David Baldacci - Memory Man

Yet there was nothing more to be done here, so he set off for Mansfield High.

The mourners had gone and had been replaced by two groups of protestors stationed just outside the yellow police tape. One group was pro-gun, the other on the flip side of the debate. They chanted and screamed and occasionally briefly skirmished with each other.

More guns! No guns! Second Amendment! Guns kill! No, people kill! Where does the slaughter end! Go to hell!

Decker bypassed all this and used his new credentials to get past the security perimeter. He met up with Lancaster at the command center in the library.

When he told her what had happened at the arraignment she appeared dumbfounded.

“He just walked?”

Decker nodded.

“Mac is gonna be pissed about that. And I would have expected better from Sheila Lynch. Looks like she got blindsided by the PD.”

“He was just doing his job. Truth and justice don’t necessarily enter the equation. The fact was, Abernathy probably made the right decision. With the confession recanted there was no evidence to hold him. And Abernathy was already ticked at the prosecution. He was probably looking for a way to drop the hammer. And he did. We’ve both seen that before.”

Decker had participated in so many trials over the years that he felt he was a lawyer in every way except as a holder of the official sheepskin and bar card.

“I’m glad you can look at it in such a coldly efficient way, Amos,” she said, a distinct frostiness in her own tone.

“How else do you want me to look at it?” he said just as bluntly. “Otherwise I’ve got my head in my ass, and where does that get us?”

She looked away and chewed her gum. “Forget it,” she said. “I’m just having a shitty day.”

Decker didn’t tell her about his tailing and then losing Leopold at the bar. He didn’t think it would add anything to the scenario, and he felt like an idiot for having let it happen. And even with an altered brain, who wanted to look like an idiot?

“The FBI seems excited,” he observed. The suits were running around with an even greater degree of energy than they normally exhibited.

“Mass murderer, connected cases, the stuff you found with Debbie Watson. It’s definitely upped the stakes.” She paused and fiddled with some pages in front of her. “And they want to talk to you, Amos. The FBI, I mean.”

He looked mildly surprised. “Why is that?”

“Foremost, because you’re the one discovering all the fresh clues. But it’s also clear that the killer has a personal thing with you. The message at your old home was directed at you. The coded note at Debbie’s house was about you too. So the FBI wants to basically question you to see if they can get any leads from whoever might have a vendetta against you.”

“And when do they want to do this?”

“Now would be a good time, actually.”

Decker looked up to see a six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered man in his forties standing next to him. His suit was impeccable down to the yellow pocket square that neatly matched the tie. He was clean-shaven and fit. He seemed to be the leader of the pack, if the way the other agents were anxiously staring at him was any indication.

Decker had never seen him before. He must have just arrived on the scene, perhaps from Washington. A heavy gun brought in for a heavy case that was gaining widespread attention across the country. It just seemed like the federal way. Leave the chickenshit cases to the local chickens while they grabbed the glory on the ones destined for the national pipeline.

The man put out a hand and smiled, revealing a slight gap between his very white front teeth. “Special Agent Ross Bogart. I’m a little late to the party. I was finishing up some things in D.C. Mr. Decker, let’s find a quiet place to go over some things, if you don’t mind.”

“Would it matter if I did mind?”

“We all have the same goal. I know you were a cop and then a detective. You know the drill, nothing too small. Nothing too obscure to follow up. Shall we?” He pointed to a door at the back of the library that Decker had previously discovered was used as a reading classroom for ESL students.

He rose and followed the man back. Another agent joined them, a woman Decker had seen before. She was blonde, in her thirties, with muscled calves and a jaw that jutted out like a slab of stone. She had a recorder in one hand and a notebook and pen in the other. A federal shield rode on her hip.

“Special Agent Lafferty will be joining us,” said Bogart.

“How about Detective Lancaster joining us, then?” suggested Decker. “She’s been right in the middle of this too.”

“Maybe later,” Bogart said with a smile, as he held open the door and flicked on the light.

They all sat around a small table, Decker on one side, the two special agents on the other. Lafferty turned on her recorder and held her notebook open, looking ready to write down everything that was said in the room.

“Do they still teach shorthand with all the digital stuff they have these days?” asked Decker, looking at her. “It seems that a recording would be one hundred percent accurate, whereas your shorthand might contain interpretations and selective nuances, of which you might not be even consciously aware, instead of what was actually said. Just a thought.”

She did not seem to know how to respond to this, so she glanced at her boss.

Bogart said, “Let’s start at the beginning, if you will, to help me come up to speed.”

“Why don’t you just let me summarize so we don’t waste time?” said Decker. He didn’t wait for an assent from Bogart but plunged ahead. “My family was killed sixteen months ago. The case is unsolved.” He then told the FBI agents about Sebastian Leopold’s confessing to the crime, being jailed, recanting, and then being released because there was no evidence to hold him. “As you know, ballistics has tied that case and this one together.”

“And you’re sure he couldn’t have been the school shooter?” asked Bogart.

“Impossible. He was in jail at the time. Hours before the guy started his rampage.”

“You figured out where he might have been hiding,” said Bogart. “In the cafeteria. The food locker.”

“I tied some witness statements together and made an educated guess.”

“Then you found the notebook in Debbie Watson’s locker with the picture of the shooter.”

“Another educated guess.”

Bogart went on, seeming not to have heard him. “Then you went to Watson’s house and made the discovery of the coded message held in the musical score. And then there was the earlier message, or taunt really, that someone left on the wall of your old house, where your family was murdered. You spotted that too.” Bogart paused for a moment and then said, “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Another educated guess’?”

“I guess I don’t have to now, seeing as you said it for me.”

“You seem to be taking this all rather lightly. Can I ask why?”

“I’m not taking any of this lightly. That’s why I’m working the case even though I’m not on the police force.”

Bogart glanced at a file in front of him. “ Cases , really, isn’t it? Separated by sixteen months.”

“Actually sixteen months, two days, twelve hours, and six minutes.”

“And how do you know that so precisely? You didn’t even look at your watch.”

“There’s a clock on the wall behind you.”

Bogart didn’t turn and look but Lafferty did and she wrote something down.

Decker hadn’t needed to look at the wall clock. He had his internal timer that kept that count faithfully. Better than a Rolex and a lot cheaper.

“Still,” said Bogart. “To the minute?”