He wasn’t sure. And he also wasn’t sure that the name Melvin Mars would ever leave him again.
Hours later he reached the address he’d been given. It was at the Marine Corps Base Quantico, one of the largest U.S. Marine bases in the world, and also home to a basketful of federal law enforcement platforms.
The facility was behind high fences with a guard gate where serious men in uniform stood holding automatic weapons.
Amos Decker drove up to the gate, rolled down his window, drew a long breath, and prepared to start his brand-new life.
CHAPTER
4
THREE ROOMS.
A bedroom about the size of a prison cell. A bathroom about a quarter the size of that. And a third room for everything else, including the kitchen.
It was far more space than Amos Decker had been accustomed to over the last year and a half.
He set his bags down and looked around his new home. He should grab some sleep, but he wasn’t tired.
He could sleep all day sometimes, but other times, like now, his mind would not allow him to rest. His brain was on fire.
There was a small table across from the kitchen area. On the table was a laptop computer with a note stuck to it. The note was from Agent Bogart. The laptop was his to use. There was secure WiFi here. Bogart would be by later.
Decker checked his watch. It was five in the morning. Bogart had expected him to stop on his drive and probably anticipated his arriving here later this afternoon or evening.
Decker made a cup of coffee, black, with a heap of sugar, and carried it over to the table. He sat down and opened up the laptop. He went online and searched for the name Melvin Mars.
There had been quite a few stories written in the last few days on Mars. Decker read all of them, his perfect memory imprinting each indelibly onto his brain.
But he also wanted to know more about the man’s past. And a few minutes later he found it.
Melvin Mars had been on the cusp of the NFL draft held in April of each year. It was projected he would go top five until he’d been arrested and charged in the murders of his parents, Roy and Lucinda Mars.
Decker looked at the grainy pictures of the pair on the screen. Roy was white, with strong features, and even in the blurry photo his penetrating eyes were readily apparent. Lucinda was black and remarkably beautiful, with bountiful hair that fell to her shoulders. Her face was crinkled into an infectious smile.
Clear opposites, at least on the surface. Interesting.
Decker sipped his coffee and kept scrolling.
The murders had taken place on April second. The bodies were found in an upstairs bedroom. Both had been shotgunned, their faces obliterated, and then their bodies set on fire. The house stood by itself well off the road. They lived in rural Texas. There had been no one around to hear them die.
The bodies were found by firemen responding to a 911 call. The fire was put out and the house became a crime scene.
Folks around there knew the Marses. Well, they knew Melvin because of his talents on the gridiron. He had been a high school football legend in Texas, and had continued that fame in college as a Longhorn.
So where was Melvin when his parents died?
He had graduated from college the previous semester, having gone to summer school each of the last three years in order to graduate early. He had plans for his life, it had been reported then. And with the draft coming up he wanted to be free from academic obligations. He was a man who thought ahead, it was said. He was not some people’s image of a football player who could run over people but didn’t have the means to carry on a conversation. It was said that he didn’t have an agent because he was going to negotiate his own contract with an NFL team. He had done research, talked to current and former players.
So, again, where was Melvin?
The police found him sleeping alone at a motel. He had paid by credit card. That was how they located him.
His story had been relatively simple. He had been visiting a friend. He had left the friend’s place with the intention of driving home. He had had car trouble, however, and stopped for the night at the only motel on that stretch of road. He had known nothing about his parents’ murders until the police knocked on his door.
This was before everyone had cell phones or email addresses, or a Facebook page or Twitter account. You could actually be off the grid with no way for folks to contact you, an unbelievable thought now.
ity. And it was Mars’s own gun—constituting the necessary means—that had done the deed. Thus they had all three essential elements to prove guilt. And they set about to convincingly prove it all beyond a reasonable doubt.
Witness after witness was paraded before the jury and gave their testimony. The mosaic began to form. The prosecutor, a Tennessee grad and thus no fan of Texas football players, it seemed, did a bang-up job stitching the evidence together.
The defense tried to poke holes but didn’t do enough damage. And when Mars did not take the stand the defense rested.
The jury was out barely enough time for the jurors to use the bathroom before they came back with their guilty verdict.
Mars had been given a fair trial. The evidence met the burden of proof.