. “Did you know that?”

Granville was still studying the dazzling display. “Uh-huh.”

“They told you about that?” Gardner held his breath as he broached the subject of the school visit.

The boy began to respond, but suddenly shook his head and shut his eyes. The grip on Gardner’s hand was tighter than ever.

They started moving again, on the pathway that wound through another twisting corridor, and then back to the entrance.

They were almost out now. Just a few more turns and they’d he back in the sunlight. Granville was still silent. As they neared
the final curve, Granville suddenly pulled Gardner to a stop. “Dad!” he said urgently.

Gardner looked at his son. Something was going on. “What is it, Gran?”

The boy’s eyes were wide now, and they seemed to look past Gardner into the shadows of the pathway ahead. Gardner turned around,
but he could see nothing. “What is it, son?” he repeated.

Granville pulled free of his father’s grip and put his hands together in front of him as if he was praying.

Gardner grabbed Granville’s hand, and they raced around the corner. Fifty steps down the trail they turned the bend and arrived
beside a lit-up rock alcove. There was a sign spiked in the stone: THE ANGEL OF CRYSTAL GROTTO.

“She’s beautiful,” Gardner told his son.

“Uh-huh,” said Granville.

And the two of them marveled at the rock formation that a million years had molded into being: a glossy ten-foot stalagmite
in the exact shape of a praying angel.

Dr. Glenmore Grady’s office was in the center of town, near the courthouse. He had been at that location for over thirty years,
and he wasn’t about to move out to Veil Valley.

Granville sat in the elderly psychiatrist’s consultation room in a soft leather chair. Dr. Grady was beside him, on the couch.
He wore a plaid shirt and cotton pants. Gardner was out in the waiting area. The court order forbade him from observing.

“Heard you got a knock on the head,” Grady said, looking at a folder containing the boy’s medical files. “How’re you feeling
now?”

“Okay,” Granville said tentatively. Dad had told him to cooperate, that Dr. Grady was a pretty good old guy.

“Still having headaches?”

Granville stirred, but didn’t answer.

“It’s all right, son,” Grady said. “You can talk to me. I talk to young fellas like you all the time. Haven’t eaten one yet…”

Granville relaxed slightly.

“Have you been getting any more headaches’?” The medical reports said there was no organic brain damage.

“No,” Granville said.

“That’s good.” Grady made a note on his pad. “How about nightmares? Your mom said you’d had some bad dreams.”

Granville shrugged his shoulders.

“Have you had any bad dreams?”

Granville shrugged again.

Grady got up from his chair and opened the drawer of the credenza against the wall. “Want a piece of candy?”

“Okay,” Granville said. He was always ready for sweets.

Grady brought a handful of lollipops and presented them to the boy. Granville surveyed the selection, then grabbed a lemon
pop and pulled off the paper.

“Go ahead,” Grady said, pulling the paper off a red one of his own.

Granville put the sucker in his mouth.

Grady sat down and picked up his note pad. “Mmmmm!” he said through his teeth. “Tastes good.”

Granville nodded, his face relaxed.

Grady made another note on his pad, watching his patient as he wrote. The lollipops were a special order, brought in this
morning just for Granville.

The prosecution team was assembled at the State’s Attor-ney’s office, reviewing the case. Earlier, Gardner had spent two hours
at the psychiatrist’s office, waiting for Granville. “The report will be ready in three days,” Dr. Grady had told him. Then
he gave the prosecutor an off-the-record rundown on his son’s condition, including a few observations that he was
not
going to write in the report.

Gardner stood at the blackboard, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. The previous markings were still up, delineating the progress
they’d made in proving the guilt of Miller and Starke.

“This is how it goes,” Gardner said. Brownie and Jennifer were seated at the table, also casually dressed. Granville was next
door in Gardner’s private office, laden with video games, happy to have some playtime after this morning. “Henry Bowers was
a rich man. Somehow he’d amassed a fortune, and he kept it in a set of safe deposit boxes in the bank. He never spent the
money. He hoarded it, and only occasionally gave it away.” Gardner wrote SCHOOL, CLARENCE CONLEY, and FOOTBALL PROGRAMS on
the board. “Meanwhile, nephew Purvis, ostensibly the only living relative, was allowed access to the safe deposit boxes by
Henry to help dispense the money to Addie if he became incapacitated.”

Jennifer and Brownie listened intently as Gardner spoke. This was the first time that anyone had officially articulated the
big picture, and so far it was making sense.

“But it has to be noted,” Gardner said, “that by putting Purvis on the boxes that Henry was not making a gift of the money.
Purvis was only to be the caretaker if Henry got sick.” Gardner wrote KNOWLEDGE OF MONEY under Purvis’s name.

“Now we come to Roscoe Miller,” Gardner continued, “good old
cousin
Roscoe. The black sheep of the family. We know that Roscoe and Purvis were connected.” He wrote COUSIN, ADDRESS, and ADMISSION
on the board. “He admitted to you, Brownie, that he’d seen Roscoe around.”

“Uh-huh,” said Brownie.

“And that confirms that they knew each other, in addition to the fact that Roscoe used Purvis’s address on the West Virginia
State Police arrest form.”

Gardner turned from the board. “So Purvis Bowers is lan-guishing in this town. An accountant with a two-bit practice. Unknown,
and very
unrich
. He’s going nowhere fast, while his old uncle is sitting on a pile of money that
he
, Purvis, has access to but cannot touch. It begins to eat at him. Each day passes, and his uncle gets older and older and
doesn’t get sick and doesn’t die. So Purvis decides to help it along a little. He formulates a plan to get the money. He can
legitimately withdraw the funds. All he needs is for Henry and Addie to be dead.”

“And that’s where Roscoe comes in,” Jennifer interjected.

“Right,” Gardner said. “A murder in the course of a robbery would do nicely. Purvis makes a deal with Roscoe to hit the store
and wipe out his aunt and uncle. Purvis agrees to pay Roscoe a major sum of cash to do the deed.” Gardner wrote CONTRACT on
the hoard and drew a line connecting Purvis and Roscoe. Then he circled $8,000, a figure already written under Roscoe’s name.

“While this is going on,” Gardner continued, “Roscoe is working at the school, and he comes in contact with IV Starke, a man
who bears a strange resemblance to him. Roscoe Miller and Starke become friends, and start sharing common interests like guns
and disdain for authority. One thing leads to another, and Roscoe decides to bring Starke in on the deal. Not for money. Just
for the thrill. And Starke is more than happy to oblige.” He then underlined ID and JENNEANE DOREY. “There’s no doubt he’s
with Miller when the crime goes down.” Gardner stopped and took a breath.

“Then, something goes wrong,” Gardner said, picking up the pace again.

“Granville,” Jennifer replied softly.

Gardner frowned. “No. I’ll get to that later.”

Jennifer gave an apologetic nod.

“Something goes wrong between Miller and Purvis Bow-ers,” Gardner said. “Could have been money. Who knows? Maybe Miller was
supposed to get more from Purvis, and he reneged. Maybe Miller found out about the full amount… Whatever the reason, now Miller
comes in and blows away Purvis Bowers.” Gardner circled the FINGERPRINT notation.

“And now the money could all end up
here
!” Gardner angrily circled the word KING. “Right, Brownie? Give us the rundown on that again.”

The officer stood up and walked to the board, gently remov-ing the chalk from Gardner’s hand. “Like I told you,” he said,
“Kent King is the only man with legal title to the money. He’s in the will. Put himself in there, and unless Roscoe makes
a claim against the estate, King could get all the cash.” He looked at Gardner. “That’s it.”

“But, in the meantime, where’s the money?” Gardner asked.

Brownie shook his head. “Wish I knew,” he said.

* * *

Across town, Roscoe Miller was meeting with Kent King in his law office. They had not accomplished much in the past hour.

“I’m getting tired of repeating it, Roscoe,” King said. “You gotta give me something I can use against Starke!”

Miller was playing with the new monitor the sheriffs had strapped on him.

“Look at me, please,” King said. “I don’t like talking to the top of your head.”

Roscoe’s face slowly came up and his blue eyes met King’s.

“They are tryin’ to
burn
your ass,” King said. “Don’t you understand that?”

Miller fluffed his hair. “That’s why I hired you,” he said casually, “to keep ‘em from doin’ it.”

“How much money did you get?” King asked.

“Dun’no,” Roscoe said, lowering his attention back to the bracelet. This one was a new model. More durable, the cops said.

King pushed Roscoe’s wrist down to his side. “Give me your full attention, Roscoe. Stop playing with that thing.”

The blue eyes came up again. “Okay, sorry.”

King put his hands on the desk. “How many times we been over this now, Roscoe? Thirty? And every time it’s the same. You didn’t
do a thing. And you don’t know a thing. But you had a fistful of cash after the first shooting, a fingerprint on a shotgun
shell, and Starke lays out your bond…”