Memory Man

But after the slaughter at Mansfield, nobody gave a damn.

Well, one person did.

Decker knew the drill, having testified in the court building countless times during the course of prosecuting folks he’d helped apprehend. He passed through security, nodded to a couple of county sheriffs he knew, and checked the court docket posted on a board near the information desk. Then he headed to the courtroom, where in about twenty minutes Sebastian Leopold would make his first court appearance after walking into the police station and giving himself up.

Decker swung open the heavy oak door and took a seat in the middle of the large room. He was the only one there. No bailiff. No court reporter. No lawyers. The press was covering Mansfield, he reckoned. Part of him would have preferred to be at Mansfield too. But the most important part of him wanted to be right where he was.

A minute later the prosecuting attorney, a woman in her forties, came into the courtroom, passed by Decker, and took her seat at the counsel table. Decker knew Sheila Lynch, but she had not made eye contact. She opened her briefcase, took out a file, and read through it. Decker stared at the back of her neck, which was exposed because her hair was up in a tight, professional bun. Lynch’s skirt and jacket were black and already showing traces of grime. The back of her right shoe had a gouge out of it and her nylons were a bit ragged where the shoe met the stocking.

At five minutes to ten the same door Decker had passed through opened again. He glanced back. Lancaster gave him a tiny wave. Behind her was Captain Miller. He was in uniform today.

They took seats on either side of him.

Lancaster said, “Don’t know what I was thinking about when I said I’d meet you at the station. Of course you’d be here.”

“Why aren’t you at Mansfield?” Decker asked.

Miller answered, “I have been. Since six-thirty this morning. Now we’re here. After this, Lancaster is heading there while I go sit my fat ass behind my desk and deal with crap I don’t want to deal with.”

“Doesn’t answer why you’re here,” said Decker.

“No, I guess it doesn’t.”

Decker continued to eyeball Miller. “I don’t have a gun. I passed through the magnos at the entrance. I can’t shoot the guy.”

“Never doubted that for an instant,” said Miller, smoothing out a wrinkle on his dark blue jacket. “But this is an important case, and so here we are.”

“Were you able to trace Leopold’s real identity? Was he in the Navy?”

“We sent his prints through the FBI’s IAFIS database. No hits.”

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.