Dahmer's Not Dead

“But the jacking was more than twelve hours after the beating?”

“So? By then the plan was already in motion; Campbell was stocking up on it for the murders he knew he and Dahmer would soon be committing. He probably already had stolen a sample previously. Jackings are commonplace. This was obviously something they were planning for months, or even since Dahmer’s initial incarceration in 92.”

Helen nodded to herself. “And it had to have been Kussler who snuck the succinicholine into the prison, on Campbell’s orders. Campbell was using Kussler the whole time, exploiting the love affair with him in order to manipulate him through his job at the prison.”

“A job which gave him direct access to Dahmer. Trading notes back and forth so Campbell and Dahmer could maintain correspondence, and planning the whole scheme from start to finish. It was more than likely Kussler himself who injected Dahmer with the succinicholine directly after the beating. A phony clinical death solid enough to fool any stethoscope.”

Now Helen’s senses seemed prickling. “And according to the roster at the prison, Kussler was on duty that same morning. But…” Here was a snag. “Was it Kussler who beat up on Dahmer’s face, or Rosser, the guy who’s been charged?”

“It had to have been Rosser, Captain. At least that’s my guess. Because the beating verifiably took place in the rec unit, and the only guys in the rec unit at the time were Dahmer, Vander, and Rosser.”

“So Rosser must have been on it too, right?”

“Had to have been,” Beck agreed. “Rosser agreed to beat Dahmer bad about the face. A short time later, Kussler gets into the infirmary and injects Dahmer with the succinicholine, or maybe Rosser did the injection himself. The prison physician pronounces him dead ’cos he’s got no vital signs. And the prints match every time they ran them because, up until the time he arrived here, it was Dahmer they were transporting.”

“And Rosser beats Vander up too, to make it look like a psychotic break. And nobody’s the wiser.”

“Sure, it’s just a theory at this point,” Beck said, now fiddling with comparison microscope, “but I don’t see any other possible explanation that could account for Dahmer’s survival. And that’s one thing we know for sure now. Dahmer’s still alive, and he’s out there, right now, killing again.”

««—»»

Beck’s summation helped Helen see it all now, but why bother running it by Olsher? Waste of time, she thought. Not until I get more evidence or manage to find Campbell.

Campbell, she thought. Your picture’s going to be in the paper today. Try hiding from that, asshole.

Next duty on the agenda, of course, was to reinterview Tredell Rosser, who was upstairs right now in the precaution ward. But when she was crossing the lobby, she stopped in at the newsstand to pick up today’s Tribune. And—

“Goddamn!” she complained loud enough for everyone in the lobby to hear. She tore through the paper, examining every page for the composite and announcement, and—

It’s not here!

Nowhere in the paper was there any sign of Campbell’s artist composite or the corresponding announcement she’d written revealing his last name.

Helen was on the pay phone at once, to Olsher.

“Damn it, Larrel! Why wasn’t my—”

“Save your breath,” Olsher told her over the line. “You want to know why the Tribune didn’t run you sketch and blurb, well I’ll tell you. The Commissioner’s Office said no way. Shit, Helen, the PC himself howled about it.”

“Why?” Helen griped.

“Because it’s a liability. Think, girl. You don’t have enough evidence on Campbell—whoever the hell he is, if he even exists at all—to add up to squat. You go running a guy’s likeness in the paper, along with his name, saying he’s wanted for questioning by the state police violent crimes unit? You know what he does then, Helen? He sues the department for fifty million and wins. It’s defamation of character. It’s an assault on his rights.”

“Aw, Chief, give me a break!”

Olsher’s voiced turned rigid. “I gave you a break this morning when I convinced the PC to keep you on the case, Helen. He wants you off. He thinks you’ve turned into a loose gun.”

Helen squinted her incredulity. “You’re kid—”

“I’m not kidding at all, Helen. You’ve shitnamed yourself bad. That exhumation only stirred the press up more, and now this. I told the PC you’re still the best investigator we got, so he agreed to keep you on. But any more bonehead moves like this, and I can’t cover for you anymore.”

Olsher hung up even before Helen could complain further. What’s the point! she thought, walking for the elevator, a headache kicking at the inside of her skull. If it had been such a bonehead move, why had Olsher suggested she attempt authorization? Are all the men in the world thick-headed morons, or is it me?

So now she was on the PC’s hit-list. Great. Olsher was right about one thing, though: she could kiss her promotion goodbye.

I could care less, she told herself.

This news about the paper wasn’t good; however, the news once she got upstairs was worse.

Helen obstinately flashed her badge to the charge at the reception desk for the psych wing.

“I need to talk to Tredell Rosser,” she said, more distracted by her headache than anything else.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the guard informed her.

“Sorry?”

“This morning during med call, Rosser was found dead in his cell.”

— | — | —

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Hey, man.”

He turns.

The sly smile fades a bit. The beautiful deep-blue eyes open slightly in curiosity. “We met, man?

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Funny. You look sort’a familiar.”

The man smiles. That is, the man who was once the boy from Bath, Ohio.

««—»»

The Dock. He wants something off a ways from the Circle. Too much heat there lately… Thanks to me, he thinks. Another harmless bar, like Friends. The hard-hitters all went to the trade joints. But he doesn’t want that.

“Another?” he asks.

Music flutters. Some old Carly Simon tune. The barlight only embellishes the guy’s beautiful face. Cuts it down to bare, visible parts.

Maybe I’ll do that later, he thinks.

“Look, man, I appreciate the drinks and burger and all, but you know the score. I ain’t on the street ’cos I like