Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

She had asked to see the body, but was told that it would not be a good idea. That there had been... substantial disfigurement. It would most likely be a closed casket unless the mortician could work some wonders.

Jamison had gone with them while Decker had stayed behind to get fuller particulars.

Green and Lassiter provided them.

Green said, “That place is huge. And it’s got all sorts of automation. Robots going up and down aisles. These massive metal arm things putting incredibly heavy pallets of stuff way up on shelves. And they each do the work of about fifty people. What jobs are going to be left for humans, tell me that?”

Decker was less interested in the economic challenges of the coming automation revolution than in the exact details of Frank Mitchell’s last few moments alive.

“But what happened to Frank Mitchell?” he asked.

Lassiter took up the story.

“They’re working on an addition to the fulfillment center. Mitchell had gone there to check on some things. There was a mounted robotic arm that’ll be used to lift heavy pallets high up on shelves, like Marty just said. It’s in a confined space and wasn’t supposed to be operational. But apparently something went wrong. When they went to look for Mitchell they found him crushed against a concrete wall with the robotic arm still holding on to him.”

“But if it wasn’t operational, how could it have come on?” asked Decker.

Green grimaced. “Now that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. They believe it was a computer glitch. Something in the damn thing’s software, or some spike in the power supply. Again, the place is under construction, and I guess all the bugs haven’t been worked out yet.”

Lassiter added, “I researched it a bit after we got the news. It’s not the first death from some robot going nuts. There’ve been cases up in Michigan and Ohio and other places. It’s what you get when you put these super-strong metal beasts in with humans. They’ve got no shot if things go sideways. That arm can lift ten thousand pounds no problem. You let that loose on a human, well, I saw Frank Mitchell’s body. And it was... beyond horrible,” she added in a trembling voice.

And that had been that.

Decker had driven back here and met with Jamison.

Jamison had called the rest of her family and Frank’s parents, telling them the awful news. His parents and Frank’s four siblings were coming in. Two of Jamison’s sisters were also planning to attend the funeral. Jamison had given her sister something to help her sleep.

Amber and Zoe were together in Amber’s bedroom locked in each other’s arms.

Decker and a subdued Jamison had sat up in the kitchen and discussed things. He had filled her in on what had happened.

“This is terrible, Decker. They just moved here. And now this?”

Decker remained silent.

She looked up at him, her face teary. “What are you thinking?”

“That you need to concentrate on your sister and Zoe. Leave the investigation to me. At least for now.”

She slowly nodded. “It’s not something I want to do, you know that?”

“I know that.”

“Zoe’s in shock. I’m so worried about her. She loved her dad so much. And on her birthday. I mean, how awful is that?”

“Pretty damn awful.”

“We’ve got to think about funeral arrangements. There aren’t many options here. And getting family here for it is a logistical nightmare. And what about burial? Would he want to be buried here? He has no connection to this place. So, cremation? God, I can’t believe I’m having to talk about any of this.”

She started to sob quietly.

Decker hesitantly rose, went over to her, and patted her shoulder with his hand. His mind had some soothing things he could say to her, but a disconnect did not allow him to actually say them.

Jamison seemed to understand his internal struggle. She gripped his big hand. “Thanks, Amos.”

He said nothing. But he kept patting her shoulder, silently cursing his inability to do anything more than that.

Now, in his room, he looked at the spot on the window glass where he had just now wiped away the circle he’d made in the condensation.

Six people were dead.

Indisputably murdered by another with premeditation and malice aforethought.

Now a seventh person, Frank Mitchell, was dead. By an accident, from all accounts.

Jamison had finally gone to bed.

But Decker once again found sleep too elusive.

He decided, despite the rain, to take another walk.

He took the same umbrella from the hall closet, buttoned his coat around him, and set off.

His path took him to the street of the Murder House. The place was dark, but the police tape was still there. The local cop car wasn’t there. But one of Kemper’s black SUVs was. He could see a man inside it.

Decker looked down the street.

Dan Bond, the blind man.

Mrs. Martin, the Sunday school teacher.

And Fred Ross with his sawed-off shotgun and bitter demeanor.

The only three people who lived on the street and who could have seen anything relevant. And if that was the criterion, then Bond should be struck from the list, though he might have heard something.

And Ross too. He said he’d been at the hospital, though Decker would have to check that.

He looked at his watch.

Ten-thirty.

Mrs. Martin lived at number 1640. The lights were on there.

Decker started walking toward it.

“Yes?” said the voice on the other side of the peephole.

Decker held up his creds to the little circle of glass.

“Mrs. Martin? I’m Amos Decker, I’m with the FBI. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About what happened down the street.”

“It’s rather late. And I don’t know you.”

“I’m sorry for the lateness. But I saw your lights on. I’m working with Detective Lassiter. She told me that you used to teach her Sunday school,” he added, hoping that would break the ice.

It worked, because he heard the locks turn, and the door swung open to reveal a tall elderly woman with wispy white hair and a pale complexion. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on her long, bumpy nose. She had on a beige cardigan wrapped around a starched white blouse. A baggy pair of dingy gray sweatpants incongruously completed her outfit. A sturdy pair of white orthopedic shoes were on her feet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin, I appreciate it.”

“Would you like some hot tea? It’s so damp out.” She shivered. “Gets in my bones.”

Decker didn’t really feel like tea, but he figured it might buy him some more time with her. “That would be great, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. I’ve nothing else to do, and I was thinking of having another cup myself. Oh, there’s Missy.”

This was in reference to a sleek silver and black tabby that glided out from behind the couch in the front living room. It sidled up to Decker and rubbed itself against his leg.

“Nice kitty,” said Decker awkwardly to the cat.

“Oh, she’s a pain in the butt, but it’s just her and me now.”

Decker looked at one wall where a deer head was mounted.

“Six-point buck,” he said.

“My late husband. He had that mounted, oh, it was almost forty years ago now. But, unlike some hunters, he ate what he killed. That buck gave us enough venison to last a long time.”

She turned and put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

Decker spotted a quad cane, so called because it had four sturdy feet for firm support, standing in a corner.

“Do you want me to get your cane?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I need to get the darn thing fixed,” she said. “Can’t use it inside. It scratches my hardwood floors.”