staring at his badge. “That would be fine, Sergeant Brown,” she answered. “I’m sure she’d be glad to tell you
everything she saw.”
Brownie thanked her and returned to his van. On the way back to the station, he placed a patched-in call to the school principal’s
office.
“Miss Kearns, this is Joe Brown.” He was speaking to the elderly secretary who had known him since childhood.
“Hi, Brownie.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure. I’ll try.”
“Do you know Jenneane Dorey? Second-grade student?”
“Sure do.”
“What do you know about her parents?”
She hesitated, then spoke. “Moved here two years ago from Washington, D.C.”
Brownie shifted the microphone in his hand. “Whole family?”
“No. Just mother and daughter.”
“What about Mr. Dorey?”
“He died a year before they moved out to the county.”
Brownie sensed tragedy. “What happened to him?”
“He was a D.C. police officer…”
Brownie visualized the woman’s eyes on his badge.
“Killed in the line of duty.”
Brownie thanked her and clicked off the mike. The family of a dead cop. Daughter a possible witness. A touchy situation at
best. Brownie took a deep breath and gripped the van’s steering wheel. But maybe they finally had a break in the case.
Purvis Bowers hung up the telephone, and opened the drawer to his desk. A lawyer had called, an estate attorney from Pennsylvania,
asking about Addie and Henry’s will. Some long-lost cousins had gotten the word about the shootings, and were overcome with
instantaneous grief. They wanted to convey their condolences, and make an incidental inquiry: what, exactly, could they expect
to receive as bequests?
His aunt and uncle didn’t have a will, Purvis said. At least, he didn’t know about one. They were simple people who lived
simple lives. They didn’t need that kind of paperwork. Everything they owned was owned jointly, and whoever survived would
get it all. If they both died, it really didn’t matter who got what. That’s the way Addie and Henry looked at things, Purvis
said, so it was not surprising that they never drew up a will.
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. The distant cousins were a surprise. He hadn’t anticipated
their appearance. He was the sole heir. That’s what he’d always thought. The only green leaf on the family tree.
He opened the envelope, and extracted a smaller one. This one was sealed, and he slit the seam with a letter opener. A creased
document lay inside. He pulled it out and smoothed the wrinkles, rapidly reading down the page. Then he turned to the next
sheet, then the next. When he was through, he folded the pages and put them neatly back in the envelope, pausing long enough
to read the inscription at the top left-hand corner:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
LAW OFFICE OF KENT KING
Purvis put the envelope back in the desk drawer. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed long distance.
“Cooney and Clearwater,” a dulcet voice answered.
“Mr. Cooney, please.”
“Thank you, sir. May I say who’s calling?”
“Peter Baker.”
“Thank you, sir. One moment, please.”
There was a brief pause, then a man came on. “Tom Cooney.”
“Mr. Cooney, this is Peter Baker. Did you receive my letter?”
There was another pause, and the sound of shuffling papers.
“Yes, Mr. Baker. You’re inquiring about an account.”
“Yes, sir. It’s outlined in my letter. A client of mine needs to make a stock purchase.”
“And you want to know if we can keep the stocks in street name, and maintain your client’s identity strictly confidential?”
“Correct, sir.”
“You arc aware of the federal reporting requirements. Tax ID numbers, IRS notifications…”
“Yes, sir.”
“But the specifics of ownership you do not want mentioned in the account.”
“Precisely.”
There was another pause. “How much did your client want to deposit with us, Mr.
everything she saw.”
Brownie thanked her and returned to his van. On the way back to the station, he placed a patched-in call to the school principal’s
office.
“Miss Kearns, this is Joe Brown.” He was speaking to the elderly secretary who had known him since childhood.
“Hi, Brownie.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure. I’ll try.”
“Do you know Jenneane Dorey? Second-grade student?”
“Sure do.”
“What do you know about her parents?”
She hesitated, then spoke. “Moved here two years ago from Washington, D.C.”
Brownie shifted the microphone in his hand. “Whole family?”
“No. Just mother and daughter.”
“What about Mr. Dorey?”
“He died a year before they moved out to the county.”
Brownie sensed tragedy. “What happened to him?”
“He was a D.C. police officer…”
Brownie visualized the woman’s eyes on his badge.
“Killed in the line of duty.”
Brownie thanked her and clicked off the mike. The family of a dead cop. Daughter a possible witness. A touchy situation at
best. Brownie took a deep breath and gripped the van’s steering wheel. But maybe they finally had a break in the case.
Purvis Bowers hung up the telephone, and opened the drawer to his desk. A lawyer had called, an estate attorney from Pennsylvania,
asking about Addie and Henry’s will. Some long-lost cousins had gotten the word about the shootings, and were overcome with
instantaneous grief. They wanted to convey their condolences, and make an incidental inquiry: what, exactly, could they expect
to receive as bequests?
His aunt and uncle didn’t have a will, Purvis said. At least, he didn’t know about one. They were simple people who lived
simple lives. They didn’t need that kind of paperwork. Everything they owned was owned jointly, and whoever survived would
get it all. If they both died, it really didn’t matter who got what. That’s the way Addie and Henry looked at things, Purvis
said, so it was not surprising that they never drew up a will.
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. The distant cousins were a surprise. He hadn’t anticipated
their appearance. He was the sole heir. That’s what he’d always thought. The only green leaf on the family tree.
He opened the envelope, and extracted a smaller one. This one was sealed, and he slit the seam with a letter opener. A creased
document lay inside. He pulled it out and smoothed the wrinkles, rapidly reading down the page. Then he turned to the next
sheet, then the next. When he was through, he folded the pages and put them neatly back in the envelope, pausing long enough
to read the inscription at the top left-hand corner:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
LAW OFFICE OF KENT KING
Purvis put the envelope back in the desk drawer. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed long distance.
“Cooney and Clearwater,” a dulcet voice answered.
“Mr. Cooney, please.”
“Thank you, sir. May I say who’s calling?”
“Peter Baker.”
“Thank you, sir. One moment, please.”
There was a brief pause, then a man came on. “Tom Cooney.”
“Mr. Cooney, this is Peter Baker. Did you receive my letter?”
There was another pause, and the sound of shuffling papers.
“Yes, Mr. Baker. You’re inquiring about an account.”
“Yes, sir. It’s outlined in my letter. A client of mine needs to make a stock purchase.”
“And you want to know if we can keep the stocks in street name, and maintain your client’s identity strictly confidential?”
“Correct, sir.”
“You arc aware of the federal reporting requirements. Tax ID numbers, IRS notifications…”
“Yes, sir.”
“But the specifics of ownership you do not want mentioned in the account.”
“Precisely.”
There was another pause. “How much did your client want to deposit with us, Mr.
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