Opening Moves

by Steven James

  A few minutes later I parked beside the curb in front of Timothy Griffin’s home, a ramshackle place in desperate need of paint and repair on the edge of town.

  Ralph and I got out of the car.

  “I saw you looking at me back there a minute ago,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, I was—”

  “I just had something in my eye.”

  I paused. “Yeah, I know.”

  Catalog in hand, I followed him up the porch steps and stood by his side while he knocked on Griffin’s door.

  21

  A waif of a woman answered, stared blankly at us. Out of high school, but not by much.

  “Yes?” She had circles under her eyes and wore a tattered housecoat that drooped sadly over her stick-thin frame. It was as if she’d materialized out of thin air.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” I held up my badge. “I’m Detective Bowers, with the police department.” I left out the fact that I was from Milwaukee and not Fort Atkinson. “This is Agent Hawkins with the FBI. Is Timothy Griffin here?”

  “No.” She offered nothing more. Her eyes remained vacuous.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “No.”

  Ralph indicated toward the living room. “Can we come in? Wait for him?”

  “I’m not sure Timothy would want that.” Even her voice sounded frail and tenuous, as if it might disintegrate if any other sounds invaded the air.

  Though she didn’t move, I got the sense that she might fade back into the house at any moment. “And how do you know Timothy?”

  “I’m his girlfriend.” She couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty. From his DMV records, I knew that Timothy Griffin was forty-nine.

  Ralph spoke up. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

  “Mallory.”

  We waited, but she didn’t give us a last name.

  “Mallory, why wouldn’t Timothy want us to come in and wait for him?”

  “Timothy is a private person.”

  Ralph didn’t give up. “This is concerning something quite important. If we find out later that you were hindering our investigation in any way, that would be an unfortunate thing. For you and for Timothy. And it could put innocent people at risk.”

  He was obviously banking on the fact that she wouldn’t be clear about her right to refuse us entry. However, if she did let us in as we’d requested, evidence we found inside the home would be admissible in court. He was banking on her not knowing that too.

  His bet paid off.

  After a slight hesitation, Mallory stepped aside.

  We joined her in the living room.

  A drab, greenish carpet covered the floor. Two mismatched reclining chairs were positioned beside the heavily curtained windows. At the far end of the room, cheap Formica shelves held a cluttered array of knickknacks. A variety of photos surrounded us on the walls. A TV faced the plaid couch; a VCR and twelve videos sat on top of it.

  A nondescript, typical-looking living room, but immediately I noticed something that really disturbed me, I mean really disturbed me, but I thought it’d be better to bring it up when Ralph and I were alone, so for the moment I kept it to myself.

  The air in the house was languid and stale, as if none of the windows or doors had been opened in months.

  Mallory didn’t seem like the hospitable type, so I was surprised when she offered us coffee, which Ralph accepted, even though he’d downed three cups at lunch—not to mention the two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew earlier in the morning. This man really did think caffeine was a beautiful thing. I declined, but thanked her.

  “It might be cold,” Mallory said to Ralph, referring to the coffee. She didn’t sound apologetic, just explanatory. Everything she said was blank and devoid of emotion.

  “No problem.”

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Sure.”

  She stepped into the kitchen and when she was gone, Ralph spoke softly to me: “So, where do you think he keeps all the stuff he sells?”

  “Everywhere.”

  He looked at me curiously. “What do you mean?”

  I walked to one of the chairs and flipped forward the price tag that was attached to the top of it with a small piece of string.

  “Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

  I moved around the room, noting the price tags on the furniture, the novelty items and curios, the framed photos. Each tag included the date Griffin had acquired the item, the name of the celebrity killer or pedophile it was from, the catalog number, and his asking price. Nearly everything in the living room had a price tag.

  At first I was a little confused by the photos on the walls, but then I recognized the father of a homicide victim from Madison last July and it hit me: the family photographs weren’t pictures of Griffin and his relatives, but rather they were the family photos of victims of the killers and rapists he was profiteering from.

  I tried to imagine what it would be like living in a house like this, sitting on that couch watching television as if nothing were any different about this living room from any other one on the block, but all the while you were surrounded by mementos and personal items and memorabilia of the country’s vilest and most deranged murderers.

  Being here troubled me as much as being at any of the crime scenes I’ve worked. And I’ve worked some bad ones. I had no idea what Mallory’s personality had been like before she landed here with Timothy, but I couldn’t imagine anyone remaining joyful and lighthearted living in a place like this.

  A Bible was sitting next to a small ceramic bird without a price tag on a coffee table beside the couch and I recognized the Bible from the catalog: the one Charles Manson had owned. Checking the inside flap, I found that it did indeed contain his signature, but there was no telling if it was authentic or not.

  I set it back down.

  A framed letter hung on the wall in the hallway just off the living room.

  “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.

  23

  I stared at the receipt.

  Colleen Hayes had bought the handcuffs two months ago and, according to the receipt, they were the ones used on Ted Oswald when he and his father were arrested back in April 1994.

  Ted, who was eighteen at the time, and his father, James, were responsible for a string of bank robberies in southeastern Wisconsin. When they were confronted by James Lutz, a Waukesha police captain, they killed him, took a hostage, and after a shoot-out with authorities during which the hostage managed to escape, they tried to flee by motor vehicle but were pursued by the Waukesha County Sheriff Department deputies. After crashing into a tree, they were apprehended, tried, found guilty.

  During the trial, details emerged about their conspiratorial plans to kill law enforcement officers and initiate some sort of private war against the authorities. Ever since Ted had been five years old, his mentally disturbed father, who called him his “spawn,” had threatened to kill him if he didn’t do exactly as he said. During the trial, Ted claimed he’d committed the crimes only because he was afraid for his life, but the jury didn’t go for it. Currently both men were serving two life sentences plus more than four hundred fifty years.

  Jeffrey Dahmer tried for the insanity defense, didn’t convince the jury.

  Ted Oswald pled coercion, didn’t convince the jury.

  I processed that. Even if it was only tangential, both of those killers had a connection to this case. Both had admitted to their crimes during their respective trials but had claimed mitigating circumstances—Dahmer, mental instability; Oswald, fear for his life.

  Neither had been successful.

  Insanity is a legal term, not a medical one, and I knew that if it can be determined that you could understand the difference between right and wrong at the time of your crime, legally, you can’t be found to be insane.

  This was actually why Dahmer lost his case—he took an action to cover up his crimes; namely, he lied to the police when they brought Konerak Sinthasomphone back to his apartment. The jury believed that this showed Dahmer knew he’d acted in ways that needed to be concealed.

  Strange as it may seem, if he would’ve led the police right up to the body on his bed he might have been found insane and never gone to prison at all.

  Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what, if any, circumstances remove your responsibility for criminal behavior. At what point are you so mentally ill that you’re no longer responsible for your actions? Are you ever justified in committing murder to avoid being murdered
yourself, as Ted Oswald claimed he’d been? Are you vindicated of kidnapping someone in order to save your wife, as Vincent Hayes had evidently done?

  All pertinent questions, but I didn’t have a lot of time here to contemplate them.

  Address them later.

  On the receipt, I noticed that Griffin had acquired the cuffs from an unnamed source; however, if they were legit, only someone from the Waukesha County Sheriff Department would’ve had access to them.

  Definitely worth checking out.

  This was the only purchase made by Colleen or Vincent Hayes.

  Down the hall, I heard the front door bang open and a high-pitched nasally voice calling out, “Whose car is that out—” He cut himself off in the middle. He must have seen Ralph. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house!”

  I memorized the information on the receipt and replaced it in the shoebox.

  “Ralph Hawkins. I’m with the FBI. Are you Timothy Griffin?”

  Taking the catalog with me, I returned to the living room.

  Griffin was just shy of five feet eight. Caucasian with some Latino heritage. He had slate gray eyes and a harsh scar on his neck that tightened the skin of his face, tugging the left side of his lip down into a rather imposing sneer. He was holding a handful of mail.

  “FBI?” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m Detective Bowers,” I told Griffin, before he could ask. “We have a couple questions we’d like to ask you.”

  24

  Griffin licked his lips, then said with fake gentility, “Well, are you here on business…” His gaze landed on the Manson Bible. Now I saw that after picking it up earlier I hadn’t placed it in exactly the same position on the coffee table and he seemed to notice that as well. “Or pleasure? Here to make a few purchases? I get a lot of cops as customers.”

  I held up the catalog, back cover toward him, and pointed to the sticker. “We’re here concerning this.”