Текст книги "Memory Man"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter

29

WHILE LANCASTER HURRIED off to alert her colleagues to this new development, Decker slipped back down into the passageway and reached the bottom of the stairs.

So if the shooter hadn’t gone back down this passage and escaped via the cafeteria or gone out the front or rear doors, where someone surely would have seen him, then where did he go? The school had been searched, including the unused upper floors, and nothing had been discovered. The police hadn’t known about this passageway, of course, and thus it had not been searched. But the guy was not down here now. He had walked down the stairs from the shop class storage area and gone…where?

Decker hit the area all around the bottom of the stairs with his flashlight.

There were two blank walls on either side of the stairs. There was no dust here and thus the shoeprints had ended at the bottom of the stairs.

He looked at this spot again. But why was there no dust here when it was everywhere else? Had someone cleaned it away? If so, why? He could think of at least one reason.

It was something someone had said to him.

It had been a very recent statement.

Beth Watson.

She was packing up to leave her husband. Her husband’s grandfather had told her about the passageway. But she also said something else that Simon had told her.

He didn’t build it originally. He just added to it.

Decker stepped closer to the wall on the right and hit the surface from all angles with his light.

Nothing.

He did the same on the left.

Something.

A slight seam where the wall met the stairs. He dug his fingers into this gap and pulled. And the wall opened on hinges, smoothly and without noise, just like the fake wall back in the cafeteria. It had been recently used.

Decker was peering down a long, dark hall.

The air in here was stale and musty as well. But not overly so, which meant fresh air was getting in somehow, somewhere. He moved down the passage, his light hitting the dirty concrete floor. There were the shoeprints, again size nine or so. He took pictures of them with his cell phone camera.

He stopped when he saw the door. Leaning next to this door and against the wall were sections of plywood with bent nails protruding from them. Like back in the cafeteria. They had been used to seal off this end of the passage, but someone had unsealed it.

The shooter.

He pulled his gun, touched the wood of the door, and eased it open. He shone his light ahead. He could hear water dripping, the scurry of what he assumed were rats, and the beating of his own heart.

Decker was a brave man, because you did not go into his line of work without being braver than average. But he was also scared, because you did not go into his line of work, or at least survive very long in it, without a commonsensical understanding of your own mortality.

He moved ahead. The floor sloped upward after a hundred feet. Then he reached a set of steps. He took them up, trying to keep as quiet as possible. There was another door at the top. It was locked. He tried his lock pick. It didn’t work.

He tried his shoulder with over three hundred and fifty pounds of bulk behind it.

That did work.

He came out into semidarkness and looked around. The room he was in was large, with windows set up high. There was the smell of grease and oil, and as he looked around he saw the skeletons of vehicles scattered here and there.

They were old abandoned Army vehicles. Because he was now standing in one of the buildings of the long-closed McDonald Army Base.

A passage connecting a school with an Army base?

But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Lots of kids who went to Mansfield back then had parents who worked at the base. In the event of an emergency, what better place for the kids than either in the “bombproof” shelter underneath the school or at the base with their parents? Or maybe the underground shelter was designed to hold both base personnel and the school kids. Whatever the truth, it was also a fact that it had long since been forgotten about. And it was probably never even used.

But he corrected himself. It had been used recently, so it was not forgotten.

The shooter had exited this way; of that he was now certain. The base was a large place to search, and it had been abandoned for years. No witnesses to see anything. Everything was in disrepair and only a chain-link fence overgrown with vines and bushes and trees around the perimeter. Easy to make one’s escape completely unseen.

As Decker shone his light around he could see discarded beer cans and liquor bottles, empty condom packs, and cigarette butts littering the floor. The place was a forensic nightmare. There were probably hundreds of DNA samples down there, most of them from bored teens looking for sex, booze, nicotine—his light hit on a discarded syringe and a rubber hose to pop blood vessels—or something stronger.

But he doubted any of them knew that there was a passage connecting the base to the school. Even if they had explored the place, they would have encountered a locked door. If they had managed to get through that, they would run into a blank wall. End of exploring. And this would be a summer hangout place. Now that it was nearing winter, the unheated space was freezing. Their shooter would not have needed to worry about running into teenagers screwing and boozing here while he planned his massacre.

He walked around the place and found nothing and no one.

He pulled his phone and called the Watsons’ house. George answered. Decker wondered if Beth was already gone for good.

“Hello, who is this?” Watson wasn’t slurring his words. Maybe he’d slept it off.

“Mr. Watson, Detective Decker again.”

“What do you want?” he asked, clearly annoyed.

“Just a quick question. Had Debbie been spending a lot of time after hours at school, or maybe in the morning before classes started?”

“How the hell did you know that? How the hell do you know so much about my family?”

“Just a guess. But I am a detective. It’s what I do. And your wife mentioned that she was home a lot more than Debbie. So I assumed she was doing something after school. So what exactly was she doing?”

“She belonged to some clubs. They had meetings. Sometimes they ran late. She wouldn’t get home until well past dark. Why, is that important?”

“It might be. Thanks.”

Decker clicked off. He knew Debbie Watson was not going to club meetings. She was hooking up with “Jesus” in their private space.

He next called Lancaster and told her what he’d found.

He put his phone away, sat down on an oil drum, and waited with his eyes closed. He figured he would not have to wait long. He had left the door in the wall open.

He heard the footsteps coming. One would have made him open his eyes. This was about a dozen. So he kept his eyes closed. A killer came alone, not with an army.

He opened his eyes and saw Special Agent Bogart standing there.

“Another educated guess?” asked the man.

“Another educated guess,” replied Decker.

Behind Bogart was a group of FBI agents and members of the Burlington Police Department. Lancaster stepped forward.

“I called Mac, he’s on his way,” she reported, and Decker nodded slowly.

“How did you figure this?” Bogart asked Decker.

Decker gave him the two-minute drill on his deductions.

“If you had briefed us on your meeting with Beth Watson, we might have been able to help you on this,” Bogart pointed out. “We might have gotten here sooner.”

“We might have,” agreed Decker.

Bogart ordered a search of the place and the perimeter and then pulled up an old wooden bench and sat down next to Decker while Lancaster hovered nearby.

“So the shooter befriended Debbie Watson, found out about this link with the school, and used it to get away?” said Bogart.

“He used it to both get in and get away. With the passage he could come and go as he pleased. He seduced her. He’s a grown man. She’s an impressionable teenager with not the best of home lives. They must’ve had a bunch of trysts here that no one else knew about. She must have felt really special. Right up until he discharged a shotgun in her face.”

“We’ll contact the Army and get all we can on the base.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.”

“I’m surprised no one knew about this passage,” said Bogart. “Other than the Watsons.”

“Well, if it was originally built in 1946 or close to it, most of those folks would be dead. I doubt they would have told the kids about it, so only the school officials would have known. Maybe it was never used. Maybe they never even had a practice drill. I don’t know. Even if they did, the students from back then would be fairly elderly now. Maybe they forgot about it.”

“But you said Simon Watson had added to the passageway?”

“He came to McDonald in the late sixties, and sometime after that the passage from the base was put in. But when the base was closed everybody left. Lots of people who worked here in uniform were probably transferred to other places.”

Lancaster interjected, “And even if there were folks left here who knew about the passage, I doubt they’d think about a killer using it to move around the school. They’d assume it was sealed up after all this time. The public probably believes he shot up the place and made a run for it and got away.”

Bogart nodded. “But he could have gotten into the school more easily from this way, meaning the Army base end. But he apparently was in the cafeteria and traversed the school that way. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Decker. “We thought it might be to allow him time to cut through the wall sealing off the door behind the sign in the cafeteria. But now since I believe he’s been in and out of here a lot, he could have done that any time. And he probably wouldn’t have waited until the night before the planned attack, in case something went wrong.” He paused. “So, bottom line, I don’t know.”

“I thought you had all the answers.”

“Then you thought wrong.”

Bogart considered him thoughtfully. “You really don’t forget anything, do you?” Decker didn’t look at him. Bogart drew closer and said in a low voice that only Decker could hear, “What makes you tick, Decker? What do you have up in your head that allows you to do what you do?”

Decker didn’t acknowledge that he had heard the comment.

“You always tune out like this when someone is trying to have a conversation?” Bogart asked.

“My social skills aren’t the best,” said Decker. “I told you that already.”

“But you can walk and chew gum at the same time. So if you have some special mental ability, it hasn’t affected your capacity to function out in the world.”

Now Decker looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

Bogart said, “My older brother has a form of autism. Brilliant in his field. Positively clueless in interacting with another human being. He can’t carry on a conversation beyond a few mumbled words. And he’s actually considered high-functioning because he can work at a job.”

“What’s his field?”

“Physics. Subatomic particles more specifically. He can expound all day about quarks, leptons, and gauge bosons. But he forgets to eat and has no idea how to book a plane ticket or pay the electric bill.”

Decker nodded. “I get that.”

“You seem to do okay, though.”

“It’s all degrees, Special Agent Bogart.”

“You been this way since birth?”

“Later,” Decker said tersely. “Which might be why I can walk and chew gum at the same time,” he added in a tight voice before looking away.

Bogart nodded. “You don’t want to talk about this, do you?”

“Would you?”

Bogart rubbed his hands along his thighs. “We need to get this guy. And we have one thing that we haven’t really broached yet.”

Decker looked at him. “His thing with me.”

Bogart nodded. “He’s sent you two messages. One coded, one not. That was a risk for him. He had to go back to the house where he committed the murders of your family to write one of the messages. Someone could have seen him. And he went to Debbie’s house. Again, with the risk of being seen. Now, anyone who kills is a risk-taker, by definition. But like you said, it’s a matter of degrees. A killer like this may not want to be caught. So he will minimize his risk. But that was outweighed by his desire to communicate with you. That’s important. Because it makes me believe that he feels he has a connection with you somehow that is very strong, very deep.”

Decker fixed his gaze on the other man. “You were at Quantico? BAU?”

“Behavioral Analysis Unit, yes. I was what the movie and TV folks would call a profiler. And I was pretty good at it.”

“There are no profilers in the FBI.”

“You’re right. Technically, we’re referred to as analysts. And sometimes we’re right and sometimes we’re wrong. Some say psychological profiling lacks empirical validation, and they may be right. But I don’t really care. All I care about is catching the bad guys before they can hurt someone else, and I’ll use whatever tools I have at my disposal to do so.” He peered more closely at Decker. “And I’m considering you to be one of those tools.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning that I’d like you to work more closely with us. Together we may be able to make headway.”

Decker looked over at Lancaster, who had clearly heard this last exchange.

Decker rose. “I’ve already got a partner. But we break anything we’ll let you know.”

He walked off. Lancaster waited for a moment, flicked Bogart a tight smile, and scurried after Decker.

Special Agent Bogart remained sitting, staring after them both.

Chapter

30

DECKER OPENED HIS eyes. He was lying in bed, but sleep was elusive. It was raining outside his room at the Residence Inn. This time of year—as fall hunkered down before giving way fully to winter—was always loaded with rain, usually with strong winds that beat the moisture right into your brain.

A size nine shoe. They had confirmed the size. On a guy six-two, two hundred or more pounds, with shoulders as wide as his. He closed his eyes and his mind whirred back to the image on the camera. But it only showed the man from the waist up. Decker now was sure that was intentional. Waist up. He had also walked in front of the camera in a way that was designed to hide how he had actually come into the school. Not from the rear doors, but from the cafeteria via an underground passage.

Yet Decker had seen something that didn’t make sense; he just wasn’t sure what or where. He never forgot anything, but that didn’t mean everything was always placed in the proper context opposite either a complementary or conflicting fact.

He was just starting to do that when he heard the noise outside his door.

The Residence Inn was set up so that each room opened directly to the outdoors. Decker was on the second story. A catwalk with a wrought iron railing formed the exterior of this floor, with stairs down at each end to the parking lot.

The noise came again. A scraping, it seemed, against the wall outside his door. The rooms on either side of his were empty. The first floor of the inn was mostly full. He sat up in bed and looked at the door. He reached out and his fingers closed around his gun, which he kept on the nightstand.

He chambered a round, moving the slide slowly so the sound of it moving back and forth was diminished. He threw off the covers, pulled on his pants, slipped his phone into his pocket, and skittered over to the door in his bare feet.

He stood to the right of the door, his gun held down with both hands. He listened. There it was again. The scrape.

Something was out there. Maybe someone was out there.

He would do this as he had many busts as a cop. Except in reverse. Going out the door instead of in. He slipped off the security chain, stood to the side, gripped the knob, counted to three in his head, and threw the door open. He catapulted through the opening, swinging his gun first left then right.

He stopped and stared up at her. She had been hung on the bracket supporting the exterior light. Her feet hitting against the side of the wall were the source of the scraping he’d heard.

He checked her pulse at the carotid, but did so only mechanically. She was dead, her eyes open, glassed over and fixed in a way the living could never achieve.

FBI Special Agent Lafferty had written down her last note.

He looked over her body but could find no obvious signs of how she had died.

Then he turned and ran down the catwalk, reached the stairs, and hurtled down them. She couldn’t have been up there long. Whoever had done it might still be around. He pulled his phone and dialed 911. He told the dispatcher everything she needed to know in three succinct sentences. Then he called Lancaster. She answered on the fourth ring. It was three in the morning. She had no doubt been asleep. After his first sentence she was wide awake. After his second he could hear her fumbling for her clothes. He put his phone away and sprinted around the parking lot in front of the Residence Inn. He was looking and listening. Any vehicles starting up. Any feet running away.

He heard neither, only his own tortured breath. He stopped and bent over, trying to refill his lungs. He felt himself shaking, his stomach churning. When he looked up he saw them. The army of threes was charging him, knives raised, ready to kill. He knew they were not real, but this night the terror seized him, like it had the first time he had seen them.

He bent farther over and threw up on the asphalt, the sick splashing onto his bare and now frozen feet.

When he straightened he heard the first siren, and the army of threes seemed to dissolve with the sound. A minute later the first siren was joined by another. He walked unsteadily back up the steps to his room. He leaned against the catwalk railing facing Lafferty’s body. He wanted to close her eyes, lift her off the bracket and set her gently down on the concrete with her hands folded across her stomach. Peaceful. As if he could ever make violent death so. He certainly couldn’t do it for his family.

But he could do none of those things without corrupting the crime scene. So he just stood there. When the patrol cars lurched to a stop in the parking lot he slipped into his room and put his gun back in the nightstand. By the time he got back outside the officers had sprinted up the steps and come to a stop a few feet away.

Decker held up his lanyard. He didn’t recognize either patrolman and didn’t want them to think the wrong thing.

“Amos Decker. I’m the one who called it in. Detective Lancaster is on her way.”

The cops had their guns drawn and were scrutinizing him closely. One drew near to him and checked out his lanyard.

He said to his buddy, “I saw him at the school with the detectives yesterday. It’s okay.”

The cops holstered their weapons and stared up at the dead Lafferty.

“She’s FBI special agent Lafferty,” said Decker. “You might have seen her at the school too.”

Both cops shook their heads, but the first one said, “Shit, a Fed? How’d she die?”

“I don’t know. Nothing obvious that you can see.”

“Okay.”

Decker stepped back from the body. “Not telling you anything you don’t know, but I was a cop for twenty years. You should go ahead and secure the crime scene and call in the forensics team and the ME. I’m sure Detective Lancaster will also alert the proper people, but it’s a Fed like you said, and you need to follow the book tight on this one.”

The first cop said, “Good advice. I’ll phone it in.”

The other cop said, “I’ll get the perimeter tape.”

Decker pointed to the open door. “This is my room. I heard a noise and came outside to check. That’s when I saw her. I went down to the parking lot. But I saw no one. Didn’t hear a vehicle either. Or anyone running away. And the puke down in the parking lot belongs to me. I’m not used to running that fast or far anymore.”

“Okay, Mr. Decker. I’d like you to go inside your room. I’m sure Detective Lancaster will see you when she gets here.” He stared up at the body and suddenly looked uncertain. “We’re sure she’s dead?”

“No pulse. I checked. And she’s already cold. Been dead a while.”

Decker went inside his room, closed the door, went to the bathroom, washed his face and his feet, put on his shoes, sat on his bed, and waited.

He knew where Lancaster lived. He figured thirty minutes or so tops. Ten minutes later he heard activity start up outside his door.

Eighteen minutes after that there was a knock on his door. He opened it and there she was.

He looked past her. The body was on the concrete on top of a sheet designed to collect any and all trace evidence. A tech team was swarming the small area, taking pictures and measurements and looking for evidence in all the obvious places.

The ME, a small, bearded man in his sixties, was kneeling next to Lafferty. After doing his TOD test he looked up at Lancaster.

“She’s been dead about three hours.”

Decker said, “Puts her death at about half past midnight.”

“Cause of death?” asked Lancaster.

The ME lifted up her blouse. Underneath was a single stab wound.

“Up and in,” he said. “Right to the heart. Dead almost immediately. She obviously bled out somewhere else. But there wouldn’t have been much external bleeding. The knife pierced the heart. It would have stopped pumping.”

Something occurred to Decker. He said, “Did you check her genital area? Anything there?” Lancaster gave him a sharp glance and then looked at the ME.

The look on the ME’s face gave Decker the answer. He showed them the spot. “The killer used a very rough knife to do the mutilation.”

Lancaster looked at Decker. “Like before. With…”

Decker said, “Yeah. Like before.”

Three black SUVs pulled into the parking lot.

“Here come the Feds,” said Lancaster nervously. “I called them on the way over.”

Bogart headed the pack, taking the steps two at a time. His hair was disheveled and he was dressed in jeans and a pullover with canvas boaters on his feet and no socks. The men behind him were similarly dressed but wore their blue FBI windbreakers.

Bogart walked directly over to the body and looked down. Then he rubbed his eyes, then his chin, and looked away, over the railing at the darkness beyond.

Decker heard him mutter, “Shit.”

Then the FBI agent turned to them. “What do we know so far?”

Lancaster told him the time and cause of death. And also about the mutilation the ME had discovered.

“You see or hear anything?” asked an ashen-faced Bogart as he looked at Decker.

Decker told him what he knew. He added, “I was half-asleep. The scraping noise could have been going on for a while before I heard it.”

Lancaster said, “Do you know her movements this evening?”

Bogart didn’t seem to hear her.

Decker added, “If we can pinpoint her movements we might be able to get a lead on whoever did this.”

“I know that!” snapped Bogart.

Lancaster said, “We know this is extremely difficult, Agent Bogart—”

Decker cut her off. “But you know better than most that the sooner we get a lead the better our chances are. And the reverse is also true.”

Bogart glanced once more at Lafferty and motioned them down the stairs.

They climbed into one of the black SUVs, Bogart in front and Lancaster and Decker in the back. Bogart drank down a small bottle of water that was sitting in the front console, wiped his mouth with his hand, and turned to look at them.

“Lafferty was a good agent. A protégée of mine, in fact. Not just a note taker,” he added with a sharp glance at Decker, who said nothing in reply.

Bogart sat back, let out a long breath, and said, “I’ve never lost an agent. It’s difficult to process.”

“I’m sure,” said Lancaster.

“But her whereabouts?” said Decker. “Were you all staying at the same place?”

“Yes. The Century Hotel.”

“Were you all on the same floor?”

“No, we were spread over three separate floors. But Lafferty was next door to another agent.”

“When was the last time anyone saw her?” asked Lancaster.

“I asked everyone that on the way over. It looks like nine-thirty. She was working in Agent Darrow’s room going over some files. She said good night and went back to her room.”

“But do we know that she actually went to her room?” asked Decker.

“As a matter of fact she mentioned to Darrow that she was running out for some things she needed.”

“Did she say what and where?”

“From what she said, he thought it might be stuff at a pharmacy. I don’t think it was the first time she’d done it. We were called out on this pretty fast. Agents don’t have a lot of time to prepare.”

“So she’d gone to get things before?” said Lancaster. “Maybe from the same place?”

“Right. Just travel stuff, probably,” said Bogart, staring out the window, his mind evidently a long way away.

Decker sat back, closed his eyes, and thought for a moment. “There’s an all-night pharmacy two blocks over from the Century. That’s where I would go to pick up stuff I’d need while traveling. And it has video cameras in the parking lot.”

“Well, let’s go see if it shows anything,” said Bogart.

The drive only took about twenty minutes at that time of the morning and with Bogart exceeding all posted speed limits. It was not yet 4 a.m. and thus Burlington was still very much asleep. Traffic was scant, pedestrians nonexistent.

There were two people in the open-all-night pharmacy. One was behind bulletproof glass with the cash register, the other was stocking deodorant on a shelf. Both had been on duty since 8 p.m. Bogart showed the photograph of Lafferty and asked if either employee had seen her.

“I haven’t seen her tonight. But she came in the night before.”

Decker said, “Which means she might not have made it here.”

They asked for and were given the DVD from the surveillance cameras for the parking lot.

“She would have walked here,” said Decker. “It’s too close to drive.”

“And none of our vehicles are missing,” said Bogart.

They loaded the DVD into a laptop Bogart had in the SUV. There was a time stamp on the feed and Bogart fast-forwarded to right before 9:30. The frames ran as they all huddled around the screen watching intently. When they got to 9:58, Decker saw it.

“That’s her.”

Lafferty had emerged from an alley next to the pharmacy. She had taken two steps when she was abruptly pulled back into the alley.

“Run it again and slow it down,” said Decker.

Bogart did so, playing through the scene five more times and enlarging the images as much as he could on the small screen.

Decker stared at the screen intently, every pixel being memorized and placed in his head. “Can’t see who it is.”

“We can try to enlarge the shots,” said Bogart. “My guys can work wonders.”

“He knew the camera was there,” said Decker. “Just like at the school. He didn’t want to be seen. At least certain parts of him.”

“How did he overpower her so quickly?” said Bogart. “Lafferty was no weakling.”

Decker said, “There was a gloved hand at her throat. There might have been something in it. She seemed to go stiff pretty quickly. I think he injected her with a paralytic.”

“Blood test on her body will confirm that,” said Lancaster.

“So nine-fifty-eight she was taken,” said Decker.

“But her TOD was around midnight,” noted Lancaster.

“Which means they had her for two hours before they killed her,” completed Decker.

Bogart looked strained. “You said she was mutilated. Do you think they did anything else to her?”

Decker shook his head. “My wife was not raped. But she was mutilated. In that same…area,” he added.

“So what is this about?” asked Bogart. “Why do that? It makes no sense.”

“When I asked Leopold if he’d done anything else to my wife he didn’t answer. Now, the mutilation was never made public. He could only know about it if he was there, which we know he wasn’t. But someone who was there could have told him about it. But since he didn’t answer, I don’t know if he didn’t know or just didn’t want to tell me. Either way, he’s still a suspect.”

Bogart rubbed his face. “What else?”

“They had her for two hours. Probably some of that time she was conscious before they killed her.”

“What would they do to her?” asked Lancaster.

“Try to find out in which direction the investigation is going,” said Bogart.

Decker nodded at this. “They would want to know what we know. If we’d gotten to certain points or not.”

“Well, Lafferty would tell them nothing,” Bogart said sharply.

“No one is invulnerable to interrogation, depending on the tactics they use,” said Decker. “She may have talked, against her will. Regardless, to be safe, we should assume they now know what we know. Principally, that we found the underground passage.”

Bogart looked at the frozen screen, at the hand around his colleague’s neck. “But how could she not know the guy was following her?” he said. “He must have been right behind her.”

Lancaster said, “He could have been hiding in the alley.”

Bogart shook his head. “What, waiting for her to come along? How would he even know she was going to the pharmacy?”

“He could have been waiting and watching and followed her when she came out. She’d been to the pharmacy before at least once. Maybe they knew this somehow and saw an opportunity if she went there again. And she could have known he was there but for some reason didn’t feel threatened,” added Decker.

“Not feel threatened?” exclaimed Bogart. “A dark alley? A murderer running around? How would she not be on her guard?”

“She might not feel threatened if it was someone she had no reason to suspect,” elaborated Decker.

Bogart’s face turned crimson and his features ugly. “Are you accusing me or one of my men of her murder?” he snapped. “Because she doesn’t know anyone else in this shithole!”

“Not my point really,” said Decker calmly.

Bogart pointed a finger in Decker’s face. “She was left at your doorstep. Maybe you killed her, you son of a bitch!”

Decker’s face remained impassive and his words slow and deliberate. “And left her on my doorstep to incriminate myself? And then called the cops while I just sat there? If I really did something that stupid I could beat the rap on an insanity plea.”

Bogart looked like he wanted to punch Decker, but then he mastered his emotions and looked away.

Lancaster said, “Amos, do you mean someone in uniform? A cop? She wouldn’t suspect someone like that?”

“Yes,” said Decker. “That’s exactly what I meant.”