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.”

After a moment, I asked, “Why me?” My job was to arrest criminals. Other people were much more qualified to do follow-up interviews.

Bains scratched his weave. “You worked with him for several years. You know him. You’re biased to our side, so you’ll try to see through the lies. I don’t have to tell you what a media circus this case has become.”

“I’m not a professional interrogator, Captain. I don’t want to see him back on the streets, but I don’t think-”

“There’s something else, Jack.”

“What?”

Bains caught me in his iron gaze. “Fuller asked for you. Specifically.”

“For me? Why?”

Libby leaned in close, like we were best friends sharing a secret.

“We don’t know. He hasn’t given anyone a reason. But since his capture, he’s inquired about you many times. His counsel has advised him to not talk to us, and lately he’s been a clam. But Fuller agreed to an interview, and he’ll even do it without his attorneys present, but only with you. Of course, his statements won’t be admissible as evidence, so if he says anything we’ll have to introduce it through your testimony.”

I replayed the scene in my head again. Kicking in the door. Telling Fuller to let his wife go. The bullets erupting from Holly’s stomach, drilling into mine.

“I’d be happy to take a crack at him.”

“He’s at Cook County. You’ll meet with him in a private visiting booth. Alone. Plexiglas wall between you. You know the setup.”

“Will I be wired?”

Libby placed her palms on her thighs and smoothed out the Gaultier. “We all know that it’s illegal to record someone without their consent. It would be inadmissible as evidence. As an officer of the court, I can’t be privy to any knowledge of criminal activity, and if I heard of any I’d report it immediately. On a completely unrelated note, I was reviewing some old case histories and came across some interesting legal terms. One is called recollection refresh, and the other is transcript for impeachment.”

Libby then spent five minutes explaining how an illegal tape recording could be used in a trial.

When she finished, Bains said, “I’d like to go on record to say there will be no illegal taping of any suspects in my district. Especially with this voice-activated tape recorder.”

Bains placed a slim electronic unit on his desk. I put it in my pocket.

“When can I meet with him?”

“You’ve got a meeting scheduled in an hour. Good luck, Jack. I’ll expect a full report on my desk in the morning.”

Libby stood, shook my hand.

“You know, you could have saved us all this trouble if you’d just aimed one inch lower.”

I was beginning to think the same thing myself.

We’d folded ourselves into the colorful plastic extrusion chairs of a nearby submarine sandwich chain, Herb eating and me staring out the storefront window. It was raining, and gray clouds smeared together with the muted brown and black tones of the city and its dying trees, the few that it had.

Maybe somewhere in the suburbs there were piles of colorful autumn leaves waiting to be jumped into, but here we only had torn brown dead things that turned into mud when wet.

“When I was a kid, every fall, my mom would take me up to Wisconsin to watch the leaves turn. I never appreciated it. Maybe beauty is wasted on the young.”

“Could be,” Herb said, mostly to the meatball sandwich opened up and splayed out before him. The low-carb diet he was following restricted bread, and he’d pushed it off to the side, giving the protein his full attention.

“What do you think of when you think of autumn?”

“Thanksgiving turkey.”

“How about winter?”

“Christmas turkey.”

“Spring?”

“Easter ham.”

“I sense a theme here.”

“You gonna finish that roast beef?”

I allowed Herb access to my half-eaten sub, and he used a fork to pull out the meat.

“I don’t understand how eating all of that fat is healthy.”

“Got me.” Herb opened up a packet of mayo, slathered it on the beef, and crammed it all in. “Works, though.”

“Yeah. You look great.”

He grunted, as if not believing it.

“Herb? Something on your mind?”

He grunted again.

“Got some cholesterol caught in your throat?”

“It’s Bernice.”

“Is she okay?”

He shrugged.

Usually, I got daily Bernice updates, but since I’d been out of work, I’d only seen Herb three times. Each time, I’d been unloading my problems, without bothering to ask if he had any.

Some partner.

“What’s wrong, Herb?”

“We’re at odds. She doesn’t like my new lifestyle.”

“What? Low carb?”

“The weight loss is only part of it. She doesn’t like my car. She told me she’s sick of all the constant sex. Vacation is coming up, and we always go to California, to visit her friends in wine country. Been doing that for twenty years. This year, I want to go to Vegas.”

“You can compromise. Spend a few days in Las Vegas, a few with her friends.”

“Screw her friends.”

Which was as spiteful a thing as I’d ever heard come out of Herb’s mouth.

I wanted to pursue the issue, but Benedict checked his watch, shoveled in the last meatball, and stood up.

“We’re going to be late.” Which is what I think he said, cheeks full.

He walked out of the restaurant, and I followed. I tried to bring up the topic in the car, but Herb insisted he didn’t want to talk about it.

Cook County Jail stretched from 26th and Cal to 31st and Sacramento, making it the largest single-site pre-detention center in the US. Eight thousand six hundred and fifty-eight men and women resided there, give or take, divvied up among eleven division buildings. Most of the inmates were awaiting their trials, after which they’d be freed or more likely sent someplace else. Others were just commuting their short sentences, ninety days and under.

I did a quick voice test of the tape recorder, and found it in working condition.

After being cleared through the perimeter fence, we located Division Eleven, where they held Fuller. From the outside, the clean, white building looked more like a government office than a maximum security prison.

Inside, however, was all business. We were met by the assistant division superintendent, Jake Carver, a beefy man with a moist handshake. We signed in, checked our weapons, and followed Carver into the bowels of the prison.

“Been a model prisoner.” Carver had a voice like a buzz saw. Smoking, drink, or both. “No problems at all.”

“What’s the security on him?” Herb asked.

“He’s in isolation. Can’t put a cop in with the general population.”

“Have you met him?” I asked.

“Sure. Chitchatted for a while.”

“What’s your impression?”