Serial Killer's Soul

by Herman Martin

  I might have been around to help her and keep my promise, but in April 1984, I was jailed for another robbery. I managed to get out on bail. From all my run-ins with the law, I was getting good at finding ways to get around the law. When I was arrested, I used a different name, a friend’s name, so they wouldn’t discover I was on probation. I just happened to have a duplicate driver’s license. I plea-bargained and was out of jail in thirty days. Nothing fazed me anymore. I lived a life of constant motion. I just kept moving and never looking back.

  I soon met a young woman named Annie. Annie had two sons and a good job as a dispatcher with the police department. Annie was good for me at first. We moved in together and she tried to keep me straight. Keeping me straight wasn’t something someone else could do though and, in 1985, I began snorting cocaine. I knew I had let her down.

  When I needed to get away from the stress of the home, I escaped to the harness horse races at the Maywood track in Cicero, Illinois, just north of Chicago. I found my escape about four times a week. I wasn’t home often and, when I was home, I was usually messed up.

  One day when I was on a high, I told Annie that she wasn’t good for me and I wasn’t good for her. I asked her and her sons to move out. She agreed. Right after they moved out, I brought in Homey’s girlfriend’s sister, Barbara, to live with me. Barbara taught me how to sell big drugs like cocaine and heroin.

  In 1986, I moved to Grand Rapids, Michigan, for a month. From there I went back to Milwaukee and discovered that someone stole my disability welfare check. I pulled a pistol on the people living downstairs from Homey and his girlfriend because I thought they stole the check. They swore they didn’t; I didn’t believe them.

  The downstairs neighbors called the cops, who arrested me for carrying a concealed weapon. Because I was a convicted felon on parole, I was sent back to the Milwaukee County Jail, then to the Milwaukee County Psychiatric Ward, and finally to the House of Corrections in Franklin for one month. Judge Frank Crivello gave me two years’ probation. I found out later that Homey and his girlfriend had actually stolen my check.

  When I got out, I moved back in with Barbara. That only lasted for a week because I started back on my path of destruction. My parole officer put me in DePaul Hospital, a psychiatric hospital in Milwaukee, for rehabilitation for thirty days. Rehab gave me hope that I could change my ways. I promised myself that as soon as I got out, I would be a new man.

  When I got out of DePaul, I was in a car accident and the insurance company paid me $3,000. That’s a lot of money to a guy like me. I moved back in with my old girlfriend, Annie. I felt bad about letting her down before so I gave her most of the money to pay the rent, buy food, and help with her kids. It felt good. It made me feel good. I was happy to be helping her.

  To use the cliché, old habits are hard to break. Not long after, my lifestyle began repeating itself and I found myself yet again in the House of Corrections. I stayed there from November 1986 to February 1987. After release, I landed in the DePaul/Bellevue Halfway House on the east side of Milwaukee until May 1987. No matter what I resolved to do when I was incarcerated, I just couldn’t seem to keep my life under control. I was all over the place.

  Annie came to visit me at the halfway house and dropped a bomb: she’d quit her job as a police dispatcher the previous year. Now, without any money coming in, her utilities had been turned off. Somehow, I felt I owed her. I really wanted to help her out. I didn’t know what to do so I made a decision. I simply walked out of the halfway house.

  The next month, because I had violated parole, my parole officer had me jailed. About the same time, I found out Annie was pregnant again. On February 16, 1988, Annie gave birth to my third child, my daughter Shan’elle.

  I wanted to help Annie and the baby. I wanted to be a father and help my baby’s mother. After my release, I found a job working for the company that put food in the airplanes at Mitchell Field in Milwaukee. My job was to clean out the trays that kept the food warm. I got that job under my real name, Herman Martin. Working there was really tough on me; I had co-workers who were blatantly racist. After two months, I walked out. Racism is one thing I have a hard time tolerating, and I couldn’t handle it at work. Racism and intolerance aren’t things a person just accepts over time. The frustration and the anger never leave, and you can’t just start a fistfight with every person who says something disrespectful. I left mid-shift. Sure, I could have knocked some guy out on my way out the door or told the woman in the hall what I thought of her and her opinions just to prove a point, but it wouldn’t have changed anything. I think, looking back, that I just felt tired–tired of fighting for everything all the time.

  A few weeks later, I met a woman named Myra. Myra gets credit for being the person who turned me on to smoking cocaine. My profession, yet again, was stealing and reselling scrap materials to recycling companies. Ironically, during all this time (from 1985 to 1990), I collected Social Security checks because doctors trying to find some reason for why I couldn’t be straight, said I was manic-depressive and schizophrenic.

  Some people might say a good hustler learns to fake all kinds of mental illnesses to get Social Security disability diagnoses. Honestly, if you aren’t what society dictates you’re supposed to be, they are usually willing to diagnose you with anything to help “explain it.” Not to mention, when you’re taking any drug that comes your way, it’s easy to seem schizophrenic, or act like you’ve lost contact with reality, having hallucinations, or a split personality.

  Regardless of my Social Security or my reselling scrap, my lifestyle was more than I could afford. My cocaine habit was costing me four to five hundred dollars a day. I was quickly coming to the end of my rope…

  …I just didn’t know it yet.

  Once again, I went back to a hospital, this time Northwest General Hospital in Milwaukee, for a month for drug and alcohol treatment. A few days after I was finished with the treatment, I went to the Fashionation women’s clothing store in Greenfield, Wisconsin, at eleven in the morning, snatched ten women’s suits, and ran out the door. The clerk got my license plate and told police that I had robbed her at gunpoint, which, for the record, was not true. I don’t mind taking responsibility for things I’ve done wrong, but I didn’t even have a gun.

  The cops caught me that same day and charged me with armed robbery. Because I was still on probation, I was sent to the county jail and then transferred to Dodge Correctional facility in Waupun, where I remained from August 1988 until February 14, 1989. After that, I transferred to the Milwaukee County Jail to await hearing until March 1989.

  I got out on bail in March and started a home-improvement business in June. It was great while it lasted, but in February 1990, I went to trial and was found guilty for the armed-robbery charge. On February 16, 1990, Judge Laurence C. Gram Jr. sentenced me to ten years in the Wisconsin state prison system for armed robbery. Coincidentally, this same judge later sentenced Jeffrey Dahmer to sixteen consecutive life sentences.

  On February 19, 1990, officials drove me to the Dodge Correctional Institution and put me in the “SMURF” unit. “SMURF” stands for Special Management Unit.

  I had never experienced anything like this. I had been to jail countless times, but prison was different. Prison meant no freedom and no easy way out. My lifestyle had finally cost me everything.

  Three

  A New Life Begins

  When someone becomes a Christian, he becomes a brand new person inside. He is not the same any more. A new life has begun! (II Corinthians 5:17, TLB)

  During the ten days where I sat at the Milwaukee County Jail to await my sentencing, I met another prisoner named Levy. Meeting him changed my life.

  The first day after my trial, I wasn’t really in the mood for talking; honestly, who would be? I really wasn’t in the mood for doing much of anything. I was depressed and, despite knowing I was responsible for all this, I felt sorry for myself. This Levy guy didn’t let my lack of interest stop him from talking
to me.

  Levy tried to get me to open up by peppering me with questions. When I chose to answer him, which wasn’t often, I answered him bluntly. I didn’t feel like making friends; I wanted to be left alone. After hours of his seemingly aimless questions, he asked me if I had ever known “the goodness of the Lord.” I wanted to chuckle. If I was a God-fearing man, would I really be in the place I was in? I told him I hadn’t; religion was never part of my life.

  Levy was the first person I’d ever met who fit the description of “filled with the spirit of God.” He actually seemed to have the Lord in him, emerging from every pore in his body and every word he spoke. Levy told me about Jesus. Levy talked to me, taught me, and helped bring Jesus into my heart.

  My life was never the same from that moment forward.

  After Levy broke down my walls, I realized he was someone with whom I could relate. He was a black man, about my age, who had lived a hard life. He didn’t talk about his past; he just talked about how the love of Jesus had saved him. I saw Levy as a mentor and a teacher. He had the peace and wisdom of an old man and whenever he talked I couldn’t help but listen.

  Levy was happy all the time. He didn’t let anything bring him down. It was as if his whole being radiated … something. Levy loved life and he loved his Lord, and he couldn’t wait to share that happiness and peace with anyone who wanted to listen or was still enough to listen. I was drawn to everything Levy told me because I wanted the same happiness I saw in him. I wanted to learn how I could be happy and finally free from all the bad things in my life.

  One of the first things Levy told me was, “Prayer will change you.” I wondered how, at that point, anything could change me. I was preparing to spend ten years in prison and, to be honest, when I looked back on my life, I didn’t see much hope for a better future.

  Levy wouldn’t give up. He taught me everything he possibly could in those ten days. “Read the Bible,” he’d say, then he’d read it with me. Sometimes he wrote down specific verses and told me to read them later, when I had more time.

  Levy told me the Bible contained everything we needed to know in order to live a good life and be happy. He told me about Jesus Christ and how he died for my sins, even my armed robbery and drug abuse.

  I never found out why Levy was in prison but for some reason, I assumed he was in there for life. Inmates hardly ever talked about their crimes, mostly because they don’t want to think about them. No one in prison is guilty, you know? Prison is full of “innocent men,” to hear them talk. Many inmates are depressed about their sentences, especially those locked away for a long time. Dwelling on your crimes and your sentence just makes you miserable.

  Learning about faith from Levy helped keep my mind off bad things. He said if I just believed that the Son of God came down to this Earth and died on the cross for my sins, I, too, could gain eternal redemption. I didn’t know if I could believe him. I had done a lot of bad things. Granted, I may not have been as bad as some others; but regardless, if there is a God, was he at all interested in me?

  Levy reiterated that no matter how bad I’d been in the past, no matter what I’d done, God could and would forgive me. He said I could still earn a place in heaven for all eternity if I was truly sorry for the bad things I had done and believed in the goodness of God and his Son.

  I was skeptical.

  Levy didn’t give up. The fact that I kept listening and trying to learn reflected that I wasn’t giving up on myself for once either. Eventually everything Levy said started to make sense to me. Eternity sounded like a lot longer than the ten years of prison I was facing. I began to think that maybe I could serve my time in prison more productively. I started to dream dreams of getting out early for good behavior. I wanted to begin a new life on the outside, a life with God and Jesus Christ as my role models. I began to believe that having faith in Jesus was the answer, the only answer.

  Levy came to me at a low point in my life. I was spinning ever faster on a downward spiral to nowhere. If it hadn’t been for Levy, I would have spent my prison time thinking up new scams until I could start my life of crime and drugs all over again. Levy taught me to have faith–in God and in myself. He taught me to appreciate the goodness in all people and to see Jesus in every face.

  Even though I was only with Levy for ten short days, I believe he saved my life and soul. He brought me into the company of God. He gave me a role model; he gave me a father I could love, and who would love me back unconditionally. The more I learned about the goodness of God, the more I wanted to learn.

  I believed God sent Levy to me. For the first time in my life, I felt happy and whole, and knew that I was on my way to a new life and better things.

  I was transferred to the Dodge Correctional Institution in Waupun, Wisconsin, on February 16, 1990. All inmates assigned to the Wisconsin prison system go to Dodge first. That’s where each inmate receives a formal recommendation in terms of custody level, institution assignment, and individual program needs. Each prisoner also receives a complete physical examination by a doctor, nurse, psychiatrist, and psychologist.

  Within a month, the Program Review Committee (PRC) evaluated me. They considered the crime I committed and my background, achievements (not many), as well as assessed my physical and mental well-being. They recommended the Wisconsin Resource Center in Winnebago, Wisconsin, a maximum/medium-security institution. I stayed there from March 27, 1990, until April 26, 1991.

  While I was in Winnebago, I read my Bible and attended church services. On September 16, 1990, during services in the prison chapel, Chaplain Gary Lee asked if anyone was ready to put away the life of crime and drugs and follow Christ. I thought about Levy and what he had done for me, how he’d opened up a new world, a whole new way of living. I stepped forward and said, “I’m tired of this life, Lord. I’m ready to follow you for the rest of my life.”

  At that moment I allowed myself to be reborn into a community of faith that serves only one master, Jesus Christ. I not only dedicated my life to God and his Son, but I also stopped using drugs.

  In February 1991, I saw the PRC again and they recommended I choose where to serve the rest of my time: Dodge Correctional Institution in Waupun, the Columbia Correctional Institution in Portage, or the Green Bay Correctional Institution in Green Bay.

  I prayed about the decision. Something kept nudging me to accept Columbia. I’d heard the time there wouldn’t be easy, that it was a strict place. But a little voice in my head kept telling me Columbia was the right place.

  I prayed specific prayers. “God, do you have a reason for me to be in Portage? You must. I feel you pushing me toward it. I’ll request Columbia. I know you’ll show me the reason when I arrive.”

  On April 26, 1991, I arrived at Columbia. Located just off Interstate 39 between Madison and Stevens Point, the Portage facility is a maximum-security prison in the Wisconsin countryside, surrounded by fields, farmhouses, and country roads. It was peaceful there, in the middle of nowhere.

  Four

  Another Sinner Captured

  I beg you–I, a prisoner here in jail for serving the Lord–to live and act in a way worthy of those who have been chosen for such wonderful blessings as these. (Ephesians 4:1, TLB)

  My temporary room was a single cell in the orientation unit at Columbia Correctional Institution, and I could leave my cell only for meals in the dayroom.

  The next day, April 27, 1991, the psychologist who would ultimately decide how I spend my time at the facility interviewed me. She suggested placement on “SMURF Unit 6”. After the unit manager, social worker, and psychiatrist interviewed me, Unit 7 actually became my home.

  Three months later, on July 23, I was returning to the unit after recreation time when I noticed staff standing around the television, watching the news. I remembered the time: it was 2:30 p.m. Milwaukee police arrested a man for murdering a number of young men and boys.

  The man’s name was Jeffrey L. Dahmer.

  We learned that at 11 p.m.
the previous evening, cops arrested Dahmer at his Milwaukee apartment. Officers, homicide investigators, and medical examiners examined the contents of every room in his apartment and confiscated boxes, photographs, papers, freezers, plastic barrels, power tools, knives, kitchen equipment, and human body parts. As we watched the TV in the dayroom, the unit psychologist predicted that whoever this guy was, he’d end up at Columbia with us.

  I went back to my cell to watch my own thirteen-inch black-and-white TV. I wanted to learn more about this man, Dahmer.

  As the story unfolded, the man and his crimes became the main topic of conversation throughout the prison. No matter where we were–in the gym, in the library, outdoors, in our cells, the dayroom, classrooms, anywhere in the prison–all anyone talked about was Dahmer, speculating about the crimes and the nature of the man who committed them.

  I was fixated with the case. From that day on, I watched everything I could about the gruesome murders. I read articles in the daily newspapers to keep up with the events as they unfolded. Dahmer confessed to killing seventeen men and boys and performing sex acts on them. I read all the grisly details the paper was willing to print.

  Photographs and fingerprints complete, Dahmer was sent to the county jail in downtown Milwaukee. I knew that place well. The cells were small, five feet wide and eight feet long. Each contained a steel bed attached to the wall plus a stainless-steel toilet and sink and one small shelf on the wall.

  Dahmer received the customary gray paper jumpsuit, his regular clothing confiscated. Prisoners were given paper so they couldn’t rip their clothes up and hang themselves in their cell, like I had tried when I was jailed.

  The jail itself wasn’t that old, built in the early 1950s, but it sure felt and looked dated on the inside. It was in the Safety Building, which was six stories tall. Three floors were used as the jail, which held about five hundred prisoners. The rooftop was used for recreation, for jogging, or just standing around in the fresh air.