Bloody Mary

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by J. A. Konrath

The two slices of pizza I managed to choke down sat like rocks in my stomach. Neither Latham nor Alan had said more than ten words during dinner, having expended most of their energy trying to ignore each other.

  That left my mother to dominate the conversation, and she was on her third drink, inhibitions falling away by the sip. She hadn’t mentioned the kiss yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  “Spicy.” Mom smacked her lips. “When you get older, your tastebuds — well — don’t taste. But a good bloody Mary with a healthy dose of hot sauce makes this tired old tongue dance a jitterbug. Plus it’s so much fun to order a drink with my name in it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s a hoot.”

  “Are you in town long, Alan?” Latham asked.

  “I’m here until Mary settles in.”

  “So that’s how long? A week? Two?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  Latham played with his drink straw, spearing at the ice.

  “Don’t you have a job you need to get back to?”

  Alan folded his arms — one of his defense postures.

  “I’m a freelance writer. I’m not tied to an office job, stuck in that nine-to-five rut, making my employer rich from my efforts. But I’m sure it’s not like that at all in the accounting world.”

  “I don’t mind nine-to-five. It pays the bills.”

  “Boring, though, isn’t it? Jack usually falls for creative types.”

  “Maybe she realized how badly that’s worked for her in the past, and decided she needed a change.”

  I raised my hand. “Does anyone want to hear about my day? The crazy guy I put behind bars threatened to kill me.”

  I’d intended to provoke sympathy, but Latham took that as a cue to assert dominance. He put his arm around me, like we were drinking buddies.

  “Stay at my place tonight, Jack.”

  “Jack doesn’t look too thrilled there, Latham. Maybe you’ve begun to bore her already.”

  “Why don’t you go run home and write about it?”

  “Okay, guys. Enough.” I pulled away from Latham and stood up. “You’re all acting like jerks.” I glanced at my mom, to let her know I included her in the statement.

  “I’ll drive you home.” Latham stood up. So did Alan.

  “I’ll drive myself home.” I dug into my pocket, threw some bills on the table. Both Alan and Latham fell all over themselves, trying to give me my money back. I left them there, heading for the front door, stepping out into the cold Chicago night air.

  Home wasn’t an option. I needed time to think. A Checker cab was at the stoplight, and I yelled to it and climbed in.

  “Where you headed?”

  Good question. After tonight, I was willing to swear off men forever. Parents too. And police work. Where was I headed? Unemployed orphan spinsterhood.

  I settled for Joe’s Pool Hall.

  The cab spit me out in front, and I beelined to the bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and scoped the action.

  As usual, Joe’s had enough secondhand smoke swirling around to cause cancer in laboratory animals. All twelve tables were in use, but I gave up being shy for my fortieth birthday, and got on the board for pickup games.

  Four beers and two hours later, I’d done considerable damage to both my liver and the competition. Pool offered a refuge from my problems, and sinking ball after ball put me into an almost zenlike state. I’d forgotten all about Alan, Latham, Mom, Fuller, Herb, my job, my apartment, my insomnia, my life.

  Then the balance shifted. The alcohol that had once calmed my nerves, now made me sloppy. I lost three games in a row, and decided to call it quits.

  The night had gotten colder, and my jacket wasn’t enough to keep the chill out.

  Mom snored on the couch. My machine had eight messages on it, but I didn’t feel up to dealing with them. I got undressed, curled up fetal on my bed, took my nightly sleeping pill, and cried softly to myself until it kicked in and ushered me into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 29

  They were torturing me with a horrible beeping sound, playing it over and over until it drove me to the brink of madness, and I couldn’t get away and I couldn’t make it stop, and finally something registered in my head and I opened my eyes and glanced groggily at my alarm clock.

  Irritating little sound. But I suppose the pleasant melody of whales singing or frogs croaking wouldn’t wake someone up.

  I turned it off, and sat up, dizzily, in bed. My head hurt. I yawned, my jaw clicking from overnight calcium deposits, and then spent a minute trying to get my bearings.

  Sleeping pill hangover. I forced my feet out of bed, thought about doing some sit-ups, touched the scars on my belly and decided I wasn’t ready yet, and took a cool shower.

  The soap, which promised to open my eyes, didn’t. Neither did the cold water. When I got out, I was just as sleepy, and shivering as well.

  “No more,” I said to my face in the mirror. Along with making waking up one of the labors of Hercules, the pills also did wondrous things for my complexion. I hadn’t had a pimple since junior prom, but now, staring at me like a third eye on my forehead, was a blemish.

  I played fast and loose with my concealer, slapped on the rest of my face, and went to the kitchen to dump yesterday’s coffee and make a fresh pot.

  My mom, whom I knew to be an early bird, hadn’t gotten up yet. I went to check on her.

  She lay on her back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Absolutely still.

  I moved closer, looking for the telltale rise and fall of her chest, but I couldn’t see under the blanket. Closer still, holding my breath so I could hear her breathing.

  I didn’t hear a thing.

  I considered panicking, realized I was being silly, and bent down over her, reaching for her neck.

  Her skin was warm, and her carotid flittered with her heartbeat.

  “Are you taking my pulse?”

  I jumped back, almost screaming in fright.

  “Mom! Jeez, you scared me.”

  My mother pinned me with her mother-eyes.

  “You thought I was dead, and were taking my pulse.”

  I made a show of looking at my watch.

  “I gotta run, Mom. I’ll call you later.”

  “When did you get home last night?”

  “Jesus, Mom. I’m forty-six years old. I don’t have a curfew.”

  “No, but you have people who care about you, and it’s selfish to make them worry.”

  Rather than argue, I went back into the kitchen for coffee. A quick caller ID check saw I had four calls from Latham, and four from the Raphael hotel — Alan. I didn’t bother playing the messages.

  I’d purposely added less water, so the coffee had a bigger kick. I added an ice cube to my mug so I could gulp it down quicker.

  “Are you okay, Jacqueline?”

  Mom had the blanket around her shoulders. She looked like Yoda.

  “No, Mom, I’m not. And you really didn’t help matters yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry for that. You know I love Alan like a son. Call me a foolish old woman, but I thought, you know, if I made him bring me here—”

  “That we’d realize we still loved each other? He left me, Mom. Don’t you remember how much he hurt me?”

  “You hurt him too, honey.”

  “He’s the one that left.”

  “You didn’t give him much of a choice, working eighty-hour weeks, never taking a vacation.”

  I poured more coffee.

  “You were a cop, Mom. You know how it is.”

  “And I regret it. All of those long hours. Working Christmas. I should have been spending more time with you. You practically raised yourself.”

  My veneer cracked.

  “Mom, you were my hero. I never resented your job. You were out there doing good.”

  “I should have been at home doing good. Instead, I screwed you up, made you think nothing should stand in the way of your career.”

  “I’m not s
crewed up. I’m one of the highest ranking female cops in Chicago.”

  “And I’m the only woman in my bingo group that doesn’t have grandchildren.”

  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 evidenc
e 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.”

 

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