Mom saw my reaction, and immediately backpedaled.
“Jacqueline, I didn’t mean that. It just came out.”
“I’ll be home late.” I walked past her.
“Honey, I’m sorry.”
I ignored her, grabbed my coat, and closed the door a bit louder than necessary.
If the anger didn’t wake me up, the weather did. Cold, with stinging, freezing drizzle that attacked like biting flies.
I left the window cracked on the drive to Cook County Jail, letting the wind numb my face. The cell phone rang, but I ignored it.
Fuller’s polygraph test was set for twenty minutes from now, and I needed to mentally prepare for seeing him again.
CHAPTER 30
Fuller works the staple under the nail of his big toe, digging it in deep.
There’s very little blood, but the pain is electric.
With a quarter inch of metal left protruding, he puts on his sock and shoe.
It’s lying time.
The guards come to get him, go through the ritual of putting on the restraints. Fuller’s head hurts, but he doesn’t ask for aspirin. A pain reliever wouldn’t be in his best interests at this time.
They march him past other cells. Some cajole him, call out insults. He ignores them, staying focused on the task ahead.
The room is the same as before. Steel doors. Two chairs. A table, with the lie detector machine on it. Fuller is put in the chair, facing away from the machine.
Two of his doctors come into the room: shrinks, in suits. His lawyer, Eric Garcia, a Hollywood hotshot who seeks out high-profile cases so he can show off his five-thousand-dollar suits on television. The assistant DA, Libby something, who looks particularly tasty today in a pale pink jacket and matching skirt. The examiner, a different guy than before, round and soft and wearing a freaking white lab coat, for god’s sake.
There’s also a pleasant surprise: Jack Daniels and her fat partner, Herb Benedict, who doesn’t seem as fat as he had a few months ago.
“Looking good, Detective Benedict. Diet seems to be working well.”
“Please, Barry, no talking to them.” Garcia pats Fuller on the shoulder.
The polygraph examiner rolls up Fuller’s sleeve, attaches the blood pressure cuff. He puts sticky probes on Fuller’s fingers to measure changes in electrical resistance resulting from sweat, and three elastic bands around his chest to record breathing.
“Ready to begin when you are, Barry,” the examiner says, standing in front of him.
Barry smiles. “Let her rip.”
“We’re going to start by calibrating the machine. I’d like you to pick a card from this deck, and look at it, but don’t tell me what it is. Then I’m going to ask you questions about the card, and I want you to answer no to all of my questions, even if it is a lie.”
He holds out a deck. Barry picks a card, looks at it. A Queen of Diamonds. He smiles again, knowing that the deck is rigged; they’re all Queens of Diamonds. This is to make him believe the machine is infallible, to make him even more nervous.
“Is the card black?”
“No.”
“Is the card red?”
“No.”
“Is the card a face card?”
“No.”
“Is the card a ten?”
“No.”
And on it goes. Fuller acts normally, and doesn’t try to control his body’s responses in the least. When the examiner finally says, “The card is a Queen of Diamonds,” Fuller laughs, genuinely.
“That’s terrific! Better than a magic show.”
“As you can see, Barry, the machine can pick out lies rather easily. If you lie, we’ll catch it.”
“That’s why I’m here. To show I’m telling the truth.”
“We’ll proceed, then. Please answer yes or no to the following questions. Is your name Barry Fuller?”
“Yes.”
“Is the world flat?”
“No.”
“Have you ever stolen something?”
Fuller knows this is a control question, one that sets the bar. The polygraph records the body’s responses to the questions. The examiner understands that being accused about a crime will cause the breathing to increase, the palms to sweat, and the blood pressure to rise. The yes and no answers are irrelevant. The examiner is looking for the four markers on the scrolling piece of paper to jump when the subject is stressed.
So Fuller makes them jump. He curls his big toe, jabbing the staple deeper into the nail. His pain level spikes, his vital signs react, and the markers do their fast squiggle thing.
“No,” he answers.
“Is the White House in Washington, D.C.?”
Fuller eases up on the toe pressure.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember killing Eileen Hutton?”
“No.”
Fuller realizes that his lie causes some spikes, but the spikes won’t be as high as the spikes created by the stealing question, when he caused himself pain. The examiner will have to conclude he’s telling the truth.
Easy as pie. The trick to beating a polygraph isn’t staying calm. It’s knowing when to act stressed.
“Have you ever lied on a job application?”
Control question. Toe pressure.
“No.”
“Is a basketball square?”
Ease up.
“No.”
“Did you remember cutting off Davi McCormick’s arms?”
No toenail pressure.
“No.”
“Have you ever cheated on your income tax?”
Force that staple in.
“No.”
“Do you consider yourself an honest man?”
Another control. The staple feels like an electric wire, juicing him with pain.
“Yes.”
“Did you kill Colin Andrews?”
Release the pressure.
“I don’t remember. I’ve been told I did.”
And so it goes on, for another half an hour. He takes his time. Makes it look good. Lets his body tell the tale.
“Are you faking this amnesia?”
Fuller smiles at Jack. He winks at her.
“No, I’m not.”
“Thank you, Barry. We’re finished here today.”
Garcia walks over. “What were the results?”
“I’ll need time to examine them thoroughly before I can give you my opinion.”
“What’s your preliminary opinion?”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving that. I’ll wait until trial.”
“Go ahead, Adam.” Libby walks up as well. “Tell us your initial impression. No matter what side it falls on, you’ll likely be subpoenaed anyway.”
The plump man takes off his glasses, polishes them on the end of his sweater.
“In twenty years of administering polygraphs, I’ve never seen such a clear-cut case of honesty.”
Fuller has to bite his lower lip to keep from giggling.
“This man is telling the truth. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Fuller’s lawyer laughs, pats him on the shoulder.
Jack’s look is worth a million dollars. Fuller mouths the words “see you soon” at her, and blows her a kiss.
The examiner removes all of the probes and sensors, and everyone begins to file out. Fuller’s lawyer wants a moment with him, and makes the guards wait outside.
“This shouldn’t even go to trial, Barry. The judge should have thrown it out.”
“We’re doing good, right?”
“Good? We’re golden. After the experts testify, there won’t be a doubt in anyone’s mind. You’ll be back on the street in no time.”
“I want to testify.”
Garcia loses the smile.
“You don’t have to say a word, Barry. You can let the evidence speak for you.”
“I want to.”
“I don’t think it’s a wise . . .”
“I don’t care. I have to speak my
piece. It’s important to me.”
Another pat on the shoulder. “I understand, big guy. They’ll be rough on you, but we can prepare you for that.”
“I’ll do fine.”
“I’m sure you will, Barry. I’m sure you will.”
CHAPTER 31
When I left the prison I was shaking, and couldn’t decide if it was from cold, anger, or fear.
Since Benedict and I arrived in separate cars, we didn’t have a chance to touch base after the polygraph. Herb seemed even more distant than yesterday, not carrying our exchange any further than “Good morning.” I back-burnered my problems and confronted Herb when we got back to the station.
“I left Bernice.”
“You left Bernice?”
“Last night. Not that big of an adjustment, really. I’ve been sleeping on the couch for the past month, anyway. At least the Motel 6 has a big bed I can stretch out in, and I’ve got a ‘no nagging’ sign on the door. It’s refreshing, waking up without having to hear all of my problems pointed out to me.”
“Herb, I’m sorry.”
“No need. This was a long time coming, believe me.”
“Are you okay?”
Stupid question. Of course he wasn’t okay.
“Fine. I missed breakfast, though.” He smiled, and it was an unpleasant thing. “First time in twenty-two years. Want to go grab a bite?”
I nodded. Herb drove, recklessly, to a diner on Clark, the kind of place that served pancakes twenty-four hours a day and boasted “fountain creations” on their storefront sign. Nothing on the menu was over six dollars, and our waitress moved so slowly I was tempted to take her pulse. I got two eggs, sunny-side up.
“Comes with toast,” our server yawned.
I shrugged.
Herb ordered a ham and cheddar cheese omelette, with a side of bacon and two sides of sausage, hold the toast.
“This diet is killing me.”
“I bet. I think I can actually hear your arteries harden.”
He leaned in close, conspiratorially.
“It’s the starch. I thought eating all the fatty foods I wanted would be great, but right now I would kill for a sandwich made out of french fries and macaroni.”
“They’ve got that on the menu. It comes with a free angiogram.”
Herb added a ninth packet of artificial sweetener to his coffee and stirred it with his fork.
“How are you doing, Jack?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do. Maybe it will help me take my mind off my problems.”
I gave it to him. He paused, between noshing on fatty meat, to impart this bit of wisdom: “Damn, Jack, you’re a mess.”
I didn’t feel like eating, but I forced the toast down because Herb’s constant staring at it made me edgy.
“Thanks, partner. Misery loves company, I guess.”
“Are you still in love with Alan?”
“I don’t think I ever stopped loving him.”
“Does he want you back?”
“I think so.”
“Do you love Latham?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to have to choose.”
“I know.”
“Who are you going to choose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who do you love more?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to eat your eggs?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least that’s a decision I can help you with.”
Herb did a quick plate-to-plate egg transfer, his fork a stainless steel blur. Apparently, separation hadn’t hurt his appetite.
“What do we do about Fuller?” Yolk clung to his mustache.
I was happy to change the subject.
“I have a plan.”
“Tell.”
“Fuller mentioned to me that he kills to make the headaches go away.”
“I read the medical. The doctors don’t think the tumor is any older than a year or two.”
“Right. But Fuller said he’s always had headaches, his whole life.”
Herb nodded. “So maybe he’s killed before.”
“We dig into his past, try to link him to an old crime.”
“How do we do that?”
“Did you forget? We’re police officers. Skilled professionals who solve crimes for a living.”
“What if there’s no crime to solve?”
“Then we have to find one.”
I picked up the check, and when we got back to the station we went to work. We started with the department’s file on Fuller. On paper, he seemed to be a good cop. Above-average arrest record. Showed up for work. Did well at the police academy, scoring high on all of his tests.
Prior to his law enforcement career, Fuller had been an NFL player. Herb pulled at that thread, while I traced his life back even further. Fuller went to Southern Illinois University, on a football scholarship. Majored in criminology. Minored in psych. Heavy subjects, for a jock.
A look at his four-year curriculum uncovered another interesting tidbit: Fuller was a member of the Drama Club, and had actually played Biff in a campus production of Death of a Salesman.
In the file Libby had put together on Fuller, there were no noteworthy incidents in his college career. He stayed out of trouble. Kept a B average. Apparently, he met Holly in college, and married her a year after graduation.
I wasted fifty cents of the taxpayers’ money on a call to information, and was soon talking to the chief of police in Carbondale, a man named Shelby Duncan. He had a low voice and talked slowly, deliberately.
“During those years we had two unsolveds. One was a townie, sixty-two-year-old male, robbed and beaten to death outside of a 7-11. Another was a student, nineteen-year-old male, fell out a frat house window. BOC was triple the going rate, but the case has been kept open.”
“How about missing persons?”
I heard fingers on a keyboard.
“One hundred and thirty-eight.”
The high number surprised me.
“It that normal?”
“We’re a college town, Lieutenant. Twenty thousand students attend classes every day. Some of them drop out, and don’t tell anyone where they’re going.”
I asked if he could fax me the reports. He did me one better and offered the password to his database so I could peruse them on my own.
Herb leaned over. “What do you got?”
“He studied psychology and criminology in college, and also did some acting. Might come in handy, if you ever wanted to beat a lie detector. I’ve also got over a hundred MP files, which I’ll try to sync up with Fuller’s academic schedule. You?”
“Fuller’s NFL career was mostly spent warming the bench. Constant knee injuries—in fact, his left knee is completely artificial. I’m surprised he could pass the department physical.”
“No missing cheerleaders?”
“I talked to one of the assistant coaches. No problems at all. The guy was a team player, no obvious difficulties. Fuller was disappointed that he couldn’t contribute more. Coach said he was a good guy.”
“Fooled them just like he fooled us.”
Benedict delved into his pocket and came up with a small bag of fried pork rinds. The bag art proudly stated “No Carbs.” I wondered, yet again, what was wrong with the world when pigskin fried in lard was considered a health food.
“So, what now?” Herb asked, showing me what partially masticated hog strips looked like. It wasn’t pretty.
“We get started on this list. You want to take A through L?”
“I guess.”
I gave Benedict the password, and he nodded a good-bye and waddled off to his office.
I hit the computer.
Time passed slowly, as it always did with drudge work. Noon rolled around, and I declined Herb’s offer of a cheezy beef, sans bun. By four o’clock I found a tenuous connection between Fuller and a missing girl named Lucy Weintraub—she’d
been a cheerleader while he was on the football team. But a DMV search found Lucy alive and well and living in Chicago. I got in touch, and she admitted to dropping out of school and going to Florida, which her parents eventually found out about, but didn’t bother informing the Carbondale PD.
Lucy didn’t remember Fuller at all.
I dialed Benedict, and he’d had no luck either. If Fuller had been responsible for any of these missing persons, he didn’t seem to have any clear connection to them.
It was creeping up on five in the evening, but home didn’t seem tempting at the moment. I knew I had to make peace with my mom, but before that I needed to get in touch with my feelings.
I was doing that, unsuccessfully, when the phone rang. The desk sergeant informed me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me.
“Says he’s your husband.”
I felt my pulse jump. Anger, or excitement?
“Can someone escort him up?”
My mirror compact called to me, begging to check my hair and makeup.
I resisted, and read the same line on an arrest report fifteen times until the knock at the door came.
“Hi, Jack.”
I didn’t look up at him, reading the line two more times before answering. Then I gave him my slightly annoyed look.
“What is it, Alan? I’m busy.”
“I wanted to apologize. For last night. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
“I accept your apology. Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
The words hurt. I stayed silent.
“I shouldn’t have come to Chicago. I didn’t mean to intrude on your life. I guess . . . I don’t know . . . I always questioned my decision. Leaving you. I wanted to see you again, to see if I was wrong.”
“Were you wrong?”
His eyes softened. “Yes.”
What do you say to a man whom you cursed ten thousand times, begged the universe to make him understand what a jerk he was, and then he finally agrees with you?
“Have a safe trip back, Alan.”
His eyes got teary. Maybe mine did too.
“Can we be friends, Jack? Stay in touch?”
Don’t play with fire, Jack. You got burned the last time.
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
He chewed his lower lip.
“You know, I never visited you at work, when we were married. Not once.”
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 40