As they headed to the truck, she noted that he had taken his glasses off. “The doctor said for you to keep the glasses on.”
“He also told me to sit in a dark room in complete quiet. I’ve had concussions before, Alex. This one is no big deal.”
“Okay,” she said, not looking convinced. They drove along in silence for a few minutes. “Decker, with all the years you played football, do you ever worry about... ?”
“What, CTE, dementia?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Every game I played I came out of it feeling like I’d been in a car accident. Every play helmets would smack together. It is what it is. I can’t do anything about what might be coming for me.”
“Pretty fatalistic attitude.”
“Pretty realistic attitude. But the good thing is I barely played in the pros, so maybe there’s hope for me. NFL players hit a lot harder than college players do.”
“I hope you’re right. We need that brain of yours to find bad guys.”
“We need to put together a list of people to talk to. Dr. Freedman and Betsy O’Connor, and anyone connected to Joyce Tanner. And we need to find out what Tanner was living on. We also need to visit Bradley Costa’s workplace and home. And then we need to check out where Michael Swanson called home.”
“Look, while I know that we both believe all these murders are connected, we really have no evidence that they are.”
He eyed her appraisingly. “Even if they aren’t connected, should we stop investigating?”
Jamison looked taken aback. “No, of course not. I’m just saying—”
“I’m just saying that if there is one murderer or more than one murderer working together or separately, they still deserve to be held accountable for their crimes. Because I don’t know any other way to approach it.”
Jamison sighed and nodded. “I get the logic. But it’s a long list of people. Could take a while. Longer than a week,” she pointed out.
“Could be. You should call Bogart and tell him we might need to extend.”
“No, you can call him. This was your idea. I just wanted to come here and visit my sister and my niece, not get involved in another murder investigation.”
Decker didn’t say anything.
“We were almost killed tonight,” added Jamison.
“Yeah, I know. I was there, Alex.”
“Whoever did it might try again, if we keep going on this.”
“I told you I could do it. That you could just hang with your family.”
“And I wouldn’t sleep a wink if I wasn’t doing it with you.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“I guess it leaves us investigating a bunch of either separate or connected murders. Together.”
Decker turned to her.
“I’m going to do all I can to keep you safe, Alex.”
“I know. You promised Zoe.”
“No, you’re my partner. We have each other’s backs. Remember? You told me that before.”
“I remember, Amos. And you’ve already saved my life a bunch of times. But I have to rely on myself as well as you. And the same for you.”
“No argument there.”
The Little Eatery was still open and they ate their meal in a half-full dining room, where they continually caught people stealing glances at them.
“Word apparently travels fast in Baronville,” noted Jamison.
“Word travels fast in every small town,” replied Decker, swallowing the last piece of his steak. “We have a dead guy with a metal plate in his head living on disability in a trailer in the woods that just got blown up. We have Joyce Tanner, unemployed from JC Penney, living on who knows what.”
“And four more dead.”
Decker looked down at his phone, which had just buzzed. He frowned and put down his fork.
“What is it?” asked Jamison. “Someone else dead?”
“No. It’s a text from Green answering my question.”
“Which one?”
“Whether it was pig’s blood.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“So what does that mean, since you never bothered to tell me?” she said, clearly irritated.
Decker didn’t answer. He punched in a phone number and stared at the ceiling while it rang. Then the person answered.
“Detective Green, this is Decker. I just got your text.”
“Right, pig’s blood it is. What made you think of it?”
“It was a long shot and I wish I had been wrong. This means we need to check another database for the two dead men in that house.”
“We checked all the criminal and civilian databases we have access to.”
“I don’t think they’re civilians or criminals.”
“Then what do you think they are?”
“Cops.”
Chapter 18
“Why cops?” asked Jamison as they were driving to police headquarters.
“You’re too young to know it, but in the sixties and seventies ‘pig’ was a commonly used derogatory term for police. That’s why I mentioned the old cop shows on TV. So the vic in the policeman uniform coupled with the pig’s blood starts to make some sense. And that might mean we’re talking killers from a certain generation.”
“Maybe not,” countered Jamison. “The term’s obviously made a comeback. It’s being used by other groups now.”
“Okay, but we have to find out first if the two dead men we found were cops. I could be totally off base with my theory.”
“God, this is like a horror show.”
“I never ran into a murder that had any positive elements, Alex.”
Decker looked out the window. “If they are cops, you have to wonder where they’re from. They would’ve been identified by now if they were local.”
“From another state, then?”
“Why would they be here? I’m assuming they were performing in some professional capacity. Local cops almost never cross state lines.”
He stopped speaking and stared off once more.
“Wait a minute, Decker, are you thinking what I think you are?”
“They could be Feds, Alex.”
Green and Lassiter were waiting for them at the station.
“We’ve run the prints through databases we have access to,” said Green. “But it’s limited. And we got zero hits.”
Decker said, “I can get them run by the FBI. Just get me a set of the digital prints.” He looked at Jamison. “I guess I’m going to have that talk with Bogart after all.”
“Lucky you,” replied Jamison.
Decker called Bogart from the privacy of an empty office at the police station.
To FBI special agent Bogart’s credit, he didn’t scream or even interrupt as Decker laid out what had happened.
“Can you send me the prints now?” asked Bogart.
“Soon as I hang up with you.”
“If they are Feds this is going to turn into a shit storm, Decker.”
“It pretty much already is.”
Decker and Jamison waited at Green and Lassiter’s desks, which were situated next to each other in the open room of the detectives’ section of the station. There was one other plainclothesman working at another desk.
Thirty minutes passed and then Decker’s phone buzzed. He and Jamison stepped into the empty office to answer it.
It was Bogart.
Decker put it on speaker so that Jamison could hear.
“We ran the prints through our own employee database and got nothing. Then we provided the prints through our liaison office to sister agencies.”
“And did they get a hit?”
“No. We heard back from all of them except one.”