Serial Killer's Soul (14 page)

Then the demons begged him again and again not to send them to some distant land. Now as it happened there was a huge herd of hogs rooting around on the hill above the lake. “Send us into those hogs,” the demons begged. And Jesus gave them permission. Then the evil spirits came out of the man and entered the hogs, and the entire herd plunged down the steep hillside into the lake and drowned. (Mark 5:10-13,
TLB
)

Jeff and I continued to talk through the vents in our cells. We talked late into the evening. Finally, I still had some letters to write, I said good night.

I prayed for his soul again before drifting off to sleep and I hoped he was thinking about those demons that had entered his heart, mind, and soul.

I wondered if Jeff understood what I had told him or any of the scriptures I’d read or asked him to read. More so, I wondered if he even cared.

During the next few days, as our conversations continued, it was more evident to me that Dahmer’s personality was weak. He was easily intimidated and fear seemed to fill his soul.

Although protected in his cell, I could tell the other inmates seemed daunting to him, especially the ones who were so radical in the way they ridiculed and swore at him. His fear seemed to frustrate him. Many times daily, especially when they were passing by his cell, inmates would threaten him or spit on his window. They never let up.

I could easily imagine that Jeff hated every minute of their jeers and threats, although most of the time he didn’t say a word. As the days passed, his anxiety grew and so did his anger. I tried to convince the other inmates to let up so Jeff would know I was someone he could talk to and trust. More than anything, I wanted him to listen when I spoke about the word of God and how Jesus Christ provides the answers to all our problems.

I prayed that his tortured soul would find peace in the knowledge that Jesus Christ died on the cross for our sins … for all of our sins, even his.

“Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to have you, to sift you like wheat, but I have pleaded in prayer for you that your faith should not completely fail. So when you have repented and turned to me again, strengthen and build up the faith of your brothers.” Simon said, “Lord, I am ready to go to jail with you, and even to die with you.” (Luke 22:31-33
, TLB)

Wednesday, March 4, 1992.

We were
still
on lockdown. Some inmates on our tier had ninety minutes of recreation three times a week. Dahmer, however, had to remain in his cell. I could have gone to recreation that day but didn’t want to.

As the inmates returned, they slowed at Dahmer’s cell and it was the same old thing–abusive, threatening language hurled at him. I don’t know how Jeff could stand it every day. Abusive words filled with hate were something I couldn’t tolerate, regardless if they were aimed at me or at someone else.

Mail call at 11 a.m. was more of the same, hundreds of letters for Dahmer. Since he could only have twenty-five in his cell at a time, he probably only saw one-tenth of his mail. Officers let him scan the envelopes and choose those he wanted to read.

At noon, I heard an officer talking to Jeff about his mail.

“Who writes to you, anyway?” I asked after the officer left, thinking about the piles of letters that went unopened.

“Various people from all over the country,” he replied. “I get a lot of mail from people in Canada, Germany, Great Britain, and Africa, too.”

“Do they ask you questions?”

“They ask me things like, ‘How did you cook the human flesh?’ and ‘Did you use any seasoning?’” he said, amused. “Some also tell me they think I got a raw deal. Some ask about prison, ‘What’s in your cell?’ and others merely want
my autograph.

“I get a lot of mail from white-supremacist groups such as the Ku Klux Klan, the Aryan Brotherhood, and the Skinheads. I also get letters from women who send me their pictures. Some of them ask me to marry them from prison. Can you believe that? I don’t even bother to answer most letters.”

I began wondering if Jeff thought he was a normal, sane person. Did he realize that he had a problem? At the time, I knew my answer to that question, but I wondered what
he
thought.

I asked Jeff, point-blank, “Do you think you’re suffering from a mental illness?”

“I’m just as sane as the next person,” he casually responded. “I knew exactly what I was doing then and now.”

“But why did you do it, do all of it?” I asked, speaking about the murders. What Jeff did went
beyond
just killing people; it was ritualistic, sadistic, and more than strange.

He didn’t respond.

Remembering what he had said on a previous day, about how he didn’t understand why I was talking to him about God, I asked, “Do you think your soul is dead?”

Jeff remained silent. Perhaps he was really thinking about what I had asked. Finally, he said, “After my first killing in Ohio, I started drinking heavily. I knew then that my spiritual soul had died. At times, I felt nothing. At other times I felt like a time bomb of destruction.”

I didn’t know what to say. Jeff, no doubt, suffered from so much pain that he couldn’t understand it, deal with it, rationalize it, or likely even feel it. It was as if he had gone numb and empty, pushing God, and good, out and letting Satan in.

At 4:30 p.m., we had supper. After each meal when officers collected the trays, they gave Dahmer his medication as usual. He always had to open his mouth, showing the officer he swallowed the pills.

After supper, we could shower, but Jeff declined. I think he was still afraid of the other prisoners. He didn’t want to give them any additional opportunity to
berate him.

As I passed his cell, I saw that he was reading his letters with his glasses on, animatedly chewing gum. Reading letters and chewing gum … that was the extent of his life in prison. At least the letters gave him something to do, but they probably didn’t make him feel any better. I’m sure they only reminded him of the awful things he had done. Of course, there’s a good chance that he liked being reminded about what he had done.

I remember thinking about my own situation. Sometimes I’d get depressed and brood about how I could be in prison for ten years and how dark and dismal my future looked. Then I’d think about Jeff’s situation–his crimes and fifteen consecutive life sentences with no hope of parole, ever. When I compared his life to mine, I always felt better.

During and after showers that night, the inmates started again with their threats and jokes. Jeff never said a word in response to them. His silence made the guys mad, so they’d yell angry, vile curse words.

Jeff still didn’t respond.

When things finally got quiet that night, Jeff and I again talked through the air vents.

I asked Jeff why he decorated the bedroom wall in his apartment with skeleton drawings and photos.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly have the full skeletons of my victims hanging around,” he said, “so I had pictures. I’d fantasize that the pictures were pictures of all my victims. I’d look at them and masturbate.”

My disbelief never seemed to wear off; I couldn’t get used to his answers. His new responses shocked me just as much as the ones prior. He didn’t have any remorse at all; nothing in his words suggested that he felt what he did was wrong.

As usual, I didn’t let my shock stop my curiosity. I asked him about eating human flesh. He said he really only did that one time. He told me how he ate part of the biceps of one of his victims. He had tried to eat it raw at first. “It had a rough, salty taste and it wasn’t very pleasing because it was tough. Cooked,
it was better.”

That comment made me sick. I tried not to get visuals in my head about all the things Jeff told me, but it was sometimes unavoidable. As our time together continued, I still had no appetite. Many times food, especially meat, looked
really
unappetizing. I made a mental note never to ask Jeff questions about his crimes around mealtime.

Once again I told Jeff to read the ninth chapter of Matthew, about how Jesus delivered the people of the country of the Gadarenes who were possessed by devils. I had just told him to read that same verse the day before but I wanted him to read it again because I felt it was something important that Dahmer should read, remember, and try to understand.

A herd of pigs was feeding in the distance, so the demons begged, “If you cast us out, send us into that herd of pigs.” “All right,” Jesus told them. “Begone.” And they came out of the men and entered the pigs, and the whole herd rushed over a cliff and drowned in the water below. (Matthew 9:30-32,
TLB
)

Then I told him that the Bible said that demons are organized into a body of people, classified according to rank or authority, like a military command.

There were times during our conversations that Jeff told me he did accept the Lord as his savior. I wanted to believe him, but I just wasn’t sure if he understood the power of God’s love and forgiveness. I wondered if Jeff really believed he could be forgiven for his sins.

That night, after sitting and thinking for quite awhile, I wrote Jeff a letter. I tried to get my feelings about his soul and his need for redemption on paper. I believed I could organize my thoughts more clearly and explain it better on paper than I could while standing on a sink, talking through air vents.

I kept the first draft of the letter I wrote that night and mailed the good copy to Jeff through the prison mail system. Here’s what the letter said:

Hello Jeff.

First of all, I pray to God that you are doing OK. It’s good to always remember that God has always looked out for me by keeping in touch with good Christian people. Jeff, the scripture of Isaiah 61:1 says, “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek. He hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound.”

I told you that I will constantly write you and encourage you to stay on the Lord’s side, because knowing him as your personal savior is all that we would ever need in our lives. So brother, I am praying that when you start to follow Jesus, there’s no turning back.

Please! Jeff, constantly read your Bible when Satan tries to come in your immediate thoughts. When he tries to take your joy, don’t give him the opportunity. You are a born-again Christian and the day you decided to follow God was the best decision you could ever make. Leaning on God’s understanding will strengthen your belief. Jeff, both of us know that our Heavenly Father can do more than we can ever imagine. So I am ending this letter by saying, prayer can change things.

Your brother forever, Calvin.

I signed my letters Calvin because I was using the name Calvin Earl Martin when I was arrested, and it was the name I kept using in prison.

Later that night the third-shift officer picked up the letter and some Christian literature for Jeff. I also filled out a request form asking to speak with the chaplain about my case. I wanted to ask him for his special prayers and encouragement.

I felt good about the conversation I had with Jeff. I was glad I wrote the letter and eager to hear his response. I drifted off to sleep, another day in solitary confinement over.

When he comes back he will take these dying bodies of ours and change them into glorious bodies like his own, using the same mighty power that he will use to conquer all else everywhere. (Philippians 3:21
, TLB)

Thursday, March 5, 1992.

Same old story–breakfast, medication, shaving equipment, mail call. Jeff hit the wall, indicating he received my letter and literature.

Even though the amount of mail Jeff was receiving had finally started to taper off, he still got bags of it daily. He told me some of the letters coming now were death threats.

I told Jeff that even Charles Manson, imprisoned since 1969, still received letters from strangers, alleged followers, and, of course, people who hated him. I figured Jeff would get letters for the rest of his life.

After lunch, he told me one of the letters he got that day said the author admitted wanting to be just like him. Jeff chuckled, but I didn’t say anything. The thought was bone chilling.

That evening, Pastor Dawson came to talk to me about the request form I sent to him. I explained my situation with the razor blade found in my old cell and I reiterated that it wasn’t mine.

Pastor Dawson told me to tell the truth. “God knows what’s in your heart. He knows if you’re guilty or not. You’ll be OK if you always tell the truth.” Then he prayed with me, right there outside my cell.

As the chaplain was leaving, he stopped at Jeff’s cell and chatted with him for a few minutes.

Later that night, while everyone was resting and watching TV and it was quiet, Jeff and I began our usual discussion. Trying to satisfy my endless curiosity about his crimes, I asked him how he met his victims. I also asked him how he got
those men to so willingly return to his apartment on their own.

“I met them at the common places any person would go to meet people: bars, parks, malls, Laundromats, bus stops,” he said. “I’d promise them the sexual experience of a lifetime or sometimes I’d tell them I had drugs or money that I would give them. I told them I had large quantities of whatever they desired at my apartment and that they could have all they wanted if they came with me.”

Like any good con man, he told them what they wanted to hear. I imagine it was hard for most of Jeff’s victims to resist. Many of his victims had criminal records; few had jobs. They were all looking for something and often Dahmer appeared to have just what they thought they needed: drugs, sex, money, or a combination of the three. Sometimes I wondered if that was all Jeff did, even now: tell people what he thought they wanted to hear.

One of the things I had always been curious about was the victim he had tried to turn into a zombie. What could he have possibly been thinking when he drilled a hole into young Konerak Sinthasomphone’s head, and dripped acid into his brain? Did he honestly think that was a viable option and was that
really
his intent? There was only one way to find out. “Were you really trying to create a zombie who would serve your every need, like a slave?” I asked.