“I’ll be back in a sec,” I told Ralph, then walked over to take a closer look.
It was the letter Albert Fish had sent to Grace Budd’s parents and, based on the wrinkled, aged appearance of the paper, it certainly did look like it might be the original.
In the living room behind me, Mallory returned with Ralph’s coffee and while he inquired how long she’d known Griffin, I read the letter:
Dear Mrs. Budd.
In 1894 a friend of mine shipped as a deck hand on the Steamer
Tacoma,
Capt. John Walker. They sailed from San Francisco for Hong Kong, China. On arriving there he and two others went ashore and got drunk. When they returned the boat was gone. At that time there was famine in China. Meat of any kind was from $1–3 per pound. So great was the suffering among the very poor that all children under 12 were sold for food in order to keep others from starving.
A boy or girl under 14 was not safe in the street. You could go in any shop and ask for steak-chops-or stew meat. Part of the naked body of a boy or girl would be brought out and just what you wanted cut from it. A boy or girl’s behind which is the sweetest part of the body and sold as veal cutlet brought the highest price. John staid there so long he acquired a taste for human flesh. On his return to N.Y. he stole two boys, one 7 and one 11. Took them to his home stripped them naked tied them in a closet. Then burned everything they had on.
Several times every day and night he spanked them-tortured them-to make their meat good and tender. First he killed the 11 year old boy, because he had the most meat. Every part of his body was cooked and eaten except the head-bones and guts. He was roasted in the oven, boiled, broiled, fried and stewed. The little boy was next, went the same way. At that time, I was living at 409 E 100 St. near-right side. He told me so often how good human flesh was I made up my mind to taste it.
On Sunday June the 3, 1928 I called on you at 406 W 15 St. Brought you pot cheese-strawberries. We had lunch. Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her. On the pretense of taking her to a party. You said yes she could go. I took her to an empty house in Westchester I had already picked out.
When we got there, I told her to remain outside. She picked wildflowers. I went upstairs and stripped all my clothes off. I knew if I did not I would get her blood on them. When all was ready I went to the window and called her. Then I hid in a closet until she was in the room. When she saw me all naked she began to cry and tried to run down the stairs. I grabbed her and she said she would tell her mamma.
First I stripped her naked. How she did kick-bite and scratch. I choked her to death, then cut her in small pieces so I could take my meat to my rooms. Cook and eat it. It took me 9 days to eat her entire body.
I couldn’t read any further. I’d come across a copy of this letter once while doing an assignment on the ethics of the death penalty for a law class at Marquette, and I knew that Fish went on to describe how he could’ve had sex with Grace if he’d wished, but he had refrained, and that she’d died a virgin.
I felt a palpable sweep of nausea.
A $1,250 price tag hung from the corner of the plaque. I seriously doubted that Griffin would set the price that high unless he thought he could actually get that much for it.
Supply and demand.
I turned away, closed my eyes.
Brutality.
Evil.
Man’s inhumanity to man.
People actually spend their hard-earned cash on this stuff, actually surround themselves on purpose with these keepsakes of men who raped and killed innocent people.
A girl buried alive: Jenna Natara.
A body in a tree house: Mindy Wells.
A child slaughtered and eaten by a psychopath: Grace Budd.
I took a moment to collect myself, to try filtering out the disgust. Finally, I opened my eyes, but the disquieting residue of anger and nausea hadn’t gone away.
Turning from the framed letter, I saw that a bedroom lay at the end of the hall.
I heard Ralph ask Mallory as politely as he could where Timothy had gone this afternoon as I walked to the master bedroom and slipped inside.
22
Crumpled, raggy blankets were sprawled across the bed; a small nightstand sat nearby, holding a lamp and a used condom that looked like it was still sticky wet. There was a tragically torn, stuffed dog placed beside one of the pillows. I recalled Mallory’s young age again and felt a renewed surge of revulsion and anger.
A mound of dirty laundry lay between the two dressers, one of which had a jewelry box on it, the other, a photo of a man, a woman, and a curly-haired little girl at Disney World, a price tag hanging from the corner. A small, surprisingly ornate handheld mirror rested on the dresser next to the jewelry box. A musky, rangy scent permeated the room.
The closet was beside the window.
I left the catalog on the bed for the moment, glanced beneath it, peeked in the drawers, and then in the jewelry box, where I found nothing particularly unusual, except an enigmatic diamond ring that, based on the condition of the house, I could hardly believe they could afford to own.
Crossing the room, I opened the closet door and tugged the string hanging from the ceiling to turn on the overhead bulb.
On the right, eleven shirts hung from wire hangers. Griffin was into flannel. Based on the size of the shirts, I anticipated that he would be small-framed, shorter than I was, maybe five feet six to five feet eight. No dress shirts or slacks. Nothing stylish. A blaze orange jacket for rifle season, a camo one for bow season.
On the left side of the closet, Mallory’s four dresses looked like hand-me-downs or thrift store ware. Just four dresses. That was it. No shirts. No skirts. No dress pants.
I had no idea what Griffin’s profit margin was on his merchandise, but taking into account the price tags of some of the items, I couldn’t help but wonder where all the money was going. Definitely not into his or Mallory’s wardrobe or home improvements. Maybe that ring.
Six pairs of shoes on the floor-four of his, two of hers. I checked. He was size nine. She was size six and a half.
Next to the shoes was a stack of three shoeboxes. I opened the top one and found that it was filled with sales receipts. Hundreds of them. I checked the other two boxes and found more of the same, some of them dating back eighteen years.
As I shuffled through the receipts, I found that they were carefully categorized, not by the date of sale, but by the first letter of the last name of the person who’d purchased the merchandise.
To make it easier to keep track of repeat customers?
Possibly.
I processed what we knew, the gossamer threads of facts and clues, the disquieting questions before us.
Vincent Hayes. The timing of his wife’s abduction.
The homicide in Illinois and the police tape.
Griffin’s catalog.
The handcuffs.
The abductor knew they owned a pair.
Everything in this case was somehow woven together.
Griffin referred to the guy as a Maneater.
Someone had provided this guy with the police tape from the crime in Illinois.
Someone is-
There’s no such thing as a coincidence.
I had a thought and flipped to the H’s.
And found what I was looking for.
The name on the receipt: Hayes.
The merchandise: a pair of handcuffs.
But it wasn’t Vincent Hayes’s name on the top of the receipt. It was his wife, Colleen’s.