J. Konrath - Bloody Mary

“Comes with toast,” our server yawned.

I shrugged.

Herb ordered a ham and cheddar cheese omelette, with a side of bacon and two sides of sausage, hold the toast.

“This diet is killing me.”

“I bet. I think I can actually hear your arteries harden.”

He leaned in close, conspiratorially.

“It’s the starch. I thought eating all the fatty foods I wanted would be great, but right now I would kill for a sandwich made out of french fries and macaroni.”

“They’ve got that on the menu. It comes with a free angiogram.”

Herb added a ninth packet of artificial sweetener to his coffee and stirred it with his fork.

“How are you doing, Jack?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do. Maybe it will help me take my mind off my problems.”

I gave it to him. He paused, between noshing on fatty meat, to impart this bit of wisdom: “Damn, Jack, you’re a mess.”

I didn’t feel like eating, but I forced the toast down because Herb’s constant staring at it made me edgy.

“Thanks, partner. Misery loves company, I guess.”

“Are you still in love with Alan?”

“I don’t think I ever stopped loving him.”

“Does he want you back?”

“I think so.”

“Do you love Latham?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to have to choose.”

“I know.”

“Who are you going to choose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who do you love more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to eat your eggs?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least that’s a decision I can help you with.”

Herb did a quick plate-to-plate egg transfer, his fork a stainless steel blur. Apparently, separation hadn’t hurt his appetite.

“What do we do about Fuller?” Yolk clung to his mustache.

I was happy to change the subject.

“I have a plan.”

“Tell.”

“Fuller mentioned to me that he kills to make the headaches go away.”

“I read the medical. The doctors don’t think the tumor is any older than a year or two.”

“Right. But Fuller said he’s always had headaches, his whole life.”

Herb nodded. “So maybe he’s killed before.”

“We dig into his past, try to link him to an old crime.”

“How do we do that?”

“Did you forget? We’re police officers. Skilled professionals who solve crimes for a living.”

“What if there’s no crime to solve?”

“Then we have to find one.”

I picked up the check, and when we got back to the station we went to work. We started with the department’s file on Fuller. On paper, he seemed to be a good cop. Above-average arrest record. Showed up for work. Did well at the police academy, scoring high on all of his tests.

Prior to his law enforcement career, Fuller had been an NFL player. Herb pulled at that thread, while I traced his life back even further. Fuller went to Southern Illinois University, on a football scholarship. Majored in criminology. Minored in psych. Heavy subjects, for a jock.

A look at his four-year curriculum uncovered another interesting tidbit: Fuller was a member of the Drama Club, and had actually played Biff in a campus production of Death of a Salesman .

In the file Libby had put together on Fuller, there were no noteworthy incidents in his college career. He stayed out of trouble. Kept a B average. Apparently, he met Holly in college, and married her a year after graduation.

I wasted fifty cents of the taxpayers’ money on a call to information, and was soon talking to the chief of police in Carbondale, a man named Shelby Duncan. He had a low voice and talked slowly, deliberately.

“During those years we had two unsolveds. One was a townie, sixty-two-year-old male, robbed and beaten to death outside of a 7-11. Another was a student, nineteen-year-old male, fell out a frat house window. BOC was triple the going rate, but the case has been kept open.”

“How about missing persons?”

I heard fingers on a keyboard.

“One hundred and thirty-eight.”

The high number surprised me.

“It that normal?”

“We’re a college town, Lieutenant. Twenty thousand students attend classes every day. Some of them drop out, and don’t tell anyone where they’re going.”

I asked if he could fax me the reports. He did me one better and offered the password to his database so I could peruse them on my own.

Herb leaned over. “What do you got?”

“He studied psychology and criminology in college, and also did some acting. Might come in handy, if you ever wanted to beat a lie detector. I’ve also got over a hundred MP files, which I’ll try to sync up with Fuller’s academic schedule. You?”

“Fuller’s NFL career was mostly spent warming the bench. Constant knee injuries – in fact, his left knee is completely artificial. I’m surprised he could pass the department physical.”

“No missing cheerleaders?”

“I talked to one of the assistant coaches. No problems at all. The guy was a team player, no obvious difficulties. Fuller was disappointed that he couldn’t contribute more. Coach said he was a good guy.”

“Fooled them just like he fooled us.”

Benedict delved into his pocket and came up with a small bag of fried pork rinds. The bag art proudly stated “No Carbs.” I wondered, yet again, what was wrong with the world when pigskin fried in lard was considered a health food.

“So, what now?” Herb asked, showing me what partially masticated hog strips looked like. It wasn’t pretty.

“We get started on this list. You want to take A through L ?”

“I guess.”

I gave Benedict the password, and he nodded a good-bye and waddled off to his office.

I hit the computer.

Time passed slowly, as it always did with drudge work. Noon rolled around, and I declined Herb’s offer of a cheezy beef, sans bun. By four o’clock I found a tenuous connection between Fuller and a missing girl named Lucy Weintraub – she’d been a cheerleader while he was on the football team. But a DMV search found Lucy alive and well and living in Chicago. I got in touch, and she admitted to dropping out of school and going to Florida, which her parents eventually found out about, but didn’t bother informing the Carbondale PD.

Lucy didn’t remember Fuller at all.

I dialed Benedict, and he’d had no luck either. If Fuller had been responsible for any of these missing persons, he didn’t seem to have any clear connection to them.

It was creeping up on five in the evening, but home didn’t seem tempting at the moment. I knew I had to make peace with my mom, but before that I needed to get in touch with my feelings.

I was doing that, unsuccessfully, when the phone rang. The desk sergeant informed me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me.

“Says he’s your husband.”

I felt my pulse jump. Anger, or excitement?

“Can someone escort him up?”

My mirror compact called to me, begging to check my hair and makeup.

I resisted, and read the same line on an arrest report fifteen times until the knock at the door came.

“Hi, Jack.”

I didn’t look up at him, reading the line two more times before answering. Then I gave him my slightly annoyed look.

“What is it, Alan? I’m busy.”

“I wanted to apologize. For last night. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

“I accept your apology. Now if you don’t mind…”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

The words hurt. I stayed silent.

“I shouldn’t have come to Chicago. I didn’t mean to intrude on your life. I guess… I don’t know… I always questioned my decision. Leaving you. I wanted to see you again, to see if I was wrong.”