Dahmer's Not Dead

Helen knew the term. Ganser Syndrome was common among prison inmates: faking a psychiatric disorder in hopes of receiving a transfer to a mental hospital. “Rosser was trying to push some sort of religious fixation, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, and he’s quite good at it,” Sallee affirmed. “But not good enough for me. He continues to claim that he’s a thousand years old, and the Son of God, a very well-formed forgery of a systematized grandiose pietistic delusion. I could tell he was lying the minute he stepped into my office, but he’s convincing enough for laymen and even some of the prison officials. Eventually I got the court’s permission to narco-analyze him. He’s perfectly sane, read about Ganser techniques in some book by one of those underground publishers.”

“Then why did he kill Dahmer?”

“For popular status on the mainline. Several of Dahmer’s victims were African-American. Rosser knew that he’d become a hero inside by killing Dahmer and Vander, the latter being affiliated with white supremacist groups. And all this hoopla about as possible conspiracy, that Rosser was aided by detention employees—it’s pure nonsense. He’s the lone perpetrator. By killing Dahmer and, at the same time maintaining his Ganser, he knows he’ll be relocated to a mental hospital.”

Helen surveyed her notes, chewed her lip as she thought. “Now, can you give me some kind of potential profile on the P-Street killer? Is there enough you can draw from based on the crime scene?”

Sallee began to seem bored, fingering a big, blue Stelazine paperweight. A flier top the desk clutter read: What Every Doctor Should Know About Extrapyramidity. “That’s relatively easy. Whoever committed the Arlinger murder looks like a clear-cut X,Y,Y Syndrome. The underpinnings were spiteful, even mocking, totally unlike Dahmer in his day. Dahmer would never leave a body for the police to find; that’s why he disposed of many of the parts in separate parcels, dissolved them in drums of corrosives, etc. His very first victim, in fact, a hitchhiker he murdered when he was eighteen, was disposed of similarly; he buried the separate pieces in the woods behind his house. His entire life from pre-adolescence to adulthood is a prime example of unwavering costive existentialism. Burying pieces of things he was fond of in places he was in proximity to. Dahmer was raised in Bath, Ohio, claimed that his father gave him a chemistry set for his birthday. He’d solicit people in the papers who were trying to give away pets, and he’d take them, kill them, and then dissolve the carcasses down to their skeletons with high-acid and base compounds he’d concoct with the chemistry set. It was his secret, he never told anyone, then or now. Psychiatric labels are very specific; subjects tend to remain very solidly in their categories once they’ve reached instinctive phases. There’s little individuality, in other words. Gacy, Bundy, Henry Lee Lucas all came from totally different backgrounds, were subject to totally different formative upbringings, and executed equally different m.o.s—yet they all had nearly identical IQs—rather high, by the way—and remained subject to the same pathological symptomology. More recent examples are Rene Aulton and Susan Smith—maternal filicists. Mothers who kill their own children all display nearly identical behavior patterns despite totally dissimilar reactive and reflective designs.” Sallee paused for a consideration. “Is this all going over your head?”

“Well, yeah,” Helen admitted, looking down at the technical gobbledegook on her notepad.

 “Psychotic killers as well as borderline sociopaths tend to display irrevocable pattern behavior. My point is, to put it more simply: Dahmer never strayed from his demential purview; what he did in Milwaukee in 1991 was merely an emblematic amplification of the same things he was doing as a boy in Bath, Ohio. Any forensic psychiatrist in the country will tell you the same thing. Despite the outward similarities on P Street, the perpetrator clearly displays a different profile. He’s nothing even close to Dahmer; instead, he offers a different mental state: semi-delusional, aggressive, hyper-violent. By leaving the body and the note for the police to find, he’s challenging the authorities, something Dahmer would never have done. Only a full-stage episodic break could account for someone like Dahmer committing the crime at P Street. Your perpetrator merely copied the most simplified aspects of Dahmer’s atrocities, while ignoring the actual psychological imprint.”

“One of the first things I’m going to do is run a computer break-down of recently released mental patients and convicts,” Helen said.

“And you should, but don’t be disappointed if you come up with nothing,” Sallee countered. “Arlinger’s murderer is quite crafty—the note, for instance, and his avoidance of being seen entering the motel. If he committed crimes like this in the past, he probably hasn’t been caught.”

“So where do I start?”

“Obsessional contact is usually how this kind of killer is launched into an active crime-phase.”

Helen didn’t get it. “Obsessional contact?”

“The letter left at the P Street Motel was undoubtedly written by Dahmer some time before his death. But Dahmer was in lockup, so we can safely assume that the P-Street killer was in contact with Dahmer during his incarceration. Look for a ‘Killer Groupie,’ someone drawn to Dahmer via his publicity. It’s either someone he was corresponding with, or someone in close contact in the prison.”

Helen complimented herself on having already essentially discerned that. “At least that’s an easy lead.”

“Of course. I’m sure the prison keeps a log of all correspondence leaving the facility, for legal reasons.”

Helen’s hand began to cramp, she was writing so fast. But at the end of the manic scribbling, she felt satisfied that she had what she needed. “This is great, Dr. Sallee. This’ll help me lot.”

“And as for our good friends with the newspapers, feel free to quote me. You can even direct them to me personally if you like.”

“Thanks.” Helen felt winded after the influx of information. She put away her pad and began to get up. “I guess that’s it then.”

“Oh, no it’s not, Helen,” the psychiatrist contradicted. “You still have some other things to tell me, don’t you?”

Helen knew full well what he was driving at. Immediately, and without conscious forethought, she began rubbing her locket between her fingers. Just as immediately, her previous job-related zeal collapsed.

And all of her fear swooped down on her.

“You’re an ostrich, Helen.”

“A—what?”

Sallee looked at her. “You bury your head in the sand. Right now the sand is your job. But eventually, you’re going to have to take your head out of it, aren’t you?”

She knew exactly what he meant. She was avoiding her problems, not facing them. Eventually she’d be right back to Square One, right back in the jaws of all her inadequacies: her mood swings, her pre-menopausal fears, her complete lack of personal security…

“You’ve got a lot to be proud of, don’t you?” Sallee suggested.

Her response was bitter as turpentine. “Like what?”

“You’re among the most decorated officers in the history of Wisconsin law enforcement. Your arrest-versus- conviction rate is phenomenal. And you’re the only female on the force who’s ever been up for deputy chief. Aren’t those accomplishments you can be proud of?”

“Not really,” she mumbled in admission. “I’ve never felt very driven. I think it’s been mostly luck.”

“That’s foolishness, and you know it. You refuse to give yourself any credit at all merely because you’ve never had what you perceive of as a successful relationship with a man. That’s irrational and wholly illogical.”

He’d said it all a thousand times, but it never really mattered. It was impossible for her to feel any other way.’

“Still having nightmares?”

She gulped and nodded. “The pale figure chasing me.”

“Any other dreams?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Any sexual implications?”

The question didn’t even embarrass her any more. “No, I— Oh, wait I did have a different dream, just before—” But the memory stopped her from continuing, lopped off the rest of the recollection like a knife through a carrot on a butcher block.

Sallee’s tone never changed. “Just before what?”

Her fingers rubbed frantically against the locket. “Just before I woke up and heard Tom talking on the phone…to another woman.”

The doctor nodded as if unimpressed. “Tell me the dream.”