'You don't want to know.'
'I do. Maybe it will help me take my mind off my problems.'
I gave it to him. He paused, between noshing on fatty meat, to impart this bit of wisdom: 'Damn, Jack, you're a mess.'
I didn't feel like eating, but I forced the toast down because Herb's constant staring at it made me edgy.
'Thanks, partner. Misery loves company, I guess.'
'Are you still in love with Alan?'
'I don't think I ever stopped loving him.'
'Does he want you back?'
'I think so.'
'Do you love Latham?'
'Yes.'
'You're going to have to choose.'
'I know.'
'Who are you going to choose?'
'I don't know.'
'Who do you love more?'
'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 Death of a Salesman.
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.
