David Baldacci - Memory Man

At 5 a.m. he rose, showered, dressed in his suit, and stood in front of the small mirror in a bathroom that was about the same size as he was. In the reflection he saw pops of light and colors, numbers soaring across the glass. He closed his eyes and the picture did not change. It was not on the glass, it was all inside his head. It was said that savants, particularly those diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, were drawn to very narrow slices of interest: numbers, history, a certain field of science, or languages. Decker did not know what his narrow slice was supposed to be. He didn’t know if the hit by LeCroix had given him Asperger’s. He didn’t know if that was even possible, and he had never been officially diagnosed with the condition.

All he knew was that he could never forget anything. His mind attached colors to things that were not supposed to have them. He could remember what day of the week a particular date in the last hundred years fell on. His mind was a puzzle all put together, but somehow still jumbled, because he understood none of it. It was just who he was now. And it had scared the hell out of him from day one.

Yet with Cassie next to him, he had managed it. Without her, without Molly who had given him something to think about beyond his own lifetime, Amos Decker had become once more a freak. A Jekyll and Hyde. Only Jekyll was gone and would not be coming back.

The army of threes awaited him as he trudged through the darkness to the breakfast buffet that opened at six on the dot. He collected his plate brimming with food and went to his little table/office and then just sat there staring at the mounds of stuff on his plate and not electing to eat a single bite.

June, the buffet attendant, hurried up to him.

“Amos, are you okay?” she said, her old face creased with concern. He had never failed to devour his food.

When he said nothing she held up a pot of coffee. “Can I pour you a cup? Lots of problems get solved by a hot cup of coffee.”

Taking his silence for assent, she poured the steaming coffee into a cup, left it on his table, and walked away.

Decker had not acknowledged her because he had not even been aware she was there. His mind was a long way from the restaurant at the Residence Inn.

He didn’t need to look at his watch. It was now 6:23. A part of his mind kept this internal clock at all times, a better timekeeper than anything you could buy.

At ten o’clock Sebastian Leopold would be arraigned, this time with counsel attached. Decker intended to be there.

He walked. He preferred to walk, even in the dark. The army of threes was there so he kept his head tilted downward.

Decker had read that other savants felt comforted by the oceans and skies of numbers that routinely enveloped them. To Decker numbers represented a means to an end. They gave him no real happiness. Perhaps because he had experienced happiness in being a husband and father. Numbers simply could not compete with that, even for a savant.

He sat on a bench outside the courthouse and watched the sun drift into the sky, the dawn breaking and wreaking havoc with the black, smearing it with tendrils of red, gold, and pink. Or in Decker’s mind a slew of related numbers.

At 9:45 he watched the police van pull into the side alley of the courthouse. The prison transport had arrived. He wondered how many other defendants had ridden across with Leopold or whether the alleged triple murderer had come alone.

Decker heaved himself to his feet and walked slowly across the street to the courthouse entrance. A few minutes later he was seated in the second row. He noted the PD sitting at the counsel table going over the file. The guy looked to be in his early forties, with gray just starting to creep into his hair. His brown two-piece suit was nicely tailored and had a colorful pocket square. The guy looked confident and, well, veteran. Decker doubted anyone wanted a rookie on this case.

The same bailiff stood next to the door to the judge’s chambers chatting with Sheila Lynch, who seemed to be wearing the same skirt and jacket from yesterday.

Decker heard the door to the courtroom open and turned to look.

It wasn’t Lancaster or Miller.

It was Alex Jamison the reporter. She saw Decker, nodded, smiled, and then took a seat near the back.

Decker turned back around without acknowledging her.

The bailiff had disappeared into the judge’s chambers. Lynch had gone back over to the counsel table, spoken a few words with the PD, and then taken her seat.

The door through which prisoners were led opened and there was Sebastian Leopold, looking much as he had yesterday.

He was escorted over to his lawyer, the shackles were removed, and the officers stepped back.

The bailiff opened the door, made his announcement, everyone rose, and Abernathy stepped through and took his seat behind the bench.

He took a moment to look over the courtroom and smiled in a satisfied way when he saw the lawyer sitting next to Leopold.

Then he eyed Lynch.

“Has the psych evaluation been completed?”

It had, Lynch told him. And it stated that Leopold was fit to stand trial.

This surprised Decker.

“Mr. Leopold, how do you plead?”

His attorney gripped his client’s arm and together they stood.

“I plead not guilty,” said Leopold firmly.

Decker listened to his statement but did not seem to be able to process it.

His attorney said, “Your Honor, I move that all charges against my client be dismissed. The state has no evidence of his involvement in the three murders.”

Lynch jumped to her feet. “You mean other than his confession .”

The PD said smoothly, “A confession that he is now recanting. Mr. Leopold is bipolar, went off his medications, which resulted in some unfortunate emotional distress. He is now back on his meds and his reason has returned, hence his passing the psych exam.” The lawyer held up some documents stapled together. “And then there’s this. Permission to approach?”

Abernathy waved him forward. Lynch hurried after opposing counsel.

The PD said in a voice loud enough for Decker to hear, “This is an authenticated arrest report complete with mug shot and fingerprints showing conclusively that Mr. Leopold was in a lockup in Cranston, two towns over from here, on the night the murders in question were committed. I also have a copy of Mr. Leopold’s arrest record from Burlington. They’ve been independently evaluated and the picture and the prints match perfectly. It is undoubtedly him, as I’m sure Ms. Lynch will agree.”

Lynch said furiously, “Your Honor, defense counsel did not share this with me.”

Abernathy looked at her with disdain. “You can pull an arrest record faster than defense counsel can, Ms. Lynch. If he found it you should have too.”

Lynch flushed. “What was he arrested for?” she said in a snarky tone.

“Vagrancy,” said the PD. “He was released the following morning. Cranston is seventy miles from here and Mr. Leopold has no means of transportation. But more to the point, the police report shows that Mr. Leopold was arrested at six in the evening and released at nine the next morning. Thus he could not have committed the murders, which occurred around midnight.” He handed the papers across to Lynch, who looked down them, her spirits and confidence ebbing completely away as she reached the bottom of the last page.

“He could have had an accomplice,” she said weakly.

“Well, if you can prove that, more power to you,” said the PD. “But so far you haven’t proven anything. My client went off his meds and involuntarily lied about committing a crime he could not have committed. That is your entire case in a nutshell, which means you have no case.”