EORGE WATSON ANSWERED their knock. He looked disheveled and there was a yellow and purplish bruise on his right cheek.

“Are you okay?” asked Lancaster.

Watson leaned against the doorjamb seemingly more for support than anything else. “I’m f-fine. My…my w-wife i-is leavin’ me, but I’m f-fine. Hell, why w-wouldn’t I b-be?”

Decker drew a foot closer and sniffed while Lancaster held Watson’s gaze.

Decker looked at her and nodded his head slightly. They had done this same routine when they had been partners. A nod for drunk, a shake of the head for sober or near enough to it. Actually, he hadn’t needed to do the smell test. The man’s slurred speech, inability to stand without aid of a wall, and blurry eyes were signs enough.

“Is your wife here?” asked Decker.

George pointed inside the house. “P-packin’. Th-the b-bitch!”

“These are very tough times for you both,” commented Decker.

“Lo-lost my little girl and…and n-now my wife. But you kn-know w-what?”

“No sir, what?” asked Decker.

“Screw ’em.” He waggled his deformed arm. “S-screw ’em.”

“You might want to lie down, sir,” said Lancaster. “And lay off the drink.”

George looked affronted. “I…haven’t b-been drinkin’.” He let out a loud belch and looked like he might be sick.

“Good to know. But you need to sleep it off anyway.”

Decker took the man’s good arm and guided him into the front room and over to the couch. “Just have a lie-down right there while we have a word with your wife.”

As George sank down onto the couch he said, “She’s n-not m-my w-wife. Not an-any-anymore. B-b-bitch!”

He closed his eyes and grew silent except for his breathing.

Decker led Lancaster down the hall and to a door behind which they heard noise.

Decker rapped on the wood. “Mrs. Watson?”

They heard something fall and hit the floor. “Who’s there?” Beth Watson barked.

“Police,” said Lancaster.

Beth Watson screamed, “That little son of a bitch called the police? Just because I hit him? Well, he hit me first, the one-armed prick.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about your daughter.”

The door was wrenched open and Beth Watson stood there in heels and a white slip and nothing else. Her pale flesh seemed even paler with that backdrop. The skin around her arms was sagging. One of her cheeks was red and swollen. Decker did not have to take a step closer to sniff out her sobriety status. But apparently, she could be drunk, stand erectly, and talk coherently at the same time. At least she hoped she was coherent.

“What about her?” Beth demanded.

“I asked your husband when we were here last time about his grandfather.”

Her brows knitted in confusion. “Simon? Why?”

“He worked at McDonald Army Base before he retired?”

“That’s right. So what? He’s been dead for years.”

“But he lived here with you and your husband. And Debbie.”

“Yeah, again, so what?” Unlike her husband, Beth didn’t find it necessary to lean against the doorjamb to steady herself. She obviously handled the booze better than her husband. Perhaps she had more practice, Decker thought.

“Did he ever talk to you about his work there?” he asked.

“He was at the age where he only talked about the past. World War II. The Korean War. Working for the government. Blah-blah-blah. All day and all night. Sickening after a while. Who the hell wants to live in the past?”

She pushed past Decker and shouted down the hall. “Who the hell wants to live in the past, George? Not me! I’m all about the future now! My future! The past can kiss my ass. You can kiss my ass, you ball-less cripple!”

Decker used his massive arm to gently guide her back into the room.

“Did he ever mention to you any work done at Mansfield?” he asked.

The woman’s eyes seemed to wobble in their sockets. “At Mansfield? He didn’t work at Mansfield. He was at theArmy base.”

“Right. But the base and the school are right next to each other.”

She snagged a pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and lit up. She exhaled smoke and glared at Decker. “I don’t see what that has to do with a damn thing.”

“The school was built right at the start of the Cold War, shortly after World War II ended. People all over the country were putting bomb shelters in their backyards. Well, folks were doing that in buildings too, including schools. Bombproof shelters under them.”

A hint of remembrance came into the woman’s eyes.

“Wait a minute. A long time ago Simon did say something about…about a whatchamajigger at Mansfield. He didn’t build it originally. He just added to it. I’d forgotten all about it.”

“What whatchamajigger are we exactly talking about here?” asked Lancaster pointedly.

Beth pointed at Decker. “Like what he said. A place, a safe place under the school in case the Russians attacked us.”

“Soviets,” corrected Decker. “But close enough. Did he tell you anything about it? Like where it was located?”

“No, nothing like that. It was never used, apparently. And then I guess it got sealed up or something because they didn’t want anyone sneaking down there. You know, high schoolers are full of hormones. You could only imagine what would go on down there.” She paused and said in a low voice, “Orgies.” Then she giggled and hiccuped. “If I’d known about it when I went to school there, I’d been the first one doing it.”

Then she screamed down the hall, “Orgies, you prick. That’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow! Orgies with other men! Lots of ’em!”

Decker once more guided her back into the bedroom.

“So a shelter is down there. Fortunate for us that you remembered that,” noted Lancaster with a sideways glance at Decker.

Beth gave a lopsided smile. “Actually, my memory sucks. But I remember Simon was talking to me about it while I was making dinner one night. Funny, I never listened to the old fart, and, like I said, my memory is so bad. I never remember birthdays, shit like that. But I was making German chocolate cake when he was telling me about it. Only time I ever tried it. And I guess that’s what triggered it.”

“What triggered what?” asked a confused Lancaster.

“German chocolate cake. See, Germans and the Russians. They were in Germany, right? I mean the Russians.”

“That’s right,” said Decker. “They were. At least half of it.”

She smiled. “Weird how the brain works.”

“Tell me about it,” said Decker. “Did Simon have any friends in town who might still be around and who might know about this underground place?”

“Not that he ever mentioned. I mean, he was over ninety when he died. Now he’d be close to a hundred. They’re all dead, right?” She added quietly, “Like my Debbie.”

There was an awkward silence until Decker said, “If you remember anything else, please give Detective Lancaster here a call. It’s important. We want to find who did this. Who did this to…Debbie.”

“You still think she was…was in cahoots with whoever did this?”

“No, I really don’t.”

The woman’s lips trembled. “Debbie was a good kid.”

“I’m sure she was, which makes it even more important that we find out who did this.”

Lancaster glanced at the partially packed suitcase. “Look, it’s none of my business, but do you think you should be making that sort of drastic change right after losing your daughter? It might be better for you and your husband to get through this together and then you can make some decisions. Knee-jerk tends to come back to bite you in the butt.”

Beth looked at her cross-eyed. “I wanted to leave two years ago, but I stayed for Debbie’s sake. Well, Debbie’s not here anymore. So I’m not wasting another second of my life in this fucking place. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish packing so I can get the hell out of here.”

She slammed the bedroom door in their faces.

“So much for ‘for better or worse,’” said Lancaster.

“For some people, the longer the marriage, the worse it gets,” said Decker. “But at least we know my theory might work out. Simon did know about something at the school. An underground shelter.”

“So now what do we do?” asked Lancaster.

“Let’s go outside. You can smoke a cigarette and I can make some phone calls.”

“You know I can quit anytime I want.”

He stared at her. “No you can’t, Mary. You’re addicted to nicotine.”

“I was making a joke. Damn, do you have to take everything so literally?”

But Decker was already on his cell.

It took three phone calls and being passed from one person to the next before Decker found someone who sort of knew what he was talking about. He patiently explained who he was and what he wanted.

“Mansfield,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “Where the mass shooting took place?”

“That’s right,” said Decker. “We’re trying to figure out how the killer got in and out. Since it was so close to McDonald Army Base, we thought there might be something there. Turns out we learned there is an underground passage or facility of some kind. We’d like confirmation of that and also particulars on how to get in there so we don’t have to tear the whole school down looking for it.”

“I’m going to need something in writing on the appropriate letterhead to get this request verified and initiated.”

“Okay, but once verified and initiated, how long will it take? We’re looking for a murderer. Someone who killed a bunch of kids. The longer it goes, the farther away he gets.”

“I wish I could tell you it would be fast. But this is the United States Army. The only place we move fast is on the battlefield. The stuff behind the lines, not so much.”

Decker got the information on where to send the request and clicked off.

He looked over at Lancaster, who had been leaning against the hood of her car all this time and had whittled down not one but three cigarettes while Decker had been playing Whac-A-Mole with the Army.

Lancaster dropped her last smoke and ground it into the asphalt with the heel of her shoe. “And?”

“And we might all be dead of old age before they get back to us.”

“So what now?”

“So it looks like we’ll have to find it ourselves.”