Memory Man (Amos Decker 1)

before wiping it away. “I could probably eat you under the table.”

“Maybe in another life.”

“What do you expect to find out at this Duckton place?”

“If it’s still there. I tried to call the number I used to have, but it’s been changed. And the place’s number is not listed.”

“But what is the place, Decker? You called it home.”

“It was where people like me were poked, prodded, and tested.”

Jamison lowered her burger. “With all the memory geniuses? The…the institute?”

“Savants, autistics, Asperger’s, synesthesia, and hyperthymesia.”

“Hyper what?”

“Thymesia. In Greek, hyper means ‘excessive,’ and thymesia translates to ‘memory.’ Put ’em together and you get me. True hyperthymesia really relates to near-perfect recall of one’s personal or autobiographical past. I have that, but I also can’t forget anything I see, read, or hear. Perfect recall of, well, everything. I had no idea my brain was that big. But I apparently use more of it than most, but only because I got my ass handed to me on a football field.”

“And synesthesia?”

“I see colors where others don’t. In numbers, in places and objects. My cognitive sensory pathways apparently also got melded from the hit I took.”

“I appreciate your telling me all this. But I’m surprised too. You strike me as a private guy.”

“I am a private guy. I’ve never told anyone about this, except for my wife.”

“Then why tell me? We don’t really know each other.”

Before answering Decker ate a bite of pepperoni pizza, followed by a long swig of Coke. “We’re tracking down killers together, Jamison. They’ve murdered a lot of people, including an FBI agent. I figure I owe you the whole story because you’re putting your life on the line.”

She put her burger down and took a small drink of her beer. “You’re making me sound a lot braver than I am,” she said softly.

He ate another few bites of pizza and slurped down his Coke. “Let’s hope you’re wrong about that.”

Chapter

41

THEY HAD CHECKED in to their motel, grabbed some sleep, washed up, and changed their clothes. Now they were standing in front of an eight-story brick building with small windows that looked about sixty years old.

Jamison glanced at Decker and then over at the building’s address represented by metal numbers bolted to the façade. “Seven one-one Duckton. So this was home?”

Decker nodded but kept his eyes on the building. “It’s changed a little. It’s been two decades.”

“Was this a true research facility?”

“For the most part. They were basically trying to understand how the brain works. They were one of the first to approach the field in a multipronged, multidisciplinary methodological manner.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning that they didn’t just hook electrodes up to your head and measure brain activity that way. They did all the physiological things you would expect—the brain is an organ, after all, and it basically works on electrical impulses. But they also did counseling sessions and group and one-on-ones. They dug deeply into our lives. They wanted to know the science of folks like us, but they also wanted to know, well, us. What having an exceptional mind was like, how it had impacted, or changed, our lives.”

“Sounds pretty thorough.”

“They were.”

“But what was the result of all that?”

Decker shrugged. “I was never told. I was here for months and then was told I could go. There was never any follow-up. At least not with me.”

“Wait a minute, you were told you could go? Were you here involuntarily?”

“No, I volunteered.”

“Why?”

He turned to look at her. “Because I was scared, Jamison. My brain had changed, which meant pretty much everything about me had changed. My emotions, my personality, my social skills. I wanted to find out why. I wanted to find out…what my future might be like. I guess I wanted to find out what I would become, for the long term.”

“But I guess there were a lot of positives. I mean, a perfect memory makes school and work pretty easy.”

He looked back up at the building. “Do you like yourself?”

“What?”

“Do you like the person you are?”

“Well, yes. I mean, I could exercise more and I have yet to find the right guy, but yeah, I like who I am.”

“Well, I liked who I was too. And now that person is gone. Only I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

Her face fell. “Right. I didn’t really think about that.”

“And it would be nice to be able to forget some things. People do, you know. Want to forget some things.”

“Decker, even someone with a normal mind would never be able to forget something like what happened to your family.”

“But I remember every single detail of it, in the color blue. I will never forget any of it, even exactly how I felt when I found the bodies. Not until the day I die. For me time does not heal, because my mind no longer allows for the passage of time to dull my memories. They are as vivid today as the day it happened. It’s like a picture that never, ever fades. Some people can’t go back? I really can’t go forward.”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned to look down at her. “I can’t process sympathy anymore,” he said. “I used to. But not anymore.” He walked into the building and Jamison hurried after him.

The building directory did not contain the name of the research facility. Decker went over to a reception desk set up in one corner and flashed his temporary police credentials, but the woman there could not help him. She had never heard of the place Decker named.

Decker and Jamison walked around the large lobby. Decker was peering everywhere, taking it all in.

“Going for a trip down memory lane?” said Jamison impishly.

He looked down at her with raised eyebrows.

She blushed. “Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood. I guess humor doesn’t really work with you either.”

But Decker had hurried across the lobby to a small flower shop in the corner of the floor. Jamison caught up to him as he approached the counter inside.

A woman in her late forties was behind the counter. She had light brown hair cut short and her build was blocky. Black slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse constituted her work clothes.

“Can I help you?” she asked Decker.

“This place has been here a long time,” Decker began. “I remember it.”

She smiled. “Dora’s Floras. It’s been here ever since the building opened in 1955. My mother was Dora. She started it.”

“I remember her too. You look like her.”

The woman smiled more broadly. “I took over the shop ten years ago. She and my father had built up a great business. When I was in college I’d come here and help them. My only job now is not to screw it up. I’m Daisy, by the way. What else would I be named, right? I’m the youngest of four girls and we’re all named after flowers.”

“So you’ve been here ten years, Daisy?”

“Yes.” The woman’s brow creased with a frown. “Why do I think you’re not interested in purchasing a flower arrangement?”

“I’m not,” Decker said bluntly. He showed her his credentials.

“Out of state,” she said. “Must be important.”

“It is. There was a research facility in the building. Well, it was here twenty years ago. The Cognitive Research Institute?”

Daisy smiled. “Oh sure, I remember them. They were a good customer.”

“Were? So they’re no longer here?”

“No, they moved out. It was, let me think—oh, probably seven or eight years ago. I remember the big trucks out front. As a general rule most businesses here stay here. It’s a great location, beautiful old building that’s been meticulously maintained,

really prime real estate. And it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to Chicago.”

“I suppose you don’t know where they went?”