“And all the tenants are nice?”
“Well, that’s a relative term.”
“Give me a relative answer.”
“Some are nicer than others. And I get where some of them are coming from. They’re all people of color. And I’m not sure all of them are here legally. And I’m this white woman knocking on their door and telling them that an unknown investor has bought the building and I’ll be their landlord? I’d be suspicious too.”
Decker sighed. “It’s 2017, but it doesn’t feel like it. When I was a kid they had those TV shows on about what the future would look like. Robots cleaning houses and people flying their cars to work. And instead we’ve got…this.”
“Preaching to the choir, Decker. Hey, Melvin said he would come in soon to meet the people here and look over the property.”
Decker perked up. “It’ll be good to see him again.”
“I know you two really hit it off.”
“He’s my best friend.”
Jamison frowned slightly at this comment but didn’t respond.
Decker’s phone buzzed. It was Bogart. Decker listened for a few moments and then clicked off.
“Change of plan. Bogart wants us at the morgue.”
“Why?”
“They just completed the autopsy on Dabney.”
“Okay, but we know what he died of. A self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
“Yeah, but there’s something else.”
“What?”
“The man was apparently already dead when he shot himself.”
CHAPTER
11
THE SAME MEDICAL EXAMINER, Lynne Wainwright, looked at Decker as he stared at the cut-up body of Walter Dabney, the standard V-incision stapled shut over his torso.
Bogart stood next to him and Jamison behind them, her eyes averted from the butchered body.
Not too long ago the man was a successful businessman with a loving family. Now he was a lifeless and violated sack of flesh and bone on a metal table.
“And you’re sure?” said Bogart.
Wainwright picked up an X-ray and slapped it against a light box on one wall. She pointed to a dark area.
“A massive brain tumor, inoperable because of where it’s located and how far it had invaded vital regions. I had already taken X-rays and knew something was there. But when I pulled the brain out I couldn’t believe how bad it was.”
“How long would he have had to live?” asked Decker.
The ME considered this. “You’ll want to get a second opinion, but my rough estimate would be six months or less. Probably less. Because he also had a ready-to-burst aneurysm right there,” she added, pointing at another spot on the X-ray. “I’m surprised he was able to still fully function, actually.”
“Maybe he had something left to live for,” said Decker. “Like killing Anne Berkshire.”
Bogart said sharply, “You really believe that?”
“I don’t disbelieve it.”
“Do you think his wife knew?” asked Jamison. “About the tumor?”
“Doubtful,” answered Bogart. “I mean, you would think she would have mentioned it.”
“Maybe that was the unexpected trip he took a month ago,” said Decker. “To get the diagnosis.” He turned to the ME. “Was it possible he didn’t know about the tumor?”
“Anything’s possible,” Wainwright said cautiously. “But there would have been outward symptoms. Some slightly impaired motor functions. Disruption in thought processes. I think a person in his position, educated, well-off, good health insurance presumably, he would have seen a doctor. A simple MRI would have confirmed the tumor’s presence. Other tests would have confirmed its true malignancy.”
Bogart said, “I wonder why none of his business associates noticed anything amiss. They would have been with him a great deal.”
“For that matter, why wouldn’t his wife?” noted Jamison.
The ME said, “With this sort of cancer the end comes very swiftly. But he might have been able to work at a fairly normal level up to a certain point, until the cancer just became too widespread. By the looks of his brain, I think that time was rapidly approaching.”
“So he might have been able to disguise his illness from his family, friends, and coworkers?” asked Decker.
“Again, anything’s possible. He also could have been taking some medications that would help him.”
“And the blood work will show any present in his system?” asked Bogart.
“I’ve already sent the samples out for processing,” said Wainwright.
Decker looked back down at the body. “Since he was already dying, taking his own life makes more sense. He saved himself and his family months of suffering. But it doesn’t explain Berkshire’s murder.”
“Well, to put it bluntly, I think his family would have taken months of their father suffering his final illness over what’s happened now,” countered Jamison.
“Which means he must have had a really compelling reason,” retorted Decker. “And we have to find out what that was.”
He headed out.
“Where are you going, Decker?” Jamison called after him.
“To get a cup of coffee.”
*
The coffee shop that Dabney had visited before killing Berkshire was just down the street from the FBI building. It was part of a chain and the interior was open, light-filled, and furnished with comfy chairs and tables where people could work. Power-charging stations were dotted along the walls.
Decker and Jamison walked up to the counter—Bogart had stayed behind to talk to the medical examiner and to make some phone calls—and Decker flashed his FBI creds to the young woman working there. She was in her early twenties, with brown hair tied back with an elastic band. She had on white pants and a black polo with the store’s logo. Round glasses fronted her face.
After ordering coffee Decker said, “Did you work yesterday?”
The woman nodded.
Decker held up a photo of Walter Dabney. “Street cameras confirm that he entered here at ten o’clock and left about fifty minutes later.”
“Is he the guy who shot the woman? I saw it on the news.”
“He is. Did you see him here? Did you take his order?”
“Both.”
“What did he have?”
The woman thought a moment. “Hot tea and a blackberry scone. At least I think. I serve a lot of food and drinks during the course of a day.”
“How did he appear to you? Nervous?”
“Not particularly, no. He seemed, well, normal.”
“Where did he sit?”
She pointed at a table over by the front window.
Decker looked around the space and memorized the location of all the tables. “Was the place full when he came in?”
“No, the morning rush was over by then. There were maybe two tables occupied.”
“Which ones?”
She pointed them out. They were near the counter.
Decker said, “Did you notice whether anyone came over to him? Spoke with him?”
“I was fairly busy with some inventory work, so I can’t say for sure. I remember I looked over once and he was just sitting there alone staring out the window.”