‘This is Jeffrey Dahmer’s refrigerator. Can you believe that? Dahmer’s actual fridge!’
He pointed to a plaque stuck on the side of the machine. Formerly the property of Jeffrey Lionel Dahmer. Bought at auction 1996.
‘Dahmer kept the severed heads of his victims in his fridge.’ O’Neill’s reminder was short and to the point. Kovacic slid the door closed again.
‘Yeah, right. Kinda my point. Anyway, I say this is my favourite but I think there’s more. And worse.’
‘Worse?’ Salgado sounded sceptical. ‘What else have you found?”
Kovacic grinned again. ‘Nothing yet. That’s what you smart guys get paid for. But there’s a room downstairs. A cellar, I guess.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s locked. With a keypad lock. So . . .’
Salgado looked at O’Neill before answering for all of them. ‘So, if he was happy to hang all that freaky shit on the walls, what the hell down there is so bad that he felt the need to hide it?’
CHAPTER 4
They bypassed the cellar’s number entry system by a more old-fashioned method – Kovacic on the battering end of a metal enforcer. The heavy wooden door groaned and swung till it slapped against the wall inside. The cop had his body camera on so the whole thing was videoed. Behind him, a crime scene investigator was doing the same with a handheld device.
O’Neill led the way down the short staircase, Salgado and Rojo following along with Kovacic and two criminalists from the Field Investigation Unit. It was cool and quiet inside, the impression reinforced by the clinical white walls. Windowless and still, it felt like an underground bunker or a laboratory.
Except it was more than that. They all felt it the moment they stepped inside.
There were more framed pieces, perhaps a dozen of them, white wood against the white walls, hiding in plain sight. Two large white cabinets stood against one wall like ghostly sentries. In the middle of the room was a large black glass desk and on top of that sat a single black Anglepoise lamp and a black computer monitor and keyboard.
They moved silently from frame to frame, like respectful patrons at the opening of a new exhibition, nodding and assessing, all reluctant to be the first to say it was good or bad. Even though they all knew it was bad.
The names on the items didn’t jump out at them the same way those upstairs had. But it was their job and the cases came back to them. Rodney Alcala. Lawrence Bittaker. Randy Steven Kraft. Lonnie Franklin Jr. William Bonin.
‘California’s finest,’ Salgado announced dryly.
‘This is where he keeps the good stuff,’ O’Neill announced.
Salgado couldn’t quite agree. ‘I’m not sure “good” is the word I’d use.’
‘You know what I mean. These are the highlights of his collection. Things that mean more to him. The ones upstairs, everyone knows their names. They are the headliners, your Golden Age serial killers, if you like. This stuff is more niche, more insider knowledge, more . . . on the edge.’
‘More personal?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe. And . . . there’s this.’
She pulled at the three handles on one of the white cabinets. They didn’t budge.
‘A locked cabinet inside a locked room? I’m pretty sure I want to know what’s in there.’
One of the forensics, a short and stocky hipster known to all as Elvis, stepped forward. He produced a long, thin-bladed knife. ‘Let me.’
They were all aware of Elvis’s reputation, of a misspent youth that brought transferable skills and street smarts to his job. If you needed an angle, Elvis was your man.
He studied the lock from a couple of positions, deliberated, then slid the blade into the space with the precision of a surgeon. Or a burglar. The room reverberated to the sound of a quiet, satisfying click. Elvis stepped back, job done.
Salgado pulled back the upper drawer to reveal a glass display case, a larger version of those that hung on the walls. Everyone in the room crowded around to see what it held but Salgado stretched his arms wide to push them back. ‘Let’s do this properly.’
He reached under the unit, lifted it clear of the drawer and placed it on the black glass desk. The case itself was floored with red velvet. On top of that sat a women’s handbag, about twelve inches by eight. Made of black plastic, it had two leather handles, a large metal clasp, and a large V-shape was formed in the centre by metal studs.
A black business card with white print seemed to give it ownership. Elizabeth Short. 15 January 1947.
Next to that, a white card had a single name printed in black. Frankie Wynn.
‘Bullshit.’
‘No fucking way.’
O’Neill wasn’t as sure as Salgado or Kovacic but she thought she knew the name. ‘Elizabeth Short was the Black Dahlia, right?’
‘Right. How the fuck could he get this?’
‘He couldn’t,’ Salgado insisted. ‘Could he? I mean, if this was the bag she was carrying when she was murdered . . .’
‘Who’s this Frankie Wynn character?’
‘Beats me. Never heard of him. But if the other cards and plaques are anything to go by, he’s the guy. And no one knows who the guy was.’
Salgado shook his head and turned back to the white cabinet, sliding out the lower drawer and letting out a gasp of surprise that he immediately cursed himself for. The others crowded round again, seeing that the drawer, like the case above, was lined in red velvet and contained a closed black leather display case.
‘Can this shit get any weirder?’ O’Neill asked the question but they were all thinking it. It turned out the answer was yes.
Salgado flipped the catch on the case and propped up the lid. Inside were six velvet bags that matched the drawer’s red lining.
‘Jesus. Make sure you get this on film. Everyone else give them room to shoot it.’
Salgado grimaced as he felt the first bag while picking it up. He slowly, carefully slid the contents onto the velvet floor of the case. It was a finger. A finger, raggedly severed at the end and bloodlessly pale.
‘Shit.’ O’Neill screwed up her face.
‘Elvis, bag this before I open the next one,’ Salgado instructed. ‘We don’t need cross-contamination, right?’
‘Nope. Which is why nothing else can go onto this velvet.’
‘Yeah, okay. Just do it.’
Salgado picked up the second pouch, aware that he was playing a game of guess the contents as he did so. His guess proved wrong when an ear tumbled noiselessly onto a plastic sheet.
‘Different victim.’ O’Neill’s voice held no doubt.
‘What?’ Salgado and the others were a step behind.
‘Different skin tone, different victim. I’d say neither are Caucasian, but the ear is a few tones darker than the finger.’
Elvis bagged it before being asked and Salgado reached for the third one. ‘Any guesses?’
‘I say toe,’ Kovacic replied, even though he knew the question wasn’t meant for him, or truly needed a reply.
It wasn’t. Instead, the third pouch produced a thumb. The fourth was a toe and the fifth a human scalp.
They now lay side by side on the top of the cabinet, each encased in a transparent plastic bag.