Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

Genres: Private Investigators; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The sole witness to an elderly couple's murder is an eight-year-old boy, struck dumb by the trauma, and courtroom revelations place his life in jeopardy as well. By the author of State v. Justice.

Release date: October 31, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 328

Sample

The young man entered the store, and on appearance alone, his intentions were innocent. Or so it seemed to Addie Bowers standing
behind the counter. When the small brass bell above the door tinkled, she looked up from her newspaper and smiled. A customer
at last. It had been a slow day so far.


Her husband, Henry, was busy restocking canned goods on the shelves above the soft drink cooler. When the bell rang, he didn’t
even turn around. Addie would handle it, just as she had done for the last forty-two years in the small grocery and dry goods
shop that stood on a lonely stretch of Mountain Road.


“Hello.” Addie’s blue-eyed smile was like pale sunshine on a spring day. “What can I get for you this afternoon?”

The man approached the counter, but said nothing. His gaze shifted to a row of pump-action 12 gauges in the gun rack.

Addie’s smile continued. “Interested in a gun?”

Henry had stopped his restocking chores. He was a gentleman of the old school, kind, trusting, and soft-spoken, but he held
his strength in reserve. He had been a front-line infantryman in the war, and had taken his share of incoming shells. That
had left him with a certain cynicism that Addie didn’t possess. He could always smell an enemy approaching.


Henry lowered himself from the stepping-stool and walked toward the counter. Something didn’t feel right.

“You’re gonna need some ID,” Henry said from behind the customer’s back.

The man whipped around suddenly, and shoved his hand into a military-style fatigue coat. Then he pulled out a large black
handgun and pointed it at Henry.


The old man’s eyes widened with surprise. “What the hell…”

Addie began to shake. “Don’t hurt him,” she whispered.

“Where’d you get that?” Henry said, canting his head toward the giant pistol.

The man shrugged, then moved to the side. He motioned Henry to join his wife with a few abrupt flips of the gun barrel. Then
he yelled toward the front door. “You comin’?”


There was a pause, and then a second man cautiously entered the room and joined the group.

“You must be crazy,” Henry said to the first man. “Stone crazy. And you…” He looked accusingly at the companion. “You…”


The gunman remained silent, and his companion stepped back, awaiting orders.

The gunman motioned Addie and Henry toward the back wall with another quick jerk of his gun-hand.

Addie’s sudden intake of breath sounded like a sob.

“You got no need for that,” Henry pleaded.

The gunman looked him coldly in the eye, and raised his weapon.

“Please…” Addie begged. “Please just take the money.” Her voice trembled when she spoke, and Henry reached over and gently
took her hand.


“The money,” Addie whispered again.

But the gunman kept them moving toward the deep recess of the store, passing up the cash register on the way.

* * *

The school bus was in a state of controlled bedlam. Ellen Fahrnam had taken her second-grade class to the Crystal Grotto limestone
cave for a field trip, and now they were winding down Mountain Road toward town. In late May, when the school year was about
to close, trips like this eased the transition to summer vacation. Teachers and kids got to leave the classroom on company
time and explore the countryside.


As the bus rocked around the curves, the back rows began pumping up and down with excitement. Miss Fahrnam had said they could
stop off at the Bowers Corner grocery store for a soft drink, and maybe Mr. Henry and Miss Addie would let them visit the
small petting zoo behind the store.


The ringleader of the impromptu wave in the seats was eight-year-old Granville Lawson, son of the prosecuting attorney for
the county, Gardner Lawson. A blond-haired boy with a crop of freckles across his nose, Granville was a pint-sized perpetual
motion machine.


“Goin’ down to Bowers’! Goin’ down to Bowers’!” he chanted, as his seat-mates picked up the refrain. The store was one of
his favorite places, and he couldn’t keep still. It had been months since he and Dad had stopped by there. He always got a
lemon lollipop from Miss Addie, and Mr. Henry let him open the rabbit cage and hold his choice of long-eared creatures.


“Okay, kids, we’re almost there!” Miss Farhnam shouted over the din. “Let’s put on our polite faces and stop the noise!”

The bouncing slowed, but one boy kept moving as if the order had not been given. Granville had recognized the fruit grove
at Sandy Junction. It wouldn’t be long now! Just two more big curves, a patch of woods, and they’d be there. Granville interrupted
a bounce to get his bearings. The bunnies were waiting.


Henry had been ordered to kneel on the floor, and when he hesitated, the gun was pointed at Addie.

“Don’t hurt her,” Henry said.

The threat worked. Henry did what he was told.

Addie was prodded down beside him. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice quaking.

Henry was silent. He now knew exactly what lay ahead. He turned to look at his wife, his expression strangely calm. “Ad, I
love you,” he said softly. He was still holding her hand, and he squeezed her fingers as he spoke.


The gun barrel was pressed to the back of his head. He could see the reflection of horror in Addie’s eyes as the weapon clicked.

The bus pulled into the parking lot beside the store. It was empty and quiet. The road was clear of traffic also, nothing
moving in either direction. It was a normal Thursday afternoon in the western end of the county. The farmers were off haying
their stock, and the office workers were still at their jobs in town, fifteen miles to the east. Bowers Corner was deserted.


Miss Fahrnam had restricted the flow at the door of the bus as the kids crowded to get out. But somehow Granville had twisted
his way to the head of the line. He was the self-appointed leader of the expedition. He and his dad were regular customers
of the store. He promised the other kids deals on sodas and candy, and bragged about his expertise with the rabbits. This
qualified him to lead the charge into the front door.


Henry’s body was sprawled face down on the floor, and Addie was convulsed with hysterics, trying to revive him.

The gunman grabbed her shoulder and tried to pull her back, but she kept grappling with her husband’s lifeless form.

She was finally yanked back to a kneeling position.

“Why?” she screamed. “Why are you doing this?”

The weapon clicked again.

Granville had broken from the pack, and was up on the porch before Miss Fahrnam could assemble the group into an orderly column.

“Granville Lawson!” the teacher called. “Come back here!”

The boy had his hand on the door handle. He was a good child. Respectful. Polite. He usually followed the rules. But he had
a streak of impulsiveness that sometimes pushed him across the line. Today he couldn’t wait. He had to be first.


The door popped open, and the bell clanged a single ping. Light footsteps flew across the floor, and suddenly stopped.

“Miss Ad—?” Granville was face-to-face with the kneeling Addie. He looked up, to a shadowy figure behind his elderly friend,
then back to her eyes.


A gentle greeting somehow squeezed through her tears. And then, as Granville watched in horror, the gun went off.

It was 5:00 P.M., and State’s Attorney Gardner Lawson was still in court. A three-week arson trial was finally winding down,
and the defense was about to rest its case after their last alibi witness was finished telling his bogus story to the twelve
men and women sitting in judgment. Gardner had meticulously maneuvered the defendant, a three-time convicted arsonist, toward
conviction, and the only thing left now was the coup de grace.


Gardner stood up. He was forty-two years old, but his body was lean and toned. His eyes were dark brown, and his black hair
was laced with silver threads. Well tailored, confident, self-assured, he looked like a trial lawyer. He always commanded
attention when he spoke, and this had won him multiple terms as the elected State’s Attorney, as well as a brilliant courtroom
record.


“Mr. Karr, you say that you saw the defendant at the Mill House sometime around nine P.M., is that correct?” Gardner walked
toward the witness stand as he spoke.


“Yup,” the witness said nervously.

“And what were you doing at the time?” Gardner rested his arms on the rail and eyeballed the man behind it defiantly.

“Uh. Just hangin’ out. That’s all.”

Gardner shot a glance at the jury. They had heard this same patter before, from six other witnesses. Six other hard drinkers
who spent all their time and money guzzling booze at the Mill House bar.


“Did you happen to consume any alcoholic beverages while you were there?”

“Objection,” Public Defender Rollie Amos said halfheartedly. He’d made the same objection before, but it had been overruled
every time. Alcohol impairment is a fair avenue of inquiry, but if he kept quiet his client could accuse him of lying down
on the job.


“Witness may answer,” Judge Simmons said wearily. He knew that the defense attorney had to play the objection game. A lawyer
had to protect his client, but he had to protect himself also. If he failed to raise a point, his own client could attack
him later for incompetence.


“Uh, might’a had a beer or two,” the witness mumbled.

Gardner gave the jury a skeptical look. “One or two beers?”

The witness shrugged. “Sumpthin’ like that…”

Gardner walked to the trial table and picked up a piece of paper. Then he flashed it by the defense attorney and handed it
to the witness. “How about ten beers, Mr. Karr? Isn’t that what you really drank that night?”


The witness squirmed in his seat. Gardner had just confronted him with his bar bill.

“Uh, this ain’t right,” he finally said.

Gardner took the paper from his hand and held it aloft. “Are you denying you drank ten beers?”

Karr was caught. If he denied it, he’d be a liar, and if he agreed, he’d be a drunk. He decided to hedge. “I jus’ said that
bill ain’t right.”


Gardner plunked it on the rail and pointed to the top. “It’s got your name right here: Bill Karr. What’s wrong with it?”

The witness was outmatched, but he was not going to quit. “They got the number wrong. Wrote it down wrong…”

Gardner pushed in close. “We have the bartender on call, Mr. Karr. Think before you answer again. How many beers did you have
that night?”


The witness squirmed again, but didn’t answer. His options were gone.

“How many, Mr. Karr?” Gardner repeated.

The witness remained silent, his face down.

Gardner tossed the bar bill on his trial table, glanced at the jury, and sat down. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

The courtroom was sparsely sprinkled with spectators. The victims of the arson were there, and a few retired townies. But
other than that, the seats were empty.


Gardner had been too wrapped up in his work to notice county police Sergeant Joseph Brown enter the courtroom. “Brownie” was
a detective in the department and close personal friend of the prosecutor. The black officer had put his life on the line
many times for Gardner, and there was no question that Gardner would reciprocate in an instant.


Brownie moved to the front row and sat down. As Gardner worked the witness, Brownie tried to catch his attention.

Gardner finally noticed the officer when he returned to his seat. As their eyes met, an icy hand seized Gardner’s heart. Brownie’s
face looked like a wrought-iron mask. He’d seen that expression before, on Brownie, and on others. The bad news look.


Gardner swallowed and motioned Brownie forward. Something devastating had just happened. “Brownie?”

The officer grimaced. “There was a shooting out at Bowers Corner,” he whispered. “Bowers both dead…”

Gardner paled. The Bowers. Addie and Henry, dead. He looked to Brownie for a softening of his eyes, but there was an even
darker expression of pain. Gardner’s heart began to race. There was more…


“And?” Gardner tensed against the words.

“There was another victim…” Brownie was stalling. “Still alive, but med-evaced to shock-trauma…” There were tears in the officer’s
eyes.


“Who? Goddamn it!” Gardner shouted.

The courtroom fell silent, as if everyone suddenly knew what Gardner didn’t.

Brownie put his arm around Gardner’s shoulder. “Take it easy, man. He’s gonna be okay…”

Gardner stood up. He was trembling, and his face had drained to a dull shade of gray. “Granville!”

Brownie tried to restrain him, “Gard! He’s gonna make it!”

But it was too late. Without asking leave of court, Gardner bolted from the room, blasting through the swinging panels at
the base of the gallery and slamming past the outer door with a double blow of his fists.


Assistant State’s Attorney Jennifer Munday had just heard the news about Bowers Corner, and she didn’t know what to do.

Gardner was more than her boss. They had been lovers for the past year, ever since they had joined forces on a sensational
murder case that had rocked the county. Before that, they had been friends and colleagues, developing an attraction that neither
had acted upon until it spontaneously erupted into a heated affair. And now they were so deeply embedded in each other’s lives
that the pain of one instantaneously affected the other.


Jennifer was on the telephone in her office, trying to get information. “Yes, Officer Lowell, I do understand…”

The cops were not giving out many details.

“But the boy—what about the boy?” Jennifer brushed her dark hair behind her left ear and adjusted her glasses. “How is… he?”

Granville came with the Gardner package, but he had never interfered with the relationship. Jennifer had become his surrogate
stepmother. She loved the boy. He was so full of spunk. A miniature Gardner, that’s what she saw whenever the blond head popped
into view.


“Okay, okay. University Hospital, Baltimore. Shock-trauma unit.”

Jennifer was jotting notes as she spoke. “No. I don’t know where he is right now. He left the courtroom. Never came back here.”
Her words were slow and deliberate.


“Please. Let me know if you hear something. I’ll be at the office number.”

Jennifer hung up the phone and lay back in her chair. The sun had just dropped behind the western ridge of the Appalachian
mountain range that bordered the outskirts of town, and the orange glow from its aura suddenly lit up the room. Jennifer shaded
her eyes and looked out the window. The pointed church tower in the square, illuminated from behind, looked like a black spear
against the sky. An ominous symbol.


Just then, Jennifer flashed back to a chill November day at Bowers Corner. The five of them had spent the afternoon around
the wood stove in the store, rocking in the old-fashioned chairs that Addie kept for visitors. Gardner was badgering Henry
for war stories. Granville was alternating laps between Addie, Jennifer, and his dad. And they were all drinking hot chocolate.


“What was your scariest moment?” Gardner asked.

Henry rocked back and took a sip from his china cup, his eyes closed briefly in thought. “Came face-to-face with a German
tank,” he said somberly.


Gardner perked up. The others kept rocking. “What happened?”

“It was two days after the invasion. Near St. Lo. We had been moving for fifty hours, nonstop. Most of the men were so dog-tired
they were asleep on their feet…”


Gardner was listening intently, stroking Granville’s head as the boy curled in his lap, listening also.

“They told us to set up a gun position on a road outside of town. Antitank unit.” Henry could see it clearly in his mind as
he talked. “It was a foggy morning. We set up the gun and then some of the guys laid down for some rest.” His voice picked
up a suspenseful tone. “All of a sudden, we could hear it. Clank! Clank! Clank! out of the fog. Clank! Clank! Clank!”


Granville stirred, and Gardner calmed him with another stroke of his hair.

“Then, we could see him. Big Tiger tank, ’bout a hundred yards away, rumbling out of the fog. Clank! Clank! Clank!”

Addie and Jennifer were now absorbed in the tale, their eyes bright with expectancy.

“Tried to wake two of the gunners, but they were too far gone. Couldn’t even kick ’em awake.” Henry was rolling, caught up
in his own story. “Then he opened up with his fifty caliber. Rat-ta-ta-ta! Tracer bullets flyin’ past us like lightnin’ bugs.
One hit Charley Jones in the head, and he went down—”


Henry stopped suddenly, leaving his audience in suspense.

“Well?” Gardner said anxiously. “What happened?”

The old man took another sip of cocoa. “Got a shell in the breach, and pulled the cord. Boom! Like ta knocked out our eardrums.
Then another boom! Even bigger. Got ’im in the turret and blew it clear off. Smoke. Fire. And a popppp! poppp! poppp! as his
ammo went off. That woke the boys up good. There wasn’t any sleeping after that.”


Gardner praised Henry for his bravery, and Granville shook his hand. And they drank another round of chocolate and thanked
the fates for saving Henry’s life.


Jennifer’s mind wandered back as she realized that the bullets that had missed that day in France had finally found their
mark. Henry was gone. And Addie too…


She picked up the phone and dialed long distance. “Shock-trauma, please.”

“Trauma center.”

“Calling to inquire about a med-evac patient, Granville Lawson.”

“The county boy?”

“Uh-huh.” Jennifer suddenly pictured Granville on a gurney, plugged with tubes and wires.

“He just arrived. Can’t tell yet. All I know is that he’s alive but unconscious.”

Jennifer’s lip trembled and she began to cry. “Can you… Can I…” She couldn’t go on with the call, so she hung up. Granville
and Gardner were linked by a secret lifeline. If the boy went under, the father would follow.


At 9:30 P.M. the commercial section of the town was deserted. The shop owners and workers lived in the residential zone that
stretched from the base of the mountains to the foot of Court Avenue. Beyond that, the square containing the post office,
the courthouse, Saint Michael’s Church, and four low Gothic-style office buildings made up the heart of the town. After sunset,
when the workaday chores had ended, the heart stopped beating.


The Bowers killing had hit Brownie hard. He, like many others, had been captivated by the old couple, and had done his share
of time in a rocker by the stove. Who on God’s earth would ever want to kill them? And Granville—comatose in the hospital,
injured in the same insane outburst. What the hell had happened out there?


Brownie shuttled his crime lab van through the silent streets at the center of town, en route to the Strip on the southern
outskirts. It was a string of country-western bars, liquor stores, and pool parlors where muscled farm boys and townie toughs
came to strut, and drink, and tangle violently as they acted out their daily frustrations.


Brownie tried to analyze the case as he drove. He’d been to the scene earlier and received a briefing from the other investigators.
There were no witnesses. When Miss Fahrnam entered the store, the Bowers were dead, and Granville was unconscious on the floor.
She and the children went into hysterics. The 911 call was almost unintelligible. Screams, and wails, and on and on about
the blood. It took the cops a long time to get anything out of anyone, and what they got was worthless. No one saw anything.
And all they heard was a loud bang. No car. No running footsteps. No hard evidence. No obvious suspects.


Brownie had taken it upon himself to tell Gardner. He wanted to ease the shock, to let him down slowly. But it hadn’t worked
out that way. The prosecutor had lost it, and now, in retrospect, Brownie scolded himself for not anticipating his reaction.
After the courtroom scene, he had followed Gardner to the state police barracks, and to an empty helicopter pad where the
western Maryland chopper had been parked only moments before. It hadn’t taken long to get it airborne, heading eastward toward
the hospital. The state cops respected Gardner as much as the county boys, and when he asked a favor, they could never bring
themselves to turn him down.


So now it was going to be up to Brownie to track the killer. The county detectives were still working the scene, and the state
police crime lab had sent reinforcements, but from what Brownie had observed in his brief visit to Bowers, it was not promising.
There was only one clue out there that gave him some hope. Behind the store, Brownie had found some smeared footprints in
the dirt. Too messed up for any kind of ID, but clear enough to peg as recent. And one of the prints was unusual. The heel
had been dragged across the ground before the foot came to rest. It had grabbed Brownie’s attention immediately. There was
at least one person in town who walked with a boot-dragging gait: a nasty punk with a record for violence named Roscoe Miller.


Brownie had begun the investigation in the usual way. He made a list of the local thugs who might be involved. Bad guys who
did this sort of thing as a career, and whose whereabouts this afternoon had to be checked out. He had seven names on his
list, and the alibis of three had already been verified. One was in jail in a neighboring county. One had left town weeks
ago. And one was in the hospital recovering from an overdose. The next name on Brownie’s list was Roscoe Miller.


Brownie pulled his lab van into the parking lot of Carlos’ Cantina, a honky-tonk joint at the top end of the Strip. The cinder
block building was bordered in red and green neon, and the sign was dotted with yellow light bulbs.


Brownie adjusted a uniform button that had popped loose at his midriff. He was stocky, but not fat. And the cut of his dark
blue outfit showed the outline of well-defined muscle. He liked to eat, but it hadn’t softened him. “Time for some cowboys
and Indians,” Brownie said to himself as he entered the door.


The gang at Carlos’ was milling around in the smoke that filled the void between the bar, jukebox, and pool table, and they
glared at the intruder as he marched in. Brownie returned the cold stares and walked to the bar. He was not prone to be intimidated.


“Evenin’, Carlos,” he said to the tan face behind the counter.

“Sergeant.” The owner nodded politely.

“Lookin’ for Roscoe Miller,” Brownie said, turning to peer into the cigarette haze. “Seen him tonight?”

“Roscoe?” The owner’s cars seemed to perk. He was a man who always needed to know why.

“That’s the one,” Brownie said casually. “Need to talk to him.”

“Hasn’t been in,” Carlos replied. “Hey, Willy, seen Roscoe today?”

A smoky face turned toward Brownie with a “what’s he done now?” expression. “Nope,” the man grunted.

Miller was well known by the local police. His rap sheet included strong-arm robbery, car theft, and disorderly conduct. When
there was trouble, he was usually nearby. But he always got a hotshot lawyer and skipped around the fringes of conviction,
usually ending up with probation.


“Roscoe in hot water again…” Carlos said with resignation.

“No,” Brownie replied. “Just want to talk to him. That’s all.”

Carlos shot the officer a skeptical look. “What’s goin’ on, Brownie?” He could see emotion seething behind the solid facade.

“Had a shooting at Bowers Corner,” Brownie said gravely. “Two dead, and a little boy hurt bad. Lawson’s son.”

Carlos’s face paled in the dim light. “Heard about that,” he said. “You think Roscoe’s involved?”

Brownie leaned across the bar. “Not that I know.” Roscoe was not an official suspect; at least, not yet. “I just want to talk to him. Just talk.”


Carlos nodded silently, and Brownie left the bar. In about twenty minutes everyone in town would know that Brownie was looking
for Roscoe. Including the man himself.


* * *

The man walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Its harsh glare hurt his eyes. He twisted the faucet and a thick
stream of water poured out. Then he washed his hands.


Over, and over, in the frothy flow he soaped his knuckles and fingers, scouring, kneading, rubbing until the skin was almost
raw. He was obliterating the marks, destroying the proof.


He glanced at his face in the mirror and smiled. He was back to normal, under control. Now.

Earlier, he’d almost lost it. He pictured Henry and Addie struggling, and the sudden, startled eyes of the little boy. But
he’d brought it off according to plan. The getaway was clean, out the back door, down the old trail into the ravine. It was
a piece of cake, and no one had a clue. Just as he’d planned.


The man cut off the water and pulled a towel off the rack.

The bathroom was quiet, the only sound now the afterdrip of the faucet.

But… His thoughts became troubled. Someone could talk. Give information to incriminate him… He flashed back to a stark gray
jail cell. He’d been there before. More than once. And he didn’t like it at all.


He left the bathroom and pulled out his wallet. In the lining was a business card with the name of a man who had saved his
ass on more than one occasion. A lean, mean, legal machine: the toughest lawyer on earth.


Gardner’s face was pressed against the glass of the intensive care unit. On the other side, Granville lay still and quiet
in a large metal bed, his head swathed in a bandage. The monitor was flashing numbers as his heart rate fluctuated, but there
was no respirator. He was breathing on his own.


Gardner was in agony. He’d visited countless scenes like this before. Occasions where he and the victim’s family kept vigil
while a broken body lingered in the breach. He’d comforted, and reassured, and counseled, but he was insulated against the
big hurt. His profession saw to that. There was a separation between emotion and intellect. And Gardner always held himself
on the side where logic, not feelings, ruled.


The doctors were coldly sympathetic. Medical versions of Gardner’s prosecutorial self. The lead physician was named Jenks,
and he was the first to speak with Gardner, outside the unit’s white enamel door.


“Mr. Lawson?”

Gardner nodded. He was struggling with his new role on the victim side of the aisle. Words were scarce.

“Your son is stable. He has a concussion, a hairline fracture to the temporal region of the skull, but he’s still unconscious…”

Gardner didn’t react. He knew the gobblydegook by heart. “Let me see him,” he said shakily.

“In a few moments. We’re still running some tests…” Dr. Jenks was blocking the door.

“Goddamn it, let me see my boy!” Gardner said, his voice threatening. Fuck protocol. He needed to be in there.

“Take it easy, Mr. Lawson,” the doctor said firmly. “When the tests are done, you can go in…”

Gardner took a step forward. “Get out of my way…”

Jenks could see that there would be violence if he didn’t give in.

“All right! but quietly…”

“Yeah,” Gardner said gruffly, pushing past the doctor into the room.

The mark on Granville’s forehead caught Gardner by surprise. He had been briefed by the state cops on the flight down. The
Bowers had both been shot execution-style. There was a contact pattern on the back of each skull, with extensive exit-wound
damage. But Granville had not been shot. They assured him over and over. He had just been banged in the head.


Gardner shoved past the attending medics to the top end of the bed. Granville looked peaceful, his pale skin smooth. But in
the center of his forehead there was a purple mark. Gardner fixated on it at once, its ugly circular pattern very familiar.
He’d seen it in a lot of homicide cases. The bruising had blurred the edges, but there was no q