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 myself 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.”
