Bloody Mary

by J. A. Konrath

  Immersing myself in paperwork turned out to be good therapy, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I’d only thought about Fuller intermittently, rather than constantly.

  I called home, got no answer, called Alan’s cell, and got his voice mail. I told him I’d be home early, and left the office.

  The snow had turned into freezing drizzle, and the ride took twenty minutes longer than normal, because every driver on the road collectively forgot how to drive in freezing drizzle.

  After retrieving my mail, I went up to my apartment, walked into the living room, and caught sight of a very old and very naked man having sex with my mother on the Hide-A-Bed.

  I immediately turned around and went into the kitchen. They hadn’t seen me, having been too involved in the act. Perhaps their mutual moaning had masked the sound of my footfalls.

  I considered my next move. Make a lot of noise, so they knew I was home? Sneak out? Ask them to quit it, because I was now scarred for the rest of my life?

  I chose sneaking out. A twenty-four-hour coffee shop/diner was a few blocks away, but the freezing rain wasn’t enough to erase the image branded on my brain, of Mr. Griffin’s naked bottom rising and falling. I also found myself thinking, quite surprisingly, that it wasn’t a bad butt for a guy his age. Firmer than I might have guessed.

  I had coffee, and a Monte Cristo sandwich — hot turkey, ham, Swiss cheese, and bacon, on two pieces of French toast. The sandwich came dusted in powdered sugar, with a side ramekin of raspberry jelly. It didn’t make sense that jelly went so well with turkey and ham, but for some reason it worked. I suppose some things that worked didn’t need to make sense.

  After killing an hour in the diner, which seemed to be more than enough time for my mom to finish, I called the apartment.

  No answer. Perhaps they were napping in the post-glow.

  Wanting badly to shower and change clothes, I again braved the inclement weather and made my way back home.

  They were still going at it.

  I didn’t get an eyeful this time — the groaning was enough to keep me at bay. I turned and walked right back out.

  My opinion of Mr. Griffin went up a notch. I’d always dated younger men. Perhaps I’d been missing out.

  The local googleplex had a new Brad Pitt movie playing, and I plunked down ten bucks to spend ninety minutes with Brad.

  Afterward, I called home. Thankfully, Mom picked up.

  “Hi, Mom. Just calling to tell you I’ll be home in about twenty minutes.”

  “Hello, dear. Um, can I ask a tiny favor of you?”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  “My gentlemen friend from Florida, Mr. Griffin, is visiting. Would you mind giving us an hour or two to catch up?”

  “An hour or two?”

  “Yes. We haven’t seen each other in a while and we’ve got some things to work out.”

  My mother made a frank, gasping sound. I rubbed my eyes.

  “Sure, Mom. I’ll catch a movie. I’ll be home around ten?”

  “Ten is fine,” Mom said, an octave higher than normal.

  I hung up.

  Unbelievable.

  I killed another two hours with Julia Roberts, and by then I was so tired I went straight home, my mother’s sexual needs be damned. She just broke her hip, for heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t she be minding the injury?

  Thankfully, Mom and Mr. Griffin were fully dressed when I returned. They were in the kitchen, sipping coffee. Mom’s hair was a mess, and her cheeks were flushed.

  “Nice to see you again, Jacqueline.” Mr. Griffin was a student of the old school, meaning he stood up when I came into the room and offered his hand.

  I shook it, and he winced.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. My back is acting up a little.”

  I wonder why.

  “We’ve got a pizza coming, if you’re hungry.”

  “No, I ate. I’m going to turn in. Did Alan call?”

  “He told me earlier he was going out with some old buddies, wouldn’t be back until late.”

  I said my good nights, slipped in and out of a hot shower, and climbed into bed, determined not to take a sleeping pill.

  After forty minutes of staring at the ceiling, I heard a deep moan come from the living room.

  I took two pills, and fell asleep with the pillow over my head.

  CHAPTER 36

  Fuller lies awake in his cell. It’s past midnight, and he needs to sleep. He has to look good for court. Appearance is everything.

  He knows the jury watches him constantly. Looking for some trace of guilt or deceit. He’ll only show them what he wants them to see.

  The vomiting was a masterstroke. The piece of beef had been rotting in his mattress for days. Less than the size of a grape, the smell alone was enough to make him gag. Popping it in his mouth produced instant nausea. Disgusting, but effective.

  The real show will begin when he takes the stand. He’s hidden some red peppercorn flakes in his mattress — much more effective for bringing on tears than onions.

  He knows the case will wrap up soon. Garcia wants to finish it before Thanksgiving, betting on the fact that the jurors will want to get the verdict in before the holiday. That leaves two days for testimony, and one for closing statements.

  So far, everything is progressing smoothly.

  There had been a bad moment, when Garcia told him about the tape. Some guard at Cook County jail had contacted Fuller’s attorneys, willing to sell them a recording of his conversation with Jack at the prison. Blackmail, is what it boiled down to. Pay me, or I’ll give this to the prosecution.

  Fuller paid. He had to give power of attorney to Garcia, and authorized him to liquidate several things around the house — Holly’s jewelry, a signed Dali litho she’d bought with her modeling money, the Lexus.

  Fuller had been worried that Garcia might turn on him, once he found out about Fuller’s deception. But the smarmy little bastard didn’t bat an eyelash. In fact, he ingeniously used the tape to discredit Daniels.

  Who says money can’t buy a verdict?

  The only problem at the moment is these damn headaches. They’re getting worse. He hasn’t explained to his doctors about how bad they’ve gotten, because he needs to give the impression that he’s cured. If headaches made him kill, and he’s still got headaches, they won’t let him out.

  So he makes do with Tylenol and sheer will.

  But he can’t hold out much longer.

  There’s only one thing that helps him when the pain gets this bad.

  “Just a few more days,” he whispers to himself. “Then I’ll be free.”

  Fuller has Thanksgiving plans. He’s going to drop by the Daniels household. Get a little pain relief. He’s heard that Jack is living with her mom and ex-husband. What fun it will be to kill them both, in front of Jack, before ripping off her arms.

  “Murder. The headache medicine.”

  When he finally falls asleep, it’s with a smile on his face.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Dr. Jurczyk, in your eighteen years’ experience as a brain surgeon, how many operations have you performed?”

  Dr. Robert Jurczyk answered in a deep, resounding tone that radiated authority. “I’ve performed several hundred.”

  “Was one of them on the defendant, Barry Fuller?”

  “Yes. I was in attendance at Northwestern when they brought him in.”

  “In technical terms, what was the defendant’s condition?”

  “He was brought in with a extradural hemorrhage caused by a bullet wound to the top right quadrant of the frontal bone, and after a CT scan it was determined the subject also had a neoplasm on the frontal lobe.”

  “Now in layman’s terms.”

  “The bullet wound caused the outermost meninges to rupture. Meninges are the membranous layers that cover the brain. When this ruptured, it began to bleed, and the blood leaked into the space between the brain and the skull. Since the skull is a closed structure
, this blood was pushing against the brain and would have resulted in death if a craniotomy wasn’t performed.”

  “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 S
tates and Canada. If we find him, we don’t even need the tape. I’ll cut him a deal, force him to testify.”

  “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.”