Edward Lee - Dahmer's Not Dead

Drug evidence was apparent: a gram of cocaine, a bag of pot, some cotton-covered thumb-caps of amyl nitrate.

“Paone,” Beck ID’d. “First name Norman. ID was simple. Twenty-nine years old, a street hustler on the Circle.”

“How do you know?” Helen asked, trying not to stare at the naked corpse. In spite of death, and in spite of winter, the body was tanned. Tanning salon, Helen guessed. Check out all the salons in town.

“We just ran the guy’s name through Mobile Search. Rap sheet longer than one of Olsher’s cigars. Non-distro drug possession, check kiting, multiple busts for solicitation.”

A prostitute, Helen thought.

“Did a year and a half in Mad County Detent.”

“Nothing at Columbus County?”

“No. It was a three-year hitch. Early probation after fourteen months. Same old, same old.”

“Any…” Helen glanced around. A tv, a VCR. North was in adult videos. “Any x-rated tapes on the premise?”

“Nope, at least none that we could find as of yet. We’re still doing the prelim sweep. Why?”

Helen felt too preoccupied to answer. Paone was a male prostitute. So is North…

“Case parities?” Helen reeled off.

“Identical m.o. I’ll do a tox workup, and Tom’ll do the post, but I can tell you right now it’s Dahmer.”

Helen’s nostrils tweaked. “Is that—”

“Cooking smells, Captain? Yes. Used utensils left in the sink. Nice of Jeff to leave them in the sink, huh? Like who’s going to clean them? Paone? The maid?”

Helen’s expression remained fixed.

Red-suited techs crawled on hands and knees, as Helen had seen so many times: vacuuming for hair and fibers, photographing schemes, dusting and fuming and UVing for latent fingerprints. Waste of time, Helen thought. It’s always the same.

“Evidence of makeshift lobotomization,” Beck said, “just like Dumplin. Evidence of deep-cut striations with a sharp, edged implement. Collops of lean-muscle mass removed from the biceps and thighs, probably the parts that were…”

Beck didn’t finish; she didn’t need to. The parts that were cooked, eaten, Helen finished in thought.

“Fresh prints on the utensils and the note.” Beck spoke as an existentialist now, immune to the effects of human tragedy. Just like Helen. “I got a latent classifier here who’s run the point-scale—they’re Dahmer’s. Dahmer was here, Captain, and he was here in grand style.”

“I need a crew of shoes out here to canvass,” Helen muttered more to herself. “Talk to the neighbors and all that. It must be Campbell at the very least picking Dahmer up afterwards.”

“Yeah. I agree. But ten-to-one nobody saw anything, just like the first two. Dahmer may not be smart, but Campbell is. Anyway, Captain, let me show you the note.” Helen followed the red-overalled woman to a cheap, put-it-together-yourself credenza. The note, as before, had already been sealed in lab evidence bag. But Helen could easily read the familiar, blue-felt penned handwriting.

Captain Closs,

He that doeth it destroyeth his own soul.

“More Bible stuff,” Beck said. “Well have to get the college on it.”

“No we won’t,” Helen said, remembering her own theology classes. “It’s from Proverbs, a reference to adultery…and prostitution.”

Beck’s mouth turned down as if impressed. “There’s more.”

A whore is a deep ditch.

Helen remembered that bit of scripture too. “ Proverbs again.”

And lastly:

Remember the Great Bear of the north.

“Don’t tell me,” Beck challenged. “You know that one too?”

“It’s a reference to Revelations —or I should say The Revelation of…St. John the Divine. ”

“That’s uncanny. The same name of the hospital.”

“Yeah. But I don’t get the rest. Bible scholars have always referred to ‘The Great Bear of the north’ as a reference to Russia.”

Beck’s eyes drew wide with Helen’s. “Or maybe Dahmer isn’t referring to Russia at all—”

“North,” Helen whispered to herself. “The Great Bear of the north.”

“As in—”

“Matthew North.”

««—»»

So they were playing with her now—Dahmer and Campbell. Having a good laugh at her desperate plight.

Sons of bitches, Helen thought.

Matthew North was a prostitute, and so was Paone, the decedent. Both being in the trade of male prostitution, maybe they new each other. And the Bible reference— The Great Bear of the north —only completed the suspicion.

They’re dropping clues so easy it’s almost insulting, she reckoned behind the wheel of her Taurus.

It was night now—early evening. Winter bled the days quickly, like a vampire.

At a traffic light, she dialed Central Commo. “This is Helen Closs, Captain, Violent Crimes Unit. Get me the shift dispatcher.”

“Captain Closs. I’m Sergeant McGinnis, Central Commo Watch Captain tonight.”

“Sergeant, several days ago I—”

“Activated a one-way DF transponder, yes ma’am. We’ve been all over it here like stink on—- Like white on rice.”

“I need to know—”

Again, McGinnis interrupted. “Your search orders, ma’am, were for notification via a repeated-point-grid.”

“Gimme a break, Sergeant!”

“What I mean, Captain, is your orders indicated a notification call only if the subject’s vehicle traveled to the same location twice.”

Helen’s spirit’s lowered. “So I guess that hasn’t happened, huh?”

“No, ma’am, it hasn’t. If it had, we would’ve contacted you ASAP, as per your orders. We follow orders here at Central Commo.”

“I’m sure you do, Sergeant.” Suddenly she wanted a cigarette, an impulse dead for over a year. And a drink wouldn’t be bad now either. I’ll be a bar hound like Nick.

“Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am? I’ve got six duty personnel sitting here right now, and a couple million dollars’ worth of transmission equipment. We’re ready to roll on your command. Any previous grid-points you want, I’ll feed them to you right down to the sub-plats, the addresses—shit, Captain, with my DF board I can tell you which lane the guy’s in. I’ll tell you which side of the street he parks on, I’ll tell you when he changes lanes. If he stops at Dunkin’ Donuts to buy a French Twist, I’ll be able to tell you that, ’cos the guy’s on my board, and my board never makes mistakes.”

Helen almost laughed at the man’s sense of duty. “I appreciate your endeavors, Sergeant, but I need to talk to the owner of the subject vehicle right now. I have his address, I guess I’ll just drive there and see if he’s in.”

“But that’s what I mean, Captain,” McGinnis sounded off. “The owner of the subject vehicle is not at the logged address-plat. He’s on the road right now. He’s moving.”

“He’s in his car now, you mean?”

“Yes, ma’am. I sitting here watching the blip move as we speak.”

“Can you…” Helen paused. She wasn’t sure of the DF crew’s capabilities. She’d never had to use it very thoroughly before. “I’m on the road now, too, Sergeant. Is it possible for you to point me in the right direction of the DF subject’s vehicle?”

McGinnis laughed over the line. “Captain Closs, if you’ve got a lead foot, I can drive you right up his back bumper.”

“Okay, Sergeant. Do that. Right now I’m on DeMonter Boulevard. Where’s he?”

“Rowe Boulevard, heading—”

Shit! “I’m half a block from the Rowe turnoff. Which way do I turn?”