Steven James - Opening Moves

“Actually, yes, it does.” He paused. “Even though it’s only women so far. I’m using ‘Maneater’ in the general sense of the word. You understand.” He gave us a contemptuous grin and I was tempted to smack it off his face.

Mallory left soundlessly to return Ralph’s empty coffee cup to the kitchen, leaving the three of us alone. After a moment I heard the soft clink of dishes in the sink.

“What makes you think this killer eats human flesh?” I asked Griffin.

“The woman’s lungs were gone.”

“And?”

He scoffed lightly. “Let’s just say I’ve been in this business long enough to make an educated guess. Certain types of killers have certain types of…well, tastes.”

“The description says, ‘soon to be a collector’s item.’ Why is that?”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s done. Not a guy like this. He’s just getting started.”

Ralph worked his jaw back and forth roughly. “Where did you get this police tape, Mr. Griffin?”

“Don’t worry, it’s authentic.” He looked from Ralph to me. “I can cut you a deal if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Ralph pocketed the tape and it was clear he wasn’t about to pay three hundred fifty dollars for it, wasn’t about to cut a deal of any kind. “As I was saying, where did you get the crime scene tape?”

“I have a source.”

“Who?”

“I think he would be averse to having me pass along his name.” When he said the phrase “averse to,” it seemed way too literary and refined to be coming from his mouth.

We waited.

He said nothing more.

From my experience, it’s better not to hammer away at the person you’re interviewing. That tends to make him defensive, but circling back around often catches him off guard.

“How do you know a woman named Colleen Hayes?” I asked Griffin.

He shook his head. “Hayes?” But then he appeared to piece things together. “You mean from the news? From last night?” Honestly, it didn’t look like he realized this was the same Hayes family he’d done business with.

That was two months ago, Pat. Would he really remember? Unless-

“That’s right,” Ralph said. “From last night.”

A shadow of unease was edging across Griffin’s face. “What is this about, anyway? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Ralph pressed him: “Where were you last night, Timothy? From, say, seven o’clock to midnight?”

“Here, watching movies.”

“Were you alone?”

Griffin called to the kitchen, “Mallory!” His tone was brash and spiteful, and I got the sense that it was the typical way he addressed his live-in girlfriend, the one who was thirty years younger than he was.

She came around the corner, clutching a damp hand towel, eyes wide.

“Last night we were here watching movies, weren’t we?” He paused. “Baby?”

“Yes.” Her gaze never left him, never wandered our way, a sign that she was taking her cues from him.

Timothy gave us a satisfied smile. “See?”

“What movies did you watch?” Ralph directed the question at Mallory.

Griffin spoke up: “ The Fugitive and-”

“I was asking the young lady,” Ralph told him firmly.

“ The Fugitive ,” she answered.

“And?”

She looked a bit lost. “And… When Harry Met Sally .” She stared at Griffin as if she was looking for approval from him.

“That’s right, baby.” Then he turned one hand palm up, as if to signify that she’d just cleared up everything, and when he spoke he addressed Ralph and me: “Well, then, there you go.” He wavered the envelopes in the air with his other hand. “Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind. Orders to fill. I’m sure you understand. Keep the tape. It’s the least I can do. My civic duty.”

I didn’t think we were going to get much more out of him at the moment, but I didn’t want to leave without the name of the person he’d gotten that crime scene tape from.

Ralph didn’t move. Obviously he wasn’t ready to leave yet either. “How do you do this, anyway?”

“This?”

“Sell this crap.” He swept his hand through the air. “Make a living like this?”

With a slight dramatic flair, Griffin walked to the wall and put his palm against one of the photos, then slowly stroked the face and then the body of the woman in the picture. The hairstyle and clothes made me think it was taken in the late seventies. I didn’t know who she was, but I memorized her face, and wondered what Mallory, who was still in the doorway, thought of the provocative way he let his fingers address the body of the photographed woman.

“Think about the news, Agent Hawkins. TV networks sell time to advertisers, then air footage of the most sensational crimes they can. You know it’s true: If it bleeds, it leads. Like with Hayes last night. Advertisers buy that airtime, knowing full well what they’re doing-playing off people’s fixation with violence, evil, death. I just pass along my reminders to individuals rather than to the public at large.”

People have a right to be informed about our world, and it is a brutal one, but it bothered me that Griffin actually had a point. News shows really are packaged to play to their viewers’ morbid fascination with death.

Ralph said, “Mr. Griffin, what’s the name of the person who sold you the crime scene tape?”

“I told you he-”

But Ralph strode toward him, invaded his personal space big-time. The air in the room seemed to tighten. “The name, Mr. Griffin.” I thought Ralph might growl the words menacingly in order to be more intimidating, but he didn’t. He just said them calmly, resolutely, and that seemed to be more effective because Griffin gulped almost imperceptibly, then tapped his tongue to the side of his lips.

“His name is Hendrich. Okay? Bruce Hendrich. I don’t know if that’s his real name or not. That’s the one he gave me. In this business people aren’t always as forthcoming and honest as they should be. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Ralph reached over and straightened Griffin’s collar. “How do you reach him? This Mr. Hendrich?”

Having Ralph’s huge hands so close to his throat seemed to make Griffin even more willing to share information, because he rather promptly told us a phone number and address from memory. The address was in Milwaukee, not Fort Atkinson.

“I just ship stuff there. I’ve never been there.”

Ralph patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Timothy.” Then he handed him one of his business cards. “If anyone tries to buy or sell any Dahmer items, let us know. And we’re going to want the name of anyone who goes after that police tape.”

“My records are confidential.”

“Of course they are. But your address isn’t. Wait till we notify the family members of victims about your little business venture here. I wonder how many of them might want to pay you a visit. Express how excited they are about you passing along your little ‘reminders.’”

He turned to me. “We could give ’em some privacy, couldn’t we, Detective? Make arrangements to make sure no officers interfere with the little block party?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Since Griffin’s business was run out of a post office box, releasing his residential address really might cause a bit of a stir with the neighbors and victims’ family members.

When Griffin didn’t reply, Ralph reflectively patted the top of one of the overstuffed chairs. “I may show up too. Bring the mini-weenies. I always like a good party.”

“Okay,” Timothy grumbled. “Alright. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

“I appreciate that very much, Mr. Griffin.”

Ralph nodded toward Mallory. “Good day, ma’am.”