CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“We got a ten-scale, one-hundred-percent match,” announced the tech, all spit and polish in his TSD monkey suit. A Gaines Systems Model 6-P Series Voice-Stress Comparator switched off. “It’s Dahmer’s voice.”
It was just past six a.m. now, Helen, Beck, and Olsher stood moodily in the Criminal Evidence Section’s cramped EA lab—the EA for Electronic Analysis.
Olsher chewed an unlit cigar. “Shit. Why should we even be surprised?”
“Right, Chief,” Beck agreed, “but the surprising part is how he beat the line-trace.”
Helen felt like she’d just been dumped out of a cement mixer: her hair messed, her clothes crumpled, her eyes sandy with lack of sleep. She hadn’t had time to even shower before hustling the cassette cartridge from her answering machine down to CES. And, no, it was no surprise that the voice on the tape matched Dahmer’s voice-print specs equalized out of his last tv interview. But beating the line-trace was a surprise. The days of telephone traces taking minutes were long over. It was all automatic now, every phone relay in the country fed through an array of traceable microprocessors, and each and every connection stored. It had only taken a Bell-Atlantic systems technician a matter of seconds identify the source of the call. And the source was this according to their relay computer: No source found. Source cell and service point not identified.
“I always thought it was impossible to beat a line-trace in this day and age,” Helen grumbled.
“Not impossible,” the tech corrected, shutting down his unit. “But damn near.”
“How could it be done?” Helen asked.
“It could be done with an encrypted mobile phone,” the tech postulated, “but that’s not likely in this case. We’re talking military-grade scramblers, stuff the Defense Department uses, and the C.I.A. This call here?” He tapped on the box. “Had to have been an on-line call fed through a particular S/C program.”
Helen didn’t want to hear anymore technical stuff. “S/C program?”
“A computer program with a shift-conversion utility,” the tech explained to no further comprehension.
“We’re all dummies here, partner,” Olsher said. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a software program—probably made from scratch—that acts as a single-channel frequency shift-converter. Now, a call like that could be placed through any run-of-the-mill 9.6 baud telephone modem—something you can buy in any computer store. But the program itself? You can’t buy them anywhere; they’re banned by FCC, so that’s why I’m telling you the program was made from scratch, and by someone with serious computer expertise. A teckie, an expert hacker.”
Olsher gnawed on his cigar, perplexed, turning to Helen. “Any evidence to suggest Dahmer was skilled with computers?”
A memory floated, and a word. Computers. “No, Larrel,” she said. “Not Dahmer. But one of the first things North told me was that Campbell was a computer fanatic.”
“Here we go with Campbell again.”
Beck interjected. “Chief, face it. There is a Campbell, and he is directly involved. He helped Dahmer get out of prison, and right now he’s helping Dahmer continue his murder spree. Everything in this case points to an active conspirator. Campbell’s used his craft and ingenuity to do everything so far, and it’s obvious he’s the one who arranged this call and made it untraceable.”
Thank you, Jan, Helen thought.
“So why would Dahmer call Helen?”
Beck made a frown. “Helen’s name is in the newspaper almost every day. They’ve broadcasted the fact that Helen’s running the investigation.”
Olsher chewed on these considerations along with the cigar.
“Look, I never said I didn’t believe your theory about a conspirator. I just wasn’t too hip on this Campbell guy, considering the source.”
Now it was Helen’s turn to frown, but she said nothing.
Beck went on, “And it’s starting to seem to me that maybe Campbell’s not the only conspirator.”
“Why?” Olsher grunted.
“Because there’s no Campbell at St. John’s Hospital,” Helen said, “and there can be no doubt that St. John’s is the location where Kussler’s dead body was switched with Dahmer.”
“She’s right, Chief,” Beck plodded on. “Someone with hospital access has to be in on it too. Not only to take Dahmer out and leave Kussler’s body in his place after the ident process, but also because of Rosser.”
“Rosser died in the same hospital,” Helen pointed out.
“And I just got finished determining the cause of death.” Beck waved a dot-matrix printout from a tox-screen analysis. “Helen ordered me to do a blood run the minute we knew Rosser was dead. He was killed with a massive oral dose of succinicholine sulphate—the same drug being used to paralyze the victims.”
Helen smiled to herself, while Olsher stared. “Good work, both of you,” he admitted. “Keep it up and keep me posted.” Then he left but from the lab entry waved Helen out into the hall.
“What is it, Larrel?” Helen asked.
“This bit about a second person, a second conspirator with hospital access?”
“It makes a lot of sense, Chief. Look, you didn’t buy the part about Campbell and now you’re admitting he exists. The same goes for a second collaborator, someone specifically tied to St. John’s.”
Olsher rubbed his face. “I know, and that’s what bugs me. You know who fits the bill, don’t you?”
Helen swallowed before she could answer. “Tom. I know. I’ve given that a lot of thought. He did the autopsy, he was the duty pathologist for Dahmer’s post, and he’d have access to the psych wing med unit. Rosser was on a lithium compound to treat his hyper-activity. Someone could easily have slipped into the nurses’ station and spiked Rosser’s lithium with succincholine.”
“Shit,” Olsher said, impressed. “You have thought about this.”
Helen felt less than resplendent revealing the rest. “He’s also had…affairs with men.”
Olsher gaped at her. “Are you shitting—”
“No, I’m not, and one more thing. He’s big into computers.”
By now Olsher had nearly chewed the cigar to wet shreds. “Yeah. Keep an eye on him, Helen. And I mean a close eye.”
««—»»
Everything was coming out to dry now. Beck had no problem accepting the credibility of Rosser’s lithium dose being poisoned with succinicholine. The precaution ward, true, had a nurses’ station behind the locked ward door and a 24-hour security guard, but the drug prescriptions for every patient on the unit were prepared at the main nurses’ station at the floor entrance. It wouldn’t have been difficult for a hospital employee to get in there quick, locate Rosser’s med cup, switch the real lithium capsule with a spiked one, and get out. It would only take a matter of seconds, Helen realized.
But she’d still have to prove it, and that wouldn’t be easy. Tom may have assisted, but Campbell was still the key. She’d ordered CES to dust Kussler’s apartment for prints—Kussler and Campbell were lovers—at least before Campbell was loving enough to kill him—so it stood to reason Campbell’s prints would be there too.
More dumb luck, though, when Beck brought in the results. Prints other than Kussler’s were indeed found all over the apartment, but none of those prints were on file.
“You gotta figure, Captain, if Campbell’s smart enough to beat a phone-trace with a home-made software program, he’s definitely smart enough to know his prints aren’t on file,”
Beck commiserated.
Helen could only agree.
“And, check this out,” Beck told her, opening a magazine. “Have you seen this? It came out a few days ago.”
“I don’t read magazines, Jan. I don’t have time to read a fortune cookie.”
The glossy cover shined up. Madisonian Magazine, a slick local-interest publication more prone to city-wide rumors and gossip than any real local interest. All big cities had them. Beck opened it toward the center, passed it to Helen.
“Goddamn it.” Helen was getting to hate this. Here was a long article not as much about the Dahmer Case as about her. A fluff piece. Her academy graduation picture side by side with a snapshot of her leaving the Arlinger murder scene. Local girl makes good, she thought. What a bunch of tripe. The not-very-skilled writer, in genuine fluff style, went on to cite Helen’s education, proficiency ratings, even her age. What about my dress size, you schmuck! Why don’t you tell the readers what brand of tampons I use! She only scanned a few lines: “—a hallmark to modern womanhood, the highest success rate of any investigator on the State Police. Captain Closs, in fact, will be the first woman in the department’s history to make the rank of deputy chief.”
Helen rose a subtle brow. Don’t be so sure.
“Turn the page,” Beck said.
“Oh, no!”
“—but even the ever-busy investigator has time for a relationship. Who’s the handsome mystery man seen here with Closs after a date?”
Helen gaped, aghast, at another snapshot. It was her and Tom, smiling and holding hands as they left Mader’s, downtown’s best German restaurant.
“—our sources here at the Madisonian have identified him as Tom Drake, 38, the state’s Deputy Medical Examiner. Wedding bells on the horizon? We’ll never tell!”
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Helen griped. “And— How on earth did they get that picture?”
“You know these tabloid mags,” Beck informed. “They send their photographers out to hide in the bushes. That guy probably staked you and Tom out, followed you to the restaurant, and then waited for you to come out.”
Helen threw the magazine in the trash, infuriated, as Beck answered the phone. I ought to go down there and sue them! Helen thought. They have no right to print anything about my personal life! And that picture!
But Helen’s ire lost all its steam once Beck hung up and turned to her. The gray-voiced news was becoming commonplace.
“We’ve got another one,” Beck said.
««—»»
The northside of the Circle, the outermost skirts of what was known as the gay district. Efficiency apartment, cramped but neat, reported to the police by a Fed-Ex man delivering a package—a mail order poplin jacket from the Home Shopping Club. He’d knocked on the door, which was ajar, and saw the body lying in the window light on the bed.
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?”
“North, ma’am.”
North, she thought. It was an evening of amalgams. The Great Bear of the north. North on Rowe Boulevard. All the while, chasing down a man named North.
“I’m there, Sergeant, heading north.” It was difficult to drive with the car phone crimped under her chin. “What’s he doing now?”
“Heading north, still north, ma’am. Just follow my lead and I’ll have you pulling up right behind him.”
Seconds ticked by. She thought she might’ve lost the connection. “Sergeant, you still there?”
“I’m still here, ma’am, and… He’s turning. He’s turning left on…””
“On what, Sergeant!”
“He just turned left on Chambers, ma’am. Take a left on Chambers. And…keep your eyes open for his vehicle, because he just parked.”
“Good job, Sergeant. Thank you for your expertise. I can take it from here,” she said, turning left on Chambers herself.
“Call me back if you need a pinpoint, a plat-grid. I’ll probably be able to give you the exact address.”
“Thank you,” she said, her chin crimping the phone to the point of ludicrousness. “I know his make and model. I’ll be able to see it on the street.”
Helen hung up, a kink in her neck. Chambers Road. Wait a minute, she thought. Chambers Road intersected Taylor Avenue, and Taylor Avenue was where—
That’s where…Tom lives.
It was too coincidental, wasn’t it? There was no way. Nevertheless, she sped down Chambers until she saw North’s Gold Dodge Colt. Parked precisely at the corner.
The corner of Taylor.
I do not believe this!
Helen pulled up and parked directly behind the Colt. Then she got out and walked to the corner. A hundred feet away was the entrance to Tom’s condo building.
No, no, no, she thought in grueling slowness as her heels ticked down the sidewalk. Just last week she’d seen Tom kissing a male lover on the steps of the entrance. And now—
Helen stopped stock-still.
A scene repeated in part. There he was, Tom, standing at the entrance, with Matthew North.
Helen viewed the entrance as if through gauze. No, Tom and North weren’t kissing. They were conversing, Tom with his hands in his pockets, North standing with a hip cocked, listening.
“Hey!” she shouted. Her frozen breath gusted outward.
Tom turned, a flabbergasted look on his face. North’s face, however, looked like the face of a kid caught shop-lifting.
Tom: “Helen, what are you—”
North stalked off. Under his breath, he muttered “Shit.”
“Shit is right, buddy!” Helen close to screeched. “And that’s what you’ll be in a world of if you don’t stop right there!”
North had tracked halfway across the front lot before he frowned, stopped, and turned. “What?” he asked, splaying his hands.
“What?” Helen was incredulous. “I just got the DA to drop charges on you, and this is how you repay me?”
North jerked his head, shot back a lock of dark hair. “Look, lady, I gotta eat, ya know? It’s a tough world, and, yeah, I got found another service to work for. But it’s just until I can get a legit job, I swear.”
Helen wanted to grab his jacket collar and shake him. “I could care less what you do for money, but you tell me this, Mr. North. What’s a male prostitute doing at the home of the Deputy Medical Examiner for the State of Wisconsin?”
“Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” North claimed, not too convincingly. “It was a bum call or something, or a wrong address.”
“Bullshit!” Helen simmered as she glared at him. Arresting him would be weak in court—she couldn’t swear under oath that she’d heard a proposition—and she didn’t have time to take him to Headquarters. Grilling Tom was more important.
“Listen to me,” she asserted, pointing into his face. “You’re going straight back to your apartment, and later on I’m coming by and we’re going to have a long talk. And you better be there, Mr. North, because if you’re not I’m going to have a statewide dragnet out on you, and you think I’m bluffing… Try me!”
“I’ll be there, I’ll be there,” North sluffed, then slouched for his car.
Helen’s fists clenched till her fingernails were nearly cutting her palms. She trod back toward the apartment steps, where Tom stared at her.
“Helen, what in God’s name—”
“You got a lot of gall, Tom,” she spat. “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in?”
“What? That guy? I never saw him before in my life. We were just…chatting.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what you were chatting about?”
Tom brushed his hair back. “Jeeze, this does look bad doesn’t it? All right, look, the guy rang my buzzer, so I answered the door. Said he was from some ‘service.’ I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, and, honestly, Helen, I’ve never seen him before.”
“Honestly?” Helen huffed. “That’s great coming from a guy who lied to me, who cheated on me for over a year!”
Tom glanced down at the pavement. “We’ve already been through all that, Helen. And like I said, that guy—”
“Why are you sweating, Tom?” she cut in. “It’s cold out here, but you’re sweating. Is there something you’re nervous about?”
Tom hesitated, scratched his nose. “I’m on duty tonight; I just got out of the shower, and my hair’s still wet.”
“Uh-huh. Bad job lying, Tom. You better tell me everything right now, otherwise it’ll be a lot worst later.”
Tom shook his head. “Helen, this is getting out of—”
“Jesus Christ!” She couldn’t believe his stupidity, either that or his stubbornness. “Don’t you know that you’re under investigation for conspiracy and accessory to murder, and maybe a hell of a lot more!”
Tom’s facial reaction shrunk. “This is uncalled for, Helen, and you know it. This is a disgrace. Like a lot of prejudiced people, you can’t handle the fact that I’m bisexual. You’re just like Limbaugh and Gingrich and all these other radicals who want too dissolve the constitutional rights of people who are different. I’m under investigation for accessory murder? Why? Because I’ve had gay affairs? This is the end of the line, Helen.” Tom turned briskly, walked for the front door. “If you harass me one more time, I’m going to sue you.”
The apartment’s entry door, then, slammed so hard in her face that the glass panes popped out and shattered.
««—»»
So you’re going to sue me, huh?
Well, maybe he would. But Helen thought it only fitting that she give him more fuel for the cause.
She knew she was washed up. With all this publicity, and the case going to hell in a handbasket? Even her own boss had no more faith in her. I’ll never make deputy chief, she realized, unless I solve this case. She stared hard at the inside of her windshield. And even if I do, I don’t give a damn.
For a woman whose ideals were more soundly rooted in ethics than anyone she knew, she figured it was time for a little of the reverse. Tom, she thought. If you think I’ve violated your constitutional rights, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
She had to know, she had to know for sure, and there was no legal way to do what she knew she needed to do.
Tom had said he had duty tonight. All she had to do was wait.
And it wasn’t a long one. Less than an hour after their blowup out front, Tom trudged down the steps and out the entrance door. Stomped to his car. Drove off.
Helen stared at dark bushes and nightscape for ten more minutes, then she got out.
She still had her keys—her key to the front door and her key to Tom’s apartment.
She could get fired for what she was about to do, and she knew it. She could be criminally charged and prosecuted. Unlawful entry. Burglary. A search without a warrant.
To hell with it, she thought.
She walked in and up the stairs like she owned the place, opened Tom’s apartment door without a pause. Cool darkness greeted her. She closed the door behind her and locked the deadbolt.
She didn’t even bother putting on gloves when she commenced. First she checked the bedroom, the dressers, the nightstand, then the bathroom, the little den. Was she really looking for more evidence of men in his life? Why should I care now? she asked herself. All I’m looking for is evidence. My former personal life doesn’t mean anything here anymore.
Then she checked the kitchen, the dining room, every cabinet and closet.
Nothing.
And then she checked—
Her stare froze when she gingerly rooted through the metal drawers of his computer desk. Buried beneath file folders was a video tape—Room for Two, it was titled. The glossy cover bragged: Starring Jeff Starker, Miles, Long, and Matt North!And there he was, grinning in a sailors outfit right there on the cover. Matthew North.
But was this enough?
She didn’t really know, but it didn’t really matter, because next she checked the storage box for his computer floppy disks. At the very back, hidden under a stack of angled 3M disks, was this.
A vial. A tiny glass vial
She held the vial up to the light to read its label.
SCHILLER INC. U.S. PATENT #4,315,926/EXP. 3/97
0.4 MGS, IM OR ORAL, KEEP AWAY FROM HEAT AND DIRECT SUNLIGHT
CAUTION: HIGHLY TOXIC
SUCCINICHOLINE SULPHATE
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