Memory Man

  The army of threes awaited him as he trudged through the darkness to the breakfast buffet that opened at six on the dot. He collected his plate brimming with food and went to his little table/office and then just sat there staring at the mounds of stuff on his plate and not electing to eat a single bite.

  June, the buffet attendant, hurried up to him.

  “Amos, are you okay?” she said, her old face creased with concern. He had never failed to devour his food.

  When he said nothing she held up a pot of coffee. “Can I pour you a cup? Lots of problems get solved by a hot cup of coffee.”

  Taking his silence for assent, she poured the steaming coffee into a cup, left it on his table, and walked away.

  Decker had not acknowledged her because he had not even been aware she was there. His mind was a long way from the restaurant at the Residence Inn.

  He didn’t need to look at his watch. It was now 6:23. A part of his mind kept this internal clock at all times, a better timekeeper than anything you could buy.

  At ten o’clock Sebastian Leopold would be arraigned, this time with counsel attached. Decker intended to be there.

  He walked. He preferred to walk, even in the dark. The army of threes was there so he kept his head tilted downward.

  Decker had read that other savants felt comforted by the oceans and skies of numbers that routinely enveloped them. To Decker numbers represented a means to an end. They gave him no real happiness. Perhaps because he had experienced happiness in being a husband and father. Numbers simply could not compete with that, even for a savant.

  He sat on a bench outside the courthouse and watched the sun drift into the sky, the dawn breaking and wreaking havoc with the black, smearing it with tendrils of red, gold, and pink. Or in Decker’s mind a slew of related numbers.

  At 9:45 he watched the police van pull into the side alley of the courthouse. The prison transport had arrived. He wondered how many other defendants had ridden across with Leopold or whether the alleged triple murderer had come alone.

  Decker heaved himself to his feet and walked slowly across the street to the courthouse entrance. A few minutes later he was seated in the second row. He noted the PD sitting at the counsel table going over the file. The guy looked to be in his early forties, with gray just starting to creep into his hair. His brown two-piece suit was nicely tailored and had a colorful pocket square. The guy looked confident and, well, veteran. Decker doubted anyone wanted a rookie on this case.

  The same bailiff stood next to the door to the judge’s chambers chatting with Sheila Lynch, who seemed to be wearing the same skirt and jacket from yesterday.

  Decker heard the door to the courtroom open and turned to look.

  It wasn’t Lancaster or Miller.

  It was Alex Jamison the reporter. She saw Decker, nodded, smiled, and then took a seat near the back.

  Decker turned back around without acknowledging her.

  The bailiff had disappeared into the judge’s chambers. Lynch had gone back over to the counsel table, spoken a few words with the PD, and then taken her seat.

  The door through which prisoners were led opened and there was Sebastian Leopold, looking much as he had yesterday.

  He was escorted over to his lawyer, the shackles were removed, and the officers stepped back.

  The bailiff opened the door, made his announcement, everyone rose, and Abernathy stepped through and took his seat behind the bench.

  He took a moment to look over the courtroom and smiled in a satisfied way when he saw the lawyer sitting next to Leopold.

  Then he eyed Lynch.

  “Has the psych evaluation been completed?”

  It had, Lynch told him. And it stated that Leopold was fit to stand trial.

  This surprised Decker.

  “Mr. Leopold, how do you plead?”

  His attorney gripped his client’s arm and together they stood.

  “I plead not guilty,” said Leopold firmly.

  Decker listened to his statement but did not seem to be able to process it.

  His attorney said, “Your Honor, I move that all charges against my client be dismissed. The state has no evidence of his involvement in the three murders.”

  Lynch jumped to her feet. “You mean other than his confession.”

  The PD said smoothly, “A confession that he is now recanting. Mr. Leopold is bipolar, went off his medications, which resulted in some unfortunate emotional distress. He is now back on his meds and his reason has returned, hence his passing the psych exam.” The lawyer held up some documents stapled together. “And then there’s this. Permission to approach?”

  Abernathy waved him forward. Lynch hurried after opposing counsel.

  The PD said in a voice loud enough for Decker to hear, “This is an authenticated arrest report complete with mug shot and fingerprints showing conclusively that Mr. Leopold was in a lockup in Cranston, two towns over from here, on the night the murders in question were committed. I also have a copy of Mr. Leopold’s arrest record from Burlington. They’ve been independently evaluated and the picture and the prints match perfectly. It is undoubtedly him, as I’m sure Ms. Lynch will agree.”

  Lynch said furiously, “Your Honor, defense counsel did not share this with me.”

  Abernathy looked at her with disdain. “You can pull an arrest record faster than defense counsel can, Ms. Lynch. If he found it you should have too.”

  Lynch flushed. “What was he arrested for?” she said in a snarky tone.

  “Vagrancy,” said the PD. “He was released the following morning. Cranston is seventy miles from here and Mr. Leopold has no means of transportation. But more to the point, the police report shows that Mr. Leopold was arrested at six in the evening and released at nine the next morning. Thus he could not have committed the murders, which occurred around midnight.” He handed the papers across to Lynch, who looked down them, her spirits and confidence ebbing completely away as she reached the bottom of the last page.

  “He could have had an accomplice,” she said weakly.

  “Well, if you can prove that, more power to you,” said the PD. “But so far you haven’t proven anything. My client went off his meds and involuntarily lied about committing a crime he could not have committed. That is your entire case in a nutshell, which means you have no case.”

  “We can charge him with wasting police time, obstruction of justice.”

  “As I said, he was off his meds. He could not form the intent necessary for either of those two crimes.”

  Lynch said, “I believe that given time—”

  Abernathy cut her off. “Do you have any evidence other than the recanted confession tying the defendant to the crimes alleged against him?”

  Obviously flustered, Lynch said, “Your Honor, the defendant turned himself in to the police and confessed to the crime. Thus we have not attempted to build a forensic case against him.”

  “Did he sign the confession?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “Did it include details that only the actual perpetrator of this crime would know?”

  Lynch was again caught off guard. “I…I don’t believe so, no. I’m sure that additional questioning was going to take place, but—”

  Interrupting, Abernathy said, “So with the confession off the table you have no evidence?”

  “No,” Lynch admitted, her anger evident but restrained.

  “And now we know for certain that Mr. Leopold was seventy miles away in jail when the murders were committed.”

  “Yes, we do,” said the PD, barely able to hide a smile.

  “Please step back,” said Abernathy pleasantly.

  The counsels returned to their respective corners.

  Abernathy peered down from the bench. “The charges against the defendant Sebastian Leopold are dismissed without prejudice. Mr. Leopold, you are free to go. And stay on your meds.”

  He smacked his gavel.

  His lawyer turned to Leopold to shake his hand, but Leopold was looking around the courtroom as though he was still unsure of where he was. When his gaze fell on Decker, he smiled weakly and gave a tiny, shy wave.

  Decker didn’t smile or wave back as the officers took Leopold out of the room.

  As Abernathy disappeared back into chambers, Decker watched as Lynch and the PD exchanged sharp words. Then Decker rose and headed out of the courtroom.

  Alex Jamison walked out with him.

  “Did Leopold wave to you, Mr. Decker?” she asked, her tone curious, and in its undertones, a trace of suspicion seemed to percolate.

  “I don’t know what he did.”

  “Have you met him before?”

  Decker kept walking.

  She called after him. “People would like to hear your side of things.”

  He turned and walked back to her. “My side of things on what?”

  “Do you know Leopold, because I think he made eye contact with you. He smiled and waved. You were the only one sitting there.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “But you two did talk before, didn’t you? In his prison cell?”

  Decker made the connection instantly. Brimmer. This was her way of getting back at him for juking her at the jail. She had leaked his meeting with Leopold to Jamison.

  “Why did you meet with the man accused of killing your family?”

  Decker turned and walked away. And this time he kept going.

  Chapter

  24

  DECKER HAD TAKEN a bus directly over because he didn’t want to miss the man.

  As he waited, he watched folks walking and driving past. Burlington had a deeply wounded look to it, as though an evil had stolen into town and taken its most valuable possessions. Which was exactly what had happened.

  Twenty minutes later Decker stiffened slightly as the door to the facility opened and Sebastian Leopold stepped out dressed in the clothes he had walked in with, the orange prison jumpsuit and shackles stripped off him along with the murder charges.

  He looked around for a few moments as though orienting himself to his surroundings. Then he turned right and started walking north.

  Decker waited about twenty seconds and then followed him, staying on the other side of the street. Paralleling the man, he kept his gaze forward but his peripheral on Leopold.

  Fifteen minutes later they had reached an area of Burlington that Decker knew well—seedy, disreputable, and known to harbor criminal elements with relish.

  A dive bar was on the right. Leopold walked down the short set of wobbly brick steps and went inside.

  Decker looked from side to side and then hustled across the street and down the same steps. He had been in this bar during a couple of stakeouts years ago and had come away empty each time. Maybe the third crack would be the charm.

  Leopold was seated at the center of the bar. The interior was dark and dreary, the lights turned down low. Decker knew this was primarily because everything in the place was filthy and the owner probably thought that would be a turnoff to business. Decker doubted the patrons cared, though. When he had been here they were mostly stoned on liquor, drugs, or both.

  He settled into a table at the back with a chest-high partition that he could see over but that provided him with some cover. He was hard to miss, and even though he had only met Leopold once, he had to assume the man would remember him. He had seemed to recognize Decker in the courtroom.

  But that’s not right. We’ve met twice, according to Leopold. When I dissed him at that 7-Eleven. So why can’t I remember that when I can remember everything?

  Leopold ordered a drink, and when the bartender delivered it he just stared at the glass for a long minute before raising it to his lips and taking a small sip before replacing it exactly in the same spot. He maneuvered the glass a bit, apparently to match the water ring on the bar.

  This did not escape Decker’s notice.

  Possibly OCD.

  During his earlier meeting with the man Decker had noted the constant movement of Leopold’s hands. Was he really not all there? The PD said he was bipolar but was now back on his meds. Maybe they could finally have a cogent conversation.

  A waitress came over to Decker. She was tall and thin with a sea of bleached blonde hair all done up in curls that nearly covered her face. The smell of the chemically treated hair wafted over him, sweet and slightly nauseating. He ordered a beer, which she brought to him a minute later.

  He took a drink, wiped his mouth, and waited. There was no mirror behind the bar, so Leopold had no way to spot Decker behind him unless he turned around.

  Twenty minutes passed and no one had approached Leopold. The man had taken exactly two more sips of his drink and was staring down at it as though he was unaware of how it had gotten there.

  Decker left two bucks on his table, picked up his beer, walked up to the bar, and sat down next to him.

  Leopold didn’t look over. He was still staring at his drink.

  “Feel good to be out?” asked Decker. “Celebrating?”

  Leopold looked at him. “You were in the courtroom. I saw you.”

  “I was also in your jail cell.”

  Leopold nodded, but the statement had not really seemed to register with him. He mumbled something Decker did not catch.

  Decker’s gaze ran swiftly over the man. They had cleaned him up for his two court appearances and his clothes had been laundered, probably because the cops couldn’t stand the stink.

  Leopold said in a louder voice, “In my jail cell. That’s right. We talked.”

  “Yes, we did. So you recanted?”

  Leopold looked alarmed. “I did what?”

  “Took back your confession.”

  Leopold picked up his drink and took another sip. “I don’t really drink. But this is good.”

  “Celebrating, like I said.”

  “What do I have to celebrate?” Leopold asked curiously.

  “Not being charged with a triple homicide. Not being in jail. Both good things, wouldn’t you say?”

  Leopold shrugged. “They fed me. I had a bed.”

  “Is that why you confessed to the murders? For a bed and three squares?”

  Leopold shrugged again.

  “So you were in jail in Cranston on the night of the murders?”

  “I guess I was. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember. There are lots of things I don’t remember.”

  “Like your real name?”

  Leopold glanced at him but didn’t really seem to register what Decker had said.

  “Well, the judge wouldn’t have let you off if there was any doubt. It had to be your picture and prints on that arrest record.”

  “The lawyer was very happy,” said Leopold, staring down at his drink.

  “How did you even know about the murders?” Decker asked.

  “I…I killed those people, didn’t I?” said Leopold in a timid voice that carried with it not a trace of conviction, or even, it seemed, understanding.

  The bartender, a man in his fifties with a gut nearly the size of Decker’s though he was six inches shorter, looked up from the glass he was wiping and stared at Leopold for a long moment before looking away.

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