Opening Moves (32 page)

The cuffs. The Oswald connection…

“Did you consult with Isle—Seagirt—on the Oswald true crime book?”

No answer.

“Why do you call Mallory ‘baby,’ Timothy?” It took a little work to make sure my voice carried, but I made sure it did. “Is she the one you did all this for?”

No reply. Just the faint sounds of garbage settling, the rumble of the bulldozer’s engine shutting down as Radar spoke with the operator.

I came to a refrigerator. Held my gun steady. “How’d you get the jacket, Griffin?” I stepped quickly around it, leveling my weapon as I did. No one. “Did you know someone at the station? In the evidence room?”

Snow started to fall. Lonely, rogue flakes wandering aimlessly through the stagnant air.

As I was about to call out again, I heard a mound of garbage shift behind me and I spun to see what it was, but I was a fraction of a second too slow.

Griffin had appeared from behind a chest freezer that was tilted on end. With his unmistakably scarred neck, his twisted grin, and a primal fire in his eyes, he looked like a rabid animal.

He had a tire iron in his hands, had just cocked it back, and was swinging it violently toward my head.

63

I threw up my arm to take the brunt of the blow.

He was strong for someone his size and the force of the impact against my forearm threw me off balance. I tumbled backward, tripped over an overstuffed garbage bag that lay behind me, and landed on the ground, but I was able to keep my gun directed at Griffin’s chest. “Drop the tire iron!”

To my surprise, he did, then stood still, leering at me.

“Hands up!”

Again he obeyed, and I was kind of wishing he hadn’t, that he would have rushed me instead. I could have ended this whole thing on the spot.

“The jacket,” he said. “I knew it was you.”

“It was me, what?” Without taking the gun off him, I stood up.

“With Mindy. You found her.” He grinned, and as he spoke, every word seemed to drip with venom. “Did you like seeing her like that? The way I left her? She was special to me. She was my first.”

Hot anger coursed through me, tightening everything. “How did you know?”

“Your name was in the papers. You think I didn’t keep clippings of the girls? And just a kid yourself, huh? Sixteen? How’s that been for you over the years? Detective?”

I felt my finger pressing against the cool steel of the trigger. Just a little more pressure, just one twitch and he would be dead.

Keep the demons at bay.

“On your knees.” He was less than three meters away and didn’t move.

“On your knees.” He didn’t comply.

I was about to order him again, but I suddenly realized that I kind of hoped he would go for a weapon and give me an excuse to squeeze the trigger.

“Were there others?” I kept my finger on the trigger. “Besides Jenna and Mindy?”

“There are always others. You should know that, Detective.”

“Who?”

“I’m afraid that’s my little secret.”

“Who is Slate Seagirt?”

He smiled, but on him it wasn’t really a smile. “Oh, you’re gonna have a load of fun when you find that out.”

“Who’s the Maneater of the Midwest?”

“Now there’s a man who knows how to acquire what he wants. Does it for a living.”

“Who is he?”

He glanced to his left and then lowered his hands.

“Hands up!”

But he didn’t raise them. Instead, he flicked his right hand toward his jacket pocket and simultaneously his chest blossomed open like a grisly, bloody flower as the sound of three gunshots ricocheted through the air. He swayed limply forward and dropped face-first onto the garbage-strewn ground.

Heart hammering, I looked over and saw Radar standing twenty-five meters away, his weapon still level, his eyes still drawing a bead on where Griffin had stood only a moment earlier. We were virtually aiming our guns at each other. He’d managed to fire even before I could. We simultaneously lowered our weapons.

“You okay, Pat?”

“Yeah.”

He’d hit Griffin center mass, just like we were taught at the academy. Textbook. And the shots did what they were supposed to do. They took the subject down.

I didn’t think there was any way Griffin was alive, but I held my gun on him even as I bent, cuffed his hands behind him, felt for a pulse.

“I had to fire.” Radar was on his way toward me. “He was reaching for a weapon.”

“Yeah.” I wished Griffin had been able to tell me the Maneater’s identity—if he even knew it—but I doubted that he would have told us, even if Radar hadn’t fired.

No pulse. Griffin was gone. I searched the pocket he’d been reaching for, but I found only his car keys. No weapon.

I hesitated.

“What is it?” Radar knelt beside me.

“Hang on.”

I checked his other jacket pockets, found nothing. Felt for a holster; he wasn’t wearing one.

“Oh.” Radar caught on. “You’re not telling me…”

“Wait.” At last, on the back of his belt, I found a sheath. Gloves on, I snapped it open and it yielded a serious-looking hunting knife.

“He might have been going for this,” I said.

But even as I spoke, a question rose inside me: from where Radar had been standing, could he have seen Griffin reaching for his pocket?

Radar was quiet for a moment. “I got two kids, Pat. I can’t…I can’t, you know…”

“Yeah.”

The decision was easy. I wrapped Griffin’s fingers around the knife’s handle, then dropped it beside his body. “It’s a good thing you fired when you did, Radar.”

He watched me silently.

“He could have killed me if he got to me with that blade,” I said honestly.

“Yeah, he could have.”

It’s hard to say what justice really is. If it’s balancing the scales, then it’s a lot rarer than we like to think. Sometimes they can’t be balanced. Even by killing a person who deserves to die.

I stood.

Part of me wished that Griffin hadn’t died so quickly, that he would have been injured instead and lain there suffering and begging and sputtering for breath. It wouldn’t have made up for what he did to those girls, but it would have at least been a step in the right direction.

Radar was quiet. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank you.”

My nightmare from Sunday night came to mind again, but now there was an added moment in the dream where the man who was shoveling dirt into the shallow grave on top of the crying girl sealed in the sleeping bag looked at me. I saw his face, and it was Griffin. That grin, that uneven, self-satisfied grin.

I could only imagine what special place in hell was reserved for guys like him.

And actually, I have to admit, that thought did bring me a degree of satisfaction.

Griffin lay dead in a pool of his own blood, facedown in the trash, the knife by his side, a small price tag dangling from the handle. And we left him like that, Radar and I did, as we walked back toward the house.

64

Mallory was okay.

Griffin had hit her on the side of the head with the tire iron. I only had a bruised arm from where he’d smacked me, but the blow he’d delivered to her had knocked the girl out. Apparently, he’d left her unconscious in the house to make his escape. He must have assaulted her just before we arrived at the farmhouse, maybe when he saw our cars approaching.

A Grade III concussion, but she would be alright.

An ambulance had arrived at the scene while Radar and I were busy in the landfill looking for Griffin. The EMTs had already placed Mallory on a gurney and now they were wheeling her toward the ambulance. She was crying tiny childlike tears, and I didn’t know if it was because of grief over Timothy’s death or relief that he was finally out of her life for good.

I said to the paramedics, “I need to speak with her for a moment.”

At first they were resistant, but then Carver saw what was going on and waved for them to let me through. I would’ve gone anyway, but I appreciated his support.

I leaned over Mallory, spoke as gently as I could. “Do you remember me? I was at your house yesterday, I’m Detective Bowers.”

She nodded.

“Did they tell you what happened to Timothy out here today?”

She nodded again and this time sniffed back a tear, but I still couldn’t tell what emotion or state of mind was causing her to cry.

“Mallory, do you know who Timothy got the police tape from? The tape from the murder in Illinois?”

“The Maneater. He said the Maneater got it for him.”

So Griffin did have information about his identity after all.

“Do you know who that is? The Maneater?”

She shook her head.

I wasn’t sure how to put this, but finally just said it plainly: “Do you know what Timothy did to the girls?” She looked at me with a curious expression that was somehow also devoid of emotion. “He killed some little girls, Mallory.”

She nodded slowly. Didn’t seem surprised.

“Did you know that? Did you know anything about that?”

She shook her head and I believed she was telling the truth.

The EMTs looked at me impatiently. I held up a hand:
just a few more seconds.

Griffin had said there were more. That there are always more.

“Mallory, can I ask you, when Agent Hawkins and I were at your house, Timothy touched a photograph on the wall. A picture of a woman. Do you remember that?”

She gazed at me for a moment, then looked away as she nodded.

“Who is that woman? Do you know her?”

Mallory stopped crying. There was a long pause and it came to the point where I thought she might not answer at all. Finally, she said softly, “She was my mother. She was his wife.”

And then she brushed off the last remaining tear and stared into space as they wheeled her into the ambulance.

Mallory was not just Griffin’s lover.

She was also his daughter.

It was very possible that he had called her “baby” for more than one reason after all.

I took a look in the farmhouse.

Though the walls were charred and half of the roof was missing, there was still furniture inside. I’d seen photos of the interior of Dahmer’s apartment and I could tell where the furniture in this house had come from: these were the very things that were supposed to have been destroyed and dumped in an undisclosed landfill.

Come to think of it, they may very well have been delivered as scheduled, only to be retrieved by Griffin and brought to this farmhouse down the road.

It wasn’t just furniture. Griffin had set up the entire place to look as much as possible like the inside of Dahmer’s apartment, even down to the detail of having an altar with a skull and candles around it in the closet, just like the one Dahmer had built.

And in the kitchen was the refrigerator where Jeffrey Dahmer had kept his meals.

The coup de grâce for any demented collector of serial killer memorabilia.

It was dusk before Radar and I were finally able to take off.

He’d been involved in a lethal shooting in another jurisdiction, and it took several hours for us to fill out the paperwork and finish our debriefing with the chief of police and district attorney. However, honestly, no one was giving Radar a hard time. On the contrary, by the pats on the back and nods of encouragement from the other officers, it was clear they were glad he’d taken Griffin out.

“Sergeant Walker fired just before you could?” the DA asked me in our interview.

“Yes.”

“And he had that knife with him, Griffin did?”

“Yes. If Walker hadn’t taken the shot…” I let my voice trail off.

“Griffin might have come at you with that knife.”

“Yes.”

“And your firearm? You had it unholstered? You were covering the suspect?”

“That’s right, but Sergeant Walker responded before I was able to.”

“It’s a good thing he was here, then.”

“Yes. It is.”

I showed him where I was standing when Griffin died, he noted it on his form and that was that.

When I gazed again at the place Radar had been when he fired, I still couldn’t tell if the angle would have been right for him to see Griffin reaching for his pocket. Truthfully, I just couldn’t tell.

At first, I thought I might ask him about it.

But then, after a moment, I decided I would not.

Finally, we left and jumped onto I-94 toward Milwaukee.

There were still a number of things on my mind to take care of tonight: (1) find out if the other task force members had made any progress on the case of the man who’d fled the boxcar; (2) send someone to interview the city workers, Roger Kennedy and Dane Strickland, and find out if they were connected in any way to Griffin; (3) get an update from Dr. Werjonic on Slate Seagirt and what the true crime writer might know about the murder of Mindy Wells.

65

I drove.

Radar sat beside me. Quiet. Reflective. I wondered what it was like for him right now. Lethal shootings by cops are much rarer than people think and I knew he’d never been involved with one before. I wondered if dropping that knife by the body should’ve bothered me more than it did.

It was a hard question to answer.

Since we’d rushed out of the department this morning right after my meeting with Dr. Werjonic, and then driven straight to Griffin’s place—and from there to the farmhouse by the landfill—Radar and I had both missed lunch. In fact, the only thing I’d eaten all day were the muffins and bananas I’d had at breakfast when Taci broke up with me.

Not a memory I wanted to be carrying with me right now.

I hadn’t even had any of Thompson’s cherry turnovers.

My stomach could definitely tell.

We stopped at a gas station that had a Subway. I filled up the car while Radar grabbed us some foot-longs.

We’d gone about another five miles before it occurred to me that I’d once again missed Dr. Werjonic’s afternoon seminar. This time, though, I figured I could get copies of the notes easily enough when I connected with him about Slate Seagirt.

“So, how are you doing, Radar?”