Dahmer's Not Dead

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CHAPTER SIX

“You’ve gotta be shitting me!”

Olsher’s face looked like a straining, pulsing dark fruit. Helen stood. The years had mellowed Larrel Olsher; Helen knew him to be far more laid back now, easy-going and insouciant, lower-strung pending his well-deserved retirement. Now, though, she feared she was watching her boss about to have a coronary.

whack!

Olsher slapped the newspaper. It was the evening edition of the Tribune, an early copy sent by courier.

“Larrel, what’re you yelling about?”

“This!”

Helen read the headline.

CRIME SCENE EVIDENCE INDICATES THAT DAHMER MAY HAVE ESCAPED.

Madison— Evidence procured by the Wisconsin State Police Violent Crimes Unit suggests that Jeffrey Dahmer, reported murdered by another inmate in prison over a week ago, may indeed still be alive. And on the loose. One Stewart K. Arlinger, a P Street bartender, was found murdered—mutilated—in a nearby motel. A hand- written note left by the killer was signed: Jeffrey Dahmer.

“This is garbage, Chief,” Helen assured. “I was at the scene. There are no verifiable fingerprints. It’s a copycat.”

“I know that, but what about them?” He tapped the newspaper in her hand. “Read more.”

The note is currently being analyzed by state police handwriting experts, to discern if it indeed was written by the infamous Dahmer.

“Chief, what are you getting all bent out of shape about? I’m telling you, it’s a copycat. There’s nothing in this perp’s m.o. that is even remotely similar to Dahmer’s. Didn’t the papers call you for a statement?”

“Of course they did. I gave them a twenty-minute spiel about how this was a copycat. And look what they published!”

The Tribune, of course, immediately contacted Deputy Chief Larrel Olsher of the state’s Violent Crime’s Unit, a special investigatory arm designed to probe particularly brutal state homicides. Olsher had this to say: “All the evidence suggests that this is a copycat slaying.”

“How do you like that shit?” Olsher’s voice pounded. “I talk to them for twenty-fucking-minutes, and all they publish is that! Ten fucking words!”

Olsher, at last, sat back down. “The PC’s going to be so pissed he’s gonna be shaking shit out his pant leg! I need you to fix this, Helen.”

`”Fix…what?”

“Fix this clusterfuck, that’s what! You’re the best investigator on this pissant, under-funded department. So go out and investigate. I want those TSD reports on my desk ASAP. I want forensic proof that this isn’t Dahmer, and I want it now. And before you do that, I want you to go to the papers and give those assholes the gist. They won’t listen to me, maybe they’ll listen to you.”

“All right, Larrel, don’t worry.”

Olsher took a moment to stare at her, the oddest of looks. “Tell me something, first. Do you think—do you think that… this really could be Dahmer?”

“No,” she categorically stated. “It’s not Dahmer’s modus at all, nothing like it. Dahmer was a recluse. He never publicized his crimes, and he would never—in a million years—leave a note for the police.”

“Tell them that!” Olsher barked, and sipped coffee as if to save his life. “Go to the fucking Tribune and tell them that! Right now! Then start checking out the works!”

“You got it.” That was all she said before she left the deputy chief’s office. Calming down Olsher in a bad mood, she’d long-since learned, was akin to calming down a pit bull.

All she could hope for was this: that Jan Beck and her Technical Services Division would put a lid on this fast.

««—»»

“My name is Helen Closs”—she flashed her badge—”and I’m with the Wisconsin State Police Violent Crimes Unit. I’d like to speak to the executive editor of the Tribune.”

Helen would’ve expected a gum-chewing blonde, but instead it was a fat guy with glasses who tended the reception desk of the Clark Avenue newspaper.

“Mr. Tait’s in conference, ma’am,” the guy informed her without even looking up. He was reading a book called Palace Corbie. “Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow? Or you can wait here if you like, for maybe two hours.”

Helen took off her topcoat. “If I have to wait for more than two minutes, I’ll close your newspaper down.”

The book slowly lowered. “Pardon me?”

“I just carded three Vietnamese men working your loading dock. They were unable to verify their United States citizenship. They didn’t have green cards and they carried no legal form of identification. Plus you have pallets of newspapers blocking the west access of loading dock, which obstruct city services in general and fire- fighting equipment in particular. I can close you down with a court order pending a citation hearing. It would take no more than forty minutes to get the paperwork served.”

The fat guy was on the phone in a heartbeat, and another heartbeat later he was smiling cordially and telling her, “Mr. Tait will be happy to see you now. Third door on the left.”

Helen took the central hall, passing coves of computer stations and journalists tapping keyboards. The obstruction to city services was weak, and even though the Vietnamese men were obviously illegal, it would take something more like two days to serve the papers with immigration violations. But white lies weren’t really lies.

“Ah, Captain Klause,” the paper’s exec editor greeted in her in his office.

“Closs,” she corrected.

“Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“Turn on a tape recorder and print everything I say in tomorrow morning’s edition.” Helen sat down, poker- faced.

Tait had a nicely trimmed beard and hair pulled back in a ponytail. “I’m always happy to accommodate the police,” Tait said. “Coffee?”

“No thank you. Just turn on your recorder or get a pencil and a piece of paper while I dictate to you.”

“My handwriting’s atrocious.” Tait turned on a small Sony tape recorder extracted from a desk drawer.