Steven James - Opening Moves

A nondescript, typical-looking living room, but immediately I noticed something that really disturbed me, I mean really disturbed me, but I thought it’d be better to bring it up when Ralph and I were alone, so for the moment I kept it to myself.

The air in the house was languid and stale, as if none of the windows or doors had been opened in months.

Mallory didn’t seem like the hospitable type, so I was surprised when she offered us coffee, which Ralph accepted, even though he’d downed three cups at lunch-not to mention the two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew earlier in the morning. This man really did think caffeine was a beautiful thing. I declined, but thanked her.

“It might be cold,” Mallory said to Ralph, referring to the coffee. She didn’t sound apologetic, just explanatory. Everything she said was blank and devoid of emotion.

“No problem.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Sure.”

She stepped into the kitchen and when she was gone, Ralph spoke softly to me: “So, where do you think he keeps all the stuff he sells?”

“Everywhere.”

He looked at me curiously. “What do you mean?”

I walked to one of the chairs and flipped forward the price tag that was attached to the top of it with a small piece of string.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

I moved around the room, noting the price tags on the furniture, the novelty items and curios, the framed photos. Each tag included the date Griffin had acquired the item, the name of the celebrity killer or pedophile it was from, the catalog number, and his asking price. Nearly everything in the living room had a price tag.

At first I was a little confused by the photos on the walls, but then I recognized the father of a homicide victim from Madison last July and it hit me: the family photographs weren’t pictures of Griffin and his relatives, but rather they were the family photos of victims of the killers and rapists he was profiteering from.

I tried to imagine what it would be like living in a house like this, sitting on that couch watching television as if nothing were any different about this living room from any other one on the block, but all the while you were surrounded by mementos and personal items and memorabilia of the country’s vilest and most deranged murderers.

Being here troubled me as much as being at any of the crime scenes I’ve worked. And I’ve worked some bad ones. I had no idea what Mallory’s personality had been like before she landed here with Timothy, but I couldn’t imagine anyone remaining joyful and lighthearted living in a place like this.

A Bible was sitting next to a small ceramic bird without a price tag on a coffee table beside the couch and I recognized the Bible from the catalog: the one Charles Manson had owned. Checking the inside flap, I found that it did indeed contain his signature, but there was no telling if it was authentic or not.

I set it back down.

A framed letter hung on the wall in the hallway just off the living room.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” I told Ralph, then walked over to take a closer look.

It was the letter Albert Fish had sent to Grace Budd’s parents and, based on the wrinkled, aged appearance of the paper, it certainly did look like it might be the original.

In the living room behind me, Mallory returned with Ralph’s coffee and while he inquired how long she’d known Griffin, I read the letter:

Dear Mrs. Budd.

In 1894 a friend of mine shipped as a deck hand on the Steamer

Tacoma,

Capt. John Walker. They sailed from San Francisco for Hong Kong, China. On arriving there he and two others went ashore and got drunk. When they returned the boat was gone. At that time there was famine in China. Meat of any kind was from $1–3 per pound. So great was the suffering among the very poor that all children under 12 were sold for food in order to keep others from starving.

A boy or girl under 14 was not safe in the street. You could go in any shop and ask for steak-chops-or stew meat. Part of the naked body of a boy or girl would be brought out and just what you wanted cut from it. A boy or girl’s behind which is the sweetest part of the body and sold as veal cutlet brought the highest price. John staid there so long he acquired a taste for human flesh. On his return to N.Y. he stole two boys, one 7 and one 11. Took them to his home stripped them naked tied them in a closet. Then burned everything they had on.

Several times every day and night he spanked them-tortured them-to make their meat good and tender. First he killed the 11 year old boy, because he had the most meat. Every part of his body was cooked and eaten except the head-bones and guts. He was roasted in the oven, boiled, broiled, fried and stewed. The little boy was next, went the same way. At that time, I was living at 409 E 100 St. near-right side. He told me so often how good human flesh was I made up my mind to taste it.

On Sunday June the 3, 1928 I called on you at 406 W 15 St. Brought you pot cheese-strawberries. We had lunch. Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her. On the pretense of taking her to a party. You said yes she could go. I took her to an empty house in Westchester I had already picked out.

When we got there, I told her to remain outside. She picked wildflowers. I went upstairs and stripped all my clothes off. I knew if I did not I would get her blood on them. When all was ready I went to the window and called her. Then I hid in a closet until she was in the room. When she saw me all naked she began to cry and tried to run down the stairs. I grabbed her and she said she would tell her mamma.

First I stripped her naked. How she did kick-bite and scratch. I choked her to death, then cut her in small pieces so I could take my meat to my rooms. Cook and eat it. It took me 9 days to eat her entire body.

I couldn’t read any further. I’d come across a copy of this letter once while doing an assignment on the ethics of the death penalty for a law class at Marquette, and I knew that Fish went on to describe how he could’ve had sex with Grace if he’d wished, but he had refrained, and that she’d died a virgin.

I felt a palpable sweep of nausea.

A $1,250 price tag hung from the corner of the plaque. I seriously doubted that Griffin would set the price that high unless he thought he could actually get that much for it.

Supply and demand.

I turned away, closed my eyes.

Brutality.

Evil.

Man’s inhumanity to man.

People actually spend their hard-earned cash on this stuff, actually surround themselves on purpose with these keepsakes of men who raped and killed innocent people.

A girl buried alive: Jenna Natara.

A body in a tree house: Mindy Wells.

A child slaughtered and eaten by a psychopath: Grace Budd.

I took a moment to collect myself, to try filtering out the disgust. Finally, I opened my eyes, but the disquieting residue of anger and nausea hadn’t gone away.

Turning from the framed letter, I saw that a bedroom lay at the end of the hall.

I heard Ralph ask Mallory as politely as he could where Timothy had gone this afternoon as I walked to the master bedroom and slipped inside.

Crumpled, raggy blankets were sprawled across the bed; a small nightstand sat nearby, holding a lamp and a used condom that looked like it was still sticky wet. There was a tragically torn, stuffed dog placed beside one of the pillows. I recalled Mallory’s young age again and felt a renewed surge of revulsion and anger.

A mound of dirty laundry lay between the two dressers, one of which had a jewelry box on it, the other, a photo of a man, a woman, and a curly-haired little girl at Disney World, a price tag hanging from the corner. A small, surprisingly ornate handheld mirror rested on the dresser next to the jewelry box. A musky, rangy scent permeated the room.