Memory Man

Her hair was a pasty blonde, her skin wrinkled and splotchy. Her nose was crooked — some said from an encounter with a mean drunk when she was a beat cop. Her small, pointy chin seemed overwhelmed by her disproportionately large mouth where uneven and nicotine-stained teeth lurked like bats hanging in a cave.

She was not pretty. Her looks were not what made her memorable. What made her remarkable was that she had been the first female detective in the Burlington Police Department. As far as he knew she was still the only one. And she had been his partner. They had made more arrests leading to more convictions than anyone in the history of the department. Some on the force thought that was just great. Others thought they were full of themselves. Starsky and Hutch, one rival had called them. Decker never knew which one he was supposed to be, the blond or the brunet.

“Hello, Mary Suzanne Lancaster,” he said, because he somehow couldn’t not say it.

She smiled, reached over, and poked his shoulder. He winced slightly and drew back a bit, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t know you even knew my middle name.”

He looked down at his food, his limited chitchat quota exhausted.

She ran her gaze over him, and when she was done Lancaster seemed to silently acknowledge that all reports of Decker having hit rock bottom were spot on.

“I won’t ask how you’ve been, Amos. I can see not too good.”

“I live here instead of in a box,” he said bluntly.

Startled, she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You need something?” he asked. “I have a schedule.”

She nodded. “I’m sure. Well, I came by to talk to you.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“You mean how did I know you were here?”

His look told her that was obviously his question.

“Friend of a friend.”

“Didn’t think you had that many friends,” said Decker. It wasn’t a funny line, really, and he certainly didn’t smile. But she forced a chuckle as a potential icebreaker, but then caught herself, realizing, probably, that it was stupid to do so.

“Well, I’m also a detective. I can find out things. And Burlington isn’t that big. It’s not New York. Or L.A.”

He smacked his lips, shoveled in some more food, and his mind started to wander back to colored numbers and things that could tell time in his head.

She seemed to sense his withdrawal. “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you. You lost a lot, Amos. You didn’t deserve this, not that anyone does.”

He glanced at her with not a single emotion evident in the look. Sympathy was not going to hold his attention. He had never sought sympathy, mainly because his mind didn’t really get that particular sensation. At least not anymore. He could be caring. He had been caring and loving with his family. But sympathy and its even more irritating cousin, empathy, were no longer in his wheelhouse.

Perhaps sensing that she was losing him again, she quickly said, “I also came to tell you something.”

He ran his gaze up and down her. He couldn’t help himself, so he said, “You’ve lost weight. About five pounds you couldn’t afford to lose. And you might have a vitamin D deficiency.”

“How do you figure?”

“You were walking stiffly when you came in. Bone ache is a classic symptom.” He pointed to her forehead. “And it’s cold outside but your head is sweating. Another classic. And you’ve crossed and uncrossed your legs five times in the brief time you’ve been sitting there. Bladder problems. Another symptom.”

She frowned at this very personal appraisal. “What, did you start medical school or something?” she said crossly.

“I read an article four years ago while I was waiting at the dentist’s office.”

She touched her forehead. “I guess I don’t get out in the sun much.”

“And you smoke like a rocket, which doesn’t help anything. Try a supplement. Vit D deficiencies lead to bad stuff. And quit the cigarettes. Try a patch.” He glanced down and saw what he had seen when she first sat down. He said, “You also have a tremor in your left hand.”

She held it with her right, unconsciously rubbing at the spot. “I think it’s just a nerve thing.”

“But you shoot left-handed. So you might want to check it out.”

She glanced down at the slight bulge on the right side of her jacket at the waistband where her pistol rode in a belt holster.

She smiled. “You have any more Sherlock Holmes stuff to throw at me? Want to check out my knees? Look at my fingertips? Tell me what I had for breakfast?”

He took a prolonged sip of coffee. “Just have it checked out. Could be something else. More than a tremor. Bad stuff starts in the hands and the eyes. It’s an early warning, like a canary in a coal mine. And departmental firearms recert comes up next month. Doubt you’ll pass with your grip hand going wacky on you.”

Her smile faded. “I hadn’t thought about that. I will, thanks, Amos.”

He looked down at his food and drew a deep breath. He was done, just waiting for her to leave. He closed his eyes. He might just go to sleep right here.