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Authors: M. William Phelps
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Detective Chris Wundrach walked into the room and greeted George. “Come on in,” Wundrach said, beckoning George to follow him.
George stood. He didn’t say much of anything unless prompted.
“Would you like something to drink?” Wundrach asked cordially.
“Some water would be fine,” George replied.
No sooner had they settled into the empty interview room than George broke down and, as Wundrach later put it, began to “tear up.”
“I have been so busy,” George explained, almost as if issuing an excuse, “that I have not had time to grieve the loss of my wife.”
Wundrach guessed George meant making arrangements for Gail’s funeral was keeping him busy, although George never said what had kept him so consumed that he had not felt much sorrow for a woman he had been married to for twenty-three years.
Was this some sort of act?
When George was finished with his brief meltdown, and “regained his composure,” he said, “I hope when you catch the person who did this, the justice system does its job!”
“Yeah. . . .”
“Because if not,” George continued, without paying mind to what Wundrach was about to say, “I will be sure to finish it myself !”
“We’re doing everything in our power to catch whoever is responsible, Mr. Fulton.”
Wundrach stood. He told George to hang on a moment. He had to leave the room.
When the detective returned after going to his office to retrieve Gail’s purse, he handed it and its contents (in a separate bag) to George, saying, “You’ll have to sign a receipt for the purse and contents.
“Where?”
George got up to leave. Wundrach considered they were done.
Before walking out the door, George stopped, turned to Wundrach, and said, “I need a favor.”
“What’s that?” Wundrach answered, his attention piqued.
“If there comes a time when you have to arrest me, I hope that you do not do it at the airport or in front of my children. I will come in here anytime you want me to.”
Police officers for the OCSD started off, as Chris Wundrach later explained, in corrections, serving the needs of the prison system. It was 1992 when Wundrach made the move from corrections to the OCSD road patrol division in Lake Orion Township. He had been promoted to detective just a year before Gail Fulton’s murder.
Wundrach was a local boy. He grew up in Oakland County and went to college in the area. He earned a bachelor’s in criminal justice, never intending to go into police work. He had entered college with accounting as his major, but he soon found the math and all those numbers buzzing in his head to be boring and cumbersome. “I hated it.” One thing led to another, and after several entrance exams, Wundrach went through avionics and a few other career choices before settling on criminal justice.
The thing about being an Oakland County substation detective, Wundrach explained humbly, is that a person works on everything. It’s not just murder cases, as one might be led to believe by the glorifying way popular culture and television promote the gold shield aspect of law enforcement. There are retail fraud cases, assault, rapes, robberies, burglaries, drug cases—or, as Wundrach put it, “all crime.”
In the thirty-six-square-mile township of Lake Orion (the county, in other words), there are about 55,000 to 60,000 residents at any given time, so the detective bureau of the OCSD is busy all the time.
“It’s not as bad as the inner cities,” Wundrach remarked, “but we get our share of everything.”
Within all of that crime on any given day, week, or month, however, murder is “pretty rare.” It’s not as though the OCSD was running around the county investigating one murder after the next, as they do in Detroit or Pontiac. For Wundrach, Gail Fulton’s murder was his first.
At the time of Gail’s murder, Sergeant James A’Hearn was in charge of the fugitive and investigative unit of the OCSD. He ran the show. A’Hearn was
Detective Chris Wundrach walked into the room and greeted George. “Come on in,” Wundrach said, beckoning George to follow him.
George stood. He didn’t say much of anything unless prompted.
“Would you like something to drink?” Wundrach asked cordially.
“Some water would be fine,” George replied.
No sooner had they settled into the empty interview room than George broke down and, as Wundrach later put it, began to “tear up.”
“I have been so busy,” George explained, almost as if issuing an excuse, “that I have not had time to grieve the loss of my wife.”
Wundrach guessed George meant making arrangements for Gail’s funeral was keeping him busy, although George never said what had kept him so consumed that he had not felt much sorrow for a woman he had been married to for twenty-three years.
Was this some sort of act?
When George was finished with his brief meltdown, and “regained his composure,” he said, “I hope when you catch the person who did this, the justice system does its job!”
“Yeah. . . .”
“Because if not,” George continued, without paying mind to what Wundrach was about to say, “I will be sure to finish it myself !”
“We’re doing everything in our power to catch whoever is responsible, Mr. Fulton.”
Wundrach stood. He told George to hang on a moment. He had to leave the room.
When the detective returned after going to his office to retrieve Gail’s purse, he handed it and its contents (in a separate bag) to George, saying, “You’ll have to sign a receipt for the purse and contents.
“Where?”
George got up to leave. Wundrach considered they were done.
Before walking out the door, George stopped, turned to Wundrach, and said, “I need a favor.”
“What’s that?” Wundrach answered, his attention piqued.
“If there comes a time when you have to arrest me, I hope that you do not do it at the airport or in front of my children. I will come in here anytime you want me to.”
Police officers for the OCSD started off, as Chris Wundrach later explained, in corrections, serving the needs of the prison system. It was 1992 when Wundrach made the move from corrections to the OCSD road patrol division in Lake Orion Township. He had been promoted to detective just a year before Gail Fulton’s murder.
Wundrach was a local boy. He grew up in Oakland County and went to college in the area. He earned a bachelor’s in criminal justice, never intending to go into police work. He had entered college with accounting as his major, but he soon found the math and all those numbers buzzing in his head to be boring and cumbersome. “I hated it.” One thing led to another, and after several entrance exams, Wundrach went through avionics and a few other career choices before settling on criminal justice.
The thing about being an Oakland County substation detective, Wundrach explained humbly, is that a person works on everything. It’s not just murder cases, as one might be led to believe by the glorifying way popular culture and television promote the gold shield aspect of law enforcement. There are retail fraud cases, assault, rapes, robberies, burglaries, drug cases—or, as Wundrach put it, “all crime.”
In the thirty-six-square-mile township of Lake Orion (the county, in other words), there are about 55,000 to 60,000 residents at any given time, so the detective bureau of the OCSD is busy all the time.
“It’s not as bad as the inner cities,” Wundrach remarked, “but we get our share of everything.”
Within all of that crime on any given day, week, or month, however, murder is “pretty rare.” It’s not as though the OCSD was running around the county investigating one murder after the next, as they do in Detroit or Pontiac. For Wundrach, Gail Fulton’s murder was his first.
At the time of Gail’s murder, Sergeant James A’Hearn was in charge of the fugitive and investigative unit of the OCSD. He ran the show. A’Hearn was
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