The Last Mile

  He wasn’t sure. And he also wasn’t sure that the name Melvin Mars would ever leave him again.

  Hours later he reached the address he’d been given. It was at the Marine Corps Base Quantico, one of the largest U.S. Marine bases in the world, and also home to a basketful of federal law enforcement platforms.

  The facility was behind high fences with a guard gate where serious men in uniform stood holding automatic weapons.

  Amos Decker drove up to the gate, rolled down his window, drew a long breath, and prepared to start his brand-new life.

  CHAPTER

  4

  THREE ROOMS.

  A bedroom about the size of a prison cell. A bathroom about a quarter the size of that. And a third room for everything else, including the kitchen.

  It was far more space than Amos Decker had been accustomed to over the last year and a half.

  He set his bags down and looked around his new home. He should grab some sleep, but he wasn’t tired.

  He could sleep all day sometimes, but other times, like now, his mind would not allow him to rest. His brain was on fire.

  There was a small table across from the kitchen area. On the table was a laptop computer with a note stuck to it. The note was from Agent Bogart. The laptop was his to use. There was secure WiFi here. Bogart would be by later.

  Decker checked his watch. It was five in the morning. Bogart had expected him to stop on his drive and probably anticipated his arriving here later this afternoon or evening.

  Decker made a cup of coffee, black, with a heap of sugar, and carried it over to the table. He sat down and opened up the laptop. He went online and searched for the name Melvin Mars.

  There had been quite a few stories written in the last few days on Mars. Decker read all of them, his perfect memory imprinting each indelibly onto his brain.

  But he also wanted to know more about the man’s past. And a few minutes later he found it.

  Melvin Mars had been on the cusp of the NFL draft held in April of each year. It was projected he would go top five until he’d been arrested and charged in the murders of his parents, Roy and Lucinda Mars.

  Decker looked at the grainy pictures of the pair on the screen. Roy was white, with strong features, and even in the blurry photo his penetrating eyes were readily apparent. Lucinda was black and remarkably beautiful, with bountiful hair that fell to her shoulders. Her face was crinkled into an infectious smile.

  Clear opposites, at least on the surface. Interesting.

  Decker sipped his coffee and kept scrolling.

  The murders had taken place on April second. The bodies were found in an upstairs bedroom. Both had been shotgunned, their faces obliterated, and then their bodies set on fire. The house stood by itself well off the road. They lived in rural Texas. There had been no one around to hear them die.

  The bodies were found by firemen responding to a 911 call. The fire was put out and the house became a crime scene.

  Folks around there knew the Marses. Well, they knew Melvin because of his talents on the gridiron. He had been a high school football legend in Texas, and had continued that fame in college as a Longhorn.

  So where was Melvin when his parents died?

  He had graduated from college the previous semester, having gone to summer school each of the last three years in order to graduate early. He had plans for his life, it had been reported then. And with the draft coming up he wanted to be free from academic obligations. He was a man who thought ahead, it was said. He was not some people’s image of a football player who could run over people but didn’t have the means to carry on a conversation. It was said that he didn’t have an agent because he was going to negotiate his own contract with an NFL team. He had done research, talked to current and former players.

  So, again, where was Melvin?

  The police found him sleeping alone at a motel. He had paid by credit card. That was how they located him.

  His story had been relatively simple. He had been visiting a friend. He had left the friend’s place with the intention of driving home. He had had car trouble, however, and stopped for the night at the only motel on that stretch of road. He had known nothing about his parents’ murders until the police knocked on his door.

  This was before everyone had cell phones or email addresses, or a Facebook page or Twitter account. You could actually be off the grid with no way for folks to contact you, an unbelievable thought now.

  Mars had not initially been a suspect. He had gone into seclusion even as rewards were offered for any information about the crimes. A period of time went by as the police investigated.

  Decker focused on one story that detailed how Mars had become a suspect.

  The friend he had visited remembered Mars leaving earlier than he had told the police he had. The motel was less than an hour from his house, so why didn’t he simply drive the rest of the way that night? Again, Mars said he’d had car trouble and pulled into the motel. He planned to call his father the next morning to come out and check the car.

  The only problem with that was when the police asked him to try to start the car, it roared to life immediately. He had no explanation for that other than to say the engine had sputtered and then died right as he reached the motel. He said he’d actually pushed it into the parking lot. The other troublesome fact was that a car resembling his had been seen later that night in the vicinity of his parents’ house.

  The motel clerk told police that Mars had checked in at 1:15 in the morning. The friend said Mars had left her place at ten. It was only an hour-and-forty-minute drive to his home from there. That left time for him to drive home, kill his parents, and then drive back and check into the motel.

  The motel clerk testified that Mars seemed disheveled and upset. He also testified that the clothes Mars had on appeared stained with something. The clothes he described Mars as wearing were not the ones he had on when the police showed up. It was conjectured that Mars had dumped the bloody clothes somewhere and then changed into a fresh set at the motel.

  The other troublesome fact was that the shotgun belonged to Mars. He used it for hunting, and had indeed hunted game birds and turkeys with it. Thus his prints were on the weapon.

  And the gasoline used to ignite the Marses’ bodies had come from their garage. It was fortunate that that house had not burned down. The only damage was in the bedroom where they’d been found.

  Lastly, blood matching Lucinda Mars’s had been found in the car. It was pretty damning forensically.

  Decker rose to pour another cup of coffee. It was growing lighter outside. He was oblivious to this. He sat back down and kept reading.

  But what would be the motive for Mars to kill his parents?

  After he was arrested and charged with the murders, the police announced their theory. With the NFL draft coming up and Mars expected to sign a huge contract, it had come down to money. His parents wanted more of it than Mars was willing to share. There had been arguments. Mars had felt jammed. He didn’t want negative publicity. He had carefully groomed his image in the hope of getting lucrative endorsement deals in addition to his football contract. He had his whole life mapped out. His parents potentially stood in the way of that, at least according to the prosecution.

  So to get rid of this problem, Mars had planned and then executed their murders. He had visited the friend to establish an alibi, gone home, killed them, and then driven to the motel. However, like many killers, he had tripped over the small details. But it was really the timeline that had crashed everything for him. No matter how much you plan things out, if you were indeed in one place killing someone while you said you were in another place sleeping, the timeline can never be made foolproof. There will always be cracks, even if only small ones. But if the police focus on them and start digging, those cracks can grow large and bring the whole lie down.

  And that apparently was what happened to Melvin Mars.

  So the prosecution could show motive and they could show opportun
ity. And it was Mars’s own gun—constituting the necessary means—that had done the deed. Thus they had all three essential elements to prove guilt. And they set about to convincingly prove it all beyond a reasonable doubt.

  Witness after witness was paraded before the jury and gave their testimony. The mosaic began to form. The prosecutor, a Tennessee grad and thus no fan of Texas football players, it seemed, did a bang-up job stitching the evidence together.

  The defense tried to poke holes but didn’t do enough damage. And when Mars did not take the stand the defense rested.

  The jury was out barely enough time for the jurors to use the bathroom before they came back with their guilty verdict.

  Mars had been given a fair trial. The evidence met the burden of proof.

  Roy and Lucinda Mars had been killed by their only child, Melvin.

  The punishment of death had been imposed. Mars’s NFL career was over before it even started. And so was the rest of his life.

  End of story.

  He had been scheduled to be executed, when another man had come forward and confessed to the crime.

  Charles Montgomery.

  Decker studied the photo of the man on the computer screen.

  White guy, in his seventies. Muscled, tough and mean-looking. Army vet with a lengthy criminal record. He’d gone from petty crap, to serious stuff, to very serious stuff. He was in a prison in Alabama awaiting his own execution on several other murders committed years ago.

  So if Montgomery was telling the truth, how had the case against Melvin Mars gone so badly sideways?

  Reports said he had details of the crime that the police had withheld all these years, just as a matter of standard procedure. Montgomery apparently knew some of them. But why come forward at all? Because he was already in prison? Because he felt remorse? Because he was going to die anyway? To Decker, who had lots of experience with hardened criminals, Montgomery simply didn’t look like the remorseful type. He just looked like the killer that he was.

  Decker finished his coffee and sat back.

  Someone knocked on his door. He looked at his watch. Seven-thirty.

  He answered the door.

  Special Agent Bogart looked back at him. He was carrying a large briefcase. He was well into his forties, tall and fit, with dark hair attractively mingled with silver. He possessed the air of quiet authority that one acquired by commanding people in difficult assignments. Childless, he was also separated from his wife and in the process of divorcing.

  Behind him was Alex Jamison. She was tall and pretty, with brown hair, and her expressive eyes lit up when she saw Decker. She was holding a bag of food.

  A jubilant Jamison said, “Surprise. Happy New Year!”

  A beaming Bogart said, “I got word you had arrived early. Welcome to the FBI.”

  Amos Decker said, “I have a case I want to investigate.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  DECKER MUNCHED ON his bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. Meanwhile, Jamison and Bogart were reading the articles on the laptop about Melvin Mars.

  Bogart finally looked up and said, “Fascinating stuff, but that’s not really in our jurisdiction, Amos.”

  Decker finished eating, took a final swallow of coffee, rolled up the wrapper, and made a three-pointer into the trash can next to the kitchen counter.

  “What exactly is our jurisdiction, then?”

  In answer Bogart opened up the briefcase and pulled out a large binder. He handed this to Decker. “I’ve already given Alex hers. These are the cases we’re considering. Read up on them. We’ll discuss them later at our meeting.”

  “We’re here now. We’re meeting now.”

  Bogart said, “There are two other members of the team.”

  Jamison said, “I’ve met one of them, Amos, you’re going to like her.”

  Decker kept his gaze on Bogart, who said, “So you knew this Melvin Mars?”

  “I played against him in college. The only words I can remember saying to him were, ‘Sonofabitch, how’d you do that?’”

  “He was that good?”

  “He was the best I’d ever seen.”

  Jamison said, “Well, he might be getting out of prison. That’s a good thing,”

  “If he’s innocent,” amended Decker.

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  “I doubt they’ll release him unless they’re absolutely sure,” pointed out Bogart.

  Decker gestured to the laptop. “Did you know that there are hundreds of people released each year from prison because they’ve been found to be innocent?”

  “A small percentage considering the number of people incarcerated,” replied Bogart, who was looking a bit impatient.

  Decker said, “It’s estimated that two and a half to five percent of all prisoners in the U.S. are innocent. That’s about twenty thousand people. DNA testing was first used in court cases in 1985. Since that time, three hundred and thirty prisoners have been exonerated by DNA. But DNA testing is possible in only about seven percent of all cases. And in twenty-five percent of the cases where it was used, the FBI was able to exclude the suspect, so the percentage of prisoners who are innocent might be higher. Maybe a lot higher.”

  “I can see that you’ve done some research on this,” said Bogart dryly.

  A long silence ensued.

  “Decker,” said Bogart. “This is not really what we do. We investigate cold cases in order to try to find a killer.”

  “What if Mars isn’t the killer?”

  “Then this Montgomery guy is.”

  “What if he’s not either?”

  “Why would a man confess to a—” Bogart stopped and looked a bit embarrassed. “Okay, since that’s exactly what happened in your case, I can see your point. But still.”

  “Can it at least be considered by the…team?” asked Decker.

  Bogart mulled this for a few moments. “My plan was to let the team examine a number of possible cases and then vote on which ones to undertake. I have that flexibility.”

  “And can we lobby on behalf of certain cases?” asked Jamison.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Bogart. “I like democracy as much as the next person,” he added with a smile.

  “I think we should take this case on,” said Decker stubbornly.

  “And we can lobby the others to do that, Amos,” said Jamison quickly. “Like Agent Bogart said.”

  Decker stared down at the laptop. Both Bogart and Jamison watched him.

  They knew that Decker was stubborn and inflexible when he had made up his mind. They also knew he couldn’t help it. It was just who he was.

  Bogart said, “Since you arrived early, I’ve changed the meeting time to two this afternoon instead of tomorrow.” He looked over Decker’s rumpled clothes and unkempt hair. “We’ll give you time to clean up and then we’ll pick you up about a quarter till and drive you over. It’s not that far.”

  Decker looked down at his wrinkled clothes. He was about to say something, but then he nodded dumbly and stared back down at his laptop.

  Bogart rose, but Jamison remained seated. When he looked at her inquiringly she said, “I’ll meet you back here.”

  He glanced at Decker and nodded curtly. “Amos, it’s good to have you on board.”

  Decker continued to stare at his laptop.

  Bogart turned and left.

  Jamison glanced at Decker. “Lots of changes,” she said. “In a short period of time.”

  He shrugged.