David Baldacci - Memory Man

Decker hustled back to the cafeteria, passing several suspicious-looking Bureau agents in the hall as he did so. He didn’t acknowledge them. He barely noticed them. He was on the scent. He had formed walls in his head that had compartmentalized everything down to this one line of inquiry that might answer the one question that seemed unanswerable.

He stood in the middle of the room and looked in all four corners, then pulled his gaze back. He went into the kitchen and did the same thing. Then the loading platform.

He didn’t see anything remotely close to what he was looking for. The problem was, he didn’t know enough. That was always the damn problem with police work.

I don’t know enough. The man who can’t forget anything doesn’t know enough. How ironic is that?

But if Decker didn’t know enough, then maybe the shooter didn’t either. Maybe the shooter had had to turn to someone who did know enough.

Or who knew someone who knew enough.

Now, that theory, if played out, might answer several questions.

The school was a facility, a building. Changes could be made. Changes undoubtedly were made here over the decades. The drop ceiling over his head had assuredly not been here in 1946. What else had been added or taken away?

Or covered up? Because it was no longer necessary? And then forgotten?

Decker slipped into the library and motioned for Lancaster to join him. She finished up a phone call and then hurried over to the entrance to the library where Decker was standing. Decker was acutely aware that Special Agent Bogart and his special agent note taker Lafferty were both watching him from a distant corner of the space.

He spoke to Lancaster in a low voice, his features relaxed. He might just be shooting the breeze with her. They turned and left together.

Once outside in the hall, Lancaster said, “Do you really think it’s possible? I mean, I never heard of such a thing.”

“Just because you haven’t heard of it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“You went here. Did you ever hear talk of something like that?”

“No. But then again I never thought to ask, either. And it might’ve been from a long time ago. In fact, it probably was.”

“But who would know for sure? From what you said, it could have been put in over sixty years ago. And maybe never used. Anybody who might have known about it is probably dead or nearly so.”

“How about students from back then?”

“Well, they’d be pretty elderly too. And the teachers are almost certainly all dead.”

“There has to be a way, Mary. Records have to be kept—”

They had walked outside, and Decker broke off his sentence as he looked to his left, where the old military base was.

“The Army might have record of it,” he noted.

“The Army! Why them?”

“That base has been here since, what, the thirties?”

“That’s right. My grandfather worked there along with half the other people in Burlington. They had a big buildup during World War II, like every other military installation in the country.”

“So clearly it was there before the school was built. And lots of parents who worked at the base sent their kids to Mansfield.”

Lancaster appeared to understand where he was going with this. “So you think they might have initiated it?”

“And what if Debbie Watson’s great-grandfather, who worked at the base starting in the late sixties, knew all about it, and told little Debbie when he went to live with them?”

“And you think she might have told the shooter?”

“I can’t think of another reason why he would have needed her.”

“But how would he have found out that Debbie would know something like that?”

“It could have been any number of ways. That’s not important. But if I’m right, we’ll know how the shooter got from the cafeteria to the back hall unseen. And if we can nail that down we might be able to work backward to where the son of a bitch came from.”

They hurried off to Lancaster’s car.

At the window watching them was Special Agent Bogart. And the man from Washington did not look pleased.

Next to him Special Agent Lafferty was busily writing down notes.

George Watson answered their knock. He looked disheveled and there was a yellow and purplish bruise on his right cheek.

“Are you okay?” asked Lancaster.

Watson leaned against the doorjamb seemingly more for support than anything else. “I’m f-fine. My... my w-wife i-is leavin’ me, but I’m f-fine. Hell, why w-wouldn’t I b-be?”

Decker drew a foot closer and sniffed while Lancaster held Watson’s gaze.

Decker looked at her and nodded his head slightly. They had done this same routine when they had been partners. A nod for drunk, a shake of the head for sober or near enough to it. Actually, he hadn’t needed to do the smell test. The man’s slurred speech, inability to stand without aid of a wall, and blurry eyes were signs enough.

“Is your wife here?” asked Decker.

George pointed inside the house. “P-packin’. Th-the b-bitch!”

“These are very tough times for you both,” commented Decker.

“Lo-lost my little girl and... and n-now my wife. But you kn-know w-what?”

“No sir, what?” asked Decker.

“Screw ’em.” He waggled his deformed arm. “S-screw ’em.”

“You might want to lie down, sir,” said Lancaster. “And lay off the drink.”

George looked affronted. “I... haven’t b-been drinkin’.” He let out a loud belch and looked like he might be sick.

“Good to know. But you need to sleep it off anyway.”

Decker took the man’s good arm and guided him into the front room and over to the couch. “Just have a lie-down right there while we have a word with your wife.”

As George sank down onto the couch he said, “She’s n-not m-my w-wife. Not an-any-anymore. B-b-bitch!”

He closed his eyes and grew silent except for his breathing.

Decker led Lancaster down the hall and to a door behind which they heard noise.

Decker rapped on the wood. “Mrs. Watson?”

They heard something fall and hit the floor. “Who’s there?” Beth Watson barked.

“Police,” said Lancaster.

Beth Watson screamed, “That little son of a bitch called the police? Just because I hit him? Well, he hit me first, the one-armed prick.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about your daughter.”

The door was wrenched open and Beth Watson stood there in heels and a white slip and nothing else. Her pale flesh seemed even paler with that backdrop. The skin around her arms was sagging. One of her cheeks was red and swollen. Decker did not have to take a step closer to sniff out her sobriety status. But apparently, she could be drunk, stand erectly, and talk coherently at the same time. At least she hoped she was coherent.

“What about her?” Beth demanded.

“I asked your husband when we were here last time about his grandfather.”

Her brows knitted in confusion. “Simon? Why?”

“He worked at McDonald Army Base before he retired?”

“That’s right. So what? He’s been dead for years.”

“But he lived here with you and your husband. And Debbie.”

“Yeah, again, so what?” Unlike her husband, Beth didn’t find it necessary to lean against the doorjamb to steady herself. She obviously handled the booze better than her husband. Perhaps she had more practice, Decker thought.

“Did he ever talk to you about his work there?” he asked.

“He was at the age where he only talked about the past. World War II. The Korean War. Working for the government. Blah-blah-blah. All day and all night. Sickening after a while. Who the hell wants to live in the past?”