J. Konrath - Bloody Mary

Barry Fuller sat on the other side, a pleasant look on his face. He wore prison clothes; a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit with his number stenciled on the breast. His hands were cuffed, and a chain trailed down, connecting to his leg irons. A large, puffy scar ran from his eyebrow to the top of his head, his crew cut unable to conceal it.

“Thanks for coming, Lieut. Please, have a seat.”

I nodded, sitting across from him. I kept my knees together, both feet flat on the ground, my back ramrod-straight.

“Hello, Barry. You look well.”

He smiled, lowering his head so his finger could trace the scar.

“Healing pretty good. How about you? They told me you took two in the stomach?”

“I’m managing.” I kept my tone even. “Much better than your wife.”

Fuller’s face seemed to deflate. His eyes got red and teared up.

“Holly. My love. I can’t believe I did that.”

“Well, you did. I was there. I watched her bleed to death, right in front of me.”

Fuller sniffled. He rubbed his eyes, which made them even redder.

“I know how it sounds, Lieutenant. Imagine if you woke up one day, and everyone started telling you about all of these horrible things you did. Things you have no memory of.”

“It was the brain tumor, huh?”

“I loved my wife!” Fuller’s voice cracked. “I never would have killed her if I knew what I was doing. Jesus, Holly.”

His shoulders sagged. A good actor? Or someone who really felt remorse?

“Why did you ask me here, Fuller? Without lawyers? What did you want to say to me?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

That threw me.

“What?”

“To thank you. For stopping me, before I hurt anyone else. Also, to apologize for shooting you.”

I gave him a once-over.

“Touching, Fuller. I’m deeply touched, really. Your tears make up for all of those women you butchered.”

“I don’t remember butchering any women. I’m thankful for that, actually. I don’t know if I could live with myself if I remembered.”

“You don’t remember Davi McCormick? Cutting off her arms? Putting my handcuffs on her wrists, so your sicko buddy Rushlo could leave them in the morgue?”

Fuller shook his head.

“How about Eileen Hutton? You bit her so hard she was missing chunks of her flesh.”

“Please stop.”

“What did she taste like, Barry? Can you remember that?”

“I can’t remember anything.”

Time to get serious.

“I bet you do remember it. I bet you remember what a rush it was, to cut off her head. I bet it gave you such a sense of power and control. You fucked her too, didn’t you? Do you remember if it was before or after you yanked out her heart?”

Barry was really putting on a show now, sobbing loudly. But I wasn’t buying.

“Drop the act, Barry. I know you’re lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit.”

When Fuller pulled his hands away from his face, he was grinning. I’d expected anger or outrage, but he looked outright amused.

“You’re wearing a wire, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

I didn’t reply.

“You want me to be honest, but you won’t be honest yourself? Let me see the wire.”

I considered my options. Knowing Barry was faking this seemed more important than proving it. I took out the recorder, then switched it off.

“Fine, Barry. Just you and me. You ready to drop this stupid amnesia ploy and come clean?”

Fuller closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. Then he lifted his arm and rubbed his face on his sleeve, back and forth.

“Onions.” He blew his nose. “Under my fingernails. Instant tears, courtesy of the wonderful chicken soup served up nice and hot by the Department of Corrections. Pretty good performance, huh? Anything I need to improve before I give it in court?”

I felt myself get very cold.

“How much do you remember, Barry?”

“I remember everything, Jack.”

“The murders?”

“Every detail. And you were right. At night, when I’m all alone in my cell, I abuse myself thinking about them. Spit and a fist are a poor substitute for a bleeding, screaming whore. But I have to make do until they let me out.”

He made a kissy face and winked at me. My stomach rolled over, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

“So there was no reason for this? Just bloodlust?”

“Just bloodlust? You say that like you’re disappointed. What’s a better reason for murder than that? Money? Revenge? Lust is so much purer.”

“So you’re a sociopath.”

“Actually, no. I’ve had a lot of time in here to read, sort things out. According to the DSM IV , I suffer from disorganized episodic aggression. I feel empathy, I just choose to ignore it to get high.”

“High on killing?”

“Headaches, Jack. Terrible headaches. Caused by the tumor, probably, but I’ve had them my whole life, and they tell me the tumor can’t be more than a year old. Killing makes the pain go away. I figured out it has something to do with endorphin. Endogenous morphine. The body manufactures it to block pain, and it’s a hundred times more powerful than an equivalent dose of heroin. Killing gives me an endorphin rush. At least, that’s what I think. I’d like to ask all of these shrinks watching me 24-7, see what they think, but I’ve got to keep up appearances.”

“So now that the tumor is gone?”

“Tumor doesn’t matter, Jack. I’m addicted to killing.”

He grinned, his eyes as black and lifeless as a shark’s.

I stood up, not needing to hear any more. I got what I came for.

“Leaving so soon, Jack? But I haven’t told you my plans yet.”

“What plans?”

“For after they let me out. I’m going to be looking you up, Jack.” He waggled his tongue at me, and began to rub his crotch. “We’re going to have a real good time, Lieutenant. I got something special planned for you, and that fat partner of yours. I hated you before, because you wouldn’t take me in Detective Division. Since you put me in this hellhole, I’ve grown to hate you even more. I’ll show you, soon.”

I turned my back on him, and tried to walk to the door without shaking too badly.

“Don’t worry, Jack. It won’t be right away. First I’m going to kill everyone in your life. Everyone you know and care about.”

I pounded on the steel, harder than I intended.

“Give my best to your mom and boyfriend, Jack. Be seeing you soon.”

I pounded again, and Carver opened up.

“You okay, Lieutenant?”

I nodded. But I wasn’t okay. My hands were quaking, and I had an overwhelming urge to vomit.

“Jack?” Herb had concern in his eyes.

“He’s faking, Herb. Faking big time. We can’t let him get out.”

“What happened in there? Do you have the tape?”

I held Benedict’s eyes and grabbed his arms, squeezing hard.

“We can’t let him get out, Herb. We can’t. No matter what.”

“Open cell eleven.”

“Opening cell eleven.”

The electronic lock disengages with a clang, and the cell door opens. Fuller eyes the prison guard escorting him; the man is eight inches shorter, with a neck so thin Fuller could strangle him with one hand.

The skinny guard unlocks Fuller’s ankle irons, while the second guard, a fat guy with a face like a bulldog, stands at the ready palming a can of pepper spray.

Keep looking tough, punk. If I wanted to, I could take away that mace and stick it so far up your ass your breath would smell like jalapeños.