Memory Man

He heard her let out a long sigh. He had often heard Lancaster let out long sighs, usually after Decker had done something totally off the wall, even if it had eventually led to the truth in a case they were investigating.

“Amos, I really don’t get you sometimes.”

He had heard this so many times he knew that she did not expect an answer and thus he didn’t bother giving one.

“So Leopold is gone?”

“For now,” he said.

“People are going to eat you alive over this article. And the witch even included the fact of where you’re currently living.”

“I have an ace in the hole.”

“What’s that?” she said curiously.

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Amos, I don’t think you understand—”

“I have to go.” He hung up on her and put his phone on the table next to the uneaten mound of food. As he stared down at the pile of eggs, sausages, bacon, and roasted potatoes, he saw not food, but the photo of him and Leopold in the bar. He knew it must seem odd to folks that he would be sitting and drinking a beer with the man who had confessed and then recanted to killing his family. But if he was going to solve those murders, he had to go down any path that presented itself. And Leopold was one such path.

He sighed, pushed his plate away, and looked up. June was standing off to the side holding a pan of muffins. She wasn’t looking at Decker. She was looking toward the doorway.

Decker followed her gaze. And saw her.

Alex Jamison stood at the door to the breakfast area. She had on black slacks and a frayed black overcoat out of which peeked a turquoise turtleneck. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had on heels that kicked her height up several inches.

She walked over to his table and looked down at the paper next to his plate.

“I guess you’ve read it,” she said quietly.

Decker said nothing. He picked up his fork, pulled his plate toward him, and started to eat.

She stood awkwardly next to his table. When he didn’t say anything she said, “I gave you an opportunity to talk to me.”

Decker kept eating.

She sat down across from him. “It’s not like I wanted to do this.”

He put his fork down, used a paper napkin to wipe his mouth, and looked at her. “I find that people almost always do exactly what they want to do.”

She tapped the paper. “You still have a chance to make it right.”

“People who make things right do so because they’ve done something wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You were meeting with a man who allegedly killed your family.”

“Allegedly. And now all charges are dropped, which you knew before you wrote this story. And which I knew before I met him in the bar.”

“Why did you meet with him?”

“I had questions for him.”

“What sorts?” She took out her recorder, pad, and pen, but Decker held up his hand.

“Don’t bother.”

She sat back. “Don’t you want your story to get out?”

Decker shoved the plate of food away, leaned across the table, and said, “I don’t have a story to tell.” He sat back, pulled the plate toward him again, and resumed eating.

“Okay, fair enough. But do you think Leopold had a hand in the murders? Even if he didn’t commit them personally? And then there’s the fact that the same gun was used at the high school.”

Decker eyed her grimly. “Brimmer could get fired for that one. It’s not public knowledge. And you know it’s not, or else you would have already written about it. I could call her out on that. You want to see your contact lose her career? Or is that just considered fair game for the story?”

“You’re a very unusual man.”

“I have no context with which to frame a reply to that observation.”

“Sort of proves my point, doesn’t it?”

Now Decker sat back and looked at her. “Tell me about yourself,” he said abruptly.

“What, why?” she said warily.

“I can find out easily enough. Everyone’s life is online. So, to borrow your phrase, I’m giving you the opportunity to tell your story.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Touché’?”

“You have something to hide?”

“Do you?”

“No. But you know all about me.” He tapped the paper next to his plate. “Proof is right there. So tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Hometown, family, education, career, life goals.”

“Wow, you don’t ask for much.”

Decker waited. He had no problem with silence, with waiting. His patience, like his mind, had no bounds.

She folded her arms across her chest and said, “I’m from Indiana, Bloomington. I went to Purdue, graduated with a degree in mass comm. Started out at some small papers in the Midwest basically fetching coffee, writing the crap stories no one else wanted to write, and pulling the shifts no one wanted to pull. I tried some online journalism and blogging but hated it.”

“Why?”

“I like to talk to people, face-to-face, not through a machine. That’s not real journalism. It’s data management fed to you by schmucks you don’t even know. It’s reporting for lazy people who live in their PJs. Not what I wanted. I want a Pulitzer. In fact, I want a shelf of them.”

“Then you came here. Why? Burlington is not a rip-roaring metropolis.”