Dahmer's Not Dead

James J. Dipetro ran the slam; he’d been the Director of the Columbus County Detention Center for ten years, and for ten years there hadn’t been so much as a single escape. An action guy who didn’t fool around. They sent him in here to do a job, and now that he’d done it, he was up for a high-level post in the local government. Helen could imagine his outrage at the multitude of accusations suddenly leveled against himself and his facility. Right now this guy’s got about as much chance of making Director of Public Safety, Helen thought, as I’ve got of making the Olympic Figure Skating Team.

“You want what?” Dipetro asked. Hyper-tensive, Type-A all the way. A big beefy man with a trimmed beard and light-brown hair thinned by worry and stress. And a derisive glare sharp as an icepick.

“Access to your maintenance logs and personnel rosters,” Helen repeated. She’d gotten nowhere in the Records and Admin offices. “I want to cross-reference them, see which employees had any kind of regular contact with Dahmer.”

“What the hell for?”

“To verify a conspiracy theory.”

“That’s all I need,” Dipetro griped. “As if the goddamn press isn’t bad enough telling everyone that Dahmer’s still alive. Now I got the state cops wanting to tell them it was one of my people who helped get him out.”

This guy was going to be a tough case. “That’s what I’m trying to disprove, Mr. Dipetro. I don’t believe that Dahmer’s alive anymore than you do. But this entire furor in the press revolves around the letter left at the crime scene. Your upper staff have assured me that Dahmer was barred from maintaining outside correspondence because of his federal status rating—”

“That’s right,” Dipetro hastened to agree. “That asshole hasn’t sent or received a single letter since the day we locked him down.”

“—therefore it must’ve been someone working inside the prison who was forwarding mail for him. This whole schmear in the papers revolves around the P Street letter; that’s how they’re able to maintain the assertion that Dahmer escaped. If I can prove that one of your employees was smuggling out correspondence for him, then the lid gets slammed shut on the press and you’re off the hot seat.”

“Oh, well—”

 “And furthermore, if I’m lucky, it’ll probably lead me to the real killer, who’s probably some kind of psycho groupie, a guy who paid one of your employees to exchange correspondence under the table.”

Dipetro’s pit-bull demeanor changed quick when he realized that Helen was on his side. “Right. Great. So tell me exactly what you want.”

Helen gave him a card with the state police data-processing batch/search-code on it. “Tell the people in your records office to transfer all prison maintenance logs and duty rosters to my computer. Then I can run a cross- check.”

“You got it, but…” Dipetro grumbled through a pause. “I can tell you right now, all the DOs on transport and escort duty have a revolving schedule. Same in any prison, for obvious security reasons. And as for the rest, contractors and maintenance personnel are never allowed in the cells unless the inmate is on detail somewhere else in the center.”

Helen felt certain she was on the right track. “Fine, Mr. Dipetro. But let’s just do this my way, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” he mumbled and picked up the phone. “Right now I’d sell my soul to get these newspaper assholes off my back.”

««—»»

Two hours later, back in her own office, Helen had a name.

— | — | —

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Merrimac, just off Route 12. About halfway between Madison and the Correctional Center in Portage, and only a twenty-minute drive for Helen. A decent middle-class suburb, with blocks of apartment complexes on the outskirts. And the building in question, in some odd way, reminded Helen of Dahmer’s building on North 25th Street in Milwaukee.

“Mr. Kussler?”

A timid face showed in the door’s chained gap. “Uh, yes?”

Helen held her ID up. “Helen Closs, State Police. May I have a word with you, please?”

Back at HQ, even Helen’s marginal data-processing skills had gotten her what she wanted. It had only actually taken a few minutes for Dipetro’s Records technicians to copy the logs and rosters to the State Police Macro Analysis Computer. From there, Helen had input a simple search and retrieve command identifying Dahmer, Jeffrey as the proximity subject. There had to be a human common denominator in there somewhere, some person during the course of prison duties who came in regular contact with Dahmer or Dahmer’s cell. Helen would’ve guessed it was a detention officer, but she was wrong. What the computer handed her instead was this:

M:/>RETRIEVE/COMMAND FILE RELAY FROM WSP MAC FILE AUX:

KUSSLER, GLEN, A.

DOB: 30 JULY 60

FILE ADDRESS: 2900 SHIPMASTER, UNIT 4, MERRIMAC, WI

OCC STAT: PHYSICAL PLANT DEPARTMENT, COLUMBUS COUNTY DETENTION CENTER.

OCC SPEC: ELECTRICIAN

EVAL RATING: GOOD STANDING

Helen didn’t need to print out the whole file; this was all she wanted. A quick call to Portage informed her that Mr. Glen A. Kussler, a civilian employee, was off today.

So she went to his home.

“What, what’s this all about?” Kussler let her into the apartment. Nice place for low rent, clean and well decorated, with plush carpet on the floor and stark art-decoish furniture. The place even smelled nice— Carpet deodorizer, Helen guessed. Like the brand she used.

“I need to ask you about your service log at the prison,” she said.

He looked dismayed in response. Glen Kussler brought a meek if not insecure air with him: thin, gangly, over-reactive gray eyes and a twitching mouth. Thinning hair the color of mature straw sat very fine on his head. He wore heather-blue running sweats but obviously hadn’t been running.

“My service log?” he questioned.

“That’s right, Mr. Kussler.” Why waste time? She laid it on the line. “I need to know why you ‘serviced’ Cell 648 roughly twice a month for the last year and a half.”

Kussler peered at her. “648? Six Block. Isn’t that—”

“Jeffrey Dahmer’s cell,” she told him. “According to your service orders filed with the Physical Plant supervisor, you worked on Dahmer’s cell nearly twice a month since shortly after his incarceration. The average repair or service call per cell is only once every three or four months. Why did you need to service Cell 648 so many more times than normal servicing?”

“To change the running bulb. Each cell is equipped with what we call a running bulb that’s controlled by the central block command console. It’s turned on in the morning at 6:30 and turned off every night at ten. By the DO. The inmates themselves have no control over it.”