Edward Lee - Dahmer's Not Dead

“This is so fucked up! ” Olsher was rolling again. His dark face seemed pinkened somehow. “We’re gonna get buried! The goddamn press is gonna make us look like idiots! ”

Beck looked crestfallen.

“We are in a world of shit,” Olsher muttered.

“Larrel, Jan,” Helen began. “What’s—”

“Tell her!” Olsher barked.

Impossible, Helen was thinking before even being told. It’s impossible…

Beck didn’t need to consult her pretty folders. “I just finished the graphological analysis of the letter found at the White Horse Inn—”

—absolutely impossible.

“—and I’m afraid there’s no mistake. Computers don’t lie. We have a positive match. The letter was written by Jeffrey Dahmer.”

««—»»

Beck had gone on to explain her findings. “Even the best forgery in the world won’t beat the computer.”

“Ink-shading, hand pressure?” Helen asked. That was about all she remembered from the quick graphology courses she’d had in the academy.

“Shading and pressure aren’t even in the mix here,” Beck said, “because the note was written in felt tip. A ballpoint or a pencil would be different—they’re far more pressure-sensitive. But with felt tip, due to the more fluid nature of the ink, shading and indentation is far less readable, often immeasurable. That’s old world graphology anyway; comparison computers are much easier and much more accurate simply in their ability to anatomize the actual architecture of the writing and produce a percentage-point value of the likelihood of a forgery.”

Helen didn’t want to ask. “What was that percentage value here?”

“Zero-point-zero,” Beck said. “There are too many variables for mistake. Even if words were traced and transferred, the computer would pick up the inconsistencies in line quality and pen position. We call it tremor hesitation, and the P-Street letter doesn’t have it. Direction, relative position, terminal points and strokes, loop terminus—it’s all here.”

Helen just stared. “Jan, you and I both saw Dahmer’s body the day after he was murdered. This is impossible. I don’t mean to doubt your expertise, but we’re going to have to have a second opinion on this.”

“I know,” Beck agreed. “That’s why I’ve already fed-exed a duplicate evidence file to the FBI and to McCrone in Chicago.”

“How long will that take?”

“For the Bureau? Could be two days, could be two months. It depends on what kind of priority status they give the case.”

“Fat chance they’ll move on it,” Olsher offered. “Not with our luck.”

“McCrone’s a private contractor we use a lot, and they’ll be fast.”

“What about a negative DNA match?”

“There was no evidence of semen in Arlinger’s body, but we can still run a DNA test on the hairs.”

Hairs. Yes, Helen remembered Beck’s initial report. Some hair and fiber evidence had been found on or near Arlinger. “So you get a DNA test on the hair and can prove it’s not Dahmer?”

“Right, or I should say the hair-root cell. Several pubic and head hairs were on the contact perimeter.”

“But what do you have to compare it to?”

“Dahmer’s genetic profile. Any convicted felon in the state is indexed with a DNA profile upon conviction,” Beck said enlightened them. “I sent some of the hair-root cells to Cellmark Labs in Maryland; they do the best PCRs and RFLPs in the country.”

“How long?”

“A week or two.”

“And in the meantime,” Olsher interrupted, “we get broiled alive by the press if they find out the handwriting was positive match.”

And they will find out, Helen felt assured. All police departments had their inevitable leaks. She’d already talked to the papers, but that was before Beck’s graphological match. “Damage control is our first priority. The press is going to get a hold of this, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“How about we lie?”

Helen struggled not to roll her eyes.

“That’s the worst thing we can do, Larrel. We have to stand fast on our insistence—based on the conflicting m.o., that Jeffrey Dahmer is not alive.”

“Then who wrote the note?” Olsher asked.

“Jeffrey Dahmer.”

“She’s right, Chief,” Beck said.

Olsher scowled at both of them. “Did I miss something here, or am I just stupid?” “Dahmer wrote the note before he was murdered,” Helen attested. “This whole thing is some kind of a hoax.”

“A pen pal or something like that, someone on the outside,” Beck added the obvious.

“Right, or someone on the inside,” Helen went on. “One of the guards maybe, or an inmate recently released, and that should be easy to run down.”

Olsher’s lips puckered as if he’d just sipped pure sour mix. “You’re saying that Dahmer was in cahoots with someone before he was killed?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “There’s no other possibility. Exactly why, I’m not sure yet.”

Olsher scoffed, waved a pessimistic hand. “The press will never buy that.”

Helen, for the first time in quite a while, felt calmly at ease. All at once her work was cut out for her, wasn’t it? Here was what she needed, something to push the debris of her life out of the way. It was a lot of debris, true, but purpose could be a very compelling force.

And she never felt more confident when she said, “They’ll have to buy it, Larrel. Because I’m going to prove it.”

“How?” Olsher challenged.

“By doing what you’re paying me to do. By investigating.”

— | — | —

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I’m sorry I missed my appointment again,” she said at the door. A school girl apologizing to the home-room teacher for being late. “And I’m sorry to be disturbing you at home. But I really need to talk to you.”

“Come in,” Dr. Sallee replied. His eyes thinned, then he smiled minutely. Dr. Sallee was a leaning, balding man who seemed constantly buoyant in some subdued way, despite an equally constant physical awkwardness Helen could never decipher. He had a nice Colonial brick house in the East End full of bookshelves and portraits. Dark, cluttered. In the den hung a picture of Sigmund Freud, while over the mantle was a large portrait of Elvis Presley. At work, Sallee routinely dressed in fine slacks, shirt, and tie, covered by a cliched white labcoat. Now, though, off duty so to speak, he dressed simply in jeans and t-shirt. Dr. Sallee was the chief of the state police mental hygiene unit as well as the chief psychiatric consultant for the H. Andrew Lynch Evaluation Center, where all convicted state incarcerees were evaluated; whether they would officially be deemed criminals or mental patients was decided by this man. He showed her into a similarly dark and cluttered study and sat behind a teak desk identical to the one he had at his office. Helen sat down in an armchair opposite.

“And I can also tell,” he continued, “that your problems with Tom are not what you want to talk to me about.”

Helen felt flummoxed. “How did you know? What, you can tell just by looking at me?”

“Of course. It’s all kinesthetics, Helen. The way you walked to the door with a harried spring in your step. The very open way you’re sitting across from me right this moment. You generally sit with your knees together and your hands in your lap, a position of introversion and personal insecurity.” Sallee’s gaze drifted upward, in contemplation. “No, I’d say you’re here to talk to me about something completely irrelative to your personal life. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Helen admitted.

“Something work related?”