Edward Lee: Dahmer's Not Dead

Now the rest came back. She’d gotten off her shift at seven a.m., and come to Tom’s, to sleep with him. Staggered shifts didn’t make things easier, but the state medical examiner’s office had swing shifts too. Tom was number-one deputy at the M.E.’s; he’d pull nighters one week out of every three. They’d been “dating” for a year and a half, whatever “dating” meant.

It’s always the same. What was wrong with her? Pre-menopausal Anxiety. Or maybe I’m just a genetic bitch, she considered. Her hormones and mood swings weren’t Tom’s fault. “Menopause can be interpreted as the physical death of a woman’s femininity,” Dr. Sallee, the state police shrink, had told her. “But it’s important for you to realize that this is a mis interpretation, rooted in fear. It’s something women constantly fear only because of the basic tenets of fear itself.” Sallee’s face often appeared similar to the face in her recurring nightmare. “Yes, you will be menopausal soon, but menopause does not signify the death of your womanhood. All it signifies is a new stage of your femininity, a new stage of life. Not a negative at all, but a positive.”

At least he had a way with words. But it was hard for her to perceive Tom as anything but her last hope. She was 42—how much time could be left? Her first husband turned out to be such an asshole she was surprised she didn’t kill him. And the relationships which followed? One botch after the next. She knew that if she ever hoped to be married again, Tom was the one. But if she didn’t get a rein on her “pseudo-natal hostility,” as Dr. Sallee called it, she’d blow it with Tom too. And that would be the last straw.

She dragged herself out of Tom’s bed, scurried to the bathroom to gargle and fix her mussed, off-blond hair. Then she scurried just as hastily to the den. Tom sat behind his new Compaq computer, playing one of his CD-ROM games. He was so immersed that he didn’t take note of her entrance, and—

Who could blame him? Helen wondered. I wouldn’t notice a bitch like me either…

The X-Wing Fighter crashed, just short of knocking out the Demon Planet’s power duct, when she came up from behind and put her arms around him. Terrifying explosions resounded from tiny speakers. “Well, you just killed Captain Quark,” he said.

“You can bring him back to life in the next game,” she reminded him. “Besides, he’s not as good-looking as you are anyway.”

Tom chuckled distantly.

“I’m sorry,” she leaned over, whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry I’m such a bitch all the time. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“You didn’t snap,” he said in a tone that actually meant, Yes, you did but I’m used to it now, so I forgive you. “I was just worried. I thought you might be sick. Are you all right?”

“Except for the case of Acute Bitchism, I’m fine.” She kissed the top off his head. “How about I treat us to Chinese? You can even bring Captain Quark back from the dead, and I’ll go pick it up.”

“Wow, a woman who pays for dinner and picks it up? Now that’s a woman!”

“Don’t forget the part about being good in bed.”

“Well, of course, but that goes without saying,” he admitted, jiggling his Mouse Systems joystick. “I could go for some Kung Pao, and those little shrimp things.”

“I believe the shrimp things are called Shrimp Toast,” she corrected.

“Yeah, right, but… What time’s your shift?”

She pressed her breasts against the high part of his back. The pressure seemed to send a gust of sensation to her loins. I’ll jump his bones good tonight, she avowed. I’ll make it up to him. “I’m off tonight,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” He looked around. “That’s great—”

And then her beeper went off. I’m also on call, she remembered. When you make captain for VCU, you’re on call for the rest of your life.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” he asked.

“I really don’t want to. Goddamn it, I fucking hate this shit.”

As usual, Tom recoiled a bit at her profanity. “You better call in.”

“I know.”

She padded to the kitchen, hesitantly picked up the phone, and called Central Commo. Waited. Listened.

“Goddamn it, I hate this shit!” she reiterated.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just got a 64 in Farland.”

“The boonies. Is it bad?”

“If it weren’t bad, Dane County wouldn’t be calling me into their juris. Shit!”

“So…what’s the 64?”

“A—” she began and that’s where she left it. He didn’t need to know, and she didn’t want to repeat what Central Comm had just told her: the victim was an infant. “It’s just…bad, as usual.”

But that was Helen’s job: the bad ones, the ones too intensive or excruciating for the local departments to handle on their own.

She hurried to take a two-minute shower, hauled on her dress and her Burberry overcoat—a very nice coat that Tom had given her last Christmas. Then she was hustling out with her hair still wet.

“Don’t I get a kiss?” Tom asked. He stood ready at the door, surprising her. Then he kissed her on the mouth and embraced her in a tight, warm hug.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“Hey, the Kung Pao can wait, and so can those shrimp things.”

“No, I mean about before.” And then his own words haunted her: You really are making this hard. She knew she was, she knew it all too well. Her entire adult life was proof.

He was so cute, so handsome. Short, dark hair; deep, penetrating eyes full of compassion and intellect. He had a rampant sense of humor too, unlike her former husband who was about as upbeat as Jean Paul Sartre. Tom could joke away the worst stress headache or post-shift blues.

Her own eyes opened on his softly smiling face, and she nearly melted. I don’t deserve him, she thought, but then she could hear Dr. Sallee berating her all the way from HQ.

“You’re going to rub that thing into non-existence,” he warned.

What? she wondered, then she realized: she was rubbing her locket again, pressing hard. Over the years she had indeed rubbed off quite a bit of the surface detail.

“You always rub that locket when you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset, ” she countered.

“Well, when you’re stressed out, worried, whatever. Why?”

She didn’t answer directly because she couldn’t. But she guessed he was correct. The locket was her Linus blanket, her rabbit’s foot, she supposed. “It’s like a good luck charm, and I’m probably gonna need it tonight.”

“Still don’t want to tell me about that 64 in Farland?”

“No,” she asserted. But the words were still there, flotsam in a dark sea. A baby. Someone killed a baby… But people killed babies every day in this demented age. It’s my job to investigate murder, she scolded herself. She let go of the locket. So go do it and stop being such an insecure wuss.

“Go on, get out of here,” Tom said. “You can’t keep public service waiting. Do you have your gun?”

“Yes,” she groaned. Helen hated guns but she had little choice but to carry one. A tiny Beretta Jet-Fire, .25 ACP. She was so bad at the range she had to be waived every year to qualify.

“Good. And be careful, okay?”

“I will.” She could tell, as she always could, that here was a man who was genuinely concerned with her, and someone who genuinely loved her. Don’t screw it up again, Helen, she warned herself.

She kissed him again and left.

««—»»

Dane County didn’t have its own PD—they were uncharted, like a lot of Wisconsin’s counties. What they had instead was a small-time sheriff’s department. Helen’s response grid—Grid South Central—stretched from Beloit to the Petenwell Reservoir; this one, at least, wouldn’t be too bad of a drive in her unmarked. There’d been times when she’d had to take the pill-white Ford Taurus a hundred miles out of Madison merely to write up a prelim WSP Form 18-82—Initial Investigatory Report for Possible Critical Case Homicide—and then recommended as to whether or not the 64 warranted the intervention of the Wisconsin State Police Violent Crimes Unit. VCU was run by six regional field liaisons, all captains, one of whom was Helen Closs. Eighteen years with the state police, she’d started at Traffic and worked her way up. Three years ago, working with the Intelligence Unit, she’d orchestrated a state-wide sting operation that had brought the house down on a complex cocaine triad whose shooters had murdered half of their informant line as well as four state undercover cops. Result: promotion to captain, commendations from the governor and the director of the DEA, and a transfer to the coveted VCU. The unit let her work alone, make her own decisions, and left CES and Processing at her instant disposal. Thus far, of the seventeen critical homicides that had taken place in her grid, Helen had solved sixteen, the highest success percentile in the history of the department. In another year, she’d be up for deputy chief.