David Baldacci - Memory Man

“So you were in jail in Cranston on the night of the murders?”

“I guess I was. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember. There are lots of things I don’t remember.”

“Like your real name?”

Leopold glanced at him but didn’t really seem to register what Decker had said.

“Well, the judge wouldn’t have let you off if there was any doubt. It had to be your picture and prints on that arrest record.”

“The lawyer was very happy,” said Leopold, staring down at his drink.

“How did you even know about the murders?” Decker asked.

“I... I killed those people, didn’t I?” said Leopold in a timid voice that carried with it not a trace of conviction, or even, it seemed, understanding.

The bartender, a man in his fifties with a gut nearly the size of Decker’s though he was six inches shorter, looked up from the glass he was wiping and stared at Leopold for a long moment before looking away.

“That’s not what you told the judge this morning. You said the opposite of that. Did your lawyer tell you to say that?”

“He said I shouldn’t talk about any of this with anybody.”

Decker stared curiously at the man.

A glimmer of lucidity, of self-preservation amid a sea of insanity? Is it the meds talking?

“Well, then I guess you shouldn’t, unless you want to. But I don’t see a problem for you. Cops have zip. You were in jail at the time. The judge dismissed the case without prejudice, but they can’t re-charge you unless they have some evidence tying you to the crime. Now, they may go out and get some. Find an accomplice who did the killings for you for some reason. They may even make something up.”

“Can they do that?” asked Leopold in childlike wonder.

“Sure. They do it all the time. If they think you’re a bad guy they’ll do anything to nail you, get you off the streets. They’re sworn to protect and defend. You can see that, right?”

Leopold bent down and took another sip of his drink without lifting up the glass, like a dog lapping from its bowl.

“So are you, Sebastian?”

“Am I what?”

“A bad guy they need to get off the streets?”

“I don’t know.”

Decker felt his irritation start to rise. What had happened to his head might have rerouted his brain functions and caused other features to mentally intersect, but it had also robbed him of his ability to deal with bullshit, deceit, and generally squirrelly behavior. He liked straight lines, A to B, 1 to 2. He did not like back-and-forth that got one nowhere except riled up. This had been both a blessing and a curse as a cop.

“You said you killed those people. You told me you did. Told the cops you did. And this morning you said you didn’t. But sitting here at this bar you said you probably did even though you were in jail two towns over and couldn’t have even been at that house. So you can understand my confusion, can’t you? And the cops’? Where does the truth lie? That’s what we need to determine.”

Leopold turned to him and seemed to really see Decker for the first time.

“Why do you care?”

If Decker had dissed this guy at the 7-Eleven seventeen months ago, Decker hadn’t changed so much that Leopold wouldn’t recognize him. He was just fatter and uglier now. So either the guy was innocent or the asshole was lying. And Decker had no clear indication of which answer was correct.

“I took an interest in the case. Never thought they’d arrest somebody after all this time.”

“It was a cold case.”

The phrase caught Decker’s attention. “You know about cold cases?”

“I like the TV show. I watch it at the shelter sometimes.”

“Homeless shelter?”

Leopold nodded. “I’m homeless, so I got to go somewhere. Sometimes I sleep outside. Most times I sleep outside,” he added in a tired voice.

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause it’s safer. There are guys in the shelter who aren’t... nice.”

“Is that what got you interested in the murders here? Because it was a cold case?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Why that case in particular, though? It’s not the only cold case. Somebody talk to you about it?”

Leopold was nodding. He looked down at his drink, took another sip without using his hands.

“What’d you order?” asked Decker, glancing at the glass, concealing his disgust with how the other man was drinking his liquor.

Leopold smiled. “Kamikaze. I like them.”

“You said you didn’t really drink.”

“I don’t because I never have any money. But I found a five-dollar bill I didn’t know I had. When I do drink I order Kamikazes because I like them.”

“The drink I take it, and not the Japanese suicide pilots?”

Leopold shrugged noncommittally. “I wanted to be a pilot when I was a kid.”

“But not one who crashes the plane on purpose?”

“No, not one like that.”

“So you talked to somebody? They told you about this case? Maybe got you excited. So you decided to use it to get a warm bed and three squares? Is that what somebody told you that you could get with a confession? Food and a bed?”

“Who would tell me that?”

Decker finished his beer and slammed the mug down on the bar with a sharp rap that made Leopold jump, which was what Decker wanted. He wanted this weaselly son of a bitch to wake the hell up.

“I don’t know, Leopold. That’s why I’m asking you. Does this person have a name?”

“I gotta go.”

He started to rise, but Decker put a hand on his shoulder and held him in his seat. “Speaking of three squares, how about some food? You look hungry. And the cops didn’t feed you, did they?”

“How’d you know that?”

“You walked on a murder rap. They’re pissed. They were giving you nothing. So let’s order some food and kick this around.”

“I really do need to go.”

“Go where? You got somebody to meet? Maybe I’ll tag along.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I got nowhere to be and you look like an interesting guy. I like interesting people. There aren’t enough of them in this town.”

“This town is full of dicks.”

“Dicks? Full of ’em, you’re right. Anybody in particular dickish to you?”

Leopold rose and this time Decker let him go. The bartender was staring at him. The last thing he needed was for the man to call the cops on him.

“See you around, then,” said Decker.

You can count on it.

Leopold walked out of the bar. Decker waited about fifteen seconds and then followed him out. He would trail Leopold right to wherever he called home.

The only problem was that when Decker got outside Sebastian Leopold was gone.

Decker walked up and down the street in both directions for a hundred yards. There was one alleyway next to the bar, but it was a dead end and no doors opened off it other than the bar’s side entrance and a door to an adjacent pharmacy that was both barred and bolted shut. There were no other side streets that Leopold could have reached in fifteen seconds if he’d been flat-out sprinting. Decker ducked back into the bar to see if maybe Leopold had circled back in there through the side door in the alley, but he hadn’t.

There were a few shops that were open, but Leopold was in none of them and no one in any of those places remembered seeing him pass by. There were no people on the street who might have witnessed anything.

There could be only one answer: Someone had picked up Leopold in a car and they had driven off. And that pickup, however absurd as it sounded, might have been prearranged. This of course deepened Decker’s suspicion of the man. And made him doubly upset that he had managed to lose him.