The room was cozy, uncluttered. A suite, with a sitting room. Flashes popped beyond the connecting entry. A tech was fuming doorknobs, squinting over a Sirchie portable UV. He said nothing as Helen proceeded into the bedroom.
“Hello, Captain.”
“Jan.” Helen hitched at a momentary shiver. Beck stood as if in wait, dressed in her typical red utilities, acetate gloves, and elastic booties. She was even wearing a hairnet, as were the other techs in the room.
“You’re not going to make me suit up, are you?”
“No, not necessary. We’re pretty much finished in here.”
“White male, 28,”” Beck announced. “Stewart Arlinger.”
“He had his ID on him?” Helen asked.
“Yep, and he signed in at the front desk.”
Helen paused for a quick scan. Another tech in red overalls was shooting the bedroom with a modified Nikon F. The flash snapped like lightning and left ghosts in Helen’s eyes. New blood swam in the air, and a strange kitchen-like redolence.
Helen stepped fully into the room, looked down and blinked. “Aw, Christ,” she croaked.
She felt nailed to the wall. The blood shouted at her, bellowed into her face. It was everywhere. Helen blinked fiercely with each pop off the tech’s flash, and the image seemed to lurch closer. This was more than murder, it was a fete. She needed only to see it for a moment—the sprawled, naked body on the bed—to know that the crime warranted a VCU hold. She dare not even look directly at the corpse—the corners of her vision were more than sufficient. Another blink, then, and another image: a long, ugly groove across the abdomen. Things glimmered in the groove. Chunks seemed to have been scalloped out of one arm…
Helen swallowed hard. “Any prints?”
“Plenty, for all the good they’ll do.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is a gay motel. There are two different guys in this room every night. We’ve got some hair and fiber on the contact perimeter, though. But no prints in the blood.”
“We’ll know more once we get him into the shop.”
“What about…semen?”
“Don’t know yet, Captain. There was no robbery motive, though, I can tell you that.”
“Wallet left? Money?”
Yep. Couple hundred in cash, credit cards, some butyl nitrate caps, plus a nice watch.”
“What time did he check in?”
“Three-fifteen or so, according to the log. And at least you’ll have some things to run down. The desk clerk knew the guy, didn’t see the perp come in with him, but he did tell us that Arlinger worked bar at a tavern called P Street Station, just down from the Circle.”
Helen nodded. Legwork was how most homicides were solved, and there’d be plenty of legwork here. She struggled to keep her eyes averted as more preliminary questions ticked. “The clerk saw Arlinger come in but not the perp. So they didn’t come in together. Why?”
“Maybe the meeting was prearranged and Arlinger got here first.”
“Okay. But then how did the perp get in without the clerk seeing him?”
Beck’s shoulder rose as if the question were of little importance. “Side door maybe. Maybe he waited till the clerk got up to go to the bathroom. Could be any number of ways. I would imagine gays are just like straights when it comes to motel romance. The perp probably asked Arlinger to let him in through the back door at a certain time, didn’t want the clerk to see him because maybe he knew the clerk, or knew that the clerk knew friends of his, a steady lover perhaps.”
Helen nodded again. She felt dizzy and sick. In her mind all she could imagine was what went on in here last night. Red hands reaching out, cutting.
“The victims isn’t bound, isn’t gagged.”
“Bindings and a gag could’ve been removed after the fact, but I see what you’re driving at, Captain,” Beck acknowledged. The woman seemed antsy, though, where as she generally walked through these things cool as a cucumber. “How is it that Arlinger just lay there while the perp was cutting on him? How come nobody heard any screams?”
“Right. What do you think?”
“I can’t hazard a guess until I get him into the shop, like I said. If Arlinger had been previously bound and gagged, I’ll be able to discern all that with microscopic examination of the ankles and wrists, the lipline, the cheeks.”
Helen found herself not only averting her eyes but breathing as shallowly as possible, as if to reduce her intake of the overall fetors of murder. “All right, Jan. I’ll write this up for a VCU request. Get back to me once you’ve done the workup.”
“Don’t go yet,” Beck stopped her. “You haven’t seen the kicker.” It was now that the chief evidence technician’s hyperactivity explained itself. It was some kind of morbid, professional excitement. There was still something she wanted Helen to see, and she’d been saving it.
“The kicker?”
“Over here. And you’ll have to put these on before you pick it up.”
Beck handed Helen a pair of Shur-Touch latex gloves. They snapped annoyingly as Helen pulled them on. “Pick
“The note.”
Helen felt stifled, even excited herself. The killer left a note?
“Here. Be careful with it. I’m sure there aren’t any prints on it, but I’ll have to check anyway,” Beck instructed. Now she was holding a 9x12 clear plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag, Helen could plainly see a sheet of white paper with blue writing on it. “Hold it by the corner of the
Helen did as instructed, piqued. A remnant of the killer left for her to hold, to look at. Communication from another world…
She awkwardly held the letter to the light. A standard 8- 1/2x11 sheet of plain white paper. Blue words tacked lines across the note, handwritten.
Helen’s eyes felt prized open.
To Whom It May Concern:
Behold my resurrection. In my baptism, I am reborn.
Thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven. I will exalt my throne above the Stars… Yet thou shalt be brought down into hell, deep into the pit.
And one more thing.
I’m back.
Sincerely,
Jeffrey Dahmer
