Memory Man (Amos Decker 1)

on the bureau against the wall before sitting on the edge of the bed.

Decker closed the door and sat in a chair across from him.

“Of course they do,” said Miller. “Since you’re the only one who has a shot at taking them down. They get you to eliminate yourself, they have free rein to keep doing what they’re doing.”

“If their goal is to punish me, destroy me, then once they do, there’s nothing more for them to do.”

“Until they figure that someone else has disrespected them. And there’s the small matter of letting this filth get away with killing all those people. I don’t intend to let it happen. And I don’t think you do either.”

Decker glanced over at the gun and then back at Miller.

Miller said, “We can’t bring any of them back. The only thing we can do is make this right by catching the people who killed them and make sure they never, ever hurt anyone else. That’s it. May not sound like much, but in a civilized world it’s all we’ve got.”

“Civilized world?”

“Which always has parts that aren’t civilized.”

Decker shifted slightly in his seat and more dramatically in his thoughts. “Who called it in? The incident at Lancaster’s house?”

“Earl Lancaster did. He was out with Sandy at a school function. They didn’t get home until nearly eleven. That’s when they found what they found and called 911.”

“Anyone see or hear anything?”

“Still canvassing. Nothing yet. It was dark and messy. Easy enough to slip in. They could have brought the mannequins in deflated and then quickly inflated them.” He rubbed his forehead. “Thank God they didn’t opt for the real thing.”

“Which is puzzling, since they’ve had no problem killing anyone.”

Miller nodded thoughtfully. “You know, it’s like these people can turn invisible.”

“Not invisible. Innocuous.”

“How do you mean?” asked Miller.

“Nonthreatening. Blend in. Someone so commonplace that no one notices them even though they’re there. That makes them invisible because people don’t remember them.”

“Well, one of them dressed like a cop to snare Lafferty.”

“Not a cop. A cop draws notice. They used that disguise specifically to get to Lafferty. No, I mean in a neighborhood someone that just blends in.”

“Well, we’ll have the canvassing reports at both places ready in about an hour. Why don’t you come down to the precinct and go over them?”

Decker eyed his former commander. “Is this busy work?”

Miller rose. “Amos, you’re a grown man. If you want to kill yourself you will. Nothing I can do to stop that. But while I have you alive and kicking I’d like to avail myself of your services. So let’s go down to the precinct and see what we can see.”

He turned and walked out the door.

Decker sat there for a few seconds, then rose, grabbed his gun, slipped it into his coat pocket, and followed.

Chapter

50

FOUR CUPS OF coffee and a stale breakfast burrito later, Decker pushed back from the table where he had been going over all aspects of the case and hit the john. When he came out, Alex Jamison was leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for him.

She looked up at him, her arms folded across her chest, her heel tapping against the dulled linoleum.

“I guess I missed my flight out of here,” she said.

“There’s always another one.”

“Maybe. Maybe I’ll go someplace warm. When we’re all done here.”

“This is not your fight. Or your concern.”

“Don’t even go there, Decker.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you. Let you know that I was still working the case. And Miller called me. He knew I went with you to the institute and that I was with you when you found Sizemore.”

“So?”

Miller appeared from around the corner. “So I thought another pair of fresh eyes on this sucker can’t hurt. I’m not too proud to ask for help.” He pointed at the two of them. “So why don’t you get to it?”

“She’s not on the force.”

“Neither are you,” shot back Jamison.

“Where’s Lancaster?” asked Decker.

“Where she should be, with her family. Now go!”

Decker reluctantly led Jamison back to the room and they started going back over the statements given to the police. Both were from neighbors of the Lancasters.

An old woman and a dog.

And a dog. Nonthreatening. Something folks would just gloss over, not remember unless specifically asked.

He dialed up his DVR and went back over the canvassing reports from his neighborhood that the police had undertaken after the murders of his family.

No old woman with a dog. But there had been an old man seen out for a stroll. He had been described as slightly bent, feeble, supported by a cane and totally at odds with the violent slaughter that had occurred that night, no doubt perpetrated by a strong homicidal man in his prime.

Totally innocuous. Nobody gave him a second thought. Nobody wondered who he was. Or why he was there that night.

Including me.

There had been no forced entry at the Lancasters’. They’d apparently walked right in.

An old woman in disguise. An old man in disguise. His killer seemed to be a true chameleon.

Decker glanced back at the file on the Lancasters.

Walked right in.

He thought back to last night. The house had been neat and tidy. Mary had been working impossible hours. Earl, he knew, while a competent contractor, had his hands full with their daughter, Sandy. He didn’t see the guy vacuuming, dusting, and doing the dishes every five minutes.

He rose from the table and headed out. He had questions that needed answers. He had apparently forgotten that Jamison was even there until she said, “Where are we going?”

“I’m going somewhere. I don’t know where you’re going.”

“But I’m safer with you, right?”

Decker struggled to find a reply to this but then just gave up.

Jamison held up her keys. “And unlike you, I have a car.”

“No, you have half a car.”

Decker stalked out, with Jamison scurrying after him.

* * *

Against her wishes, Lancaster also had been placed in protective custody and was staying in a house rented by the FBI and guarded both by local Burlington cops and Bureau agents.

Decker cleared the security and entered the house with Jamison. Little Sandy had run forward and thrown her arms around Decker’s legs. Not knowing what else to do, he had patted her on the head until she let go, stared straight up at him, and said, “You’re Amos Decker!”

“I know I am. And you’re Sandra Elizabeth Lancaster.”

She had wagged a finger at him. “I know I am.” Then she ran off, with her bedraggled father trying to keep up behind her.

Decker and Jamison had sat down opposite Lancaster, who eyed her suspiciously. “Why are you here?”

“Like Decker here, I’m a consultant on the case.”