Dahmer's Not Dead

Helen didn’t leave her office.

Perhaps she should have.

She wanted to wait, for the verification of what she already knew. But why? To feel safe? And going home would only force her to face things she didn’t want to face. Easier to just sit here and act like I’m doing something, she supposed.

Headquarters quieted down after the 4 p.m. shift-change, the roar descending to a clatter. Cigar fumes left no doubt that Olsher hadn’t left either. What would he do when the state passed new legislation banning smoking in all workplaces? Probably retire. She’d passed his office a few times and seen him in there, fidgeting. He’s waiting too, she knew. Waiting for Beck…

The kings and queens waiting for the messenger.

Helen leaned back at he desk, tried to relax. But every time she closed her eyes she seemed to see her life strewn about before her like stray pieces of something. Not a puzzle, nothing like that at all. Something, once whole, broken to bits.

Was it more than just Tom? She still didn’t know how to deal with that. Turning forty had sounded some inner knell. No more second chances. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life alone but, lately, that’s all she saw: a wizened crone in the same apartment, cutting out coupons to stretch her retirement pay, watching soap operas depicting people with the kind of life she’d never had.

Distraction, pre-occupation, or full-fledged forgetfulness—she wasn’t sure. She seemed to be forgetting so much now. Damn it, damn it! she swore at herself when she realized she’d missed her appointment with Dr. Sallee again. It was too late to call him now. He must think I’m the biggest ditz on earth.

All I do is dwell on my problems, and when people like Sallee try to help me, what so I do? I forget to show up.

Muffled yelling broke the constant cycle of self-criticism. It seemed to erupt down the hall, a exploding barrel. It was Olsher.

The sick feeling had already begun to build in her stomach. She blanked her thoughts. When she entered her deputy chief’s malodorous office, she was not surprised to find Jan Beck standing there, with bright yellow folders under her arm. Evidence Section always used yellow folders…

“This is so fucked up!” Olsher was rolling again. His dark face seemed pinkened somehow. “We’re gonna get buried! The goddamn press is gonna make us look like idiots!”

Beck looked crestfallen.

“We are in a world of shit,” Olsher muttered.

“Larrel, Jan,” Helen began. “What’s—”

“Tell her!” Olsher barked.

Impossible, Helen was thinking before even being told. It’s impossible…

Beck didn’t need to consult her pretty folders. “I just finished the graphological analysis of the letter found at the White Horse Inn—”

—absolutely impossible.

“—and I’m afraid there’s no mistake. Computers don’t lie. We have a positive match. The letter was written by Jeffrey Dahmer.”

««—»»

Beck had gone on to explain her findings. “Even the best forgery in the world won’t beat the computer.”

“Ink-shading, hand pressure?” Helen asked. That was about all she remembered from the quick graphology courses she’d had in the academy.

“Shading and pressure aren’t even in the mix here,” Beck said, “because the note was written in felt tip. A ballpoint or a pencil would be different—they’re far more pressure-sensitive. But with felt tip, due to the more fluid nature of the ink, shading and indentation is far less readable, often immeasurable. That’s old world graphology anyway; comparison computers are much easier and much more accurate simply in their ability to anatomize the actual architecture of the writing and produce a percentage-point value of the likelihood of a forgery.”

Helen didn’t want to ask. “What was that percentage value here?”

“Zero-point-zero,” Beck said. “There are too many variables for mistake. Even if words were traced and transferred, the computer would pick up the inconsistencies in line quality and pen position. We call it tremor hesitation, and the P-Street letter doesn’t have it. Direction, relative position, terminal points and strokes, loop terminus—it’s all here.”

Helen just stared. “Jan, you and I both saw Dahmer’s body the day after he was murdered. This is impossible. I don’t mean to doubt your expertise, but we’re going to have to have a second opinion on this.”

“I know,” Beck agreed. “That’s why I’ve already fed-exed a duplicate evidence file to the FBI and to McCrone in Chicago.”

“How long will that take?”

“For the Bureau? Could be two days, could be two months. It depends on what kind of priority status they give the case.”

“Fat chance they’ll move on it,” Olsher offered. “Not with our luck.”

“McCrone’s a private contractor we use a lot, and they’ll be fast.”

“What about a negative DNA match?”

“There was no evidence of semen in Arlinger’s body, but we can still run a DNA test on the hairs.”

Hairs. Yes, Helen remembered Beck’s initial report. Some hair and fiber evidence had been found on or near Arlinger. “So you get a DNA test on the hair and can prove it’s not Dahmer?”

“Right, or I should say the hair-root cell. Several pubic and head hairs were on the contact perimeter.”

“But what do you have to compare it to?”

“Dahmer’s genetic profile. Any convicted felon in the state is indexed with a DNA profile upon conviction,” Beck said enlightened them. “I sent some of the hair-root cells to Cellmark Labs in Maryland; they do the best PCRs and RFLPs in the country.”

“How long?”

“A week or two.”

“And in the meantime,” Olsher interrupted, “we get broiled alive by the press if they find out the handwriting was positive match.”

 And they will find out, Helen felt assured. All police departments had their inevitable leaks. She’d already talked to the papers, but that was before Beck’s graphological match. “Damage control is our first priority. The press is going to get a hold of this, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“How about we lie?”

Helen struggled not to roll her eyes.

“That’s the worst thing we can do, Larrel. We have to stand fast on our insistence—based on the conflicting m.o., that Jeffrey Dahmer is not alive.”

“Then who wrote the note?” Olsher asked.

“Jeffrey Dahmer.”

“She’s right, Chief,” Beck said.

Olsher scowled at both of them. “Did I miss something here, or am I just stupid?” “Dahmer wrote the note before he was murdered,” Helen attested. “This whole thing is some kind of a hoax.”

“A pen pal or something like that, someone on the outside,” Beck added the obvious.

“Right, or someone on the inside,” Helen went on. “One of the guards maybe, or an inmate recently released,