“I just thought of this. Could he really be Leopold? I mean, the guy really looked homeless and out of it. Could Sizemore go downhill that fast?”
“Yes,” said Decker. “I did. And it didn’t take me years.”
She looked at him openmouthed for a moment and then slowly turned away before saying, “Oh. Okay.”
Decker extricated himself from the back of the car and stepped out. When Jamison started to do the same he ducked his head back in and said, “You’re staying in the car.”
“What!”
“Anything bad goes down, drive away and call the cops.”
“Decker, I’m not going to let you—”
“Yes you are.” He closed the car door and set off toward the house.
He went down the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, his head down, seemingly trying to avoid the stiff, chilly breeze.
But he kept gazing to the right, observing the house as he went. It was growing dark, but there were no lights on inside. No car in the driveway. Sizemore, if he still lived here, might not be home. He might be in Burlington planning his next murder.
He actually thought it improbable that Sizemore and Leopold were one and the same. Though it had been twenty years, and people could change, Decker felt like he would have recognized the man, even though he hadn’t had that much interaction with Sizemore at the institute. But still, one couldn’t be sure without digging further. And right now it was the only viable lead he had.
He crossed the street, stepped between two parked cars, one of which was up on cement blocks, and walked down the crumbling sidewalk. He passed by the house, went around the block, cut through an alley, and ended up behind the house’s backyard. He struggled over the sagging chain-link fence and approached the house from the rear. There were no lights visible from here either.
He sidled up to the rear door, slipped one hand over the butt of his gun, and waited, listening intently. No footsteps. No sounds at all.
He looked left and right. He saw no one in the backyards of the houses on either side. The night was too chilly for folks to be sitting outside.
He put his elbow through the glass, reached through, unlocked the door, and entered.
He was now in a small foyer. On his left were a washer and dryer. Up a short set of stairs was the kitchen. The smell of fried foods was in the air, along with the stale stink of cigarette smoke. He remembered that Sizemore had been a smoker. He’d seen him taking his smoke breaks, the pack of cigarettes in his hand, and it appeared the man had never kicked the habit. But Decker had sat in a bar with Leopold and the man had never lighted up. If you were a smoker, you were going to light up in a bar if you could, and it was legal in Burlington to do so. And Decker hadn’t smelled smoke on Leopold’s clothes. And he would have. This lead was starting to go sideways, but he had to follow it through.
He glided up the steps and looked around the small kitchen. There were some dishes in the sink. A newspaper was in the wastebasket. He checked the date. Two weeks ago. This was looking more and more squirrelly.
He left the kitchen and looked into each of the rooms on the main level. There was no evidence that anyone had been here recently. He walked up the short flight of stairs to the upper floor.
Then, growing impatient, he raced forward, kicking open doors as he went. He cleared the first room, the second, and then came to the third and last door.
He pushed it open and started taking deep breaths, not because he wanted to, but because it was the only way to deaden his sense of smell.
He walked over to the bed and looked down.
He wasn’t sure whose corpse was lying on the sheets, because it was too badly decomposed. The height was about right. But the face was too far gone. From the state of decay, it looked like the body had been here for quite a while.
The body had commanded his attention. He had not looked anywhere else.
Now he did. His gaze drifted around the room and then held on one spot.
He walked over to that wall and stared dumbly at the writing there.
Wrong again. If he’s rotted now, it took you long enough. Keep trying. Maybe you’ll get there. Or maybe not. Xoxo, bro.
Chapter
44
AGENT BOGART SAID, “It’s Chris Sizemore. They just confirmed the ID from prints and teeth.”
Decker had called the police and then the FBI agent. The law had descended on the small run-down house like a hailstorm.
They were in Sizemore’s house. Thankfully, the remains had long since been removed.
Alexandra Jamison was in her car with strict instructions not to write about a word of this.
“I have to know. I’m the only one who can know.”
“Well, you never forget anything, so I have to believe that it will come to you.”
“That’s the problem. If it hasn’t come to me then it’s not there.” Decker tapped the side of his head. “I don’t have things come to me. I go inside my head and retrieve them. There’s a difference.”
Bogart rose and looked down at him. “I guess there is, now that you explain it.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, the ME estimates that Sizemore has been dead about two weeks. No telling where Leopold and his ‘friend’ were then. We’re going to canvass the neighborhood, see if anything turns up.”
“I doubt it will. I slipped in the backyard while it was still light and broke in. And big as I am, no one apparently saw anything.”