“What is really fascinating you about the Mars case?” she asked. “Because you played football against him?”
“I don’t like people just showing up out of the blue and confessing to a crime.”
“Like what happened in your family’s case?”
Decker closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about the other ‘team’ members.”
“I’ve only met one of them. Lisa Davenport. She’s a clinical psychologist from Chicago. She’s in her late thirties and very nice. Very professional.”
“How is all this going to work?” asked Decker.
“Like Bogart said, we vote on the cases to take.”
“But someone has to put the cases we’re going to vote on together. So there’s a preselection by someone.”
“Well, that’s true.” She pointed to his binder. “In there. Fascinating stuff. But you can add this Mars case. Bogart said so.”
“He didn’t actually say that. He said the case was out of his jurisdiction. He said we could lobby the others to take it. But if I get voted out, we don’t take it.” He looked at her. “Do I have your vote?”
“Of course you do, Amos.”
He looked away. “I appreciate that.”
Jamison looked surprised. Decker didn’t usually acknowledge things like that.
“Do you want to get cleaned up?” She added diplomatically, “I know it was a long drive. And you apparently drove straight through.”
“I did. And, yeah, I should clean up some. But I don’t have many clothes.”
“We can go shopping if you want, before the meeting.”
“Maybe after.”
“Anytime, Amos. I’m ready to help.”
“You don’t have to be this nice to me.”
Jamison knew that, unlike other people, Decker was being quite literal.
“I figure we both had big changes in our lives, and we need to stick together. There might be a case down the road I want to take. And then I’d need your support, right?”
Decker looked at her thoughtfully and nodded. “You’re more complicated than you make yourself out to be.”
“One can only hope,” she said, smiling weakly.
CHAPTER
6
HOW DO I get twenty years of my life back? You wanna tell me that? How!”
Melvin Mars sat across from his attorney in the visitors’ room at the prison.
Mary Oliver was in her midthirties, with auburn hair cut short and square glasses over her sparkling green eyes. Her angular, pretty face was sprinkled with freckles.
“You don’t, Melvin,” she said. “Nothing can do that. But they haven’t confirmed Montgomery’s story yet, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I don’t know this dude. I never met this dude. I never knew he even existed until they came and told me. So they can’t say I paid him to kill my parents. And if they can’t show that, I’m out of here, right?”
Oliver rustled some papers in front of her. “Look, it’s not that simple. We have to let the process work, okay?”
Mars rose and smacked the wall behind him, drawing a stare from the burly guard stationed in the center of the room. He was far enough away that he could not hear their privileged conversation—at least spoken at normal levels—but close enough to step in if need be.
“Process? I let the process work before, and you see what it got me? They took my damn life, Mary.”
“It’s natural to feel betrayed and taken advantage of, Melvin. Everything you’re feeling, it’s natural.”
Mars looked like he wanted to slug something, anything, as hard as he could. But then he saw the guard’s hand move to the head of his baton. He also saw the guard’s mouth twitch in anticipation of kicking some prisoner ass.
Just give me a reason, asshole, please.
Mars calmed and sat down. “So how much longer does this process have to work?” he said in a normal voice.
“There isn’t a set timetable for this because of its unusual nature,” explained Oliver, looking relieved that he was being more reasonable. “But I will keep on top of it every second, Melvin. I promise. I will push them. And if I even see them starting to drag their feet, I will call them on it. I swear. I’ll file motions.”
He nodded. “I know you will.”
She said, “This must be so hard for you. When I first heard of it, I was flummoxed. I still don’t know the connection between your parents and this Charles Montgomery.”
“Well, if there is a connection, they didn’t tell me. Maybe it was a stranger thing. He breaks into the house and kills them.”
“But there was no evidence of a break-in. And nothing was stolen. That was why the police started to look at you.”
“But you believe me, right?” he said quickly.
“Yes, of course I do.”
Melvin stared at her. Running through his mind was the thought, Sure you do.
“Where we lived, nobody locked their doors. And it wasn’t like my parents had much someone would want to steal. You know how we lived. My father worked in a pawnshop. My mom made money on the side sewing clothes and teaching Spanish and cleaning up other people’s messes.” He shook his head. “I was going to change all that when I got to the NFL. Was going to buy them a house, put money aside. They could quit their jobs. I had plans.”
He slapped the palm of his hand against the table. “I had plans.”
“I know you did, Melvin,” she said soothingly.
“I always thought this was a big mistake somebody was going to finally figure out. That I’d be out of prison in a few months and be playing ball. Then a year went by and then another and another. And then five. And then a decade. And then…shit!”
He grew silent, started shaking his head from side to side, his face pointed downward. A tear smacked against the laminate. Mars swiped it away with his hand.
“If I get out of here, what then? I got no family. I got no job. I got no nothin’.”
“The state of Texas can compensate you.”
“How much?”
“It’s capped at twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Mars looked up at her, incredulous. “Twenty-five grand! For twenty years of my life?”
“I know it’s grossly unfair, but that’s what the current law is.”
“Do you know how much I could have made in the NFL?”
“A lot more. I know.”
“So I walk out of here with maybe twenty-five grand, or maybe less since that’s a ‘cap,’ and then what?”
“We’ll help you with that. We’ll help find you housing. And a job.”
“Doing what? Pushing brooms? Maybe I can get my father’s old job in that pawnshop. That part of Texas, man, pawnshops do big business, because nobody has shit.”
“Let’s just take it one step at a time,” Oliver said, trying to keep her voice level and calm.
“Even if they let me go, they might not pardon me. Which means I got two felony murder convictions on my record. Who’s going to hire my ass? Tell me that? Tell me!”
Mars could see that she was growing more nervous by the second.
Petite white woman, big, angry black man. That’s what she sees. That’s all she sees. And she’s on my side.
He looked away and his tone changed again. “Hell, I don’t know why we’re even talking about this. They’re never gonna let me out of here, Mary.”
“Melvin, they have to if you’re innocent.”
“I’ve been innocent for twenty damn years,” he snapped. “What difference did that make?”
“I mean, if there is definitive proof of your innocence, they can’t keep you in prison.”
“Oh yeah? There’s like a dozen dudes around the country. Their innocence was proved, like you said. Years ago. Guess what? They’re all still locked up. One dude, they said his time for appeal had run out, so he’s screwed even though they know he didn’t do it. Another guy, he served his time for crimes he didn’t even commit, a
nd because of some bullshit legal technicalities, they say he’s got to serve four more years, and then maybe they’ll let him out. Another dude, he punched out a guard, so he’s got more time to serve, even though he never shoulda been in prison in the first place. So don’t tell me they have to do anything. They do what they want. That’s just how it is.”
“We will make sure that does not happen in your case.” She started packing up her things. “Now I have to go. But I’ll be in contact with you as soon as I know anything.”
As she rose he looked up at her. “I’m not mad at you, Mary. I’m just mad at…everything, right now.”
“I understand,” she said earnestly. “Believe me, I don’t think I’d be nearly as calm as you.”
The next moment she was gone.
Mars sat there until the guard came over and told him to get his ass up.
The chains went back on.
Reedy showed up and cattle-prodded him in the back with his baton so hard he winced with pain.
“What’d your ‘lawyer’ say, Jumbo?” asked Reedy.
Mars, from long habit, said nothing.
“Oh, it’s privileged, that’s right. Just between you and her. You wanna do her, Jumbo? Get you some white woman ass? Jump her bones? Used to be against the law, black man doing that to a white woman. Still should be. White girl don’t want no animal jumping her bones. Right?”
He jabbed Mars again in the small of the back.
Mars turned to look at him. “When I’m outta here, let’s have a drink, okay? I’ll look you up. We’ll hang out. Together.”
Reedy snorted and then stopped as the full import of Mars’s words hit him like a semi.
There were no more baton jabs on the way back to the cell.
CHAPTER
7
WHEN BOGART AND Jamison returned at 1:30 that afternoon, Decker had showered, shaved, and put on his other set of clothes: jeans, a flannel shirt under a sweater, and mud-stained boots on his feet. He had some dress clothes that he had purchased back in Burlington when he was pretending to be a lawyer, but they were dirty and at the bottom of his duffel.
Bogart was in a crisp suit, starched dress shirt with a collar tab, and paisley tie. Jamison was in slacks and jacket and a cream-colored shirt with what looked to be brand-new stylish strappy heels on her feet. Compared to Decker’s casual appearance, both looked ready to attend a wedding. But this was the best he could do, and they both seemed to appreciate that he’d made the effort.
“Ready?” said a smiling Bogart.
Decker nodded. He was holding the binder, which he’d read and memorized. As they walked to Bogart’s car he felt his stomach start to squirm a bit. Not from lack of food but from nerves.
The hitch with this whole arrangement was that Decker was not really comfortable dealing with other people. His hyperthymesia caused him to be aloof, awkward, and out of sorts in the company of others. He had no control over this. His mind had bent his personality to its will. It seemed strange to think about your brain as being separate from the rest of you, but with a mind like Decker’s it just seemed like the realistic thing to do.
He had known that joining a “team” would require him to work with others, but now that the time was upon them, he was starting to question his decision to come here.
Have I just royally screwed myself?
He got into the front seat of Bogart’s sedan and had to put it all the way back to accommodate his long legs. He used the full length of the seat belt to stretch across his gut. Jamison sat in the back behind Bogart, to give Decker as much room as possible.
“Can you tell me about the other team members?” asked Decker. “Alex told me a little about Davenport.”
“Lisa was brought on board because of her expertise dealing with psycho- and sociopaths. She’s very well known in her field and has written several books on the topic. She’ll be able to analyze for us the personalities and tendencies of people at the center of our investigations. Telling us what makes them tick. We have folks in the FBI who already do that, of course. But I think it’s a good idea to get fresh eyes on a case, outside the perspective of federal law enforcement.”
“Sounds like a workable theory,” noted Jamison.
“Then there’s another FBI agent, Todd Milligan. Todd’s in his midthirties. He’s a good field agent who competed for a slot on this team. He’s excited to get started.”
“And how does he feel about working with non–FBI agents?” asked Decker.
“There are no problems there,” replied Bogart. “Otherwise he would have been vetted out.”
Decker caught Jamison’s attention in the rearview. His expression indicated that he did not necessarily share Bogart’s confidence on that point.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a brick building on the grounds of the Marine Corps Base Quantico, which also housed, among other things, the FBI Academy and lab and ViCAP.
As they climbed out of the car, Bogart buttoned his jacket and said, “ViCAP gave us space in their facility to use. We’ll also be operationally supported by them.”
“ViCAP—Violent Criminal Apprehension Program,” said Jamison.
Bogart nodded as he held the door open for them. “Formed in 1985. They’re a unit dealing with serial murders and other violent crimes usually of a sexual nature. They’re part of the Critical Incident Response Group.”
“Which is in turn part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime,” noted Decker.
Bogart nodded again. “We have lots of organizational layers.”
“Maybe too many,” assessed Decker.
“Maybe,” said Bogart curtly.
They walked down a well-lighted corridor.
“So how does what we’re going to do differ from what ViCAP already does?” asked Jamison.
“ViCAP is really a central database that other law enforcement agencies, both state and federal, use to investigate cases in their jurisdictions. There are teams of FBI agents that also investigate cases on the ground, of course. But ours will be one of the first to utilize folks from outside the FBI to be part of such an operational team. It took some finagling and negotiation. I have to say there are some in the Bureau who are not supportive of what we’re doing, and think bringing in outsiders is a mistake. I hope to prove them wrong.”
Decker said, “Playing devil’s advocate, what if we prove them right?”
Bogart shrugged. “Then our funding is cut and we go off and do something else. And my career slams right into the ceiling.”
Jamison said firmly, “Then let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
They passed through a security checkpoint and then Bogart used his ID badge to open a door.
“Here we are,” he said gesturing them inside.
Before Decker passed through the doorway he felt the butterflies in his belly that he often had before stepping onto the gridiron. It was an unwieldy combination of nerves, adrenaline, and anticipation.
He had thought those days were long since over.
Obviously not.
Here we go.
The Last Mile Page 4
