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He settled back in his chair and made his meandering way through the frames of their first night in Baronville. What he had seen. What he had heard.
The car driving away.
The plane flying over.
The spark of light in the window.
The grisly discoveries.
Then, out of order, the two noises he had heard. Thud and scrape.
Decker didn’tlike not knowing something. Yet not knowing something was part of being an investigator. He often didn’t know anything right up until he kneweverything.
He suddenly wanted to take a walk.
He went back inside and quietly searched for an umbrella to protect him against the rain. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have cared about getting a little wet, but he had to take into account hishead wound.
He opened the closet door off the front entrance.
Inside there was an umbrella leaning against the wall.
And there was something else.
It was a roll of architectural blueprints leaning next to a cheap battered briefcase.
At first, Decker figured they might be for the house, but it was a big sheaf for such a modest residence.
Curious, he unrolled the plans and laid them out on the foyer floor. He took out his cell phone and used the flashlight feature to look over the top page.
It was a large building, laid out in grids.
Decker noted the writing at the top.
It was the fulfillment center where Frank Mitchell worked.
That made sense. He was in management there. The facilitywas relatively new.
He rolled the plans back up and put them away.
He stepped outside, put up the umbrella, and started to walk down the street. He reached the end, turned the corner, and walked over to the next block.
He wanted to see something.
The Murder House, as he now termed it.
There were lights on in the house and a police cruiser was parkedin front.
Behind the cruiser were parked two black SUVs. As he watched, an officer in a yellow slicker got out. A guy in a DEA windbreaker climbed out of one of the SUVs and joined the cop on the property patrol.
Kemper was clearly relying on the locals for nothing.
Decker ran his gaze over the house, the plot of land, the few parked cars on the street, and all thedark houses up and down it.
He looked up at the sky where the plane had flown over.
Then he looked down the street again.
That was odd. He checked his watch.
Three-forty.
There were lights on in one of the houses about six doors down and on the opposite side of the street.
He headed in that direction.
