Memory Man

“Wouldn’t happen to have a brush and an electric razor?” asked Decker, looking in the mirror.

“In our toiletries section over here.”

“Briefcase?”

“Accessories, over here.”

He paid for everything on credit. When Decker asked, the clerk threw in a legal pad and some pens that he had behind the counter in a box of office supplies.

“They keep cutting our budget,” Decker explained. “How do we protect people if we can’t even afford pens?”

“It’s a crying shame,” said the man. “World’s going to hell. You interested in a tie clip or pocket square?”

Decker took everything to the restroom, rinsed off in the sink, rolled on antiperspirant he had purchased, buzzed off much of his beard, leaving only a shallow layer of fuzz over his chin, jaw, and upper lip, trimmed and tidied his hair, dressed in his new clothes and shoes, and put the old ones in the store’s bag.

He walked out carrying the bag and headed back to the precinct. The tie cut into his throat, and despite the deodorant, he already felt a bit sweaty under the armpits, though the air was cool. But he didn’t look like he had looked before. He hadn’t looked this respectable even when he’d been a cop.

He added the bag of clothes to the gun in the trash can and marched up the steps of the precinct. He knew this was stupid. Insane. He hadn’t been gone that long from the force. He could be recognized at any moment, like with Pete Rourke. But he didn’t care. He really didn’t. This was his shot. Maybe his only one. He was taking it.

He cleared the magnetometer. There was one young cop in the lobby manning the entrance. Decker didn’t know him and he didn’t know Decker.

Good and good.

He walked over to the information desk. The elderly woman sitting there was obviously not in uniform. She must be a civilian. Having a uniformed officer sitting at the front desk was not a smart deployment of resources.

His cover story formed in his head, Decker looked down at her. She looked up at him. Her eyes widened, perhaps simply to take in the whole of him.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“You have a prisoner in the holding cell, Sebastian Leopold?”

She blinked in confusion. “I’m not sure what you—”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“And who are—”

“He needs counsel. I don’t think anyone has been appointed to rep him yet.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Sixth Amendment, right to counsel. Can’t be denied. Just need a few minutes with him.”

“I’ll have to phone—”

“If you have to you have to. But I know things are pretty hairy around here right now. So if you don’t get an answer, I just need a few minutes with him.”

Decker lifted up his briefcase so she could see it and patted the side. “His arraignment is coming up. He’ll need to be prepped for the plea. I’ve got some ideas.”

“If you could have a seat.”

Decker looked around at the police officer manning the magnetometer. He was staring at Decker, which was not good.

Realizing he might have just blown a bunch of money he didn’t have on lawyer-looking attire, Decker sat down in a chair bolted to the wall and waited. The old woman picked up her phone and slowly, ever so slowly, punched in numbers.

Numbers. Always numbers.

They had a hypnotic effect on him, sending him to places he didn’t always want to go.

Decker closed his eyes and his mind began to whir, back…back to the day, no, to the exact moment when his life changed forever.

Chapter 8

The crowd went berserk every time the hit was replayed on the megatron, and that was often, I was told later. My helmet flew five feet and rolled another six, ending at the feet of a zebra who picked it up and maybe checked inside to see if my head was still in there.

I think my brain bounced against my skull multiple times like a bird trying to introduce itself to a window until its neck snaps.

Yep, the crowd cheered and whooped whenever the megatron belched out the replay.