“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to eat your eggs?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least that’s a decision I can help you with.”
Herb did a quick plate-to-plate egg transfer, his fork a stainless steel blur. Apparently, separation hadn’t hurt his appetite.
“What do we do about Fuller?” Yolk clung to his mustache.
I was happy to change the subject.
“I have a plan.”
“Tell.”
“Fuller mentioned to me that he kills to make the headaches go away.”
“I read the medical. The doctors don’t think the tumor is any older than a year or two.”
“Right. But Fuller said he’s always had headaches, his whole life.”
Herb nodded. “So maybe he’s killed before.”
“We dig into his past, try to link him to an old crime.”
“How do we do that?”
“Did you forget? We’re police officers. Skilled professionals who solve crimes for a living.”
“What if there’s no crime to solve?”
“Then we have to find one.”
I picked up the check, and when we got back to the station we went to work. We started with the department’s file on Fuller. On paper, he seemed to be a good cop. Above-average arrest record. Showed up for work. Did well at the police academy, scoring high on all of his tests.
Prior to his law enforcement career, Fuller had been an NFL player. Herb pulled at that thread, while I traced his life back even further. Fuller went to Southern Illinois University, on a football scholarship. Majored in criminology. Minored in psych. Heavy subjects, for a jock.
A look at his four-year curriculum uncovered another interesting tidbit: Fuller was a member of the Drama Club, and had actually played Biff in a campus production of
In the file Libby had put together on Fuller, there were no noteworthy incidents in his college career. He stayed out of trouble. Kept a B average. Apparently, he met Holly in college, and married her a year after graduation.
I wasted fifty cents of the taxpayers’ money on a call to information, and was soon talking to the chief of police in Carbondale, a man named Shelby Duncan. He had a low voice and talked slowly, deliberately.
“During those years we had two unsolveds. One was a townie, sixty-two-year-old male, robbed and beaten to death outside of a 7-11. Another was a student, nineteen-year-old male, fell out a frat house window. BOC was triple the going rate, but the case has been kept open.”
“How about missing persons?”
I heard fingers on a keyboard.
“One hundred and thirty-eight.”
The high number surprised me.
“It that normal?”
“We’re a college town, Lieutenant. Twenty thousand students attend classes every day. Some of them drop out, and don’t tell anyone where they’re going.”
I asked if he could fax me the reports. He did me one better and offered the password to his database so I could peruse them on my own.
Herb leaned over. “What do you got?”
“He studied psychology and criminology in college, and also did some acting. Might come in handy, if you ever wanted to beat a lie detector. I’ve also got over a hundred MP files, which I’ll try to sync up with Fuller’s academic schedule. You?”
“Fuller’s NFL career was mostly spent warming the bench. Constant knee injuries – in fact, his left knee is completely artificial. I’m surprised he could pass the department physical.”
“No missing cheerleaders?”
“I talked to one of the assistant coaches. No problems at all. The guy was a team player, no obvious difficulties. Fuller was disappointed that he couldn’t contribute more. Coach said he was a good guy.”
“Fooled them just like he fooled us.”
Benedict delved into his pocket and came up with a small bag of fried pork rinds. The bag art proudly stated “No Carbs.” I wondered, yet again, what was wrong with the world when pigskin fried in lard was considered a health food.
“So, what now?” Herb asked, showing me what partially masticated hog strips looked like. It wasn’t pretty.
“We get started on this list. You want to take
“I guess.”
I gave Benedict the password, and he nodded a good-bye and waddled off to his office.
I hit the computer.
Time passed slowly, as it always did with drudge work. Noon rolled around, and I declined Herb’s offer of a cheezy beef, sans bun. By four o’clock I found a tenuous connection between Fuller and a missing girl named Lucy Weintraub – she’d been a cheerleader while he was on the football team. But a DMV search found Lucy alive and well and living in Chicago. I got in touch, and she admitted to dropping out of school and going to Florida, which her parents eventually found out about, but didn’t bother informing the Carbondale PD.
Lucy didn’t remember Fuller at all.
I dialed Benedict, and he’d had no luck either. If Fuller had been responsible for any of these missing persons, he didn’t seem to have any clear connection to them.
It was creeping up on five in the evening, but home didn’t seem tempting at the moment. I knew I had to make peace with my mom, but before that I needed to get in touch with my feelings.
I was doing that, unsuccessfully, when the phone rang. The desk sergeant informed me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me.
“Says he’s your husband.”
I felt my pulse jump. Anger, or excitement?
“Can someone escort him up?”
My mirror compact called to me, begging to check my hair and makeup.
I resisted, and read the same line on an arrest report fifteen times until the knock at the door came.
“Hi, Jack.”
I didn’t look up at him, reading the line two more times before answering. Then I gave him my slightly annoyed look.
“What is it, Alan? I’m busy.”
“I wanted to apologize. For last night. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
“I accept your apology. Now if you don’t mind…”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
The words hurt. I stayed silent.
“I shouldn’t have come to Chicago. I didn’t mean to intrude on your life. I guess… I don’t know… I always questioned my decision. Leaving you. I wanted to see you again, to see if I was wrong.”
“Were you wrong?”
His eyes softened. “Yes.”
What do you say to a man whom you cursed ten thousand times, begged the universe to make him understand what a jerk he was, and then he finally agrees with you?
“Have a safe trip back, Alan.”
His eyes got teary. Maybe mine did too.
“Can we be friends, Jack? Stay in touch?”
Don’t play with fire, Jack. You got burned the last time.
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
He chewed his lower lip.
“You know, I never visited you at work, when we were married. Not once.”
“I know.”
“I can finally cross that off my list of should-haves.” He tried to smile. “Have a nice life, Jack.”
“You too, Alan.”
He walked out.
The first time he left me, I didn’t try to stop him. I always wondered what would have happened if I’d tried. Would we have lasted? Would we have worked out our problems? Would love have conquered all?
Was I destined to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again?
“Alan… wait.”
He turned, eyes hopeful.
“Yeah?”
Looking at him, I knew.
“You’re wearing my jacket.”
Alan took off the bomber jacket, held it out.
I went to him.
Our hands met.
“Jack, I love this jacket too much to give it up.”
