Raising Cain by Gallatin Warfield Read Free Book Online

Brown would have to eat his dust.
    Davis drove his car slowly up Mountain Road, past the center. Every checkers player there had sung the same tune: Joseph was
     a saint who never strayed from the straight and narrow. He didn’t smoke, he didn’t chew, and he didn’t mess with the girls
     who do. But the hospital records revealed that the “saint” had a blood-alcohol content of 0.14 percent at the time he died.
     And that was sinner’s level: legally drunk.
    It was dark now, after eight-thirty. Davis panned his spotlight up and down the side of the road. How far could Joseph have
     walked after checkers? Alcohol was forbidden at the center, and his house was dry according to his wife. To run the BAC level
     up that high, he must have consumed the liquor just before he started down the trail. But there were no taverns in the area,
     or liquor stores, either.
    Davis was approaching Shantyville, a short strip of abandoned migrant worker shacks. When the tobacco industry left town a
     decade ago, the workers did, too. The county had planned to tear the shacks down, but there was never enough money in the
     budget. He dimmed his headlights and switched off the search beam. Everything seemed quiet. He lowered his window. A dog barked
     in the distance, and a car went by. But Shantyville didn’t stir.
    Suddenly he saw a reflection in one of the cracked windowpanes, a light that flared and went out. He turned off the engine
     and exited the cruiser.
    There were two rows of shacks, one along the road, the other behind. The light he’d seen had come from the second tier.
    Davis gripped his flashlight and moved cautiously toward his target, stepping over rusted cans and discarded tires as he went.
    He moved into place beside the door of the last shack in the row. It looked sturdier and in better repair than the others.
     And there were footprints in the dust around the porch.
    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