David Baldacci: Memory Man

“Hello, Mary Suzanne Lancaster,” he said, because he somehow couldn’t not say it.

She smiled, reached over, and poked his shoulder. He winced slightly and drew back a bit, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t know you even knew my middle name.”

He looked down at his food, his limited chitchat quota exhausted.

She ran her gaze over him, and when she was done Lancaster seemed to silently acknowledge that all reports of Decker having hit rock bottom were spot on.

“I won’t ask how you’ve been, Amos. I can see not too good.”

“I live here instead of in a box,” he said bluntly.

Startled, she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You need something?” he asked. “I have a schedule.”

She nodded. “I’m sure. Well, I came by to talk to you.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“You mean how did I know you were here?”

His look told her that was obviously his question.

“Friend of a friend.”

“Didn’t think you had that many friends,” said Decker. It wasn’t a funny line, really, and he certainly didn’t smile. But she forced a chuckle as a potential icebreaker, but then caught herself, realizing, probably, that it was stupid to do so.

“Well, I’m also a detective. I can find out things. And Burlington isn’t that big. It’s not New York. Or L.A.”

He smacked his lips, shoveled in some more food, and his mind started to wander back to colored numbers and things that could tell time in his head.

She seemed to sense his withdrawal. “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you. You lost a lot, Amos. You didn’t deserve this, not that anyone does.”

He glanced at her with not a single emotion evident in the look. Sympathy was not going to hold his attention. He had never sought sympathy, mainly because his mind didn’t really get that particular sensation. At least not anymore. He could be caring. He had been caring and loving with his family. But sympathy and its even more irritating cousin, empathy, were no longer in his wheelhouse.

Perhaps sensing that she was losing him again, she quickly said, “I also came to tell you something.”

He ran his gaze up and down her. He couldn’t help himself, so he said, “You’ve lost weight. About five pounds you couldn’t afford to lose. And you might have a vitamin D deficiency.”

“How do you figure?”

“You were walking stiffly when you came in. Bone ache is a classic symptom.” He pointed to her forehead. “And it’s cold outside but your head is sweating. Another classic. And you’ve crossed and uncrossed your legs five times in the brief time you’ve been sitting there. Bladder problems. Another symptom.”

She frowned at this very personal appraisal. “What, did you start medical school or something?” she said crossly.

“I read an article four years ago while I was waiting at the dentist’s office.”

She touched her forehead. “I guess I don’t get out in the sun much.”

“And you smoke like a rocket, which doesn’t help anything. Try a supplement. Vit D deficiencies lead to bad stuff. And quit the cigarettes. Try a patch.” He glanced down and saw what he had seen when she first sat down. He said, “You also have a tremor in your left hand.”

She held it with her right, unconsciously rubbing at the spot. “I think it’s just a nerve thing.”

“But you shoot left-handed. So you might want to check it out.”

She glanced down at the slight bulge on the right side of her jacket at the waistband where her pistol rode in a belt holster.

She smiled. “You have any more Sherlock Holmes stuff to throw at me? Want to check out my knees? Look at my fingertips? Tell me what I had for breakfast?”

He took a prolonged sip of coffee. “Just have it checked out. Could be something else. More than a tremor. Bad stuff starts in the hands and the eyes. It’s an early warning, like a canary in a coal mine. And departmental firearms recert comes up next month. Doubt you’ll pass with your grip hand going wacky on you.”

Her smile faded. “I hadn’t thought about that. I will, thanks, Amos.”

He looked down at his food and drew a deep breath. He was done, just waiting for her to leave. He closed his eyes. He might just go to sleep right here.

She idly played with the button of her jacket, shooting glances at him. Preparing for what she had really come here to do. To say.

“We made an arrest, Amos. In your case.”

Amos Decker opened his eyes. And kept them open.

Decker placed his hands on the table.

Lancaster noted the hands turning to fists and the thumb rubbing against the forefinger so hard it was leaving a mark.

“His name?” asked Decker, staring at a mound of uneaten scrambled eggs.

“Sebastian Leopold. Unusual one. But that’s what he said.”

Decker once more closed his eyes and turned on what he liked to call his DVR. This was one of the positives of being what he was. The frames flew past his eyes so fast it was hard to see, but he could still see everything in there. He came out the other end of this mental exercise with not a single hit.

He opened his eyes and shook his head. “Never heard of him. You?”

“No. And again, that’s just what he told us. It might not be his real name.”

“No ID, then?”

“No, nothing. Empty pockets. I believe he’s homeless.”

“Run his prints?”

“As we speak. No hits yet.”

“How’d you get onto him?”

“That was the easy part. He walked into the precinct at two o’clock this morning and turned himself in. Easiest collar we’ve ever made. I’ve just come from interviewing him.”

Decker shot her a penetrating look. “After nearly sixteen months the guy walks in and cops to a triple homicide?”

“I know. Certainly doesn’t happen every day.”

“Motive?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I just came here to give you a courtesy heads-up, Amos. It’s an ongoing police investigation. You know the drill.”

He leaned forward, nearly clearing the width of the table. In a level voice as though he were staring at her across the distance of their slung-together desks back at the police station he said, “Motive?”

She sighed, pulled a stick of gum from her pocket, bent it in half, and popped it into her mouth. Three quick chews and she said, “Leopold said you dissed him once. Pissed him off.”

“Where and when?”

“At the 7-Eleven. About a month before, well, before he did what he did. Man apparently holds a grudge. Between you and me, I don’t think the guy is all there.”

“Which 7-Eleven?”

“What?”

“Which 7-Eleven?”

“Um, the one near your house, I believe.”

“On DeSalle at Fourteenth, then?”

“He said he followed you home. That’s how he knew where you lived.”

“So he’s homeless but has a car? Because I never walked to that 7-Eleven in my life.”

“He’s homeless now . I don’t know what his status was back then. He just walked into the precinct, Amos. There’s a lot we still don’t know.”

“Mug shot.” It wasn’t a question. If he had been arrested they had to take his picture and his prints.

She held up her phone and showed it to him. On the small screen was the face of a man. It was sunburned and grimy. His hair was wild and he was crazy-bearded. And, well, in that way, Leopold looked like Decker.

He closed his eyes and his internal DVR turned back on, but at the other end there were, again, no hits.

“I’ve never seen him.”

“Well, he might look different now.”

He shook his head and said, “How old?”