Timothy gave us a satisfied smile. “See?”
“What movies did you watch?” Ralph directed the question at Mallory.
Griffin spoke up: “The Fugitive and-”
“I was asking the young lady,” Ralph told him firmly.
“The Fugitive,” she answered.
“And?”
She looked a bit lost. “And…When Harry Met Sally.” She stared at Griffin as if she was looking for approval from him.
“That’s right, baby.” Then he turned one hand palm up, as if to signify that she’d just cleared up everything, and when he spoke he addressed Ralph and me: “Well, then, there you go.” He wavered the envelopes in the air with his other hand. “Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind. Orders to fill. I’m sure you understand. Keep the tape. It’s the least I can do. My civic duty.”
I didn’t think we were going to get much more out of him at the moment, but I didn’t want to leave without the name of the person he’d gotten that crime scene tape from.
Ralph didn’t move. Obviously he wasn’t ready to leave yet either. “How do you do this, anyway?”
“This?”
“Sell this crap.” He swept his hand through the air. “Make a living like this?”
With a slight dramatic flair, Griffin walked to the wall and put his palm against one of the photos, then slowly stroked the face and then the body of the woman in the picture. The hairstyle and clothes made me think it was taken in the late seventies. I didn’t know who she was, but I memorized her face, and wondered what Mallory, who was still in the doorway, thought of the provocative way he let his fingers address the body of the photographed woman.
“Think about the news, Agent Hawkins. TV networks sell time to advertisers, then air footage of the most sensational crimes they can. You know it’s true: If it bleeds, it leads. Like with Hayes last night. Advertisers buy that airtime, knowing full well what they’re doing-playing off people’s fixation with violence, evil, death. I just pass along my reminders to individuals rather than to the public at large.”
People have a right to be informed about our world, and it is a brutal one, but it bothered me that Griffin actually had a point. News shows really are packaged to play to their viewers’ morbid fascination with death.
Ralph said, “Mr. Griffin, what’s the name of the person who sold you the crime scene tape?”
“I told you he-”
But Ralph strode toward him, invaded his personal space big-time. The air in the room seemed to tighten. “The name, Mr. Griffin.” I thought Ralph might growl the words menacingly in order to be more intimidating, but he didn’t. He just said them calmly, resolutely, and that seemed to be more effective because Griffin gulped almost imperceptibly, then tapped his tongue to the side of his lips.
“His name is Hendrich. Okay? Bruce Hendrich. I don’t know if that’s his real name or not. That’s the one he gave me. In this business people aren’t always as forthcoming and honest as they should be. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Ralph reached over and straightened Griffin’s collar. “How do you reach him? This Mr. Hendrich?”
Having Ralph’s huge hands so close to his throat seemed to make Griffin even more willing to share information, because he rather promptly told us a phone number and address from memory. The address was in Milwaukee, not Fort Atkinson.
“I just ship stuff there. I’ve never been there.”
Ralph patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Timothy.” Then he handed him one of his business cards. “If anyone tries to buy or sell any Dahmer items, let us know. And we’re going to want the name of anyone who goes after that police tape.”
“My records are confidential.”
“Of course they are. But your address isn’t. Wait till we notify the family members of victims about your little business venture here. I wonder how many of them might want to pay you a visit. Express how excited they are about you passing along your little ‘reminders.’”
He turned to me. “We could give ’em some privacy, couldn’t we, Detective? Make arrangements to make sure no officers interfere with the little block party?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Since Griffin’s business was run out of a post office box, releasing his residential address really might cause a bit of a stir with the neighbors and victims’ family members.
When Griffin didn’t reply, Ralph reflectively patted the top of one of the overstuffed chairs. “I may show up too. Bring the mini-weenies. I always like a good party.”
“Okay,” Timothy grumbled. “Alright. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
“I appreciate that very much, Mr. Griffin.”
Ralph nodded toward Mallory. “Good day, ma’am.”
Once we were back in the car I said to Ralph, “Mini-weenies?”
“They’re good with mustard and ranch dressing. What did you see in the hall?”
“The Albert Fish letter, but it’s what I found in the bedroom that really caught my attention.”
“And that was?”
I started the car. “Griffin sold Hayes the handcuffs. Colleen Hayes.”
“Colleen?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. And how do we know that?”
I told him about the receipts. Ralph wasn’t familiar with the Oswald case. I filled him in on what I knew.
Then, since there wasn’t a car phone in this vehicle, I radioed the local dispatcher and asked her to put a call through to my adviser at Marquette and let him know I wouldn’t be at the lecture this afternoon and to see if he could request that Dr. Werjonic leave a photocopy of his lecture notes in the Criminology and Law Studies graduate office. I could pick them up later this evening and hopefully carve out some time to review them before tomorrow’s class. I gave her the number.
When I got off the radio I had an idea. “Ralph, the Waukesha County Sheriff Department is just a couple miles off the interstate. What do you say we swing by and see who the arresting officers were in the Oswald case?”
“Yeah, and maybe check the chain of custody for the evidence. Whoever had access to the Oswald evidence might have had access to the cuffs.”
I aimed the car for the highway. “I like the way you think, Agent Hawkins. For a fed, that is.”
“You’re doing alright yourself, for a detective. At least so far.”
“So far?”
“Yeah, but just don’t get in my way.”
It sounded like he was joking, I knew he was joking, but when I glanced at him, I realized I couldn’t quite tell. Not for sure.
25
Plainfield, Wisconsin
It wasn’t even a choice for Carl Kowalski. Not after finding that note in his kitchen. Not after seeing the horrible, horrible thing that Adele’s kidnapper had left for him in the refrigerator.
At first when he walked through the front door and saw the note on the table, he’d thought it might be some kind of sick joke from one of his poker buddies.
But then he’d done what the note told him to do and looked in the refrigerator’s meat/cheese drawer and found Adele’s ring finger with the engagement ring he’d given her four months earlier still encircling the base of it. No. This was not a joke. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
Now he carefully positioned his van on the cemetery’s access road to hide his activity from people who might happen to drive past on the nearby but infrequently used county highway. Then, shielded from view, he removed the shovel from the back of the vehicle.
It wasn’t a large graveyard and wasn’t visited often. He knew this since he was the one who mowed it on weekends. There was really very little chance that he would be interrupted, but if someone did happen to visit, he figured that since he worked the grounds, he’d at least be able to come up with an explanation for why he had the shovel.
But why he was digging up the grave of Miriam Flandry, that was another story entirely. No reasonable explanation for that came to mind.