Dahmer's Not Dead

mounted a tiny slide sign with Magic Markered letters:

ROSSER, T.

Helen’s energy hadn’t waned even by 9 p.m. She’d driven straight from Dr. Sallee’s to St. John the Divine’s Hospital. Might as well make good use of my time, she reasoned. She wasn’t the least bit tired, despite having had almost no sleep last night. Tredell Rosser had been court-ordered to the psych wing at the hospital the day of Dahmer’s death. The state’s Special Prosecutor’s Office had fought like dogs to prevent this, but to no avail. Since then Rosser had repeatedly waived all rights to counsel and had confessed to the bludgeoning murder of Jeffrey Dahmer no less than four times. Helen wanted to have a talk with him, feel out his mental state, trip him up if possible.

The psych wing—2D West—had a jail unit for violent offenders pending evaluation and “precaution transfers”: inmates suspected of being suicidal. Rosser himself had been admitted for re-evaluation. If Sallee was right—in his conviction that Rosser was actually a Ganser faking delusions—then hopefully the psych unit staff would determine this and send him straight back to Columbus County Detent. But if he beat the wrap, he would serve the rest of his sentence in a state mental facility. Either way, though, Rosser won. Back to prison and he’d be a cellblock hero.

The man was terrifying to look at. He was nearly as tall sitting down as Helen was standing up. A perfect model of prison fitness: fists the size of ham hocks, batlike forearms, pecs, shoulders and back that could’ve qualified him for a body-building contest. Helen saw little sense in the penal policy which allowed inmates to turn themselves into musclemen. This made them all the more dangerous not only on the cellblock but when they got out. Thick veins atop biceps the size of apples flicked like earthworms when he leaned forward.

“I’se am the million-year-old Son’a God,” he informed her. An eerie, fluttering aspect seemed trapped behind the homey, street-bred voice; each word seemed to slip down Helen’s back.

“If you’re the Son of God, then why don’t you break out of those chains?”

“Sames reason Jesus didn’t take hisseff down off dah cross at Calvary. Not cool, ya know.”

“Hmm, interesting.” Helen kept her face blank, looking at him. Even when she closed her eyes for a moment, an afterimage of his crisply dark face lingered behind her lids. “But why should I believe you’re the Son of God?”

“Ain’t gotta no ways,” Rosser replied. “‘Thou wouldst not listen ta dah voice’a their father.’ ‘They’se are a perverse generation, them children in whom there is no faith.’“

This was unique, even invigorating—Bible scripture being quoted in street dialect. Helen vaguely remembered the latter quote from an old theology class, from Deuteronomy. She tried to bait him. “That was from Psalms, wasn’t it?”

“Doots-ter-onomy,” he said.

Helen nodded. So much for that. “Jeffrey Dahmer was into religion, wasn’t he? I mean, after he’d been at the prison for a while?”

Beautiful white teeth gleamed through the smile. “Jeffreys Dahmer were a mymidon’a the Devil. That why I killed him. Gods tole me that ‘Ye are holy whosoever vanquish evil.’“

“But aren’t you evil too, Mr. Rosser?” Helen piqued. “You murdered a Conservation Corp worker in cold blood, shot him in the head.”

“Shee-it. That weren’t me. That were the machination’a the Devil. I’se been persecuted by the state, just like Jesus were persecuted by Rome and the Jews. I’se am the million-year-old Son’a God, ma’am. I’se walked the field of blood. I’se trod the plains of Troy and Knossos and Nineveh.”

“Oh, really? And Nineveh was the capital of what ancient country, Mr. Rosser?”

“A holy land. God, He say he’d destroy Nineveh for its sin, but then He change his mind ’cos they got their act straight.”

The answer to Helen’s question was Assyria, though she had to commend Rosser for his knowledge of Biblical history. God, according to the Bible, had indeed condemned the city of Nineveh, but retracted His promise of destruction once the population sought faith. The most famous contradiction in Bible prophesy.

“All right,” she went on, “you killed Jeffrey Dahmer because he was in league with the Devil—”

“He were a myrmidon.”

Helen didn’t exactly know what the word meant, but she didn’t say it. “Fine,” she said instead. “Then why did you attack Vander too? Was he also a…myrmidon of the Devil.”

“No, he were but a vassal.”

“Word is, Mr. Rosser, you killed Dahmer because his victims were mostly black. You did it for popular status on the cellblock. And the same goes for Vander. He’s in intensive care, by the way, really bad shape. You tried to kill him too, because he was a Nazi, and he murdered his wife but told the police it was a black man.”

“‘Lying lips are an abomination’a the Lord.’“ He paused to look at her more closely, his fervent eyes the color of burnt nuts. “Whys are you here?”

“I wanted to meet you, Mr. Rosser. You’re an interesting man, I must say. But there’s a rumor I wanted to ask you about. They say that you may have been assisted, that certain detention officers arranged for you to be in the prison rec unit with Dahmer and Vander, and they looked the other way so you could do the job. Can you verify that, Mr. Rosser? You have nothing to lose in telling me. It would help me to know this.”

Rosser’s blaring white smile never waned. “‘Thou shalt not…bear, false witness…against thy neighbor.’ I’se did it, juss me. No ones else.”

“All right, Mr. Rosser, I believe you. But I also believe you’re what we call a Ganser. You’re faking delusions to try to get transferred into a mental hospital.”

“Believe what you like,” Rosser said. “‘Thou shalt not put any other God aboves me.’“ The smile beamed; Rosser’s head inclined. “Earliers, you ax me why don’t I break these chains if I’se really the Son’a God.”

“Yes,” Helen acknowledged.

“Watch.”

Rosser stood up. The small psych cell seemed to shrink in his rising; Helen felt like a dwarf before this 6’3” killing machine. Rosser’s stout arms snapped upward, strained the cuffs connected to the waistchain. Suddenly he was sweating, the skin of his well-developed arms and shoulders like veneered black marble. His biceps shimmied…

Don’t wet yourself, Helen. It doesn’t matter how strong he is. That’s tempered steel. He can’t possibly break it—

 snap!

His cuffed hands broke the waistchain link. Then, after another few moments of more exertion—

snap!

The link joining the cuffs broke too.

Helen stared at him. She’d had to turn over her service weapon before coming onto the unit. All she had to defend herself with was…her purse.

Rosser smiled. “These hands”—he raised them up—”coulds kill you, right now.”

Then he sat back down.

It was all Helen could do not to call out for the orderlies. Hold your ground, hold your ground. “Well, Mr. Rosser, in that case, thank you for not killing me. It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Haves a good day.”

Helen, stiff-backed and suppressing her terror, left the psych cell. Somehow, she knew she could feel Rosser’s arcane, bright smile following her out. “Just for your info,” she said to the orderlies, “that walking meat- rack in there just broke out of his cuffs.” The orderlies’ faces blanched, and they rushed in. Helen let herself be escorted off the wing by the security super.

“They do that sometimes,” he said. “Brains all messed up, gives them incredible strength. You know, like the old wive’s tale of the skinny woman lifting a car up off her husband.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that guy’s brain.”

The guard shrugged. “That’s what a lot of the docs say, say he’s faking it.”

“He is, and he’s doing a good job. I’ll bet anything he winds up in a cushy state psych ward.”