Dahmer's Not Dead

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Helen drove in a daze, to the nearest QWIK-STOP. On the news rack, three different pictures of Dahmer’s face peered at her from three different tabloids. Mindless, Helen didn’t even bother reading the headlines. Instead, she bought a pack of Virginia Slims Menthol, lit one, and inhaled deep. The coughing fit which followed she almost welcomed. Three or four more inhalations and it was as though she’d never quit.

She sat in the car, in gritty sodium light, and let her mind try to assimilate.

Olsher was right. She was right. But what probable cause did she have to garner a search warrant to find what she already knew was there?

None, she realized.

She lit another cigarette, contemplated walking two storefronts down to the liquor store and buying a half-pint of Dewar’s or Johnny Black, something with some bite.

Forget it, she told herself. You have to be sober tonight. You can’t interview North with booze on your breath.

She’d just have to think, she’d just have to come up with something that might wash with the magistrate. She’d wiped the vial off with tissues; hence her own fingerprints wouldn’t be on it, but then neither would Tom’s now. He could say she’d planted it…

Go to North’s, she instructed herself. Talk to North, wring him out for what’s going on, then think of some way to get a warrant later.

It was all she could do. She didn’t even feel like herself right now—she felt like someone else, some stranger trying to come to grips with a truth she didn’t want to believe. Busting Tom would lead her to Campbell, and Campbell would lead her to Dahmer.

North first. One step at a time. North is sweating jailtime. He’ll sing like a canary. He’ll sell out his own mother to keep from going to prison…

Two cigarettes later, she parked in front of North’s apartment, behind the gold Dodge Colt. Down the street, taillights diminished. A car turned the corner at the stop light—a white Ford Crown Victoria.

Her thoughts squeezed out like putty from a caulker. Tom drives a white Crown Vic…

She tapped out the hospital’s number on her car phone. “Pathology Unit please,” she asked. A few second’s wait, then she asked, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Tom Drake.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” an adolescent-voiced receptionist told her. “He hasn’t reported for duty yet. In fact…he’s over an hour late.”

Helen rang off. Impulse urged her to draw her Beretta. Her high-heeled feet jacked her up the apartment steps two at a time. North’s door was locked, but she didn’t even bother to knock on it. She turned her face away, squinting, and fired one round at a downward angle against the doorknob, like they’d taught her in tac class.

The door bumped open.

Helen didn’t even have to go in and turn on the lights to see what she already suspected.

Matthew North’s body lay in the tiny foyer, in the dark. A dark pool—almost black—formed a corona about his head. Even the tiny hole was obvious in the ill light: a small caliber bullet hole high right on the forehead. An empty, twenty-ounce plastic soda bottle lay against the baseboard, half collapsed from a sudden influx of heat, and cloudy-gray with gunsmoke.

««—»»

“Since when do you smoke cigarettes?” Olsher asked.

“Since tonight,” she replied on his front porch.

“You want a cigar? They’re better anyway.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

Olsher glared at her. This was the second time in her career she’d wakened him at his home. He stood, rigid with annoyance, in his robe and slippers.

“I’m in trouble,” she said.

“Come on in.”

She followed him to the living room: plush, cozy.

“You’ve been pretty disappointed with me lately, haven’t you?” she asked once she sat down on the couch.

“Yeah,” he said. “You want to know why? Because you’re flushing your career down the toilet.”

“Well, consider this the final flush,” she said and dragged deep on her cigarette. “Tonight I unlawfully entered Tom Drake’s apartment—”

“What! How? With lock picks?”

“No, Chief. I still had his apartment keys from when we—when we were involved. And I found a vial of succinicholine sulphate.”

“What!” Olsher’s bellow may have actually rocked the paintings on the wall.

“That’s not all. I went to North’s apartment right afterward. I found North dead inside, shot in the head with a makeshift silencer. But just before I went in, I saw Tom’s car leaving the scene.”

“Goddamn it, Helen! We can’t do shit on that. Anything in Tom’s apartment is inadmissible now! Even if we do an n/a/a on his hand and prove he fired the gun, it’s still inadmissible!”

“I know that,” Helen said, looking down at the nice, beige carpet. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to let you know.” She rummaged clumsily in her purse. “Here’s my badge and gun. I’ll turn myself into the DA’s office in the morning, take my chances.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Come on, Larrel, I broke the law and I’m a cop. I walked all over people’s rights. It’s the only ethical thing to do.”

“Fuck ethics!” Olsher profaned. “Is Dahmer ethical when he kills people?”

“That’s beside the point, I guess.”

“You’ll keep your mouth shut about this, about everything you’ve done and seen tonight. We’ll work it out.” Olsher sat down, wearily rubbed his tired face. “Did you report North’s murder yet?”

“No, I was just about to do—”

“Well, don’t. They’ll find him eventually. Just…” Olsher’s gaze rose. He looked disgusted. “Just keep your mouth shut and get out of here. I’ll do anything I can to cover for your dumb ass.”

“That’s not necessary, Chief. This is my mess. I won’t drag you down too.”

“Just get out!” Olsher bellowed.

Helen stood up. There was a tear in her eye. Olsher had always overseen her, taught her everything he knew. And this was how she repaid him. “I’m sorry, Larrel.”

“Get out!”

Helen left the house, got back into her car, and drove off.

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