J. Konrath - Bloody Mary

For all I knew, she was right.

I dragged my tired bones into the shower, a cold one, and dressed in the most unattractive outfit I had: one of Latham’s ratty football jerseys and an old pair of size ten jeans (after Alan left I briefly went from an eight to a ten, having traded the comfort of a husband for the comfort of pie).

I was searching through my closet for my ugliest pair of shoes, when I heard the screaming.

Alan.

My gun was in the bedside nightstand, and I grabbed it and ran into the living room. Alan was writhing on the sofa, Mr. Friskers trying to gnaw off his ear.

I realized I was pointing my gun, relaxed my death grip and set it on the table, and then tried to goad the cat off my ex-husband.

“Bad kitty. Let go of his ear.”

I tugged. Alan screamed.

“Careful, Jack! He’s clamped down on cartilage!”

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry! He’s chewing!”

I found the catnip mouse under the sofa, and shoved it under Mr. Friskers’s nose.

“Easy, cat. Let him go. Let him go.”

The cat went limp, and I pulled him away from Alan and set him on the floor.

“I was just sitting there, and he attacked me. How bad am I bleeding?”

“Bad.”

“Stitches-bad?”

“You’re missing about half your ear.”

Alan spun around, alarmed.

“Really?”

“Maybe we can pump the cat’s stomach.” I kept my voice neutral. “We might be able to sew it back on.”

He figured out I was joshing him and threw a sofa cushion at me.

I went to the kitchen and pulled a bunch of paper towels off the roll. Since acquiring Mr. Friskers, I always made sure I had an ample supply.

“It hurts.” Alan had a hand clamped to his ear. He frowned, petulant.

“Oh, quit being a baby. It’s nothing.”

“Easy for you to say. For the rest of my life, my sunglasses will be crooked.”

“You’ll be fine. If you want, I’ll let you borrow some of my earrings.” I dabbed at the blood. “You have enough holes for six or seven.”

“Funny. What’s wrong with that cat, anyway?”

“I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. Hold this, here, while I get the rubbing alcohol.”

Alan moaned, and I went off in search of supplies.

A liberal splash of Bactine knocked the ardor out of Alan, and he didn’t make another pass at me during the time it took to bandage his ear. I silently thanked Mr. Friskers for the reprieve.

I suggested watching a movie until my mom woke up, and offered Alan a choice of Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Royal Wedding , the only two videos I owned. While we debated the various merits of each, the phone rang.

“Jack? Herb. How you feeling?”

“Better,” I said. And I was. “Calling to check on me?”

“No. We, uh, need you at the office.”

“I thought I was still on medical leave.”

“The leave has been canceled. Direct order from Captain Bains, we need you here yesterday.”

“What’s this about, Herb?”

“It’s Fuller.”

“Gimme twenty minutes.”

Alan stared at me. I realized this was a micro-encapsulation of our marriage – me getting a phone call and then running to work.

But we weren’t married anymore, so I had nothing to feel guilty about.

“There’s an extra set of keys in the little ceramic frog on top of the refrigerator,” I told him. “Tell Mom she can reach me on my cell.”

I tiptoed into the bedroom and changed into a pantsuit without waking my mother. Rather than fuss with my hair, I tied it back in a short ponytail. I spent all of two minutes on my face, not bothering with foundation or eyeliner.

Alan was sitting on the sofa, facing a TV that wasn’t on. I picked up my gun from the table and put it in my holster.

“Be careful.” He didn’t turn his head to look at me.

“Will you be here when I get back?”

He met my eyes and cocked his head slightly to the left, as if appraising me.

“I’ve got a room at the Raphael for a week. I figured I’d look up some friends, visit a few old haunts.”

I felt something that I realized was relief.

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“It might be late.”

“I’m used to waiting up for you.”

I nodded, grabbed my London Fog trench coat, and left the apartment.

Chicago smelled like fall, which is to say the garbage and exhaust fume stench carried a hint of dying leaves. The Windy City was suitably windy, temperature in the mid-fifties, the sidewalks damp from a recent rain.

There was a powwow waiting for me in my office when I got to the station. Benedict, who was wearing the new Brooks Brothers suit he bought himself as a reward for losing twenty pounds, our boss Captain Bains, and Assistant State’s Attorney Libby Fischer.

Stephen Bains had been captain of the 2-6 for as long as anyone could remember. He was short, portly, and balding. He combated the latter with a hair weave, which looked realistic except for the fact that it lacked gray, whereas his mustache was practically white.

Libby Fischer was around my age, and a clotheshorse. She wore a beige Gaultier top with a matching knee-length skirt that probably cost more than I made in a month. A white pearl choker, red Kenneth Cole pumps, and a small red Louis Vuitton bag rounded out her ensemble.

Libby smiled a lot. If I had her wardrobe, I would have too.

“How’s the stomach?”

That was as close to a pleasantry as Bains would get.

“Better,” I answered. “I think I’ll be-”

“We’re going to lose the Fuller case,” Libby interrupted. She smiled sweetly.

I didn’t try to hide my surprise.

“How the hell can that be? Is something inadmissible?”

“No. The case is solid. It’s that brain tumor, floating in a glass jar, labeled exhibit A.”

Bains frowned. “As you’re aware, Fuller has been claiming amnesia since recovering from surgery. He says he has no memory of any murders.”

Libby stood up and went to the window. “And so far, our shrinks haven’t been able to crack him.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fuller’s blaming the murders on his brain tumor?”

Libby continued to stare out the captain’s window. “He’s doing just that. It was on his frontal lobe, the brain’s behavior center. It controls emotion, personality, and understanding of right and wrong. Expert shrinks are falling all over themselves eager to explain to a jury how a tumor can radically alter someone’s personality. Fuller’s lawyers are going for the first ever insanity defense based on physical evidence.”

My anger level continued to build. “If he’s declared insane, he still gets locked up, right?”

“Wrong. If they prove he was insane at the time of his crimes, and the insanity was caused by the tumor, he’s a free man. No more tumor, no more insanity. The bastard walks.”

“Jesus.”

Bains stared at me, hard.

“Are you one hundred percent, Jack?”

I didn’t feel one hundred percent, but I sensed something coming. I nodded.

“Good,” Bains continued. “I want you to talk to him.”

“To Fuller? Why?”

“A confession would be nice. But I’ll settle for your impression of whether he’s bullshitting or not.”

“If he’s faking, we can plan a better attack,” Libby said.

“Do we suspect he’s faking?”

“It would be nice if he was,” Libby sat back down, “but we just don’t know. He’s been interviewed by over a dozen people: shrinks, lawyers, cops, doctors. So far he’s unimpeachable.”

“Has he taken a lie detector?”

“One. Theirs. And he passed with flying colors. He’s got another scheduled tomorrow, with one of our examiners.”