“And you think she might have told the shooter?”
“I can’t think of another reason why he would have needed her.”
“But how would he have found out that Debbie would know something like that?”
“It could have been any number of ways. That’s not important. But if I’m right, we’ll know how the shooter got from the cafeteria to the back hall unseen. And if we can nail that down we might be able to work backward to where the son of a bitch came from.”
They hurried off to Lancaster’s car.
At the window watching them was Special Agent Bogart. And the man from Washington did not look pleased.
Next to him Special Agent Lafferty was busily writing down notes.
Chapter 27
George Watson answered their knock. He looked disheveled and there was a yellow and purplish bruise on his right cheek.
“Are you okay?” asked Lancaster.
Watson leaned against the doorjamb seemingly more for support than anything else. “I’m f-fine. My... my w-wife i-is leavin’ me, but I’m f-fine. Hell, why w-wouldn’t I b-be?”
Decker drew a foot closer and sniffed while Lancaster held Watson’s gaze.
Decker looked at her and nodded his head slightly. They had done this same routine when they had been partners. A nod for drunk, a shake of the head for sober or near enough to it. Actually, he hadn’t needed to do the smell test. The man’s slurred speech, inability to stand without aid of a wall, and blurry eyes were signs enough.
“Is your wife here?” asked Decker.
George pointed inside the house. “P-packin’. Th-the b-bitch!”
“These are very tough times for you both,” commented Decker.
“Lo-lost my little girl and... and n-now my wife. But you kn-know w-what?”
“No sir, what?” asked Decker.
“Screw ’em.” He waggled his deformed arm. “S-screw ’em.”
“You might want to lie down, sir,” said Lancaster. “And lay off the drink.”
George looked affronted. “I... haven’t b-been drinkin’.” He let out a loud belch and looked like he might be sick.
“Good to know. But you need to sleep it off anyway.”
Decker took the man’s good arm and guided him into the front room and over to the couch. “Just have a lie-down right there while we have a word with your wife.”
As George sank down onto the couch he said, “She’s n-not m-my w-wife. Not an-any-anymore. B-b-bitch!”
He closed his eyes and grew silent except for his breathing.
Decker led Lancaster down the hall and to a door behind which they heard noise.
Decker rapped on the wood. “Mrs. Watson?”
They heard something fall and hit the floor. “Who’s there?” Beth Watson barked.
“Police,” said Lancaster.
Beth Watson screamed, “That little son of a bitch called the police? Just because I hit him? Well, he hit me first, the one-armed prick.”
“It’s not about that. It’s about your daughter.”
The door was wrenched open and Beth Watson stood there in heels and a white slip and nothing else. Her pale flesh seemed even paler with that backdrop. The skin around her arms was sagging. One of her cheeks was red and swollen. Decker did not have to take a step closer to sniff out her sobriety status. But apparently, she could be drunk, stand erectly, and talk coherently at the same time. At least she hoped she was coherent.
“What about her?” Beth demanded.
“I asked your husband when we were here last time about his grandfather.”
Her brows knitted in confusion. “Simon? Why?”
“He worked at McDonald Army Base before he retired?”
“That’s right. So what? He’s been dead for years.”
“But he lived here with you and your husband. And Debbie.”
“Yeah, again, so what?” Unlike her husband, Beth didn’t find it necessary to lean against the doorjamb to steady herself. She obviously handled the booze better than her husband. Perhaps she had more practice, Decker thought.
“Did he ever talk to you about his work there?” he asked.
“He was at the age where he only talked about the past. World War II. The Korean War. Working for the government. Blah-blah-blah. All day and all night. Sickening after a while. Who the hell wants to live in the past?”
She pushed past Decker and shouted down the hall. “Who the hell wants to live in the past, George? Not me! I’m all about the future now! My future! The past can kiss my ass. You can kiss my ass, you ball-less cripple!”
Decker used his massive arm to gently guide her back into the room.
“Did he ever mention to you any work done at Mansfield?” he asked.
The woman’s eyes seemed to wobble in their sockets. “At Mansfield? He didn’t work at Mansfield. He was at the Army base.”
“Right. But the base and the school are right next to each other.”
She snagged a pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and lit up. She exhaled smoke and glared at Decker. “I don’t see what that has to do with a damn thing.”
“The school was built right at the start of the Cold War, shortly after World War II ended. People all over the country were putting bomb shelters in their backyards. Well, folks were doing that in buildings too, including schools. Bombproof shelters under them.”
A hint of remembrance came into the woman’s eyes.
“Wait a minute. A long time ago Simon did say something about... about a whatchamajigger at Mansfield. He didn’t build it originally. He just added to it. I’d forgotten all about it.”
“What whatchamajigger are we exactly talking about here?” asked Lancaster pointedly.
Beth pointed at Decker. “Like what he said. A place, a safe place under the school in case the Russians attacked us.”
“Soviets,” corrected Decker. “But close enough. Did he tell you anything about it? Like where it was located?”
“No, nothing like that. It was never used, apparently. And then I guess it got sealed up or something because they didn’t want anyone sneaking down there. You know, high schoolers are full of hormones. You could only imagine what would go on down there.” She paused and said in a low voice, “Orgies.” Then she giggled and hiccuped. “If I’d known about it when I went to school there, I’d been the first one doing it.”
Then she screamed down the hall, “Orgies, you prick. That’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow! Orgies with other men! Lots of ’em!”
Decker once more guided her back into the bedroom.
“So a shelter is down there. Fortunate for us that you remembered that,” noted Lancaster with a sideways glance at Decker.
Beth gave a lopsided smile. “Actually, my memory sucks. But I remember Simon was talking to me about it while I was making dinner one night. Funny, I never listened to the old fart, and, like I said, my memory is so bad. I never remember birthdays, shit like that. But I was making German chocolate cake when he was telling me about it. Only time I ever tried it. And I guess that’s what triggered it.”
“What triggered what?” asked a confused Lancaster.
“German chocolate cake. See, Germans and the Russians. They were in Germany, right? I mean the Russians.”
“That’s right,” said Decker. “They were. At least half of it.”
She smiled. “Weird how the brain works.”
“Tell me about it,” said Decker. “Did Simon have any friends in town who might still be around and who might know about this underground place?”
“Not that he ever mentioned. I mean, he was over ninety when he died. Now he’d be close to a hundred. They’re all dead, right?” She added quietly, “Like my Debbie.”
There was an awkward silence until Decker said, “If you remember anything else, please give Detective Lancaster here a call. It’s important. We want to find who did this. Who did this to... Debbie.”