Bloody Mary (2005)

by Konrath, Ja (Aka J Kilborn)

"No. He says what he played in court was all that was on it, but Garcia is a sneaky little bastard, and he didn't get a name for himself by playing fair and nice with the other children."

  "Did you get the tape checked?"

  "It's being checked, but it's obvious the tapes come from different sources. I played it against the one you made, and the sound quality is completely different. It's better, and Fuller is louder than you. The mike must have been on his side of the room."

  "Maybe it was someone from the prison. You know the warden better than I do. Ask him if he's had any no-shows lately. Guards calling in sick, quitting suddenly, that kind of thing."

  "I'll do it today."

  I switched gears. "I think I've got a way to get Rushlo to talk."

  I gave her the short version. Libby frowned.

  "Not my preferred course of action, but I'll swing it. Anything to save this sinking ship. I can have the paperwork ready by tomorrow. Cook County jail is right down the street, so we can do this on our lunch break."

  I smiled, but it didn't quell the butterflies in my stomach.

  Chapter 38

  Herb and I were going through a list of every student who attended classes with Fuller at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, and trying to make connections between them and any of the 137 missing persons from that time. We allocated my floor for the purpose, spreading out files in a big, uneven grid sorted semi-alphabetically. Benedict was on his knees, crossing off possibles, when Libby called.

  "I've got a name. Marvin Rohmer. He's a guard at Division Eleven, been missing for the past week. A look into his personal finances revealed Rohmer has recently opened up eight checking accounts, each with cash amounts ranging from two to six grand. Probably got a large payment from that weasel Garcia."

  "Spreading it out because banks have to report big cash deposits. Smart."

  "Yeah, but he called attention to himself anyway by skipping work."

  "We're on our way."

  "Too late. Rohmer's a West Side boy, and I got a team to his place before the ink on the warrant dried. He skipped. Didn't find the tape, but we found a voice-activated recorder with some duct tape still on it. He probably taped it to the ceiling, or under a chair."

  "Have you checked--"

  "We're on it, Jack. We've frozen his assets, tracked his credit cards, and will soon release his name and description to every cop in the United States and Canada. If we find him, we don't even need the tape. I'll cut him a deal, force him to testify."

  "Fax me Rohmer's file."

  "It's already on its way."

  I shared the info with Herb, and then we spent a few hours on the student records, ordering in a pizza with extra meat. Benedict ate most of it, but avoided the crust, leaving a cardboard box full of saucy white triangles.

  I buried myself in the work. We were creating a big cross-reference grid; we listed all the students Fuller might have known from classes, sports, activities, and fraternities, and then tried to link them to any of the missing persons by doing the same thing. Tedium, and exactly what I needed.

  "Got a possible." Benedict held up a paper. Not unusual, we'd had a few possibles so far.

  "Name?"

  "Missing person is Melody Stephanopoulos. Student. She had three classes with a kid named Michael Horton, who was on the football team with Fuller."

  "Horton's girlfriend?"

  "Could be. She was a science major, Horton was liberal arts, and she took two writing classes and a classics literature class with him, sophomore and junior year. Disappeared during the spring term, as a junior."

  I looked up Horton in the Carbondale police files, got zilch. Then I called the SIU alumni organization, and spoke with a peppy lady named Missy who was hesitant to help until I gave her my badge number.

  "I found him. Michael Horton is living in Seattle. Says he's married, a stockbroker, two kids."

  I wrote down his number and dialed it.

  "This is Michael."

  "Mr. Horton, this is Lt. Daniels from the Chicago Police Department. We'd like to ask you a few questions--"

  "About Barry, right? I've been following it on the news."

  "Well, sort of. First we wanted to ask you about Melody Stephanopoulos."

  "Have you found her?" The sentence came out so fast all the words ran together.

  "I'm sorry, no. She was your girlfriend?"

  "Fiancee. She disappeared."

  "Did Barry know Melody?"

  "Yeah. She didn't like him. Oh, Jesus, you don't think . . ."

  "We don't know, Mr. Horton. We're trying to establish a connection. Were you and Barry friends?"

  "Sure. We partied a lot together. Coach liked the team to hang out in our free time."

  "Did Barry ever hang around with Melody, without you there?"

  "Not that I remember. Melody was pretty much glued to my side all the time."

  "When did she go missing?"

  He paused.

  "We had a fight, at a party. She didn't like me drinking so much. I told her to lighten up and quit being a nag. She left. That's the last time I saw her."

  "Was Barry at the party?"

  "Yeah. It was after the Florida game. Big celebration."

  "Do you remember if Barry left after Melody?"

  "I wish I could remember, Lieutenant. But I got pretty trashed that night. When I went to Melody's dorm the next day to apologize, her roommate told me she never came home."

  Horton spent ten minutes filling me in on his relationship with Melody. He'd loved her deeply, and her loss devastated him. He spent another five giving me personal insights into Fuller, whom he called "a team player, a regular guy."

  Which is how I would have described Fuller, before I found out about his extracurricular activities.

  When the conversation wound down, he promised to call if he remembered anything else.

  Herb, who'd been on the extension, hung up.

  "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 JCPenney's for $89.99. I felt like a hobo about to spit-roast a hot dog over some Sterno.

  "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.

  Well, Libby did. I convinced myself it was her suit. Even criminals appreciated fashion sense.

  We located Rushlo in the rec room, sitting at a steel table, reading a dog-eared People magazine. When he saw us, he freaked out.

  "I'm not saying anything." He jumped to his feet, head jerking this way and that, searching for an escape route. His cousin put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.

  "It's okay, Derrick. They're coming here with an offer. Hear them out."

  "I don't want their offer. They tricked me before."

  I sat down, smiled easily. "You don't have a choice, Derrick."

  Rushlo stared at me. Well, one eye did.

  "I'm not talking."

  "You don't have to." Libby handed him some papers.

  "What are these?"

  Pludenza looked them over, then broke into a big grin.

  "They're dropping the charges, Derrick. You're free."

  Rushlo turned a pasty shade of white.

  "No . . ."

  "I'll have you out of here by this evening."

  "No . . . you can't let me out."

  Libby winked at him. "We can, and we just did. Good timing too. Your buddy's trial is almost over. You guys can have a nice little reunion."

  Rushlo began to whimper. I put my hand on his forearm, hiding my revulsion.

  "I'd watch your step, Derrick. Fuller is kind of annoyed you didn't cremate the body of Eileen Hutton. I think he'll want to speak to you about that."

  Rushlo went from pale white to bright pink. I thought he was going to pop.

  "You have to protect me!"

  "We'd like to help you, Derrick, but you haven't helped us at all."

  I nodded to Libby, and we stood up.

  "Please, help me!"

  "We can put you into the witness protection program, Derrick. Change your name, hide you someplace. Or, if Fuller stays in jail
, you'll never have him to worry about again. Either way, you have to help us before we help you."

  His whole body began to shake.

  "I . . . I can't!"

  "Have a nice life, Derrick. For as long as it lasts."

  We walked away.

  "Please! PLEASE!"

  Libby and I made it back to the courthouse with enough time to indulge in a vending machine lunch.

  "Think he'll crack?" she asked, her mouth around a triangularly cut cheese sandwich.

  "I was going to ask you the same thing. I think so. The question is: Will he crack in time?"

  "Closing arguments should only take a day. But even if the jury is deliberating, I can motion Judge Taylor to allow a surprise witness, and she can call them back into court. Rushlo's got to come clean before they reach a verdict. If Fuller gets off, we can't retry him. Double jeopardy."

  I had a bite of tuna on wheat. Soggy.

  "Can you filibuster?"

  "This isn't Congress, Jack. If I try stalling, Taylor will jump all over me."

  "How about trying for some kind of extension or continuance?"

  "I've tried, several times. Taylor kept reminding me we had three months to prepare. She'll allow last-minute evidence, but won't postpone the trial so we can get it."

  Libby ate more of her sandwich, and then glanced at her watch. A Movado, with diamonds around the bezel.

  "Gotta get back to court. You didn't like your sandwich?"

  "It tastes like wet paper towels."

  Libby raised an eyebrow.

  "You okay? Seem kind of off today."

  "Got a lot on my mind."

  "No kidding. Hey, all's not lost yet. Rushlo might still spill."

  Everyone filed back into the courtroom, but didn't stay long. Libby's cross-examination of Fuller was a study in brevity.

  "Mr. Fuller, I understand you were in the drama club at Southern Illinois University. What plays did you perform there?"

  "I did Death of a Salesman, Merchant of Venice, and Waiting for Godot."

  "I bet you were excellent." Libby sat down. "No further questions."

  Judge Taylor adjourned for the day, with closings to begin tomorrow.

  When I got back to my office, Benedict was nowhere to be found. We hadn't spoken since yesterday, and I didn't like any bad blood between us. I called his cell.

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm meeting with my lawyer."