Dahmer's Not Dead

hour or so, since leaving Olsher’s office.

No, this was no longer a man she loved.

This was business.

“An accomplice,” she said, “who would not only have access to hospital records but someone who would also have access to controlled pharmaceuticals, such as succinicholine sulphate.” Helen closed her eyes for a moment. “Such a person, wouldn’t you say, would have to be a higher-ranking employee of a hospital, wouldn’t he? And maybe someone who works at night, when shifts are staffed by fewer personnel.”

Tom gaped at her. “What are you saying?”

“Do you know anyone, Tom? Anyone who fits that criteria?”

««—»»

But he had a point. Just what was she saying?

Helen pulled the Taurus in and parked in the side lot. The tacky neon sign glowed: THE BADGE.

She’d only heard about the place, had never been here. Why on earth would a woman, much less a state police captain, want to go to a cop bar?

She wanted a drink. She needed a drink, in fact. And she didn’t want to go home. Going home would only remind her of too many things. Especially Tom.

Inside was smoky, dark. A room full of men, all obviously cops just off the three-to-eleven. People like me, Helen surmised. They don’t go home because there’s nothing to go home to.

A few heads turned, eyed her, then turned away. Helen pulled up a seat at the bar as blue-note jazz eddied softly from the juke. She ordered a glass of house wine from a keep who was obviously off-duty tin. A Smith Model 25 was strapped to his belt just below his barkeep vest. But what was Helen thinking?

Tom, she thought.

Tom.

Did she really suspect him?

He did the post, she reminded herself. And he has easy access to succincholine sulphate. He had unrestricted access to the body, for the whole time. But…

Big deal, she finally realized. Even if some way did exist to jink the fingerprint confirmation at the hospital, the body’s prints were also verified at the prison and the hospital in Portage.

She sipped her wine and shook her head. I must be way off track. How could Tom possibly have arranged the business with the letters left at the crime scenes, and a genuine fingerprint on the Dumplin letter? You’re grabbing at straws, Helen, she told herself now. Just what was she proposing? That Tom was some kind of killer groupie, in league with Dahmer while he was alive? And, above all, why? What motive would he have?

She could almost hear Dr. Sallee berating her. Dahmer was gay, and you’ve just discovered that Tom, too, has gay compulsions. You’re so disoriented, Helen, that you’re trying to blame him. You’re letting your sense of professional judgment take you off on the most absurd tangents.

Yeah, she thought. Yeah, I guess you’re right. The whole thing was absurd.

A copy of the Sunday supplement lay on the empty stool next to her. Dahmer’s grainy face seemed to give her the eye. IS THIS MAN STILL ALIVE? read the header. Helen smirked, didn’t even pick it up.

“Excuse me. You’re Helen Closs, aren’t you?”

Her gaze rose off the bartop, to meet the equal gaze of a man. Average height and build, short chestnut hair and mustache—decent-looking save for an atrocious rust-brown suit. The guy had cop written all over him.

“How do you know my name?” she asked without much interest.

“Your picture was in the Tribune, something about you hammering down on that scandal-monger Tait. Good for you, I say. These news guys, Christ, they’re all out for a buck.” The guy paused to swig mug of his draft. “I’m Nick, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

Helen shook his hand, felt sweat and anguish. “So what department are you with…Nick?”

“Madison Metro, Narcotics,” he seemed to be proud of. “I’m a captain too, sixteen years. I hear you’re gonna make DC next year.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If I don’t quit first.”

Nick laughed. “I hear ya. But with all that time in, why hack down your pension?”

Helen nodded glumly.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I already have a dr—” But then she stalled, noticed her empty glass. Where the hell did all that wine go? she asked herself. She wanted another one but she wasn’t comfortable not paying for it. “Let me buy you one.”

“Hey, thanks. Bud draft.”

A Bud man, she thought despondently, and ordered another round. “Metro Narcs, huh? Crack chaser.”

“Yeah, but let me tell ya,” Nick posited. “This heroin tar is really on the rise. It’s the rich kids doing it; it’s in vogue ’cos you don’t use a needle, none of that AIDS taboo. They call it ‘H-Smoke’ and ‘Boy.’ You never read about it ’cos nobody thinks it’s hot. But this shit is tipping kids over faster than crack.”

Helen couldn’t imagine anything duller than talking shop with another cop. “I’d appreciate it,” she said, “if you wouldn’t cuss.”

“Oh, sorry—shit—I mean, wow—sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Nick.” Helen sipped her freshened wine, then abstractly noticed a thin white line on his left ring finger. A tan line.

“Divorced?” she asked. Immediately, though, she regretted it. What am I doing? Don’t lead this guy on! It wasn’t that she didn’t like him—there was no reason not to at this point. But his presence…aggravated her. She’d come here to sit by herself and think. And now, here she was asking personal questions.

“How did you— Oh, the tan line.” Nick laughed. “That’s what I call an investigator. Yeah, divorced, as in recently. I think it mentioned in the paper that you’re not married. Do yourself a favor—keep it that way. Matrimony and The Job don’t mix. Quickest way to screw up two people’s lives? Be a cop and get married.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Great, I’ve created a monster, a mouth monster, Helen realized when it became clear that Nick wasn’t going to be quiet and leave her alone. “What it didn’t say in the papers is that I’m divorced too.”

“Oh, yeah? A heel, huh? A real rubberneck?”

“Schmuck, I think, is a more accurate way to describe my former husband.”

“Hey, woe, I hear ya. When I went back to my place to get my stuff, my wife—can you believe it?—she leaned out the window and fired a bowl of hot chowder down on me. I wanted to jump back in my pickup and pop wheelies in the yard, the fuckin’ bitch… Aw, hey, sorry. Been a cop too long, ya know?”

Helen sighed.

“And, Jesus, all this Dahmer stuff. It’s almost like those rubbernecks in the press are happy about it, it gives them something to write about. Dahmer this, Dahmer that. Don’t go out, lock your doors. Big Bad Jeffrey Dahmer’s still alive.”

Helen squinted, looked up. “Do you believe that?”

Nick shrugged at the question. His beer left white foam on his upper lip. “Hell, I don’t know, but you’d think someone’d be all over the guy who did the autopsy. I mean, what a clusterfuck…pardon my language. I can’t help it, I—”

“I know, Nick. You’ve been a cop too long.” But her thoughts backtracked. The guy who did the autopsy… Tom again.