Memory Man (Amos Decker 1)

deserve that. I don’t think you had anything to do with what happened to your family. Like you said, I think some psychopath is looking to first screw you and then destroy you. And he used me to do that and I jumped at the bait just so I could write a story. But that got me wondering why. I mean, who could have that sort of vendetta against you and you not know it?”

Decker sipped his coffee while eyeing her directly but said nothing.

She added, “And I’m sure you’ve been racking your brain trying to think of the same thing.”

“I have.”

“It has to be personal,” she said.

“Murder almost always is.”

“No, I mean more than that. Brimmer told me there were a couple of communications the killer made. Again, she wouldn’t tell me what they said, but they were apparently directed at you.”

Decker said nothing, but his look clearly told her he was interested.

“So I did some digging.”

“Into what?”

“Into you.”

“How?”

“I’m a reporter. We have ways.”

“And what did you find?”

“You’re from Burlington. Biggest sports star the town ever had. The young man who made good.”

This comment made Decker think of the trophy case at the school. “The shooter took all the trophies with my name on them from the case at Mansfield.”

She sat back and looked satisfied and also puzzled by this. “I wonder when he did that. Surely not the day of the shooting. He’s not going to be hauling hardware around.”

“There are ways,” Decker said. “But I can’t get into that now. Maybe one day you can write the whole story.”

She said, “So the question becomes, is it someone who’s from Burlington who had a grudge against you all these years? Big football star versus some nobody in the background who was jealous of your success? The fact that he took the trophies might indicate it is someone local. Who you went to Mansfield with? He might have thought you were gone for good when you went on to college, and then you come back here and become a cop and do all these great things. And all these years the hatred is building and festering until the guy just explodes.”

“Guys,” said Decker.

“Guys? More than one, you mean?”

“You can’t write that.” He leaned forward. “You really can’t write that, Alexandra. If he reads it, he’ll assume you know not only that but more. More that could be dangerous to him. And then dangerous for you.”

“I get that, Decker. You thoroughly scared me before. I go nowhere without Mace and my phone on 911 speed dial.”

“But you came back. You’re here now trying to help me figure this out. They could be watching. Why take the risk?”

“I didn’t get into journalism to be safe. I got into this line of work because I wanted to take risks. You and I are a lot alike on that score.”

“How so?”

“I figure the only job riskier than pro football and police work is being in combat. So you’re a risk-taker. So am I. And if we can do a little good in the meantime, why not? So, any guys you remember from here that hated you?”

“I was good at sports, but I wasn’t good at anything else. And I wasn’t a prick. I had fun. I was a goofball. I made people laugh. I messed up. I was not Mr. Perfect by a long stretch. Aside from what I did on the field, I wasn’t that special.”

“I have a hard time seeing you as a goofball.”

“People change.”

“You did change, didn’t you?”

Decker took another sip of his coffee. “People change. I’m no exception.”

“People do change. But I think you changed more than most.”

“How do you mean exactly?”

“The hit. I watched it on YouTube.”

“Good for you.”

“It was horrible watching it. I can’t imagine how it was, actually being the recipient of it.”

“I don’t really remember it. They told me later I shit my pants. Violent collision like that overpowers the central nervous system. During the preseason the equipment guys came in after games to make sure all the girdles with feces in them were hidden from view and never given out to fans. Along with all the blood inside the helmets and on the uniforms. And they kept the reporters out when the guys were in the trainer’s room postgame so they wouldn’t hear the screams. And they gave players pops of ammonia or painkillers so they could talk to the media and hide the fact that half their brain was gone.”

“I’m not a big fan of football. Gladiators of the twenty-first century, wrecking each other for our amusement while we drink beer and eat hot dogs and cheer when a guy gets wiped out. You’d think we would have gotten beyond that. I guess there’s too much money in it.”

“See, people don’t actually change all that much.”

“After the hit you just disappeared for a long time. Got cut by the team, went into limbo. I couldn’t find anything on you. And then you turned up back here and joined the police academy. A buddy of mine got me your test scores.”

“You have a lot of buddies?”

“A good reporter needs all the help she can get. The scores were all perfect.”

“A fact my old captain told me too.”

“So Captain Miller looked into it as well?”

“Why all the interest in me?”

“Because I figure that to find this guy, or guys, we have to work backward, from the motivation to the source. You’re the motivation. So I have to understand you to get to them.” She paused and tapped a spoon against her coffee cup. “So where were you during that time?”

“That’s my business.”

“You don’t want to catch these murderers?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“But you know I’m right. You’re the key to what’s happening.” She leaned forward and tapped his thick hand. “I want to help, Decker.”

“What you want is a Pulitzer.”

“I tell you what. You let me help and I won’t write any story without your permission. You get to vet and approve the whole thing. Or you get to pull the trigger and it’ll never see the light of day.”

“You’d agree to that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Andy Jackson. You know him?”