Bloody Mary

by J. A. Konrath

  “Funny. What’s wrong with that cat, anyway?”

  “I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. Hold this, here, while I get the rubbing alcohol.”

  Alan moaned, and I went off in search of supplies.

  A liberal splash of Bactine knocked the ardor out of Alan, and he didn’t make another pass at me during the time it took to bandage his ear. I silently thanked Mr. Friskers for the reprieve.

  I suggested watching a movie until my mom woke up, and offered Alan a choice of Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Royal Wedding, the only two videos I owned. While we debated the various merits of each, the phone rang.

  “Jack? Herb. How you feeling?”

  “Better,” I said. And I was. “Calling to check on me?”

  “No. We, uh, need you at the office.”

  “I thought I was still on medical leave.”

  “The leave has been canceled. Direct order from Captain Bains, we need you here yesterday.”

  “What’s this about, Herb?”

  “It’s Fuller.”

  “Gimme twenty minutes.”

  Alan stared at me. I realized this was a micro-encapsulation of our marriage — me getting a phone call and then running to work.

  But we weren’t married anymore, so I had nothing to feel guilty about.

  “There’s an extra set of keys in the little ceramic frog on top of the refrigerator,” I told him. “Tell Mom she can reach me on my cell.”

  I tiptoed into the bedroom and changed into a pantsuit without waking my mother. Rather than fuss with my hair, I tied it back in a short ponytail. I spent all of two minutes on my face, not bothering with foundation or eyeliner.

  Alan was sitting on the sofa, facing a TV that wasn’t on. I picked up my gun from the table and put it in my holster.

  “Be careful.” He didn’t turn his head to look at me.

  “Will you be here when I get back?”

  He met my eyes and cocked his head slightly to the left, as if appraising me.

  “I’ve got a room at the Raphael for a week. I figured I’d look up some friends, visit a few old haunts.”

  I felt something that I realized was relief.

  “I’ll see you soon, then.”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “It might be late.”

  “I’m used to waiting up for you.”

  I nodded, grabbed my London Fog trench coat, and left the apartment.

  Chicago smelled like fall, which is to say the garbage and exhaust fume stench carried a hint of dying leaves. The Windy City was suitably windy, temperature in the mid-fifties, the sidewalks damp from a recent rain.

  There was a powwow waiting for me in my office when I got to the station. Benedict, who was wearing the new Brooks Brothers suit he bought himself as a reward for losing twenty pounds, our boss Captain Bains, and Assistant State’s Attorney Libby Fischer.

  Stephen Bains had been captain of the 2-6 for as long as anyone could remember. He was short, portly, and balding. He combated the latter with a hair weave, which looked realistic except for the fact that it lacked gray, whereas his mustache was practically white.

  Libby Fischer was around my age, and a clotheshorse. She wore a beige Gaultier top with a matching knee-length skirt that probably cost more than I made in a month. A white pearl choker, red Kenneth Cole pumps, and a small red Louis Vuitton bag rounded out her ensemble.

  Libby smiled a lot. If I had her wardrobe, I would have too.

  “How’s the stomach?”

  That was as close to a pleasantry as Bains would get.

  “Better,” I answered. “I think I’ll be—”

  “We’re going to lose the Fuller case,” Libby interrupted. She smiled sweetly.

  I didn’t try to hide my surprise.

  “How the hell can that be? Is something inadmissible?”

  “No. The case is solid. It’s that brain tumor, floating in a glass jar, labeled exhibit A.”

  Bains frowned. “As you’re aware, Fuller has been claiming amnesia since recovering from surgery. He says he has no memory of any murders.”

  Libby stood up and went to the window. “And so far, our shrinks haven’t been able to crack him.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fuller’s blaming the murders on his brain tumor?”

  Libby continued to stare out the captain’s window. “He’s doing just that. It was on his frontal lobe, the brain’s behavior center. It controls emotion, personality, and understanding of right and wrong. Expert shrinks are falling all over themselves eager to explain to a jury how a tumor can radically alter someone’s personality. Fuller’s lawyers are going for the first ever insanity defense based on physical evidence.”

  My anger level continued to build. “If he’s declared insane, he still gets locked up, right?”

  “Wrong. If they prove he was insane at the time of his crimes, and the insanity was caused by the tumor, he’s a free man. No more tumor, no more insanity. The bastard walks.”

  “Jesus.”

  Bains stared at me, hard.

  “Are you one hundred percent, Jack?”

  I didn’t feel one hundred percent, but I sensed something coming. I nodded.

  “Good,” Bains continued. “I want you to talk to him.”

  “To Fuller? Why?”

  “A confession would be nice. But I’ll settle for your impression of whether he’s bullshitting or not.”

  “If he’s faking, we can plan a better attack,” Libby said.

  “Do we suspect he’s faking?”

  “It would be nice if he was,” Libby sat back down, “but we just don’t know. He’s been interviewed by over a dozen people: shrinks, lawyers, cops, doctors. So far he’s unimpeachable.”

  “Has he taken a lie detector?”

  “One. Theirs. And he passed with flying colors. He’s got another scheduled tomorrow, with one of our examiners.”

  After a moment, I asked, “Why me?” My job was to arrest criminals. Other people were much more qualified to do follow-up interviews.

  Bains scratched his weave. “You worked with him for several years. You know him. You’re biased to our side, so you’ll try to see through the lies. I don’t have to tell you what a media circus this case has become.”

  “I’m not a professional interrogator, Captain. I don’t want to see him back on the streets, but I don’t think—”

  “There’s something else, Jack.”

  “What?”

  Bains caught me in his iron gaze. “Fuller asked for you. Specifically.”

  “For me? Why?”

  Libby leaned in close, like we were best friends sharing a secret.

  “We don’t know. He hasn’t given anyone a reason. But since his capture, he’s inquired about you many times. His counsel has advised him to not talk to us, and lately he’s been a clam. But Fuller agreed to an interview, and he’ll even do it without his attorneys present, but only with you. Of course, his statements won’t be admissible as evidence, so if he says anything we’ll have to introduce it through your testimony.”

  I replayed the scene in my head again. Kicking in the door. Telling Fuller to let his wife go. The bullets erupting from Holly’s stomach, drilling into mine.

  “I’d be happy to take a crack at him.”

  “He’s at Cook County. You’ll meet with him in a private visiting booth. Alone. Plexiglas wall between you. You know the setup.”

  “Will I be wired?”

  Libby placed her palms on her thighs and smoothed out the Gaultier. “We all know that it’s illegal to record someone without their consent. It would be inadmissible as evidence. As an officer of the court, I can’t be privy to any knowledge of criminal activity, and if I heard of any I’d report it immediately. On a completely unrelated note, I was reviewing some old case histories and came across some interesting legal terms. One is called recollection refresh, and the other is transcript for impeachment.”

  Libby then spent five minutes explaining how
an illegal tape recording could be used in a trial.

  When she finished, Bains said, “I’d like to go on record to say there will be no illegal taping of any suspects in my district. Especially with this voice-activated tape recorder.”

  Bains placed a slim electronic unit on his desk. I put it in my pocket.

  “When can I meet with him?”

  “You’ve got a meeting scheduled in an hour. Good luck, Jack. I’ll expect a full report on my desk in the morning.”

  Libby stood, shook my hand.

  “You know, you could have saved us all this trouble if you’d just aimed one inch lower.”

  I was beginning to think the same thing myself.

  CHAPTER 25

  We’d folded ourselves into the colorful plastic extrusion chairs of a nearby submarine sandwich chain, Herb eating and me staring out the storefront window. It was raining, and gray clouds smeared together with the muted brown and black tones of the city and its dying trees, the few that it had.

  Maybe somewhere in the suburbs there were piles of colorful autumn leaves waiting to be jumped into, but here we only had torn brown dead things that turned into mud when wet.

  “When I was a kid, every fall, my mom would take me up to Wisconsin to watch the leaves turn. I never appreciated it. Maybe beauty is wasted on the young.”

  “Could be,” Herb said, mostly to the meatball sandwich opened up and splayed out before him. The low-carb diet he was following restricted bread, and he’d pushed it off to the side, giving the protein his full attention.

  “What do you think of when you think of autumn?”

  “Thanksgiving turkey.”

  “How about winter?”

  “Christmas turkey.”

  “Spring?”

  “Easter ham.”

  “I sense a theme here.”

  “You gonna finish that roast beef?”

  I allowed Herb access to my half-eaten sub, and he used a fork to pull out the meat.

  “I don’t understand how eating all of that fat is healthy.”

  “Got me.” Herb opened up a packet of mayo, slathered it on the beef, and crammed it all in. “Works, though.”

  “Yeah. You look great.”

  He grunted, as if not believing it.

  “Herb? Something on your mind?”

  He grunted again.

  “Got some cholesterol caught in your throat?”

  “It’s Bernice.”

  “Is she okay?”

  He shrugged.

  Usually, I got daily Bernice updates, but since I’d been out of work, I’d only seen Herb three times. Each time, I’d been unloading my problems, without bothering to ask if he had any.

  Some partner.

  “What’s wrong, Herb?”

  “We’re at odds. She doesn’t like my new lifestyle.”

  “What? Low carb?”

  “The weight loss is only part of it. She doesn’t like my car. She told me she’s sick of all the constant sex. Vacation is coming up, and we always go to California, to visit her friends in wine country. Been doing that for twenty years. This year, I want to go to Vegas.”

  “You can compromise. Spend a few days in Las Vegas, a few with her friends.”

  “Screw her friends.”

  Which was as spiteful a thing as I’d ever heard come out of Herb’s mouth.

  I wanted to pursue the issue, but Benedict checked his watch, shoveled in the last meatball, and stood up.

  “We’re going to be late.” Which is what I think he said, cheeks full.

  He walked out of the restaurant, and I followed. I tried to bring up the topic in the car, but Herb insisted he didn’t want to talk about it.

  Cook County Jail stretched from 26th and Cal to 31st and Sacramento, making it the largest single-site pre-detention center in the US. Eight thousand six hundred and fifty-eight men and women resided there, give or take, divvied up among eleven division buildings. Most of the inmates were awaiting their trials, after which they’d be freed or more likely sent someplace else. Others were just commuting their short sentences, ninety days and under.

  I did a quick voice test of the tape recorder, and found it in working condition.

  After being cleared through the perimeter fence, we located Division Eleven, where they held Fuller. From the outside, the clean, white building looked more like a government office than a maximum security prison.

  Inside, however, was all business. We were met by the assistant division superintendent, Jake Carver, a beefy man with a moist handshake. We signed in, checked our weapons, and followed Carver into the bowels of the prison.

  “Been a model prisoner.” Carver had a voice like a buzz saw. Smoking, drink, or both. “No problems at all.”

  “What’s the security on him?” Herb asked.

  “He’s in isolation. Can’t put a cop in with the general population.”

  “Have you met him?” I asked.

  “Sure. Chitchatted for a while.”

  “What’s your impression?”

  “Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “Is he lying about the amnesia?”

  “If he is, he’s the best liar I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been with the DOC for almost thirty years. Here we are.” We stopped at a white steel door with a six-inch-square window at eye level. “Visiting room H. Got it to yourself for half an hour. Just bang on the door when you want to go, or if he starts getting rowdy. I’ll be right here.”

  Carver unbolted the door and allowed me entrance. I hit the Record button on the tape player in my pocket, then went in.

  The room was small, twelve by twelve, lit by overhead strips of fluorescence, one of them flickering. It smelled like body odor and desperation. In the center of the room stood a folding chair, facing an inch-thick, pitted and scratched Plexiglas barrier, reinforced with steel bars, that divided the space in half.

  Barry Fuller sat on the other side, a pleasant look on his face. He wore prison clothes; a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit with his number stenciled on the breast. His hands were cuffed, and a chain trailed down, connecting to his leg irons. A large, puffy scar ran from his eyebrow to the top of his head, his crew cut unable to conceal it.

  “Thanks for coming, Lieut. Please, have a seat.”

  I nodded, sitting across from him. I kept my knees together, both feet flat on the ground, my back ramrod-straight.

  “Hello, Barry. You look well.”

  He smiled, lowering his head so his finger could trace the scar.

  “Healing pretty good. How about you? They told me you took two in the stomach?”

  “I’m managing.” I kept my tone even. “Much better than your wife.”

  Fuller’s face seemed to deflate. His eyes got red and teared up.

  “Holly. My love. I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Well, you did. I was there. I watched her bleed to death, right in front of me.”

  Fuller sniffled. He rubbed his eyes, which made them even redder.

  “I know how it sounds, Lieutenant. Imagine if you woke up one day, and everyone started telling you about all of these horrible things you did. Things you have no memory of.”

  “It was the brain tumor, huh?”

  “I loved my wife!” Fuller’s voice cracked. “I never would have killed her if I knew what I was doing. Jesus, Holly.”

  His shoulders sagged. A good actor? Or someone who really felt remorse?

  “Why did you ask me here, Fuller? Without lawyers? What did you want to say to me?”

  “I wanted to thank you.”

  That threw me.

  “What?”

  “To thank you. For stopping me, before I hurt anyone else. Also, to apologize for shooting you.”

  I gave him a once-over.

  “Touching, Fuller. I’m deeply touched, really. Your tears make up for all of those women you butchered.”

  “I don’t remember butchering any women. I’m thankful for that, actually. I don’t know if I could live with myse
lf if I remembered.”

  “You don’t remember Davi McCormick? Cutting off her arms? Putting my handcuffs on her wrists, so your sicko buddy Rushlo could leave them in the morgue?”

  Fuller shook his head.

  “How about Eileen Hutton? You bit her so hard she was missing chunks of her flesh.”

  “Please stop.”

  “What did she taste like, Barry? Can you remember that?”

  “I can’t remember anything.”

  Time to get serious.

  “I bet you do remember it. I bet you remember what a rush it was, to cut off her head. I bet it gave you such a sense of power and control. You fucked her too, didn’t you? Do you remember if it was before or after you yanked out her heart?”

  Barry was really putting on a show now, sobbing loudly. But I wasn’t buying.

  “Drop the act, Barry. I know you’re lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit.”

  When Fuller pulled his hands away from his face, he was grinning. I’d expected anger or outrage, but he looked outright amused.

  “You’re wearing a wire, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “You want me to be honest, but you won’t be honest yourself? Let me see the wire.”

  I considered my options. Knowing Barry was faking this seemed more important than proving it. I took out the recorder, then switched it off.

  “Fine, Barry. Just you and me. You ready to drop this stupid amnesia ploy and come clean?”

  Fuller closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. Then he lifted his arm and rubbed his face on his sleeve, back and forth.

  “Onions.” He blew his nose. “Under my fingernails. Instant tears, courtesy of the wonderful chicken soup served up nice and hot by the Department of Corrections. Pretty good performance, huh? Anything I need to improve before I give it in court?”

  I felt myself get very cold.

  “How much do you remember, Barry?”

  “I remember everything, Jack.”

  “The murders?”

  “Every detail. And you were right. At night, when I’m all alone in my cell, I abuse myself thinking about them. Spit and a fist are a poor substitute for a bleeding, screaming whore. But I have to make do until they let me out.”