Raising Cain (26 page)

Brownie adjusted the optical imager and placed the latent fingerprint card facedown over it. This was the print he’d lifted
from Ruth’s shoe and hidden in the lining of his wallet, the print no one could know about, not even Gardner.

The hardware was warmed up, and the software was on-line. Brownie fed the electronic image into the fax machine linked to
the network. He received a go-ahead signal and followed the on-screen directions that began the computer quest for a match.

Brownie’s neck ached, and his heart pounded in his chest. This was going to be it. He’d wanted to run Ruth’s print first,
but the loss of Ruth’s hands made that impossible. So now he had to switch to plan B: he had to run the print that he’d lifted
from the shoe.

The monitor blurred with numbers and letters as the computer searched the fingerprint repository. The database contained eight
million full sets, so it would be a while before the task was complete.

The numbers and letters finally stopped, and a notation appeared: “Element one complete—No match.”

“Okay,” Brownie whispered. So far, so good. In the first two million, nothing had come up.

“Proceed to element two?” the screen prompted.

Brownie hit “ENTER.”

“Element two searching,” the screen replied.

Soon the numbers and letters stopped again. “No match.”

Brownie went on to the next element, and the next, finally completing six million comparisons without a positive response.
There were only two million to go.

“Ready for final element search.”

Brownie entered, and sat back.

“Element four complete,” the screen announced.

Brownie swallowed and looked at the words following the notation:

“One match located. Access information?” the machine queried.

Brownie hesitated and held his breath. If he hit a key, a name would appear on the screen, the name of the person who removed
Ruth’s shoes at the power station.

Brownie touched enter, and a name came up. “Oh, God,” he sighed, fumbling with the keyboard. He quickly hit the “DELETE DATA,”
“EXIT PROGRAM,” and “CLEAR SCREEN” commands.

Brownie punched the power button and shut off the machine. Then he balled up the fingerprint and set it on fire in an ashtray.
It flared momentarily, then crumbled to black ash. Brownie stirred it in with the cigarette butts. And when the smoke dissipated,
he closed his eyes and laid his head against the warden’s desk.

Gardner’s first order of business was to get Brownie out of jail. He rushed himself through a crash course on bond law, filed
an emergency petition with Judge Ransome, and called his accountant. And now, one day after his resignation, he was in court.

“Identify yourselves for the record,” Judge Ransome said.

“Kent King and Lin Song for the state,” King announced.

“Gardner Lawson for the defense.”

“I’ll hear from you, Counsel,” Ransome said to Gardner.

Gardner glanced at Brownie beside him. He was still in prison orange, sullen and withdrawn. He’d barely reacted that morning
when Gardner told him they were trying again for bond. Something was eating him, and although Gardner tried, he couldn’t draw
it out. “Let the record show the defendant is present in court,” he began.

The courtroom was crowded with spectators, but Reverend Taylor and his entourage were absent. At Gardner’s request, Jennifer
was off doing legal research. He and Brownie were on their own.

“Proceed, Counsel,” Ransome prompted.

“I’ve filed a motion to reopen the issue of bond,” Gardner said. “Here is a memorandum of law and fact to support my position.”
He handed the court clerk a ten-page document he’d spent all night writing.

“The citations and factual assertions stand for the proposition that bond in this case is warranted,” he continued. “The defendant
has lived in the county all his life. He has
no
prior criminal record of any kind. He has been an officer of the court his entire career and knows full well the responsibility
to appear for trial. He—”

“Objection.” King stood up. “We went through this last time.”

The judge looked at King. “I’m willing to give Mr. Lawson a chance to speak, Counsel.”

King frowned and sat down.

“You can set a bond, Judge, based upon the facts as presented here. You’re under no mandate to deny it, such as you would
be if he were on parole or probation at the time of the commission of the offense. The issue does not revolve around the power
to set bonds; rather, it revolves around—”

“How much bond to set,” Judge Ransome interjected.

“Exactly,” Gardner replied.

“How much bond would you suggest, Mr. Lawson?”

“Seven hundred fifty thousand, full amount.” There was a gasp in the courtroom. “Full amount” meant that a bondsman could
not put up the cash. Brownie had to lay the entire sum on the table.

“That’s a hefty number,” Ransome stated. “It might be appropriate.”

King started to rise but held back.

“
If
you set bond in that amount,” Gardner went on, “I am prepared to post it today.”

Gardner pulled some papers out of his briefcase. “I have taken the liberty of having this agreement drawn up, Your Honor.
It has been certified by two accountants and endorsed by the clerk of the court.” He held the papers up.

“What is it?” Judge Ransome asked.

“A pledge of my assets,” Gardner replied. “Real estate, bank deposits, stocks, bonds, life insurance.”

Brownie suddenly looked up. “Awww…” he grumbled under his breath.

“So you’re posting your
own
money to get him out?” Ransome asked.

“Yes, sir, I
am
.”

“What do you think about that, Mr. King?” the judge asked.

King rose swiftly. “Objection. The issue isn’t the
amount
of the bond, it’s public safety and the likelihood of flight. Besides, the
defendant
has no stake in the bond. That makes him even more likely to flee.”

Ransome thought for a moment, then spoke. “I believe the amount is sufficient to guarantee Sergeant Brown’s presence at trial.
If he fails to appear, Mr. Lawson will be financially wiped out, and I don’t think the defendant wants that to happen. Bond
is hereby set: seven hundred fifty thousand dollars, full amount!”

King threw his pen down on the table with disgust. Lawson had just pulled the same stunt as Willie Stanton: personally vouching
for Brown. But this time it had worked.

“I
understand
the payment is due,” Nicholas Fairborne said. He was on the telephone to the Valley National Bank; they were inquiring about
the unpaid mortgage.

“We will make every effort to have the payment to you soon!” He slammed down the phone. Damn Thomas Ruth! Accounts were due,
and the money was gone, vanished without a trace like the man’s mysterious soul.

Fairborne walked to the window and looked out. The camp was almost deserted now. Their spirit was broken, the food supply
dwindling. CAIN was dying.

He went back to his desk and looked at the inventory. If he sold the cars and the computers he could hold on for another month
or two, long enough to attract new blood. That was the only way he could keep the operation going. He’d called a meeting after
Ruth’s death and tried to rally the crowd, but the spark wasn’t there anymore. Ruth was the glue that held it all together.
And now the people were leaving, and the snakes were rotting in their barrel.

Fairborne rummaged through the desk again, scouring places he’d looked before, searching for traces of Ruth’s secret stash.
The money could not have just vanished. If he had time, he could find it. But time was running out.

He rifled a pile of papers in the bottom drawer. All cash receipts. Even the mortgage payments were in cash. He threw the
documents into a trash bag and cleaned the drawer down to the wood. They were useless to him now. The money was gone.

Fairborne was about to close the drawer when he noticed a small piece of yellow paper stuck against the rear of the drawer.
He pulled it off and studied it. “PRESCRIPTION, T. RUTH,” the typed letters said. Underneath was an illegible scribble. He
crumpled it and threw it into the bag with the rest of the garbage. Ruth’s pills couldn’t help the bastard now. Whatever the
hell they were.

The paperwork had finally been completed for Brownie’s release; it was a package of financial pledges that laid all of Gardner’s
worldly possessions on the line. They’d talked briefly in the warden’s office as the procedure was finalized. Brownie had
squawked about Gardner’s decision to pledge his assets; he didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it. Again, Gardner had stood firm.
This was the way it was going to be, he’d said. At the end of the conversation they’d forged a reluctant truce. Brownie had
agreed to cooperate. But Gardner still sensed a problem.

Brownie and Gardner now approached the power station in silence. It was late in the day, and the forest obscured a dim sunset
in the western sky. They hiked in the shadows as twisted limbs menaced them from all sides and crows croaked in the distance.
Ahead, in the twilight, lay the squared-off enclosure of the electric killer.

Gardner switched on his flashlight and gave Brownie a hand over the last rocky step. At last they arrived on the plateau overlooking
the crime scene.

Gardner directed the light through the fence and lit up the grid. It was still discolored and charred despite the repairs.
“You’ve seen this before,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me again
why
.”

Brownie leaned against a tree. “Wanted to see for myself. To see where it happened.”

Gardner put his hand on the tree. “What do you think happened? Surely you have a theory.”

“I didn’t get that far. I was still gathering evidence.”

“What about the shoes?” Gardner asked. How Brownie got them was key to conviction or acquittal.

“I was doing a sweep like I always do. Came across them.… That’s it.”

“You didn’t just come across the shoes. This place was canvassed by the entire police team. They didn’t find them.”

“They’re not
me
.”

“Okay, you get a medal. Now,
where
did you find them?”

Brownie scanned the darkness, then approached the grid. “Over in that area,” he said, pointing to some brush nearby. “They
were under a sticker bush.”

Gardner shined his light toward the spot. “I don’t believe it. That’s right next to the fence. The cops should have found
them.” Gardner examined the bush. Its branches were spread down to the ground, and it was covered with vines. The shoes
could
have escaped the eyes of the police, but it wasn’t likely. “Why, Brownie?” he finally asked.

“Why what?”

“Why were the shoes off in the first place?”

Brownie sighed. “Rained the day before the incident. Guess he had to make sure he was grounded when the juice went through.
Soles were rubber.”

“That’s what I thought,” Gardner agreed. “When he was found, his bare feet were in a puddle, and there was no protection.”

“Like a lightning bolt. Through his arms and out his toes.…”

Gardner saw Brownie visualizing the scene as he spoke. “Right through the heart,” he added.

Brownie didn’t respond. He was gazing at the grid.

Gardner considered making a follow-up comment but held back. An electrocution was an induced heart attack. The shock caused
cardiac arrest. In an eye-for-eye situation, it would have been the ideal retribution for Joseph Brown’s untimely death. “You
know what I’m thinking,” Gardner said.

“Yeah. It’s a perfect weapon for revenge.”

“Right. Whoever
did
kill him must have known that.”

Brownie didn’t reply.

“I don’t think it was a coincidence that electrocution was used. I think it was planned.” Gardner decided to go on to something
else. “I’m still having trouble with the shoes, Brownie. I’m trying to understand why they were hidden. Why not leave them
in the open or cart them off? Why hide them in such an obvious spot? They were sure to be found.”

Brownie shrugged.

“You’ve considered that,” Gardner said. “I know how you analyze things.”

“Could be a lot of reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Who?”

“Whoever did it.”

Gardner tried to look into his face, but Brownie turned away.

“Who did it, Brownie?”

“Told you I didn’t get that far.”

“You must have an inkling—”

“
No
.”

Brownie walked away from the tree, toward the trail.

“Where are you going?” Gardner asked.

“This is a waste of time. You’re going in circles, and you’re taking me with you.”

Gardner grabbed his arm. “Then help me get out of it, Brownie! Whose print did you find on the shoes?”

“Huh?”

“I
know
you processed the shoes for fingerprints.”

“Says who?”

The two men faced each other. “I know. Don’t bullshit me! Whose print did you find on the shoes?”

“Nobody’s….Yes, I
did
process them. But they were clean.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“That’s right,” Brownie replied, “
clean
. Nothin’ on them. Not a damn thing.” Then he turned back to the trail and wandered off into the trees.

Kent King and Judge Rollie Ransome were conferring in chambers. The courthouse was closed, and they were alone. Two glasses
of whiskey sat on the desk.

“So how’s the old Baltimore beat?” King began.

Rollie leaned back in his chair and put up one stubby foot. “Still a jungle.”

“You miss me?”

“Like a toothache.”

King laughed, then changed his tone. “I need to discuss some things with you,” he said.

“Fire away.”

“First of all, thanks for fucking me at the bond hearing. How could you let Brown out?”

Rollie wheezed. “It’s Lawson’s money. If Brown runs, your pal loses everything. Thought you’d like that.”

“He’s
not
going to run,” King replied. “He’s got the damn loyalty disease.”