TEN P.M.
Not a good time for introspection.
One was tired. Not ready for deep thought about critical issues.
And it was storming hard outside.
Decker sat in his chair, in his bedroom in the stricken house, and looked out at the water bucketing down.
And yet he was trying to be introspective, to make some sense of it all.
He set the empty beer can down on the floor and wiped his mouth.
It hadn’t tasted like beer, but rather acid. He couldn’t imagine anything tasting good ever again.
Streaks of lightning, followed by booms of thunder, seemed to form an uneasy synchronicity with the smacks of his heart.
Though he couldn’t possibly hear them over the roar of the storm, he knew that two women in the house, one very young and one only in her thirties, fatherless and widowed, respectively, were probably still bawling their eyes out. In his mind’s eye he could see them, hunched over, arms wrapped around their sides, as though struggling mightily to keep what little they had left inside somewhat intact and functional.
He used his finger to trace a circle on the window where condensation had collected.
One of the longest walks Decker had ever made had been from the front door of the restaurant back to the table. He had asked Green and Lassiter for permission to go and get the Mitchells and escort them out. He did not want the news that awaited them to come in a public place.
He didn’t know why he had thought of this. His old self would have done so instinctively. To be sensitive and compassionate had been reflexive with the old Amos Decker.
Then the blindside hit on the field had left him pretty much the polar opposite of what he had been. It was, to say the least, unsettling to occupy the same body but be a totally different person.
Yet still, he had thought about having them be told of the loss in a private place. And he had acted on that thought.
That’s something, isn’t it?
He had told them that the detectives wanted to talk to them about something important and that they preferred to do so down at the police station, only a few blocks away. He had told them that it couldn’t wait. It had to happen now.
He had seen an alarmed look in Amber’s eyes that made him believe she knew that what was happening would be quite personal to her. But she remained outwardly calm and collected. And he thought he knew why.
Zoe had still been looking at her book and smiling. Obviously, the mom was keeping it together for her daughter.
Cassie, Decker’s wife, would have done the same thing.
While they were collecting their things, Decker managed to whisper to Jamison, “It’s about Frank. It’s bad. The worst.”
At first, Jamison made no noticeable reaction to this, but then her face visibly paled and her hand trembled a bit as she put it on the table to support herself as she stood.
The detectives drove Amber and Zoe to the police station. Jamison went with her sister and niece in Green’s car, while Decker followed them.
At the station they all reunited.
Apparently nothing was said in the police car, because Zoe seemed fine—curious about what was going on, but otherwise all right.
That would not be the case for much longer.
They had gone into a private room. Well, Amber had gone in with the two detectives, while Jamison stayed outside with Zoe.
Surprisingly, Amber had asked Decker to accompany her into the room, where they had her sit, while Lassiter and Green stood facing her. Decker noted that in another corner of the room was a female police officer.
Green had spoken first.
“I’m very sorry to have to bring you this news, Mrs. Mitchell. It’s about your husband.”
Tears had welled up in Amber’s eyes and she had started to shake.
“Oh no, please, oh no,” she moaned.
Lassiter glanced at the officer, who came forward with a box of tissues and a bottle of water.
Decker stood back against the wall, watching all of this.
Green said, “There apparently was a terrible accident at the fulfillment center. They did tell us that your husband didn’t suffer. It was very quick.”
Amber was clearly no longer listening. She was hunched over, her face near the tops of her knees, rocking back and forth. “Oh, God, please. Frank, oh, please. Frank…”
Green looked hopelessly at Lassiter, who pulled up a chair next to Amber and put an arm around her quaking shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mitchell. So very, very sorry.”
Frank Mitchell, gone, just like that.
Amber and Zoe, bereaved, just like that.
Decker could relate. The very same thing had happened to him when, coming home one night, he had found his wife, her brother, and his daughter dead. Murdered. Gone from him for all time. One night. One breath.
If there was anything in life worse than that, he didn’t know what it could possibly be.
The mind, breathtakingly special as it was, had never been designed to take in such a crushing event with such little preparation. It took all the air from your body, all the rigidity from your muscles, all the synaptic impulses from your brain.
It left you lessened, hollowed, destroyed.
It had been well over two years now since Cassie and Molly had been taken from him, and Decker was still unable to plumb the total depths of what the loss had done to him.
Amber had composed herself in that police station room, wiped her face clear, walked out on steady legs, embraced her daughter, and escorted her home, her arm never leaving the child’s shoulders.
She had asked to see the body, but was told that it would not be a good idea. That there had been…substantial disfigurement. It would most likely be a closed casket unless the mortician could work some wonders.
Jamison had gone with them while Decker had stayed behind to get fuller particulars.
Green and Lassiter provided them.
Green said, “That place is huge. And it’s got all sorts of automation. Robots going up and down aisles. These massive metal arm things putting incredibly heavy pallets of stuff way up on shelves. And they each do the work of about fifty people. What jobs are going to be left for humans, tell me that?”
Decker was less interested in the economic challenges of the coming automation revolution than in the exact details of Frank Mitchell’s last few moments alive.
“But what happened to Frank Mitchell?” he asked.
Lassiter took up the story.
“They’re working on an addition to the fulfillment center. Mitchell had gone there to check on some things. There was a mounted robotic arm that’ll be used to lift heavy pallets high up on shelves, like Marty just said. It’s in a confined space and wasn’t supposed to be operational. But apparently something went wrong. When they went to look for Mitchell they found him crushed against a concrete wall with the robotic arm still holding on to him.”
“But if it wasn’t operational, how could it have come on?” asked Decker.
Green grimaced. “Now that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. They believe it was a computer glitch. Something in the damn thing’s software, or some spike in the power supply. Again, the place is under construction, and I guess all the bugs haven’t been worked out yet.”
Lassiter added, “I researched it a bit after we got the news. It’s not the first death from some robot going nuts. There’ve been cases up in Michigan and Ohio and other places. It’s what you get when you put these super-strong metal beasts in with humans. They’ve got no shot if things go sideways. That arm can lift ten thousand pounds no problem. You let that loose on a human, well, I saw Frank Mitchell’s body. And it was…beyond horrible,” she added in a trembling voice.
And that had been that.
Decker had driven back here and met with Jamison.
Jamison had called the rest of her family and Frank’s parents, telling them the awful news. His parents and Frank’s four siblings were coming in. Two of Jamison’s sisters were also planning to attend the funeral. Jamison had given her sister something to help her sleep.
Amber and Zoe were together in Amber’s bedroom locked in each other’s arms.
Decker and a subdued Jamison had sat up in the kitchen and discussed things. He had filled her in on what had happened.
“This is terrible, Decker. They just moved here. And now this?”
Decker remained silent.
She looked up at him, her face teary. “What are you thinking?”
“That you need to concentrate on your sister and Zoe. Leave the investigation to me. At least for now.”
She slowly nodded. “It’s not something I want to do, you know that?”
“I know that.”
“Zoe’s in shock. I’m so worried about her. She loved her dad so much. And on her birthday. I mean, how awful is that?”
“Pretty damn awful.”
“We’ve got to think about funeral arrangements. There aren’t many options here. And getting family here for it is a logistical nightmare. And what about burial? Would he want to be buried here? He has no connection to this place. So, cremation? God, I can’t believe I’m having to talk about any of this.”
She started to sob quietly.
Decker hesitantly rose, went over to her, and patted her shoulder with his hand. His mind had some soothing things he could say to her, but a disconnect did not allow him to actually say them.
Jamison seemed to understand his internal struggle. She gripped his big hand. “Thanks, Amos.”
He said nothing. But he kept patting her shoulder, silently cursing his inability to do anything more than that.
Now, in his room, he looked at the spot on the window glass where he had just now wiped away the circle he’d made in the condensation.
Six people were dead.
Indisputably murdered by another with premeditation and malice aforethought.
Now a seventh person, Frank Mitchell, was dead. By an accident, from all accounts.
Jamison had finally gone to bed.
But Decker once again found sleep too elusive.
He decided, despite the rain, to take another walk.
He took the same umbrella from the hall closet, buttoned his coat around him, and set off.
His path took him to the street of the Murder House. The place was dark, but the police tape was still there. The local cop car wasn’t there. But one of Kemper’s black SUVs was. He could see a man inside it.
Decker looked down the street.
Dan Bond, the blind man.
Mrs. Martin, the Sunday school teacher.
And Fred Ross with his sawed-off shotgun and bitter demeanor.
The only three people who lived on the street and who could have seen anything relevant. And if that was the criterion, then Bond should be struck from the list, though he might have heard something.
And Ross too. He said he’d been at the hospital, though Decker would have to check that.
He looked at his watch.
Ten-thirty.
Mrs. Martin lived at number 1640. The lights were on there.
Decker started walking toward it.