Memory Man

  Decker said, “He told me he was in the Navy. He had the tat. But maybe he wasn’t in our Navy.”

  “Foreigner?” said Miller in a thoughtful tone. “That might explain it.”

  “Do you think Sebastian Leopold is his real name?” asked Lancaster.

  “I didn’t,” answered Decker. “But I’m not sure now.”

  “Well, we can have the Bureau make international inquiries for us,” said Miller. “They can go through overseas databases a lot easier than we can.”

  At the stroke of ten the rear door leading into the judge’s chambers opened and the bailiff, a portly man with a handlebar mustache, stepped through. He told them to rise and all four of them did. Decker heard the door creak open and turned to see a young woman dash in and take a seat at the rear. She held a notepad in one hand and a tiny digital recorder in the other.

  The press. All one of them. She must be very junior, thought Decker. Or else she would be over covering Mansfield. His brain dug into the big pile of stuff inside his head and pulled out the name.

  Alex Jamison.

  The woman who’d called him about Leopold. She worked for the News Leader. He’d hung up on her. He turned back around before she could focus on him.

  It was at this moment that the black-robed Judge Christian Abernathy stepped into the courtroom. He was old, bespectacled, and frail, and his white hair, what was left of it, sprouted all over his head like bits of fading cotton taped to pink wax paper masquerading as skin. The running bet among the police was how long it would be before Abernathy croaked on the bench, toppling over onto the marble floor. Decker remembered that the man never made it easy for the police to convict anyone, but maybe that was as it should be, he thought.

  Abernathy sat and so did they.

  The door to the right opened. The holding cell was kept there, Decker knew.

  Out stepped Sebastian Leopold in his bright orange jumpsuit, his hands and feet chained, with two burly uniforms on either side of him. He performed the shackle shuffle as he walked. He looked around the large high-ceilinged courtroom as though he was not fully cognizant of where he was or what he was doing here.

  He was escorted to the counsel table, although there was no counsel there.

  Decker leaned in to Miller. “PD?”

  Miller shook his head and mouthed, “Apparently not.” He did not look happy about this. Not happy at all.

  The uniforms removed the shackles and stepped back.

  The bailiff rose, picked up a docket sheet, and called the case and read out the charges that Leopold was facing. Then, his duty completed, he stepped back with the mechanical movement of a cuckoo clock figure returning to its hiding place.

  Abernathy adjusted his glasses and peered down at the prosecuting attorney.

  “Ms. Lynch?”

  Lynch rose, adjusted her shirt cuffs, and said, “Mr. Leopold has been charged with three counts of murder in the first, Your Honor. He has no known address and his ties to the community are apparently nonexistent. In light of the serious charges, we request no bail be set and that he be remanded to the county jail until trial.”

  Well, thought Decker, that was all to be expected. They weren’t about to cut the man loose.

  Abernathy turned to Leopold and peered down at him from his high perch. Then he shot a glance back at Lynch.

  “Where is Mr. Leopold’s counsel, Ms. Lynch?”

  Lynch cleared her throat and said, “He was not able to afford counsel and a public defender was appointed to represent him. However, Mr. Leopold refused those services. Numerous times, I might add.”

  Abernathy’s gaze swiveled back to the accused. “Mr. Leopold, do you understand the charges that have been read to you?”

  Leopold looked around as though he was wondering to whom Abernathy was speaking.

  “Mr. Leopold, do you not want counsel?” asked Abernathy sharply.

  Leopold turned to face him, shook his head, and said, “I got no money.”

  “That’s why we have public defenders, Mr. Leopold,” Abernathy said testily. “They’re free. You can thank the Supreme Court’s interpretation of our Constitution for that. I will set this arraignment aside for now until one is provided for—”

  “I did it, sir,” said Leopold, interrupting.

  Abernathy gazed down at him as though the defendant were a mildly interesting bug lying on the sidewalk. “Excuse me?”

  “I done it, so I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Are you telling me that you’re pleading guilty to three homicides in the first degree?”

  “I killed them, so yes sir, I guess I am.”

  Abernathy took a moment to clean his glasses, as though that would make what was happening a bit clearer. After settling them on his long, crooked nose, he said, “This is hardly the time for guessing, Mr. Leopold. These are serious charges, indeed the most serious of all. Are you aware that not only your freedom is at risk here, but also your life? This is a capital case.”

  “You mean the death penalty?”

  Abernathy looked like he might stroke. “Yes. Of course that’s what I mean, Mr. Leopold!”

  “Well, I’m pleading guilty ’cause I done it. So I guess we don’t need no trial.”

  Abernathy looked back at Lynch and said in an admonishing tone, “Ms. Lynch, I find this reprehensible.”

  “Judge Abernathy, we tried our best. Mr. Leopold refused all entreaties to—”

  Abernathy looked over Lynch’s shoulder and spotted Miller. With a slow wave of his hand he beckoned the police chief forward.

  “Shit,” muttered Miller.

  He stood, passed in front of Decker and Lancaster, and hurried up to the bench along with Lynch.

  Decker watched as the police captain, prosecutor, and judge engaged in a heated discussion. Well, actually Abernathy was doing most of the talking. It seemed the judge was quite animated, and gesticulated twice at Leopold.

  Miller nodded and said something. Lynch did the same and they hastily returned to their seats, each looking upset.

  When Decker looked at him questioningly, Miller shook his head and said, “Later.”

  Abernathy said to Leopold, “I’m ordering you to be returned to your cell for now. A public defender will be appointed to represent you. You will then be returned to this court for your arraignment tomorrow morning.” He glanced at Lynch. “And get the psych eval done promptly, Ms. Lynch. Understood?” She nodded, her gaze refusing to meet his. Abernathy said, “Officers, please remove the defendant.”

  He rapped his gavel down. The two uniforms immediately came forward, shackled a confused looking Leopold, and led him back out.

  Abernathy said to the bailiff, “Call the next case, please. And I trust he will have counsel.” As he said this he shot first Lynch and then Miller a withering look.

  Decker, Lancaster, and Miller rose and headed out as the second prisoner was led in for his hearing.

  The reporter had already left.

  Out in the hall a scowling Lynch came over to Miller.

  She said, “I don’t like getting my ass handed to me in court, Mac.”

  “We couldn’t force him to accept a lawyer, Sheila. You were in the middle of it. You know.”

  “Well, he’s getting one whether he likes it or not, if only to enter a guilty plea.” She shot Lancaster and then Decker a glance. “Hello, Amos, I guess I’m not surprised to see you here.”

  “I guess not,” replied Decker.

  Lynch turned back to Miller. “Since Abernathy’s ordered a psych eval, I’m not sure he’ll be able to plead to anything if the eval comes back like I think it might.”

  “You mean mentally unfit,” said Lancaster.

  “You’ve seen the guy. You think he’s all there?”

  “Maybe he was sixteen months ago,” said Decker.

  “Doesn’t matter if he’s not legally competent to stand trial now.”

  She turned and hurried off, her briefcase banging against her thigh.

&nb
sp; Decker turned to Miller. “So?”

  “So we got read the riot act by Abernathy. He was pissed that Leopold had no PD, and he’s right. Death penalty case with no lawyer? Whatever happened at this level would get overturned on appeal automatically. And Abernathy does not like to get overturned by the appellate court. That’s why he was ticked off. I think he thought we were setting him up. As if.”

  “So why wasn’t a PD appointed?” asked Decker.

  “Like Lynch said, Leopold didn’t want one. He was totally uncooperative. Kept saying he did it so why did he need a lawyer. We had our hands full with Mansfield or else we would have handled it differently. We basically dropped the ball there.”

  Decker stuffed his hands into his pockets and let his chin fall to his chest. “So you lawyer him up, he comes back in, pleads guilty, and then what?”

  “Well, hopefully his lawyer will convince him to plead not guilty just so it looks better. We can talk about a deal and see what comes of it. But we also have to see what the psych eval says. If he’s unfit it throws a monkey wrench into things.”

  “And if he isn’t guilty?” asked Decker.

  “Do you think he is?” asked Miller.

  “I met with the guy once. I can’t say definitely what I think.”

  “Well, none of this is going to happen today. So we’ve got time.” Miller glanced at Lancaster. “You better get back to Mansfield. I hear the FBI is working hard to take over the case.”

  “And if they want to can we really stop them?” asked Lancaster.

  “We’re not going to roll over and play dead for the Feds, Mary,” said Miller sternly. He looked at Decker. “You going to be able to continue helping us on it? Leopold will keep. This prick at Mansfield, the longer it goes, the harder it’ll be for us to find him.”

  Decker looked off. The answer should have been easy. Only it wasn’t.

  Miller studied him for a few moments. “Well, let me know.”

  He turned and walked off, leaving Lancaster and Decker standing in the hall. Activity in the courthouse had started to heat up and the corridors were growing full. Moms crying about sons in trouble. Lawyers clustered like chickens in a pen. Cops were coming and going, and folks were wandering around who were already in trouble or about to be.

  Lancaster said sharply, “Why the wavering? Last night you said the shooter wasn’t going to get away with it.”

  Decker didn’t answer right away. He was watching the reporter standing next to the entrance to the courthouse. She was obviously waiting for him.

  “Amos?” said Lancaster.

  He glanced back at his former partner. “I’ll be at the high school later today.”

  “Does that mean you’re still engaged on it?”

  “Later today,” said Decker. He headed for the rear exit.

  The reporter caught up to him halfway down the hall.

  “Mr. Decker? Mr. Decker?”

  Decker’s first plan was to just keep walking, but the woman gave every indication that she would simply follow him out of the building, down the street, and into his next life if need be. So he stopped at the exit, turned, and looked down at her. His mind automatically collected observations and distilled them into an assortment of deductions.

  She was in her late twenties, pretty, tall, slim, and brunette, with her hair cut short around her ears. Ears that weren’t pierced even for earrings. He saw tat letters on her left wrist where her cuff rode up.

  Iron Butterfly. Well, they did make a comeback after she was born.

  Her eyes were a dull blue that clashed with her complexion. One of her incisors was chipped, her nails were bitten down to the rims, her right index finger had once been broken and healed badly with a little bend to it in the middle, and her lips were overly thin and chapped. She didn’t smell of smoke, drink, or perfume.

  Her clothes were not new, nor overly clean, but they rode well on her tall, slender figure. She had a dark blotch on the inside of her right middle finger where the pen was held. Not just a keyboard clicker, then. She used ink.

  Her face held the wonderful enthusiasm of youth as yet unblemished by life. That age was a nice time in anyone’s life. And it was necessary. To get through what was coming in later years.

  If we all started out cynical, what a shitty world that would be.

  “Mr. Decker? I’m Alex Jamison with the News Leader.”

  “You like ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’? It was Butterfly’s biggest seller. Thirty million and still counting. In the top forty of all time.” Decker had read this in a Rolling Stone article three years ago while eating a PBJ and drinking a cup of coffee at a diner downtown while he was a witness in a case involving a burglary ring he and Lancaster had busted. It was on page forty-two of the magazine, lower right-hand corner. He could see the page and the accompanying picture in his head so clearly it was like he was watching high-def TV. At first this total recall had scared the crap out of him. Now it was as natural to him as swallowing.

  She seemed surprised by this until she glanced down at her tat. She looked back at him, smiling. “My mom got me into their early music. Then when the band re-formed the last time I became sort of obsessed. I mean, they played with Jimmy Page and Zeppelin. Lot of tragic stuff with them, though.”

  Decker did not follow this up with anything, because music was not why she was here, and he had places to be. She seemed to get this point by his silence.

  “I tried calling you. I don’t like to chase people down in the courthouse,” she said a bit defensively.

  Decker just kept staring at her. All around them the courthouse activity went on, bees in a hive, oblivious to the pair of intruders into their world of legal higgledy-piggledy.

  “Sebastian Leopold didn’t have counsel.”

  “That’s right,” said Decker. “But he will.”

  “What do you think about all of this?” She held up her recorder. “You mind?”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “I’m sure you’re going through hell right now. I mean, this guy just pops up out of nowhere and confesses. You must be reeling.”

  “I don’t reel,” said Decker. He turned to leave.

  “But you must be feeling something. And how was it facing Leopold in there? It must have brought everything back to you.”

  Decker faced her. “It didn’t bring everything back to me.”

  She looked stunned. “But I thought—”

  “Because it never left me. Now, I have someplace to be.”

  Decker walked out of the courthouse and Jamison did not follow him.

  Chapter

  18

  DECKER CAUGHT A bus a block over from the courthouse and rode it to within a half mile of where he was going. As his large feet carried him down the sidewalk, the color blue intensified in his head until it seemed that the entire world had been covered in it. Even the sun seemed to have been transformed into an enormous blueberry so utterly swollen that it seemed it might burst at any moment.

  It sickened him but he kept on going, his breath growing heavier and his tread slowing. He was out of shape, but that was not the reason. The reason was just up ahead.

  When he turned the corner and saw the house he stopped, but only for a moment. If he didn’t pick up his pace, he knew he would turn and run away.

  It was still bank-owned. No one had wanted to move in there even at a reduced price. Hell, they probably couldn’t give it away. And there were lots of empty houses in Burlington. It was a place one wanted to get away from, not move to. The front door, he knew, was locked. The door off the carport and into the kitchen had always been easy to jimmy. He wondered if the killer had gone in that way. Leopold had said that was his ingress, if he was to be