Konarth, Joe - Jack Daniels 02 - Bloody Mary (26 page)
“Six years. Worked there eight years before buying it from the original owner.”
“Before then?”
“His apprenticeship, Champaign-Urbana.”
That was south, but still two hundred miles away from Carbondale, where Fuller went to school.
“Before then?”
“Worsham College of Mortuary Science in Wheeling.”
Wheeling was even farther north.
“I’ll keep digging. Maybe something will turn up.”
“I hope so, Jack. You were my star witness, and the jury hates you. I’ve only got two more wits to call, and then it’s the defense’s ballgame. They’re bringing in some big guns.”
“How bad is it?”
Libby frowned. “If we don’t get something fast, we’re going to lose.”
Benedict was waiting for me in my office. “How’d it go?”
“The only reason I wasn’t lynched is because no one in the courtroom had a rope.”
He laughed, though it sounded forced.
“Why are you in such a chipper mood?”
“Freedom, Jack. Freedom at last.”
“Freedom from what?”
“I saw a divorce lawyer this morning.”
Herb smiled when he said it. I wasn’t sure how to react.
“This is what you really want?”
“I’ve been living alone for almost a month, Jack. I love it. But I haven’t really hit the scene yet.”
“The scene?”
“The dating scene. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want to start seeing other women while I’m still married. But that is gonna change real soon.”
“How does Bernice feel about this?”
“She cried, but I know she realizes it’s for the best. I’m getting close, Jack. I’m almost free.”
Free from what, I thought? Free from a woman who loves you and devoted half of her life to you? Free from a home and a family? That’s freedom?
“Congrats. I hope it works out for you.”
“Up for a celebratory lunch? My treat. There’s a new gyro place that lets you order without the pita.”
“I’ll pass. I’ve got some calls to make.”
I was hungry, but didn’t feel comfortable around Herb at that moment. Maybe because I thought he was making a colossal mistake.
Or maybe because I realized he and I were more alike than I cared to admit. Latham sprang to mind.
“Your loss,” Benedict said. “I’ll catch you later.”
Herb left. The helpful drone at directory assistance gave me Worsham College of Mortuary Science, and connected me for an additional ten cents.
“I’m looking to speak with someone who might remember a student from fifteen years ago.”
“Let me connect you with Professor Keevers. He’s been here since the days before electricity. Hold a second.”
I spent a minute listening to Muzak, then a smooth baritone picked up.
“This is Tom Keevers. Who am I speaking with?”
“I’m Lieutenant Daniels, from the Chicago Police Department. Do you remember a student from fifteen years ago named Derrick Rushlo?”
There was a pause.
“Derrick is in some kind of trouble, I take it?”
“Do you remember him?”
“Yes. Yes I do. We get people like Derrick every once in a while.”
“What do you mean, people like Derrick?”
“I’m sure you know what I mean, hence your call.”
“Necrophiles?”
“A distasteful minority in this profession. Has Derrick been caught with his pants down, so to speak? There are strict regulations against such activity, of course, but I wasn’t aware of it being illegal.”
“This is a homicide investigation, Professor. I take it you knew about Derrick’s, uh, appetites?”
“I suspected. Never had proof. My best students remain aloof, detached, when embalming. Derrick was always a little too intimate with the bodies. Plus, there was that incident at SIU . . .”
“Excuse me? Do you mean Southern Illinois University?”
“Yes. They have an excellent mortuary school there. Derrick transferred from there to here.”
And Bingo was his name-o.
“Was he expelled?”
“Not that I recall. Rather, he was encouraged to leave. If memory serves, one of their cadavers went missing, and suspicion fell on Derrick. There was never any evidence, though. It caused quite a stir in the academic community.”
“Did he have any problems while at Worsham?”
“No. Excellent student. Did good work. I always had my suspicions about him, though. He murdered somebody, you say?”
“Accessory.”
“That makes sense. I’ve always wanted to write a novel, with a mortician as the villain. It would be ridiculously easy, in our profession, to dispose of a murder victim.”
“Cremation.”
“There’s that. But are you aware of how many closed casket funerals go on in this business? Some folks die beyond our ability to reconstruct them. Some families simply don’t want to view the departed.”
“So you’re saying . . . ?”
“A mortician could easily place more than one body in a casket, and no one would ever know.”
“Thank you for your time, Professor.”
I hung up, excited. I not only had a connection between Fuller and Rushlo, but it gave me an idea on how we could get Rushlo to fess up.
I left Libby a message on her cell, and then occupied a few hours reviewing backlog cases. During my absence, Chicago lived up to its reputation of being the murder capital of the U.S. We averaged about 600 a year, but we were already at over 585 and the busy holiday season wasn’t even upon us yet.
Immersing myself in paperwork turned out to be good therapy, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I’d only thought about Fuller intermittently, rather than constantly.
I called home, got no answer, called Alan’s cell, and got his voice mail. I told him I’d be home early, and left the office.
The snow had turned into freezing drizzle, and the ride took twenty minutes longer than normal, because every driver on the road collectively forgot how to drive in freezing drizzle.
After retrieving my mail, I went up to my apartment, walked into the living room, and caught sight of a very old and very naked man having sex with my mother on the Hide-A-Bed.
I immediately turned around and went into the kitchen. They hadn’t seen me, having been too involved in the act. Perhaps their mutual moaning had masked the sound of my footfalls.
I considered my next move. Make a lot of noise, so they knew I was home? Sneak out? Ask them to quit it, because I was now scarred for the rest of my life?
I chose sneaking out. A twenty-four-hour coffee shop/diner was a few blocks away, but the freezing rain wasn’t enough to erase the image branded on my brain, of Mr. Griffin’s naked bottom rising and falling. I also found myself thinking, quite surprisingly, that it wasn’t a bad butt for a guy his age. Firmer than I might have guessed.
I had coffee, and a Monte Cristo sandwich—hot turkey, ham, Swiss cheese, and bacon, on two pieces of French toast. The sandwich came dusted in powdered sugar, with a side ramekin of raspberry jelly. It didn’t make sense that jelly went so well with turkey and ham, but for some reason it worked. I suppose some things that worked didn’t need to make sense.
After killing an hour in the diner, which seemed to be more than enough time for my mom to finish, I called the apartment.
No answer. Perhaps they were napping in the post-glow.
Wanting badly to shower and change clothes, I again braved the inclement weather and made my way back home.
They were still going at it.
I didn’t get an eyeful this time—the groaning was enough to keep me at bay. I turned and walked right back out.
My opinion of Mr. Griffin went up a notch. I’d always dated younger men. Perhaps I’d been missing out.
The local googleplex had a new Brad Pitt movie playing, and I plunked down ten bucks to spend ninety minutes with Brad.
Afterward, I called home. Thankfully, Mom picked up.
“Hi, Mom. Just calling to tell you I’ll be home in about twenty minutes.”
“Hello, dear. Um, can I ask a tiny favor of you?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“My gentlemen friend from Florida, Mr. Griffin, is visiting. Would you mind giving us an hour or two to catch up?”
“An hour or two?”
“Yes. We haven’t seen each other in a while and we’ve got some things to work out.”
My mother made a frank, gasping sound. I rubbed my eyes.
“Sure, Mom. I’ll catch a movie. I’ll be home around ten?”
“Ten is fine,” Mom said, an octave higher than normal.
I hung up.
Unbelievable.
I killed another two hours with Julia Roberts, and by then I was so tired I went straight home, my mother’s sexual needs be damned. She just broke her hip, for heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t she be minding the injury?
Thankfully, Mom and Mr. Griffin were fully dressed when I returned. They were in the kitchen, sipping coffee. Mom’s hair was a mess, and her cheeks were flushed.
“Nice to see you again, Jacqueline.” Mr. Griffin was a student of the old school, meaning he stood up when I came into the room and offered his hand.
I shook it, and he winced.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. My back is acting up a little.”
I wonder why.
“We’ve got a pizza coming, if you’re hungry.”
“No, I ate. I’m going to turn in. Did Alan call?”
“He told me earlier he was going out with some old buddies, wouldn’t be back until late.”
I said my good nights, slipped in and out of a hot shower, and climbed into bed, determined not to take a sleeping pill.
After forty minutes of staring at the ceiling, I heard a deep moan come from the living room.
I took two pills, and fell asleep with the pillow over my head.
Fuller lies awake in his cell. It’s past midnight, and he needs to sleep. He has to look good for court. Appearance is everything.
He knows the jury watches him constantly. Looking for some trace of guilt or deceit. He’ll only show them what he wants them to see.
The vomiting was a masterstroke. The piece of beef had been rotting in his mattress for days. Less than the size of a grape, the smell alone was enough to make him gag. Popping it in his mouth produced instant nausea. Disgusting, but effective.
The real show will begin when he takes the stand. He’s hidden some red peppercorn flakes in his mattress—much more effective for bringing on tears than onions.
He knows the case will wrap up soon. Garcia wants to finish it before Thanksgiving, betting on the fact that the jurors will want to get the verdict in before the holiday. That leaves two days for testimony, and one for closing statements.
So far, everything is progressing smoothly.
There had been a bad moment, when Garcia told him about the tape. Some guard at Cook County jail had contacted Fuller’s attorneys, willing to sell them a recording of his conversation with Jack at the prison. Blackmail, is what it boiled down to. Pay me, or I’ll give this to the prosecution.
Fuller paid. He had to give power of attorney to Garcia, and authorized him to liquidate several things around the house—Holly’s jewelry, a signed Dali litho she’d bought with her modeling money, the Lexus.
Fuller had been worried that Garcia might turn on him, once he found out about Fuller’s deception. But the smarmy little bastard didn’t bat an eyelash. In fact, he ingeniously used the tape to discredit Daniels.
Who says money can’t buy a verdict?
The only problem at the moment is these damn headaches. They’re getting worse. He hasn’t explained to his doctors about how bad they’ve gotten, because he needs to give the impression that he’s cured. If headaches made him kill, and he’s still got headaches, they won’t let him out.
So he makes do with Tylenol and sheer will.
But he can’t hold out much longer.
There’s only one thing that helps him when the pain gets this bad.
“Just a few more days,” he whispers to himself. “Then I’ll be free.”
Fuller has Thanksgiving plans. He’s going to drop by the Daniels household. Get a little pain relief. He’s heard that Jack is living with her mom and ex-husband. What fun it will be to kill them both, in front of Jack, before ripping off her arms.
“Murder. The headache medicine.”
When he finally falls asleep, it’s with a smile on his face.
“Dr. Jurczyk, in your eighteen years’ experience as a brain surgeon, how many operations have you performed?”
Dr. Robert Jurczyk answered in a deep, resounding tone that radiated authority. “I’ve performed several hundred.”
“Was one of them on the defendant, Barry Fuller?”
