“On what charge?” she retorted.
“Publishing false information in a newspaper and inciting a riot against one Amos Decker.”
Jamison started to say something but then sank back in her seat and said with a scowl, “Fine, have it your way.”
As Decker was climbing out of the SUV Bogart hooked his arm.
“We pop anything on Leopold’s prints and DNA in noncriminal databases, I’ll call you right away.”
“I’d also like you to send me whatever you can find on Belinda Wyatt’s past.”
Bogart nodded and then he drove off.
Decker headed up to his room and sat on his bed. He eyed the gun in his waistband and thought back to when Captain Miller had come knocking on his door. If he hadn’t, would he have shot himself?
With the clarity that came after stepping back from a stressful situation, Decker knew that Miller was right. If he eliminated himself this pair would go on killing. If Decker had somehow dissed Belinda Wyatt, others could have too. Or maybe they would start on Leopold’s list of “dissers” next.
He closed his eyes and thought back to two periods of time, one recent, the other much further in the past. He took the latter first, stopping at those frames in his mind.
Belinda Wyatt. Tall, blonde, thin, and androgynous-looking, scared all the time. Her personality had been so invisible as not to exist. Although her mind could do extraordinary things after what had happened to her, Decker recalled her as lacking confidence and even a shred of self-esteem. She barely talked in the group sessions. Decker had felt for her, to the extent he could with the new way his mind worked.
What had happened to him was brutal. But he had stepped out onto that field of his own free will with the knowledge that pro football was insanely violent, far more vicious than even the most die-hard fan could imagine.
Belinda Wyatt had been gang-raped, sodomized, beaten, and left for dead. She had been horribly violated. There was nothing voluntary about that. She had had no say in it. She had been dealing with a difficult enough life situation as it was. With the discovery of her parents’ bodies, it was clear that she was involved in all the other killings. And nothing in her past, no matter how horrific, would justify her doing what she had. But she was not the only one to blame for all this.
Next Decker’s mind moved forward to the recent past.
He was sitting in the jail cell opposite Sebastian Leopold. He recalled down to the last detail the man’s features and manner. The empty eyes, the utter calmness, the disregard for his personal safety since he had confessed to a triple murder. Of course, now Decker knew that Leopold was aware he would never be convicted of those crimes because he had a rock-hard alibi supplied by the police, of all people.
That had to mean that Belinda Wyatt had murdered his family. And she had to be the shooter at Mansfield too. Once again, Leopold had an alibi. Provided once more by the police.
Decker’s mind ground to a halt at that point. By the police? Was that important? Significant? Imperative to understand? He didn’t know, because he didn’t have enough information.
* * *
The frames whirred back and forth in his head, going over every word of the conversation between him and Leopold. Then the frames stopped whirring and Decker’s eyes opened.
Is good.
Even though he had perfect recall, sometimes his mind, just like anyone else’s, turned words into what it thought they should be instead of what they actually had been. He had done that here, mentally correcting Leopold when no correction was necessary. Decker had just assumed it was a contraction. Is good to It’s good. He had modified the words that way because he thought he had just misheard. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t have. He was sitting right next to the man.
He picked up his phone and called Bogart.
“You need to expand your search to the international databases focusing on Europe. Interpol should be able to help. Germany should be at the top of the list, to start with.”
“Why?” asked Bogart. “Why the international angle?”
“Because I remembered something wrong. And now I just remembered it right.”
Decker put the phone away. “I don’t really drink. But it’s good.” An American would say that all the time. But no American would say, “I don’t really drink. But is good.” In fact, Leopold might have actually said, “Ist good.”
And the slight guttural undertones of the speech coupled with the sharp, angular bone structure of Leopold’s face made Decker believe he was European, possibly German or Austrian. There was enough homogeneity in those populations that the facial features were far more uniform over the generations than in melting pots like the U.S.
So it might be that Belinda Wyatt, undoubtedly a homegrown American girl perhaps turned boy, joined forces with an older European male. How do two such very different people meet? How do they come together to plan something like this? Decker felt sure if they could track down Leopold’s true identity a lot of questions would start being answered.
As he thought about this another possibility entered his mind.
He said out loud, “7-Eleven.”
That had undoubtedly been a clue. In her interview notes, Lancaster had instinctively interpreted it as a reference to the ubiquitous convenience stores. But was there more to it than that? Leopold had not wanted to come right out and say he was actually referring to 711 Duckton Avenue. But he had to know that Lancaster had misinterpreted his statement. She had actually asked him which 7-Eleven, and when Leopold had been noncommittal she had just assumed it was the one closest to Decker’s home. But Leopold had let that go. He would know that the police, that Decker more importantly, would check that out. That he would go to that store on DeSalle and see what he could see. And that meant—
He might be wrong. But he didn’t think so. In fact, Decker thought he was absolutely right.
He left his room and headed back out into the night.
Chapter
55
HE SPENT TEN minutes watching the store from across the street. He saw people go in and people go out. Cars came and went. And still he kept watching. He was watching to see if anyone was watching him. When Decker was satisfied that there was no one doing so, he hurried across the street and approached the door. He glanced through the glass and saw the same woman at the counter, once more counting packs of cigarettes and ticking them off on her sheets. He could see no other customers in the store.
He opened the door and the bell tinkled. The woman looked up. It took her a moment but she recognized Decker.
Because of his size and appearance he was hard to forget and harder to miss.
“You’re back?” she said.
“I’m back,” said Decker, his gaze darting around the corners of the store. His hand had slipped to his pocket where his gun sat.
She said, “I owe you change from when you were here last. The coffee, pastry, and paper didn’t add up to five dollars.”
“Keep the change. You work long hours. Morning, night.”
“I do work long hours, but I’m also on different shifts. Today I work the night shift.”
“How’s business?”
“Slow now. We sell a lot in the morning when people are going to work. Coffee, cigarettes, and sausage biscuits. And Red Bull by the gallon.”
“The other person here when I came by the first time. Billy, right? Is he here?”
She shook her head. “No, he’s not here.”
“He doesn’t work here anymore, does he?” Decker said.
She looked startled. “How did you know that?”
“When was he here last?”
“The day you came in the first time. I was pissed when he didn’t show up for work after that. I had to do his job too.”
“Do you have his employment file here?”
“Yes. In the back.”
“Can I see it?”
“No. Company policy.”
“Can you tell me his last name?”