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“I’ll have to think about that.”
“This is a murder investigation,” said Decker. “A young woman was badly butchered.”
“And this is a U.S. military installation,” retorted Sumter. “And we do things a certain way. Now, if that’s all, I can get on with my duties and you all can do the same.”
As they were leaving Decker turned back. “You have many accidents here?”
“No. It’s not really a dangerous place to be stationed. Beats the hell out of Iraq or Afghanistan,” he added with a forced grin.
“That’s great. Keep up the good work.”
As they were walking to their truck, Jamison said, “Why did you ask him that?”
“Because I wanted to know the answer,” Decker said bluntly. “And that answer has led to another question.”
“What’s that?” asked Kelly.
Decker pointed to the ambulances. “If this is such a safe place, what the hell are all those for?”
WHENDECKER GOT BACKto his hotel room he ended up taking Jamison’s advice and called his sister, but probably not for the reason his partner had intended.
Renee exclaimed, “Okay, I’m going to stroke out, Amos Decker calls his big sister. Stop the presses.”
“Growing up, I never really realized how funny you were, Renee.”
“Disappointed how our last conversation went? Want to make amends?”
“Right now, I just want Stan’s cell phone number.”
“You didn’t get it from him when you saw him?”
“It didn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances.”
She gave him the number and he put it in his contacts. “Thanks. Stan said Diane’s husband lost his job?”
“That was a year ago. Tim’s back on his feet and Diane has a good job. They’re doing okay. And I guess it’s a good thing they don’t have any kids they have to support. Now, don’t call me for another year.”
“What, why?”
“I need time to recover from the shock of talking to youtwicein such a short time.”
He next called his brother-in-law. Baker was at work but got off at five thirty. Decker arranged to meet up with him at the OK Corral Saloon at seven thirty.
He had some time to kill and decided to put it to good use.
He pulled out a copy of the pathology report from the postmortem that Walt Southern had performed on Irene Cramer’s remains. He went over it, page by page, line by line. When he got to one sentence, buried in the middle of a long paragraph near the end of the report, he sat up.
Son of a bitch.
He headed out. The rain had stopped falling, but the humidity level was off the charts. He turned left and reached the funeral home a few minutes later. A young man outfitted all in black except for his dazzling white shirt rose from behind a small desk and greeted him. Decker asked for Walt Southern, who wasn’t there. But his wife Liz was.
She came out a minute later. Liz Southern was not dressed in black but rather in lavender. She stood out like a pink flamingo in a desert, and it occurred to Decker even more forcefully how strikingly attractive the woman was. He wondered how happy she was working with dead people. But then again, someone had to do it.
“What can I do for you, Agent Decker?”
“I was hoping to talk to your husband.”
“He’s out of town. Be back tomorrow. Is there anything I can help you with?”
