The Last Mile (Amos Decker, #2)(78)

“Did you think there were problems in the marriage?” asked Jamison.

“Honey, every marriage has problems, and some are better at hiding it than others. But I’d have to say that I have never seen a man who loved his wife more than Roy did Lucinda. He was so gentle with her. When she was pregnant he wouldn’t let her lift a finger. I’d see them from time to time around town. And he would open the car door for her. Hold her hand while they were walking. The only time he looked happy, in fact, was when he was looking at her.” She sighed. “If my hubby looked at me like that just once in my life, I’d keel over from a stroke at the shock.”

“When was her brain cancer diagnosed?” Decker asked.

The nurse sat up in her chair. “Excuse me?”

“Her brain cancer. When was it diagnosed?”

“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.”