"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 . . ."