“She didn’t have brain cancer.”
“Her autopsy showed a malignant glioblastoma. Stage Four. Inoperable. She maybe had a few months left to live before she was killed.”
The woman stared at Decker like he was speaking another language. “Well, it wasn’t diagnosed here, I can tell you that,” she finally said. “Glioblastoma. Are you sure?”
“It’s what the coroner found. I assume he wouldn’t be mistaken about something like that.”
“No, I guess not,” she said absently. “I never would have thought. She looked so healthy. And the papers never said she had cancer.”
“Probably because the police knew that the cancer certainly didn’t end up causing her death. So they had no reason to divulge that personal medical information. And I don’t think a murder-suicide pact was ever contemplated. You can’t set yourself on fire after you’ve killed yourself.”
They left her sitting in her chair still pondering this news. They were walking down the hall when Decker saw the sign stenciled on one of the doors along the hallway. He veered toward it, forcing Jamison to do a quick about-face and follow him.
He opened the door and walked up to the reception desk. Jamison came to stand next to him.
Decker held up his FBI card and said, “We need to talk to someone about a patient of the practice twenty years ago.”
The woman stared openmouthed at Decker and picked up the phone. “Just give me a sec.”
A minute later a man in his early thirties appeared dressed in a white coat. He had a stainless steel dental tool clutched in one of his gloved hands.
“I’m just finishing up with a patient. You can wait in my office.”
The receptionist led them down the hall and showed them into an office. They sat facing the desk.
Jamison shivered.
Decker looked at her. “Problem?”
“I hate the dentist. I had more cavities than teeth growing up.”
“Relax, we’re here for information, not fillings.”
“Yeah? I bet he’ll take one look at my teeth and start singing, ‘Drill, baby, drill.’”
A couple of minutes later the dentist walked in. He had taken off his white coat and his hands were no longer gloved. He had on a white dress shirt and a striped tie. Jamison shifted uneasily in her chair as he passed by her and sat down.
“I’m Lewis Fisher. What can I do for the FBI?”
Decker explained the background of why they were here. He added, “I assume from your age that you were not the dentist to the Marses.”
“No. I was still a kid. This was my grandfather’s practice back then. I took it over when he retired.”
“Would you still have the records of the Marses here?”
“No. Not after twenty years. And of course, because of the fact that they’re dead. I heard Melvin was released from prison,” he added.
“He was. Did you know him?”
“No, but we went to the same high school, at different times, of course. Everybody knew who Melvin was. I was stunned when he was arrested for the murders.”
“And his parents’ identities were established through their dental records here?”
“I guess that’s right, yes. I remember there wasn’t enough left of their…Well, you know.”
“Right. Is your grandfather still alive?”
“He is. And he still lives in the area.”
“Any chance we can talk to him?”
“You can try.”
Decker cocked his head. “Meaning?”
“Meaning he has dementia and resides at an assisted living center.”
“Does he have lucid moments?”
“Occasionally. He used to have more. But I’m afraid he’s slipping away at an alarming rate. It’s very sad when your own grandfather can’t recognize you.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Jamison sympathetically.
Decker said, “Can we give it a shot?”
“With what goal in mind?” asked Fisher.
“Information,” said Decker. “You never know where a new piece might help the investigation.”
“And what exactly are you investigating?”
“That’s not something we can comment on publicly,” said Decker, his tone becoming very official.
“Oh, right, of course.” Fisher quickly wrote the address down on a slip of paper and slid it across. “I’ll call and tell them you’re going to come by.”
Decker looked at the name. “Lewis Fisher Sr.”
“I’m Lewis Fisher the third. My father is the junior.”
Decker and Jamison rose. He said, “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Fisher turned to Jamison, who quickly closed her mouth so her teeth weren’t visible.
“You should smile more often,” said Fisher. “You have very nice teeth.”
Outside the office Jamison said, “Let’s hope Fisher Sr. can give us a lead. We could sure use one.”
“It’s why we do the drill, Alex.”
“Please don’t use that word so close to a dentist’s office.”
CHAPTER
43
LEWIS FISHER SR. had obviously done well for himself, because the facility he was in was an upscale private one. The building was designed to look like an antebellum plantation, with tall, broad columns and a huge porch that was filled with rocking chairs and residents doing the rocking. The interior was decorated with bright wallpaper, wooden chair railing, six-inch crown molding, and thick plush carpets. There was even a game room with a pool table and an old-fashioned soda fountain.
The bulletin board in the lobby was filled with activity sheets. Senior citizens were walking or rolling to their next appointments. The place was full of energy and enthusiasm as Decker and Jamison strolled down the wide corridor accompanied by one of the staff. She was dressed in crisp blue scrubs. Her name tag read Deb. She waved and greeted residents as they walked along.
“Nice place,” said Jamison. “Everyone seems really happy.”
“A lot better than anything the state offers,” said Deb. “But you have to pay for it, and it’s not cheap. This is definitely for the upper echelon. We get folks from like a two-hundred-mile area because the facility is so unique and this part of Texas is big and isolated.” She sighed. “I could never afford to come here when I get to be their age.”
They reached a set of double doors with a sign reading Memory Unit overhead. Deb had to use her key card to access the doors.
“Is that so no one in the unit can wander away?” noted Jamison.
“Exactly,” she said as they passed through the opening. “We don’t want anyone getting lost.”
She led them down the hall and then turned toward a door about halfway down. She knocked.
“Dr. Fisher, you have visitors.”
They heard a grunt from inside.
Deb turned to them. “He has good and bad days. I’m not sure which one this will be. He gets very frustrated, like many of our memory unit patients.” She eyed the FBI credential that rode on Decker’s hip. “Is Dr. Fisher in some sort of trouble?”
“He’s in no trouble at all,” said Decker.
“Well, that’s a relief. You know, when he first came here his memory was razor sharp. Probably better than yours.”
“I seriously doubt that,” said Decker as he pushed open the door and went inside.
A startled Deb looked at Jamison, who gazed at her awkwardly. “It’s a long story,” she said. “We’ll let you know when we’re done. Thanks.” She joined Decker inside the room and closed the door.
Fisher was sitting up in the chair next to his bed. He had on a hospital gown and his feet were resting in white slippers. He looked to be in his late eighties, bent and frail. When he looked up at them, Decker could see a lot of the grandson in the man.
“Dr. Fisher?” he said.
“Who the hell are you?” Fisher barked.
“This might be one of the bad days,” whispered Jamison.
Decker grew closer. “I’m a friend of your grandson. So is she.”
Fisher turned his gaze to Jamison. “She’s not my grandson.”
“No, she’s a friend of your grandson’s.”
Fisher looked down at his lap.
Jamison knelt next to him. “This is a very nice room.”
Fisher looked up at her. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Alex and this is Amos.”
“Amos and Andy. Like the show?” said Fisher.
“No, Alex and Amos. He’s Amos. I’m Alex.”