Russell Granger was a heavyset man with a kind and jolly manner. Baxter had seen Russ around a few times while volunteering at the soup kitchen down in Tenderloin. Dropping onto the caretaker’s couch, Baxter said, “You have a really nice place here, Rusty. I can see you’ve done a lot of work to it.”
Pulling over a computer chair, which rested in front of a desk crammed into the living room, Russell said, “Thanks, I’ve done all the work myself. Well, with my son’s help.”
“I didn’t even know you had a son.”
“He’s adopted. What’s this about, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Is your boy’s name Stefan Granger? And does he have a tattoo on his hand like this.” Baxter showed him the still photograph from the bus footage.
“Yes, he does, but I’m sure he’s not the only guy around with a tattoo like that. And he used to do this thing with his hand, when he wrestled, where he would wrap his hand over the bottom half of his face. Making it look like he had a skull face. It was a psych-out thing. Someone could have easily seen that, thought it was cool, and decided to copy it.”
Baxter cocked an eyebrow. “It seems like you’re assuming your son is in some kind of trouble. You went pretty quick to the defensive there, Rusty.”
“No, I’m just saying if you think he’s done something, anybody could have a tattoo like that.”
“You’d be surprised. But, first off, would you like to hear why we’ve come knocking on your door?”
“If it’s something to do with my son, I’ll give you his address. He’s a grown man. I’m not responsible for anything he’s done.”
“You said your boy used to wrestle. Did he train at Unser’s?”
Russell Granger seemed to visibly shrink. He leaned back in his chair and went white. “I saw on Facebook that there were multiple murders at that gym last night. Is that why you’re here? You think Stefan had something to do with that?”
“Well, let me ask you this … When you saw that article on the Book of Faces, was your first thought that your son had probably killed those people?”
Shooting to his feet, Russell said, “Okay, I think it’s time I give you the name of our lawyer.”
“Oh come on now, this is supposed to be the part where you break down and tell us that you always suspected this day would come and you spill your guts. Besides, why would you need a lawyer? Honestly, as the caretaker of a cemetery would you need legal—”
Beside him on the couch, Baxter felt Emily Morgan shift. Then she coughed to draw his gaze and shot him a scathing glance. He ignored her and said, “I want you to understand something, Rusty. I think your boy is responsible for the deaths at Unser’s Gym. I think he also shot up a house of ill repute down in my neighborhood. I’m going to find your son and ask him some questions about it. But, as you may remember, I’m not a cop. When the cops come knocking, you are going to have to answer their questions, lawyer, or not.”
“I’d like you to leave now.”
“Don’t be rude, Rusty. How about we talk about something else? What agency did you go through to adopt your son?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“I’ve heard, from several sources,” Baxter said, “that your son—Stefan Granger—has a rare genetic disease called Cherubism, which has affected his lower jaw for most of his life. So I did a little research on the disorder, and found that it’s extremely rare. I’m sure we could backtrack our way to some records and see how many kids were treated for Cherubism in the San Francisco area. My guess, man, if we went to all that trouble we’d end up finding out that no Stefan Granger was ever treated for Cherubism. How old was your boy when you adopted him?”
“I could call the police.”
Agent Morgan flipped out her credentials and said, “He’s not a cop, but I’m a federal agent here on business that is both official and urgent. Who is your son really? I have the authority to open all your adoption and medical records.”
Baxter could see the old train of thought clattering through Russell Granger’s mind. He knew there was no way out now. The truth would be revealed sooner or later, and maybe it would be better for everyone if it were sooner.
Deciding to add just a tiny bit of icing to the cake, Baxter added, “We don’t care about past sins, brother. We just want to make sure that no one else gets hurt. And if your boy is hurting people and causing more bodies in graves, more widows and children crying, then I know you’re the kind of man who would want to help.”
After a long pause, Russell sat back down and said, “He’s not a bad kid. I know that’s what every parent says, but he’s really not. He has a good heart. It’s just the way he was raised and his family. Not my family, but his real family.”
Russell Granger started at the beginning and explained how he came to know three young boys through a local youth organization. Their father had abandoned them, and their mother had a lot of problems. The rumor was that she was an alcoholic and sadistically cruel. But she was always hardest on the youngest boy, whom she apparently blamed for their father leaving.
One summer day, the eldest brother, Derrick Gladstone, approached him and told a story that broke Russell Granger’s heart. Their mother had made them fight like caged dogs for her own amusement. They feared she wouldn’t stop until the youngest brother, Simon, was dead, since she’d apparently rolled up all of her hatred toward their father into him.
And the three boys had come up with a plan …
Russell said, “The oldest one, Derrick, he was always a crafty one, always making big plans. But he was also a star athlete and a straight-A student. Derrick and his fraternal twin brother, Dennis, were getting ready to enter high school. They explained to me that they didn’t want to go into the system at their age and assured me they could handle their mother. Maybe even help her. The problem was that they feared for Simon.”
“So what was their plan?”
“It was supposed to be temporary. They knew Simon and I always had a connection. He had never really known their father. I think the guy left when Stefan was in kindergarten, and he doesn’t like to talk about it. The older boy even offered to pay for his brother’s room and board while he stayed here.”
Emily asked, “What do you mean while he stayed here? Wouldn’t their mother notice his absence? What about school?”
“Derrick was a smart kid. He had it all worked out. Their mother would often take them into this special room in the middle of their house and force them to beat each other bloody. Real sick stuff. Their plan was to act like Simon hit his head and died, or something to that effect. They would do it on a day when their mother was particularly inebriated, so she wouldn’t ask too many questions. The boys would then pretend to take care of everything for her and dispose of the body. Which, of course, wasn’t really a body at all, since it was all just for show. They would have their mother tell the school that Simon had gone to live with his father and wouldn’t be coming back. After the grief of what she had done set in, their mother was supposed to learn from the error of her ways, see the light, and they could bring Simon home. He was only supposed to be with me for a short time.”
Baxter said, “But that’s obviously not the way things worked out.”
“No, their mother only got worse, and in time, I came to think of Simon as my own son. We enrolled him in a different school across town under the name Stefan Granger—which was his choice, nothing I forced on him—and it became official. He was my son.”
Russell Granger began to sob softly, almost politely, trying to cover his tears with a smile.
Baxter could imagine this man—who had a kind and generous heart but no children or spouse—feeling a great deal of pride surrounding the day that Simon Gladstone became Stefan Granger, the boy choosing to take on his new father’s name. The feeling was probably akin to the emotion a mother felt on the day of her child’s birth.
The emotion of the moment sweeping him away, Baxter embraced the big caretaker in a bearhug that turned into Russell crying on his shoulder.
After a moment of patting and consoling, Baxter glanced over to Agent Morgan and said, “We might be a few minutes here, but why don’t you get on the horn and call out the hounds on a Derrick and Dennis Gladstone. I think they may be some cats with whom we would like to thoroughly converse.”