The Milwaukee Regional Medical Center lies situated on a sprawling campus now littered with autumn leaves. Only a few of the trees still clung to their leaves, but those had turned brown in the dreary fall and only served to help give the campus a tired, weary feel. It was the biggest academic health-care center in the state, with six different care facilities all on the same campus. I knew it well. I’d been here on a lot of my cases, as well as to see Taci.
Four things concerning the abduction and mutilation of Colleen Hayes were on my mind:
(1) I was profoundly thankful she was alive.
(2) Her kidnapper’s choice of the location in the alley showed that he (or they, if there was more than one) had some interest in or connection with Jeffrey Dahmer.
(3) It was impossible at this point to discern her attacker’s original intent, whether that was to kill or to maim-or possibly even to let Colleen go free.
(4) Based on the grisly and flagrant nature of the crime, I could hardly believe that this was the kidnapper’s first offense. The stark brutality of his mutilation of Colleen might actually help us narrow down the suspect pool, might actually help us find him.
Radar was waiting for me when I arrived at the hospital, and he met me at the front door. After asking me about my jaw and my wrenched finger, and after I assured him, honestly, that they were feeling remarkably better, he said, “It’s gonna be a cold one today.” His eyes were on the spreading slabs of gray clouds blanketing the sky.
“Yeah.”
“I wish it would just snow and be done with it.”
Wisconsin winters are long enough for me as it is. Besides, I’d been hoping to squeeze in a few more weekends of rock climbing at Devil’s Lake State Park over near Baraboo before the snow and ice settled in for the next four months. But I didn’t really want to talk to Radar about the weather. The attack on Colleen and the dark residue of my dreams were weighing too heavily on my mind.
“How is she?” I asked.
“Doing pretty well. Considering.” He paused. “At least physically.”
We passed through the doors. “Has she said anything?”
“Not yet, no. You should know Captain Domyslawski contacted the FBI last night after the abduction. There are a couple agents from the NCAVC coming over this morning.”
Oh, great.
The FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime was the division of the Bureau dedicated to providing investigative support for tracking and capturing the country’s most violent offenders. I hadn’t worked with the Feds before, but I’d heard horror stories about doing so, and that didn’t give me a whole lot of confidence on how all this might play out. I trusted the officers I worked with here on the force, but consulting with a couple of desk jockeys from Quantico didn’t exactly thrill me.
Radar was on the same wavelength. “Let’s hope they don’t get in the way,” he said.
“You read my mind.”
There wasn’t a gentle way to frame the next question, but it had to be brought up and direct is usually best. “Do we know if Colleen was sexually assaulted?”
“The docs who helped her last night didn’t find any evidence that she had been. So at least there’s that to be thankful for.”
“Yes,” I said. “At least there’s that.”
We found Colleen Hayes’s room, showed our IDs to Thompson, the officer in our department who was stationed as a sentry outside it, knocked and, at her invitation, stepped inside. She’d been mute since she was found, so hearing her voice surprised me, but when we entered, I realized it wasn’t Colleen who’d called us in after all, but rather the stout nurse who stood beside the bed, checking the IV.
The nurse seemed taken aback when she saw us; perhaps she’d been expecting a doctor on rounds or maybe another nurse. She didn’t hide her scowl when we showed her our badges, but she held back from making any sort of a scene, perhaps just to keep from upsetting her patient.
Colleen lay on the bed, her legs beneath a blanket, her arms also tucked beneath it, no doubt to hide the stumps where her hands used to be. She was conscious and was staring away from us at the shrouded window on the south side of the room. With the curtains drawn, there was no view, but I had the feeling she wouldn’t have really been seeing it if there was.
Once again I was struck by the horrifying nature of this crime. Without prosthetics she would never again comb her hair, type on a keyboard, flip the page of a book, slip a key into a lock-the little things we all take for granted.
And the big ones.
Like feeding herself. Or caressing her fingers across her lover’s cheek.
Radar and I introduced ourselves and took a seat beside her bed.