Bloody Mary

“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…”

More 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 JCPe

“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.”

The Garcia and Fuller Show went on for another hour, Garcia gently asking questions, Fuller striving for a Tony Award. He managed to produce more tears than an entire season of All My Children.

When the judge broke for lunch, Libby and I hauled tail across the street to Cook County jail.

Rushlo was being held in Division 2, a medium security facility. Dorm living, fifty cots to a room, no barred cells. For a man as private as Derrick, I could guess the effect this had on him.

Rushlo’s lawyer, Gary Pludenza, met us at the first security checkpoint. He apparently hadn’t been able to slough off Rushlo on other counsel.

Libby shook his hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pludenza. We’ve got a new deal for your cousin.”

“What’s the deal?”

“We have suspicions he’s been covering up for Fuller longer than we thought. We want names.”

“He won’t turn on Fuller. He’s made that clear to me several times. He’s terrified of him.”

“We realize that. We think he will.”

“I don’t see how. I’ve begged him, and I can’t get through to the guy. He won’t even acknowledge me.”

“Maybe if you closed your eyes and played dead?” Libby suggested.

Pludenza frowned. “Can we get this over with, please? I have to be at the Daley Center in two hours for a bankruptcy hearing.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah, well, we all can’t be characters in a Grisham novel.”

Through the metal detector, through the security doors, and into the heart of Division 2. Two guards accompanied us, regulation rather than protection. This section of the prison was for nonviolent offenders. Still, Libby and I got a few obscene catcalls from the male population.