Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “So you opened up the patient’s skull to release the pressure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you also removed the tumor on Barry Fuller’s frontal lobe?”

  “Yes.”

  “How big was that tumor, Doctor?”

  “Approximately forty grams, about two centimeters in width.”

  “Your honor, and members of the jury, I’d like to present defense exhibit F, the tumor removed from Barry Fuller’s head.”

  From the defense table came a glass jar containing a small gray thing floating in formaldehyde. The courtroom did its customary rumbling and the bailiff began to pass the jar around.

  “Is that the tumor you removed from the defendant’s brain, Doctor?”

  “It appears to be. Yes.”

  “And how many of that type of operation have you done? Craniotomies, I believe you called them.”

  “Hundreds.”

  “Have there been any cases where a patient has had a craniotomy to relieve the pressure from an extradural hemorrhage, and later the patient experienced amnesia?”

  “Yes. Almost eighty percent of patients with extradural hemorrhages experience some amnesia. In fact, after operations of this type, it’s necessary to keep a constant watch on a patient in recovery because they usually wake up not knowing where they are or what happened to them.”

  “Have there been instances where the amnesia went back a few days, or even a week?”

  “Yes. And further than that. I had one patient, brought in with a severe extradural hemorrhage caused by a car accident, and he completely forgot the last five years of his life. He didn’t remember that he was married, and didn’t know he had kids.”

  “Did those memories ever return to him?”

  “Bits and pieces returned, but he never regained a significant amount of his memory back.”

  Things weren’t looking good for the home team.

  “How about personality changes? In your esteemed opinion, Dr. Jurczyk, could an intracranial neoplasm of the frontal lobe be sufficient enough to cause such a massive personality change that even murder could result?”

  “Yes, it could.”

  Murmurs from the courtroom. Garcia faced the jury, smug. Libby gave me the briefest of sideways glances.

  “Please elaborate, Doctor.”

  “The frontal lobe is the personality center of the brain. I’ve reviewed dozens of cases where damage to a patient’s frontal lobe, either by an accident or by neoplasms, altered a person’s personality to such a degree that even their own family members no longer recognized them.”

  “Are there any cases where a head trauma was associated with a personality change so dramatic that murder resulted?”

  “There are many. Henry Lee Lucas, the notorious serial murderer who claimed responsibility for over one hundred victims, sustained several severe head injuries as a youth. John Wayne Gacy, Richard Speck, Charles Manson—all had records of serious head injuries.”

  “So it is possible that a normal, upstanding member of society like you or me, if afflicted with a meningioma of the frontal lobe, could undergo such a dramatic personality change that murder may be committed?”

  “Assuming that the part of the brain dealing with morals and values was affected, which is also part of the frontal lobe, yes, it is possible.”

  “And if this person, before the tumor, was a nonviolent and caring individual, is it possible that the tumor could be the sole cause of such a dramatic personality change and the violent episodes that ensued?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if that tumor—the sole cause of this violent behavior—were removed, would the person’s personality then revert back to normal?”

  “In my opinion, yes.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Your witness.”

  Libby stood up but didn’t even bother to move from behind the table.

  “Have you ever, in your professional capacity, Doctor, treated an individual with an intracranial tumor who murdered anyone?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “And as one of the premier brain specialists in the world, have you ever encountered a case in your research where a person with an intracranial tumor murdered anybody?”

  “No.”

  “How many cases have you reviewed, either in person or through research, throughout your career, Doctor?”

  “Several thousand.”

  “Can you speak up, sir?”

  “Several thousand cases.”

  “Several thousand cases, and not one case of murder. No more questions.”

  Garcia passed on the redirect.

  I studied the jurors, and they seemed unconvinced by the cross-examination. Hell, if I didn’t know Fuller was faking it, I would have been unconvinced too. When the world’s leading brain specialist says it’s possible that a tumor could cause someone to kill, you believe it.

  “You may step down, Doctor. And we’ll have an hour break for lunch.” Taylor banged the gavel. “Adjourned.”

  Libby wasn’t happy.

  “Losing this case won’t bode well for my career.” She took my arm as we exited the courtroom. “I got a copy of the tape from Garcia yesterday. He claims it came in the mail, in a plain brown envelope, no return address, no note. Even gave me the envelope. I had it checked. Clean.”

  “I take it the tape didn’t have Fuller’s confession on it?”

  “No. He says what he played in court was all that was on it, but Garcia is a sneaky little bastard, and he didn’t get a name for himself by playing fair and nice with the other children.”

  “Did you get the tape checked?”

  “It’s being checked, but it’s obvious the tapes come from different sources. I played it against the one you made, and the sound quality is completely different. It’s better, and Fuller is louder than you. The mike must have been on his side of the room.”

  “Maybe it was someone from the prison. You know the warden better than I do. Ask him if he’s had any no-shows lately. Guards calling in sick, quitting suddenly, that kind of thing.”

  “I’ll do it today.”

  I switched gears. “I think I’ve got a way to get Rushlo to talk.”

  I gave her the short version. Libby frowned.

  “Not my preferred course of action, but I’ll swing it. Anything to save this sinking ship. I can have the paperwork ready by tomorrow. Cook County jail is right down the street, so we can do this on our lunch break.”

  I smiled, but it didn’t quell the butterflies in my stomach.

  CHAPTER 38

  Herb and I were going through a list of every student who attended classes with Fuller at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, and trying to make connections between them and any of the 137 missing persons from that time. We allocated my floor for the purpose, spreading out files in a big, uneven grid sorted semi-alphabetically. Benedict was on his knees, crossing off possibles, when Libby called.

  “I’ve got a name. Marvin Rohmer. He’s a guard at Division Eleven, been missing for the past week. A look into his personal finances revealed Rohmer has recently opened up eight checking accounts, each with cash amounts ranging from two to six grand. Probably got a large payment from that weasel Garcia.”

  “Spreading it out because banks have to report big cash deposits. Smart.”

  “Yeah, but he called attention to himself anyway by skipping work.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Too late. Rohmer’s a West Side boy, and I got a team to his place before the ink on the warrant dried. He skipped. Didn’t find the tape, but we found a voice-activated recorder with some duct tape still on it. He probably taped it to the ceiling, or under a chair.”

  “Have you checked—”

  “We’re on it, Jack. We’ve frozen his assets, tracked his credit cards, and will soon release his name and description to every cop in the United States and Canada. If we find him, we don’t even need the tape. I’ll cut him a deal, force him to testify.”
r />   “Fax me Rohmer’s file.”

  “It’s already on its way.”

  I shared the info with Herb, and then we spent a few hours on the student records, ordering in a pizza with extra meat. Benedict ate most of it, but avoided the crust, leaving a cardboard box full of saucy white triangles.

  I buried myself in the work. We were creating a big cross-reference grid; we listed all the students Fuller might have known from classes, sports, activities, and fraternities, and then tried to link them to any of the missing persons by doing the same thing. Tedium, and exactly what I needed.

  “Got a possible.” Benedict held up a paper. Not unusual, we’d had a few possibles so far.

  “Name?”

  “Missing person is Melody Stephanopoulos. Student. She had three classes with a kid named Michael Horton, who was on the football team with Fuller.”

  “Horton’s girlfriend?”

  “Could be. She was a science major, Horton was liberal arts, and she took two writing classes and a classics literature class with him, sophomore and junior year. Disappeared during the spring term, as a junior.”

  I looked up Horton in the Carbondale police files, got zilch. Then I called the SIU alumni organization, and spoke with a peppy lady named Missy who was hesitant to help until I gave her my badge number.

  “I found him. Michael Horton is living in Seattle. Says he’s married, a stockbroker, two kids.”

  I wrote down his number and dialed it.

  “This is Michael.”

  “Mr. Horton, this is Lt. Daniels from the Chicago Police Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions—”

  “About Barry, right? I’ve been following it on the news.”

  “Well, sort of. First we wanted to ask you about Melody Stephanopoulos.”

  “Have you found her?” The sentence came out so fast all the words ran together.

  “I’m sorry, no. She was your girlfriend?”

  “Fiancée. She disappeared.”

  “Did Barry know Melody?”

  “Yeah. She didn’t like him. Oh, Jesus, you don’t think . . .”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Horton. We’re trying to establish a connection. Were you and Barry friends?”

  “Sure. We partied a lot together. Coach liked the team to hang out in our free time.”

  “Did Barry ever hang around with Melody, without you there?”

  “Not that I remember. Melody was pretty much glued to my side all the time.”

  “When did she go missing?”

  He paused.

  “We had a fight, at a party. She didn’t like me drinking so much. I told her to lighten up and quit being a nag. She left. That’s the last time I saw her.”

  “Was Barry at the party?”

  “Yeah. It was after the Florida game. Big celebration.”

  “Do you remember if Barry left after Melody?”

  “I wish I could remember, Lieutenant. But I got pretty trashed that night. When I went to Melody’s dorm the next day to apologize, her roommate told me she never came home.”

  Horton spent ten minutes filling me in on his relationship with Melody. He’d loved her deeply, and her loss devastated him. He spent another five giving me personal insights into Fuller, whom he called “a team player, a regular guy.”

  Which is how I would have described Fuller, before I found out about his extracurricular activities.

  When the conversation wound down, he promised to call if he remembered anything else.

  Herb, who’d been on the extension, hung up.

  “Could be a lead. Maybe you can hit Rushlo with it.”

  I looked at my watch. Almost seven in the evening. I yawned. Herb gave me a look of disapproval.

  “Jack, you need to get some rest.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look like a shit sandwich, with extra corn.”

  “That’s sweet. You read that in a Hallmark card?”

  “Go home.”

  “I’m afraid to go home. It’s like walking into a geriatric version of Last Tango in Paris.”

  He frowned.

  “What’s wrong with you lately, Jack?”

  Herb’s voice took on a harsh tone, something that happened once in a leap year.

  “What do you mean, Herb?”

  “You’re not yourself. You’re edgy, short-tempered, and unhappy.”

  “If you’re questioning my competency, Detective, then you’re free to seek other employment opportunities.”

  Herb stood up.

  “Maybe I should put in for reassignment.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, considering you just did the same thing with your marriage.”

  Benedict shot me a very un-Benedict-like stare, and walked out.

  I sat there for a few minutes, trying to get my breathing under control.

  I couldn’t.

  CHAPTER 39

  “Do you know why you are here, Barry?”

  Fuller nodded, doing a damn good impression of a scolded puppy. He wore a dark blue suit with a light blue shirt, which was wrinkled by his slouching.

  “Because I killed some people.” His voice was soft, meek.

  “Do you know why you killed these people, Barry?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t remember killing anyone.”

  “But you’ve watched the proceedings. You know that without a doubt you are the one who murdered these people.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “But you can’t tell us why you did?”

  “I don’t remember why. I don’t remember anything for almost a month before the first murder. It’s like all that time never happened. My God, I’d never . . . I’d never kill anybody. I can’t believe . . .”

  Fuller’s voice cracked. Fountains of tears streamed down his face. His crying became sobbing and he wailed and moaned and Garcia held out a box of tissues and Fuller went through one after another, for almost two minutes.

  “It wasn’t me. I know it wasn’t me. I couldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not, Barry?”

  “Because I’m not a killer. I’m not even violent.”

  “But weren’t you a pro football player? And a police officer? Most people consider those violent professions.”

  “I mostly sat on the bench. Coach didn’t think I had that ‘killer instinct,’ he called it. And I became a cop so I could uphold the law and help people. I had a terrific record, until, oh God . . .”

  More sobbing and more Kleenex. It made my stomach turn.

  “Take your time, Barry. You say you can’t remember any of the murders. What is your last memory, prior to your brain operation?”

  “The last thing I can really remember clearly was getting drunk on my couch after work, trying to make it go away.”

  “Trying to make what go away, Barry?”

  “The pain. In my head.”

  “Your last memory is of a headache?”

  “A terrible headache. I thought my head would explode. Aspirin didn’t help, so I drank a bottle of rum to make the pain stop.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sometime in late spring. May, maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you go to a doctor?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything after that. Maybe I did go to a doctor.”

  “When you woke up in the hospital, after your operation, what was your first thought?”

  “I thought I was in the hospital because I drank too much and fell down some stairs or something.”

  “And how did you react when you were told you’d been shot after murdering your wife?”

  More sobbing. Garcia made a show of getting a second box of tissues from the defense table.

  “I thought it was some sick joke. I still can’t believe it. Everyone is telling me I’ve done horrible things, things I would never do. And all the evidence says I did them. But I can’t remember them. How would you feel if someone said you murdered your wife? Oh my God . . .”

  M
ore crying.

  “Settle down, Barry. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. It will never be okay. Do you know I haven’t slept for more than two hours a night since this began? I should have gone to a doctor, or a shrink, or . . .”

  “Or what, Barry?”

  “Or killed myself. If I had killed myself, all of those people would still be alive.”

  Amen to that, I thought. But a glance at the jury told me they didn’t share my sentiments.

  “Is there anything you’d like to say to the families of those people?” Garcia asked.

  “Yes. Yes there is.”

  Fuller stood up and removed a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He held it tenderly in his hands, as if it were a kitten, but as he spoke he didn’t have to look at it once.

  “I can’t say anything that would justify my taking six lives. I can’t say anything that would make you forgive me. I can only say that I’m, I’m . . .” He began to cry again. “I’m so, so, so sorry. I wish I could remember their deaths, because that would give me something I could use to hate myself even more. I don’t know how any of this happened. My doctors and my attorneys say it was a brain tumor. Maybe that’s the case, because I really don’t know how I could have done all of this, hurt so many people. If I could return any of those lives I took with my own death, I would. Oh God, I would in a second.”

  Fuller stood there, blubbering like a baby, for several minutes. Every time he began to speak the sobbing would take over again. And in a moment that would forever be embedded in my brain, I turned to look at the courtroom, and saw at least eight people dabbing their eyes.

  Two were on the jury.

  “What’s your plan of action?” I whispered to Libby. She had on a double-breasted gray pantsuit with champagne stripes. Emanuel Ungaro, she’d told me earlier. I also wore a gray pantsuit, which I picked up at JCPenney’s for $89.99. I felt like a hobo about to spit-roast a hot dog over some Sterno.

  “No plan.”

  “You’re going to wing it?”

  “I’m not going to cross-examine.”

  “Why not?”

  “So Fuller can spout more lies and gain more audience sympathy? Noel and I can’t look like bullies—you already did more than enough of that. I don’t want to give Fuller’s testimony credence by acknowledging it.”