'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.'
