Dahmer's Not Dead

Helen’s eyes narrowed in the contemplation. “So why was Glen Kussler in love with this man, if he was so abusive?”

“That’s how it works sometimes,” North explained matter-of-factly. “Guys like Glen—introverted, shy, non- assertive—they frequently fall for abusive guys. Tricks like Glen are a dime a dozen; I hear the stories all the time. Being abused and exploited by lovers is a focal point in their lives; it’s the only thing that reinforces their self-worth. Why do so many battered wives return to their abusive husbands?”

At once, Helen saw the inference. It was the same thing.

“So what about that deal?”

Helen never liked to play the heavy. Talk about exploitation. She still needed to make him sweat a bit, just to be certain he was coming clean. “Not enough, Mr. North. My name is Closs, not Claus. I still need more.”

North’s big, manicured hand slapped his jean-covered thighs. “I knew this was a crock! Come on, Captain! I am a bad guy? What, just ’cos I turn tricks?”

“Prostitution’s against the law, Mr. North.”

“So is letting your dog poop on the sidewalk. So is driving one mile over the speed limit. You ever done that, Captain?” North wiped genuine sweat off his brow. “Christ, my lawyer’s telling me I could go to the joint for a year. You know what’ll happen to a guy like me in the Madison slam? Christ, those bulls’ll be on me like Rock Hudson on a fucking boy scout! And for what? Because I have sex for money with consenting adults. Because I provide a service to guys who are mostly lonely, maladjusted, or dumped by their lovers. Yeah, some big crime. Matt North, the big bad criminal. You got rapists getting off on plea bargains, drug dealers walking on PBJ, S&L con men ripping off billions and posting bail with the same money, but you’re gonna put me in the can ’cos I turn a few tricks to pay the bills.”

An effective appeal, and Helen, for the most part, agreed. But still she held her ground. “I need more on Cam.”

“There isn’t any more! I’ve told you everything Glen told me. Christ, I’ve told you what the guy’s into, what he looks like, I’ve even told you his name.”

“What, Cam? That’s probably a nickname.”

North’s mouth opened, paused. “Oh, you’re right, I didn’t mention it. It’s Campbell.”

Cam. Campbell, she thought. But did he make it up in desperation? Helen didn’t think so. His eye-movements weren’t right for lying, and neither were his kinestethics. “Campbell, fine. But that’s a very common last name. I need Campbell’s first name too.”

North’s face tensed up, cords beneath veins straining in his neck. “Christ, lady, I don’t know his first name! If I did, I’d tell you! Jesus Christ, I don’t want to go to the joint!”

Helen nodded. There was no practical reason to pressure him further. She placed one of her cards on the coffee table and stood up. “You’ve been very cooperative, Mr. North. If you can think of anything else, please call me. In the meantime, I’ll talk to the district attorney and ask him to drop the charges against you.”

North looked up like a child looking at an angel. “For real?”

“Sure. But you better keep your nose clean from this point on because if you get busted again, you will go to jail, and there’ll be nothing I can do to help you.” Helen seriously doubted that Matthew North would desist from his occupation, but she felt it only appropriate to make the warning.

“Gee—I mean, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. North. I’ll see myself out.” Helen left the apartment, and went back out onto the street. Campbell. I got a name, at least. There were probably tens of thousands of Campbells in the state of Wisconsin, but it was something. Plus, she knew what Campbell looked like; North’s description verified that she’d met Campbell herself, using Kussler’s name. From here she could run rap checks, prison and metal hospital release checks, any number of things. This ten-minute interview with North had given her more solid investigatory data than everything she’d accrued since Dahmer’s staged death at the prison.

At least I’ve got something to work with now.

Helen was about to unlock the Taurus when padded footfalls resounded behind her, and a voice: “Hey, Captain, wait a minute.”

 North huffed right up to her, his breath misting. Shirtless and barefoot, he remained impervious to the biting cold. “There’s one more thing I just remembered.”

“I’m listening, Mr. North.”

“That bit Glen told me about Campbell being into rough videos and violent computer games?”

“Yes?”

“Well, now that I think of it, Glen mentioned something else too, something pretty weird. It’s not all that surprising, though, since, like I said, Campbell was—”

“Sick pup material.”

“Right. Well, Campbell had this other really nutty pet peeve. He was into killers.”

“Into killers?”

“Yeah, Glen mentioned it to me once, said it really whacked him out. Campbell had a hobby, he kept a scrapbook full of newspaper clippings and stuff. Articles about famous killers, you know, serial murderers, Bundy, Gacy, guys like that, but—”

Helen’s head tilted like a bird’s. She stared in complete bedazzlement at what North was saying, and what she strangely sensed he was about to say.

“—but,” North rambled on, “he was especially obsessed with Jeffrey Dahmer.”

— | — | —

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Helen felt on wires when she strode into Olsher’s office to explain. Dahmer was alive—she had no choice but to believe that now—but she now knew something else. Campbell was the mystery man behind Dahmer’s escape.

A note on the door read, Back in five minutes. Helen waited, flipping through a copy of the Enquirer, incredulous at the headline. DAHMER IS A VOODOO ZOMBIE! How could Olsher read this crap? The article ensued: Our reporters have solved the mystery, and you read it here first! Jeffrey Dahmer is a voodoo zombie, and has risen from his grave by means of an ancient spell! “Yes, we did it, we brought Dahmer back,” admits Chez Diablique, a world-famous voodoo mojo from the Haitian-based Pabla Cult. His wife, the renowned mambo priestess agrees: “Jeffrey’s spirit contacted us from beyond the grave, and asked for our help. So we began casting voudun resurrection spells…”

Helen put the tabloid in the trash.

Eventually, Olsher returned, with a steaming cup of coffee. Helen didn’t dawdle; she jumped right in and explained her point of view.

“Campbell, huh?” Olsher questioned. “And you got this from —what?—some male whore?”

“Chief, the guy’s sweating a jail sentence, he was coming clean,” she insisted. “Campbell was the exploitative lover of Glen Kussler, the guy whose body we found in Dahmer’s grave. Campbell had an obsession with serial killers, Dahmer in particular. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Olsher’s upper lip turned up in a pinch. “What’s obvious?”

“Jesus Christ, Chief! We’ve got a name and a description of the man who is in collusion with Dahmer! Campbell’s a Dahmer groupie, and that’s why he pursued a relationship with Kussler.”

“I don’t get it.”

Helen gnashed her teeth. “Kussler worked for the prison; Kussler specifically serviced Dahmer’s cell. Isn’t it obvious that Campbell was using Kussler to secretly slip mail back and forth between Dahmer and Campbell?”

Olsher shrugged, began unwrapping an El Producto. “Not really.”

Helen wanted to bang her head on Olsher’s desk. “It all fits, Chief. Campbell’s the missing piece.”