by Steven James
He introduced himself: “Ralph Hawkins, FBI.” The words came out in a low rumble, a voice you’d expect from a guy who could bench-press a pickup. “This is Special Agent Ellen Parker.”
I greeted them. He passed the bottle of soda to his other arm, then enveloped my hand in his as we shook. “Detective Patrick Bowers,” I said. “Homicide. Just call me Pat.”
“Ralph.”
“And Ellen is fine,” Agent Parker told me.
“Good.”
A couple of moments later, as we passed down the hallway, she unexpectedly excused herself and walked off alone toward the elevator.
Ralph paused. “Gives us a chance to chat.”
Ah. So. Here we go.
I gestured toward the stairs and led the way.
“I understand you’re in charge of this case?” he said.
“Yes.” I could only imagine what a logistical and bureaucratic nightmare this was going to be if he tried to pull rank and take over. It would have been audacious, but I wasn’t ready to put anything past the FBI.
We entered the stairwell. Thorne’s office was on the fourth floor. We started up the steps.
Despite his size Ralph was quick and light on the stairs. “There are two ways we can do this. We can either waste time dicking around trying to figure out who’s calling the shots, or we can work together to catch this psycho. Your call.”
So, he had an attitude and got straight to the point.
My kind of guy.
“Agent Hawkins—Ralph…” We reached the second floor. “I have every reason to believe that you’re experienced and well qualified at what you do, but I need you to know that I’m going to find this guy and bring him in or take him down and if you get in my way I’ll do whatever is necessary to move you aside so I can do my job.”
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the ideal thing to say to kick off our working relationship, but I’ve never been especially known for my tact.
He paused as we reached the third-floor landing. He wasn’t out of breath. Neither was I.
I waited for his response. Tried to read him. Couldn’t.
Then he took a long, unhurried swallow of his Mountain Dew, finished most of it, and smacked his lips. “Glad to hear we’re on the same page. But…” I caught the hint of a smile. “How am I gonna get in your way, Detective, when I’m going to be the one way out in front of you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can be a bit determined at times.”
“I’m counting on that.” We started for the fourth floor. “Besides, you couldn’t move me aside.”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
He cracked his neck and cords of muscle strained beneath his skin. “So am I.” He downed the rest of his soda and tossed the empty bottle into a trash can as we entered the hallway and passed the elevator bay.
And as he strode beside me on the way to Lieutenant Thorne’s office, I couldn’t help but wonder—if he really was stronger than he looked—just how tough this guy, who was obviously not a desk jockey, actually was.
12
We met in Thorne’s office, all of us crammed around his desk on folding chairs.
Six of us were at the briefing: Ellen, Ralph, Radar, Lieutenant Thorne, me, and Detective Annise Corsica, a severe-looking woman in her forties with short, choppy hair, thin lips, and probing, astucious eyes. Annise had been on the force more than twenty years and, to put it mildly, had not been happy when I’d been promoted to homicide detective seven years earlier in my career than she’d been.
I’d seen her exhibit what I could only call incompetence on cases, and the amount of respect we shared for each other was mutual; however Thorne liked her and, apparently, she was on the case.
He kicked things off with introductions and then turned the floor over to Ralph. “I’ll let Agent Hawkins explain exactly why we’ve brought the FBI in on this. It has to do with more than Vincent and Colleen Hayes.”
That, I hadn’t heard. I directed my attention to Ralph.
“There are two bodies that’ve been found,” he said, “one in Champaign, Illinois, one in Ohio, near Cincinnati. We’ve been doing our best to keep it under the media’s radar—” He glanced at Brandon. “Why do they call you Radar, anyway?”
Thorne answered for him: “He zeroes in on people. Finds ’em. He’s got gut instincts like no one else.”
It was true. Radar did seem to have uncanny instincts, and that bugged me, not because I envied him, but because I don’t trust hunches, gut feelings, intuition. I trust facts and logic, and when Radar’s unfounded inferences led to results, it always confounded me.
“Gotcha,” Ralph said. “Anyway, we’ve been playing this close to the chest…trying to keep a few details from the public.” He looked around the room soberly. “Forensics has determined that the intestines of one of the victims and the lungs of the other, both women in their early twenties, were consumed. The killer doesn’t remove the organs all at once. Takes his time. Keeps the women alive while he does it.”
“How could you tell the lungs and intestines had been eaten?” Detective Corsica asked. “And not just, well…discarded?”
“He cooked ’em on the victims’ stoves. We found pieces on frying pans and on a fork, but no saliva. No DNA.”
No one said a word.
Without bite marks on the bodies, I imagined it would be hard to determine with certainty that the offender had exhibited anthropophagic behavior, but now, with our case’s connection to Dahmer—and the amputation of Colleen’s hands—the proximal timing and removal of body parts spoke to more than just coincidence, which I didn’t believe in anyway.
Before we could tell if the incidents were actually linked, we would need to do a comparative case analysis, or CCA. By studying the physical evidence, eyewitness reports, crime scene locations and characteristics of the victims, we could judge the likelihood that the crimes were committed by the same offender.
“We found a small soil sample at the scene of the homicide in Champaign,” Ellen explained. “The FBI Lab was able to use the NRCS’s soil data surveys to—”
“NRCS?” Corsica asked.
“National Resources Conservation Service. Part of the Department of Agriculture. They have soil sample data from every county in the U.S. Anyway, they matched the sample to southeastern Wisconsin. Two counties—Milwaukee or Waukesha.”
Nice. Maybe these guys were the real deal after all.
“That, however, was released to the media,” Ralph grumbled. Then he echoed what I’d been thinking. “Obviously it’s not one hundred percent certain, but now, with the timing, the severing of Ms. Hayes’s hands, the links to cannibalism, to Dahmer, well, there’s a good chance that what happened there and what’s happening here are linked.”
“You have case files from the other homicides?” I asked him.
A nod. “I’ll get them as soon as we’re done here. But for now, I want you to fill me in on what happened last night.”
I did most of the talking, with Radar, Corsica, and Thorne offering a few details I hadn’t heard yet:
(1) Colleen Hayes had been home from the time she talked to her husband at 6:35 p.m. until 9:15 p.m. when a neighbor saw a car pull away from the street behind her house.
(2) According to Colleen, the blood in the kitchen came from a cut on her left hand when she was struggling with her attacker, who had a knife.
(3) There was no sign of forced entry at the home.
(4) A small square of tinfoil was found on the floor of the bar, but it contained no prints other than Vincent’s.
When we finished, Ralph turned to Thorne. “Your department was responsible for bringing in Dahmer. What do you make of this wack job coercing the guy to leave a handcuffed man in that same alley?”
He reflected on that for a moment. “In ’ninety-one, it was a cuffed African-American man close to the same age as Lionel who eventually led us to Dahmer. The alley, of course, is where Konerak Sinthasomphone was found cuffed and naked. Maybe our
guy’s trying to say that Dahmer got caught; but that he’s better than Dahmer, that he won’t. What do you think, Corsica?”
She’d been lead on the Dahmer investigation. “I agree. Definitely.” But then she saw the skepticism in my eyes. “What is it, Patrick?” My friends call me Pat, so I was cool with her calling me Patrick.
“I think it’s premature to try guessing what this guy was trying to communicate by his actions or to conclude anything ‘definite’ about them.”
“Well,” Ralph said to me, “you were there last night. Any ideas on possible motive?”
“I’m not one to speculate on motives. The real issue here isn’t ‘why it happened’ but ‘what happened.’ On the surface there’s a connection, but—”
“Hang on.” Ellen adjusted her glasses. “You don’t speculate on motives? What does that mean—you don’t look for them?”
“No. I don’t. I’d rather—”
“Patrick doesn’t believe in motives.” It was Corsica, a clear challenge in her tone.
“Actually,” I countered, “that’s not quite right. I do believe in motives, but more specifically in reasons. We all have reasons for the things we do. All behavior is, to some extent at least, undertaken to achieve a goal, but since trying to figure out specifically what that goal is—considering that the person doing it might not even know why he’s doing it—ends up being fruitless, nothing more than a guessing game, I don’t put much stock in the process. Besides, nowhere in our justice system does the law require showing motive.”
“But what about first-degree murder or arson?” Corsica pressed me. “You need to prove intent in arson cases; premeditation to get a first-degree murder conviction.”
“Premeditation and intent are different from motive.” There was no way I should’ve had to be explaining this to her, especially not here in front of everyone. But she wasn’t letting it drop and if she wanted a lesson, I could give her one. “Intent is what you’re trying to accomplish, premeditation is how you’re going to go about it, but motive is the reason why. The first two can be proven beyond reasonable doubt, the third cannot.”
She gave me a dubious look, and I took it as a prompt to go on. “People act certain ways because of needs, desires, unconscious impulses, habits, goals, personality differences—all those things affect our choices and actions, and all of them intertwine with each other. It’s impossible to untangle them and surmise their collective, or even their respective, influence in one word like ‘greed’ or ‘lust’ or ‘hatred.’ Besides, in the end, the why is always the same. Ultimately, all criminals commit their crimes for the same reason.”
Ralph eyed me curiously. “And that is?”
“Because they believe it will make them happy.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Everything they do?”
“Yes. Just like us.”
“Come on, Patrick.” Corsica sounded like she was mimicking a schoolteacher reprimanding a child. “Even you don’t believe that everything everyone does is just because they’re trying to be happy. You’re just trying to be provocative and this isn’t the time or place for those kinds of games.”
Alrighty, then.
We could do this.
I took a breath and picked up the gauntlet that’d been tossed at my feet.
13
“Annise, no one ever chooses to do something that he thinks will make him miserable. Whether it’s drugs, murder, workaholism, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter—even suicide—people act in ways they believe will bring relief, pleasure, or satisfaction. It all boils down to the desire for happiness. Happiness is the end to which we all aspire.” I wasn’t the first one to point this out; philosophers have noted it for centuries. For some reason, law enforcement has been slow to pick up on it.
But now I could tell it wasn’t just Corsica. Ellen remained skeptical as well: “But people punish themselves all the time, Patrick. Mentally, emotionally, psychologically, physically. You’re saying that they’re doing it because they believe mental illness or social isolation makes them happy?”
“No. But why do people torture themselves emotionally?”
“Because of guilt or shame or low self-esteem,” she answered, “or any number of reasons.”
“But what is the goal? People don’t dwell on their guilt or shame, beat themselves up emotionally, or isolate themselves socially in the hopes that they’ll feel worse, but because they hope it’ll eventually make them feel better—maybe about their penance, or as a way to quantify their guilt, or to quiet their consciences or to distract themselves or rationalize away their pain, or, as you just said, for any number of reasons. But ultimately, they want to be happy.”
Ralph seemed to be right with me. “And you’re saying it’s the same for the guy who killed these women?”
“Yes. Criminals aren’t essentially different from other people. They might commit crimes we can’t imagine ourselves doing, but all of us are capable of the unthinkable, given the right circumstances, mental state, and precipitators.”
A nod. He agreed. The nineties have been a violent decade. Milwaukee had 127 homicides last year, and I’d worked 29 of them, but considering how many cases the NCAVC assists with each year, I guessed that Ralph might’ve already been involved in more homicide investigations than I would be in my entire career.
“So,” he said, “the secret to finding this psycho—if it’s even the same guy in all three cases—is to find out what he thinks will make him happy.”
“If we knew that,” I admitted, “it would be helpful. Yes.”
“Motive.” Corsica looked triumphant.
I was ready to reply when Radar interjected, “But at this point that’s not possible to determine.”
“Once again,” I reiterated, “I think that right now we should focus on what happened rather than spend time speculating on why it did.”
It looked like everyone except Detective Corsica was satisfied, ready to move on.
Ralph aimed the tip of his pen at me, signaling that I was up. “I understand you and Radar spoke with Colleen Hayes this morning. What do we know?”
“The offender is Caucasian, large frame, approximately six feet tall. Brown eyes, unless he was wearing colored contact lenses. He only said four words when I spoke with him last night on Vincent’s portable phone and I didn’t note any distinctive accent. Colleen doesn’t think she could recognize his voice again. I’m not sure I could either. She knew of only one offender, and he took her someplace near or just past the breweries and then to the pier where she was left. The car he used has a trunk. The space he took her to was cold, like an unheated garage or cellar.”
In my mind I was following the possible travel routes a person might drive from the Hayes residence to the valley where the breweries are. “Based on the nature and sophistication of the crime, it’s probable that the offender has a history of violence. He might already be in the system.”
“Prints?” Ellen asked.
Thorne shook his head. “No incriminating ones. Not on the cuffs, not at the house. Nothing.”
Detective Corsica turned to me. “You sent out a call last night that the suspect had gotten away when you actually had him in custody.”
“Based on the information we had at the time, we thought a woman’s life might be in imminent danger.”
“Based on the information you had at the time.” Her tone was condescending and I was getting tired of dealing with Detective Corsica’s attitude.
“It seemed prudent to let officers search the neighborhood for a few minutes if it meant buying some time to protect Colleen Hayes. I made a judgment call.”
“So,” she said, “you initiated a waste of time and resources and—”
“With all due respect, Annise, I don’t consider anything done in the line of protecting innocent life to be a—”
“What you did was—”
Thorne raised a hand, a stop sign to cut us off. “Alright, alright,
you two. Easy.”
Annise’s eyes seared the air between us. I let her glower.
One more thing needed to be said. “There are still enough questions here that I think Vincent needs to remain a person of interest in this case.”
“Agreed,” Ralph acknowledged, then turned to Thorne. “But don’t release that to the press. If he’s innocent, the last thing we need is having them run him through their meat grinder.”
Considering the cannibalistic behavior related to these crimes, Ralph hadn’t perhaps chosen the best phrase there, but I figured it was a slip of the tongue. It didn’t sound like he was a fan of the press. I wasn’t one either and I agreed unreservedly with his suggestion.
We spoke for a few more minutes about which direction to take the investigation and then Thorne said, “So where does all this leave us?”
Ralph spoke up. “I’ll bring Pat up to speed on the other cases from Illinois and Ohio. Beyond the obvious connection to Dahmer and dismemberment, we can try to see if we can identify any other ties to what happened last night.”
Yes, the comparative case analysis I was thinking of earlier.
Thorne slid the papers on his desk into a single stack, straightened it punctiliously. “I assigned Thompson, Holdren, and Lyrie to this. I’ll brief ’em on what we talked about here. They can start following up on the tip list—last I heard we’ve already had seventy-two names called in, plus four confessions. You know how these false confessions go, but we’ll check ’em out. And we’ll scan the DMV records for names of sedan-owning large-framed male Caucasians with brown eyes.”
“I’ll look at names of felons living in the area,” Radar offered, “see what I can come up with for people with past convictions of assault, or, well, a history of maiming others. Amputating their limbs.”