Summary:
Just as you two feel as if you've found ultimate bliss, it gets cruelly snatched away. You're left to pick up the pieces of your life without Jeff. Who are you now? Who will you become? What legacy will Jeff leave behind?
Notes:
I was going to wait until after Easter to post this, but fuck it, I've sat on it long enough. I've been very emotional about Jeff already today, what's some more?
When I wrote this chapter, I heard the song "the Lover That I Lost" by Sam Smith, and it fits. So if you're not already crying, put on that song and sob away! Honestly, this chapter should come with a box of tissues.
I hope you loved reading this as much as I loved writing it, for it was a true labor of love. I thank Jeff for being my muse, his surviving family members, and I extend my warmest thoughts to anyone still being affected by him. People think that because I have sympathy/attraction towards him, that I don't feel anything for them... this is not the case. It was altogether a tragedy that never should have happened, to Jeff, his family, or to anyone else.
And please don't forget to go read my fantasy AU, "Marchenhaft"
Here's the finale to "A Complicated Man."
Chapter Text
It was now May 1994.
You had defended your dissertation to great success, and your fellow students and professors alike had been enthralled.
With Dennis Murphy supplying you with Jeff’s confession, and P.I. Vergil Vandagriff supplying you with his case files on the suspect, you had gone to interview Jeff on three separate occasions. Granted permission to view the case files himself, you two had systematically compared and contrasted the list of potential victims and the apparent modus operandi of the suspect. Jeff posited that this man was a reserved fellow with a history of mental illness and violent, homosexual fantasies. Thus far, there was only one surviving witness, who had had a close encounter with the suspect.
A man using a pseudonym, Tony Harris, who had gone to Marion County police to report an attempted murder, had described “Brian Smart” as tall and lanky brown-haired, brown-eyed, a successful local businessman. He had gone with him to his home, a large, rural equine ranch, and had witnessed multiple mannequins in the basement (these being “Brian’s” company on the lonely nights his wife and children were away). In all truth, Tony hadn’t wanted to hook up with him—he had been there to find out if this man knew anything about the disappearance of his friend.
They had gone for a swim, the stranger had left the room and done some drugs, and then they had experimented with erotic asphyxiation. Brian had become pissed off at Tony when he had mistakenly believed that he had done it too long; in truth, Tony had been pretending. When his host had succumbed to sleep, Tony had stalked around the large house, which “Brian” had claimed didn’t belong to him. It was obviously a lie, however, as upstairs, Tony found evidence of a straight marriage with children. He unfortunately was unable to ferret out the man’s true identity before he had awoken yet again.
It was clear that Tony had escaped unscathed from a home that many other men hadn’t. Over the course of the next few years, Vandagriff was contacted by many a concerned family member over their loved one having vanished. All the missing were gay men seen somewhere around Indianapolis. It was eerily similar to Milwaukee during Jeff’s crime spree, only this perp preferred white men. Joining forces with Mary Wilson, a Marion County police detective, they had cased out all three gay bars in town with Harris’s help. They even enlisted the help of a state trooper, who found a rural Tudor mansion matching the description.
Jeff’s conclusion? “This guy’s really smart. He goes to the bars, seeks out victims, then takes them somewhere out in the country where no one’s around. I tell you what it reminds me of, it reminds me of Stephen Hicks. You know, when I still lived at dad’s house? I bet it’s really an awful lot like that. He kills them and then disposes of them in the woods.”
You had then interviewed both Dietz and Ressler. The mystery killer’s M.O. was similar, however there was no necrophiliac component. This man’s fetish was obviously of a different stripe, and moreover, he had no desire to keep the victims. Alarmingly, it also seemed possible that the number of victims exceeded that of Jeff’s. With no need to retain any body parts, this man was a killing machine, luring, strangling, disposing of gay men in a vicious cycle.
After laying it all out and graduating officially with your Master’s in Forensic Psychology, several newspapers in Milwaukee, Chicago, and Indianapolis in kind wanted to interview you. They made no mention of any illicit affair in their reports and simply wanted the particulars of working alongside Jeff. Ressler got back in touch with you and commended you for your efforts. You had completed a very effective profile of the potential serial murder suspect. Furthermore, he stated, if you were searching for a placement within which to complete your doctorate clinical requirements, he would be glad to assist. Jeff’s friend Dennis also suggested a place you could fulfil your clinicals at. Doctor Friedman, a clinical psychologist who had testified during Jeff’s trial, also reached out to you. You were a celebrity almost overnight.
However, despite the glowing appraisals, you were in no rush to jump into your doctorate program. You were finally done with your master’s, and you felt like taking a breather before heading back to the grind.
Besides, Jeff now knew a member of the clergy, and, if he played his cards right, you two finally might manage to make it official.
Ever since he had been in prison, Jeff had been in deep thought over himself and where he fit in when it came to the universe. He grappled with his crimes and whether or not he was sick or evil, or both. Although in his statement to the court that he had said he was sick, he still wondered. He had been raised Christian, but during the course of his murder spree, he had deemed himself to be a diabolical force. You had found it rather goofy and typical of him that he would go out and buy Halloween contact lenses to literally embody Emperor Palpatine. Later, as part of his confession, he would also admit to his plans to construct an unholy altar to death and power. It was the reason why Brian Masters had entitled his book “the shrine.” Although you knew that in Jeff’s deep psychosis, he considered this to be an excellent idea—sitting before a gathering of his victims’ bones on a black table with gargoyles in reverence to his own evil—you still found it hopelessly nerdy. Even in the way he conducted his crimes, he was still the same strange, socially awkward boy his mother, father, and brother described him as. However, he fervently believed that his soul needed redemption, and so, despite still being the atheist you were raised as, you had supported his soul-searching.
Ultimately, and with some convincing by one of his pen pals, what Jeff had decided was that he would commit to his former faith whole-heartedly. The old you, before your psychological training, would have scoffed at this. But through schooling, you had found that, although you still didn’t believe in a higher power, the belief of there being one was a comfort. Yet again, you supported Jeff’s endeavors, because if there was anything he needed, it was comfort. Buoyed by your approval, he had asked the prison chaplain if there were means to receive the holy rite of baptism.
This presented a conundrum. The prison did not have any sort of the required equipment. What was more, who in their right mind would step up to do the honors?
The second problem was solved in the form of Roy Ratcliffe, a jubilant and selfless member of the clergy. His dedication to his faith trumped all reservation anyone else might have about meeting a notorious criminal. In the media firestorm that resulted from his actions, many a hypocritical Christian derided Jeff. “How could Jeffrey Dahmer be free of sin? How can he expect to get into heaven?” They seemed to forget that their own Son of God had kept company with lepers and sex workers.
In university, you had taken up the banner of secular humanism. Science rather than faith based, you felt in your heart of hearts that people didn’t need religion to be good. On the contrary, as was demonstrated by the hand-wringing over Jeff’s baptism, you found it did much more harm. Christian conservatives acted as if a man having a relationship with another man was the reason that God had destroyed a city. However, when consulting the texts, the truer interpretation was that Sodom and Gomorrah had sinned in inhospitality. Furthermore, if people were being honest, there should have been a lot more public stonings and a lot less eating of shellfish if we all were strictly following the Bible.
When you found out that Jeff was reading the King James version, you revealed to him over the phone that King James himself had been gay.
“How?”
“What do you mean, how?”
“The Bible says it’s a sin.”
You had rolled your eyes. “Jeff, sodomy was illegal in that era. If you had gay sex, you would be tortured.
Of course he included that. But it didn’t stop him from taking twinks to bed.”
Jeff had looked at you as if you had sprouted wings.
When you had come to see him for his birthday, he told you that the majority of his conversations with Roy, who he had seen just a few days earlier, were made up of how stringently he must abide by doctrine. You had audibly snickered.
“Please don’t laugh,” Jeff whined, “I’m being sincere.”
Stirring your McDonald’s milkshake with your straw, you assured him that you weren’t laughing at his sincerity.
“I’m laughing at the fact that you’re a big nerd.”
He had laughed a little himself. “Okay, I know, but I just want to make sure I’m doing this right.”
You had touched his hand and smiled warmly. “Jeff, if you truly believe there’s a guy in the clouds who takes tally of how well you’re doing with his rules, chances are you’re doing a lot better than most.”
He beamed at you. It melted your heart.
Roy let Jeff know that he would be taking a hiatus from their weekly meetings for the month of July so he could volunteer at a children’s summer camp. He assured Jeff that he wasn’t being abandoned, and it wasn’t a burden to continue to minister to him. Just keep doing the best you can do, he advised, referring to Jeff’s weekly grape juice and crackers.
Jeff was indeed a devout man, and he didn’t care what other people thought of him for it. Unfortunately, this attitude almost proved fatal.
You had received the call not long after Lionel. Jeff had been hospitalized. Some bastard in church had tried to slit his throat. Frantically, you had rushed to his side.
“Honestly, I’m okay,” he soothed, wiping tears off your cheek, “he barely scratched me.”
“That’s not the fucking
point, Jeff!” you cried, voice breaking. “Look, I know you hate solitary, but you should think about going back there.”
He had sighed deeply. “You might be right about that.” Then he had looked at you, broken into pieces by the thought of losing him, and chewed on his bottom lip. “Get me the phone. I’m calling Roy.”
Sniffling, you had handed it to him. “What’s the urgency? You should rest.”
Taking your hand, he had rubbed his thumb over his grandmother’s ring, which had never left your finger since receiving it. You suddenly realized what he was saying, and you felt like floating up to the roof.
“He’s gotta do me one more favor,” Jeff said with a small smile.
This time, there was not a single word uttered to the press. The maelstrom surrounding Jeff’s baptism had been bad enough; no one needed to know of these nuptials. You covered all your bases: the visitation roster was clear for the day, and guards were only told that he was being brought to visit his faith leader. He had desperately hoped that his mother would come, but ever since the attempt on her life, she had basically been a recluse. Neither could he manage to convince his brother, who, having changed his surname, now lived in anonymity and asked not to be disturbed. Nevertheless, Lionel and Shari were present, sitting in the pews and smiling, and that meant the world to him. This was a union only in the sense of the heart, and yet he truly wanted you welcomed into his family.
Roy ran through the usual spiel, waxing poetically on the strings that ran in between two people, forever tying them together. Before God, if not before the state, you two would remain intertwined forever, bound by the rite of holy matrimony. Jeff seemed unable to speak, too overcome with emotion—here he was, sentenced to multiple centuries, and yet through love, he could soar, he could find solace, he was joined to you, someone who lived beyond walls and had a bright future. It injected him with further optimism—if he could never again leave, at least he could walk with you, by your side, with the promise of a ring. As Christ had forgiven him of his sins, so you had forgiven him of his confinement, at least spiritually. He had wanted to make sure that no one could ever leave him, and so had created a bastardized, sick appropriation of union, but now, with you, he had finally reached one authentic.
It only lasted fifteen minutes, and yet you both knew that now began a new lifetime. The full weight of what had transpired suddenly collapsed onto him, and his knees buckled. Lionel, Roy, and you formed a tripod around him to hold him up, and you laughed blissfully. Regaining his composure, he had blushed and laughed, too. Then, he had taken off his glasses, swiped his forearm over his misty eyes, and snatched you into a desperately loving embrace. You even felt your feet leave the ground as he crushed you into his arms, and your head swam as he peppered you with kisses and his chest heaved.
“You,” he croaked, “I
love you. Thank you for giving me a reason to live.”
Words that rang so hauntingly bittersweet. Three years had passed since he had been arrested. Almost a decade had passed since you two had met. Time never slowed, it always flittered swiftly onward, on dragonfly wings. You never thought that one day out of a year could send it crashing to a halt, throwing you off its tracks and into a still, dark void where it did not matter. And yet that is exactly what happened roughly five months later.
You had been in your new apartment, getting ready for the day. Three months prior, you had accepted a position as a crime analyst for Chicago PD. As much as it pained you to have to answer to cops, it was an excellent, intellectually stimulating position. More importantly, it paid well. You were no longer in a dumpy studio downtown, but a two bedroom in Arlington Heights, and had a vehicle, so no need to rely on public transport. It meant you had to wake up at the crack of dawn to get through Chicago traffic, but you didn’t mind.
You typically put the radio on for your commute to keep you awake, and this morning was no different. Much to your chagrin, you had hit some bottlenecking on I-90 and would probably be late. You cranked the heat to stave off the cold, rushing winds off of Lake Michigan and were finger-drumming on the steering wheel to a good old rock song when the tune had faded out and you heard the voice of the DJ.
“Well, hey, Chicago, good morning! I’ve got some good news to lift your spirits for the day!”
You had cocked an eyebrow and turned up the volume.
“Guess what just hit the newsroom five minutes ago? You’re gonna love it, baby! Someone whacked that scumbag, Jeffrey Dahmer!”
Your hands had involuntarily clenched. Did he just say--?
A female jockey laughed and it sounded as if they high fived. “Kudos to Christopher Scarver!”
“Yeah, so apparently, just this morning, they carted the psycho into the hospital with massive head trauma! And he never woke up.”
The DJ played the sad trumpet sound effect (
waa waa waaa) and there was more laughter. You switched the car radio off and sat in silence.
At the next exit, you got off and pulled into a gas station. You turned off the engine and unbuckled your seat belt. You felt nothing. You put your head against your arms, which you folded over the steering wheel. Your chest burned and began to heave. You bit down on your bottom lip as hard as you could, drawing blood. Then, you picked your head back up, and sent it smashing into the steering wheel. You did it again, still feeling nothing. You did it a third time. Faintly, you felt a sticky heat in your hair, and a dull thudding. You felt a grim sense of glee, knowing that you could still feel pain. You decided to duck into the liquor store in the adjacent plaza.
“Hey… hey, buddy, you’re bleeding,” said the front desk clerk.
“I don’t give a shit,” you replied, and paid for your booze and left. You moved your car into a parking lot in front of an empty storefront and cracked open the bottle of rum you had just purchased. You looked at the label absently.
Jeff loved this shit, you mused. Then it dawned on you. You had said his name in the past tense for the first time.
The sound you then emitted had erupted out of a deep, dark hole inside you, and seemed to rip through your heart like a blade. You didn’t even realize how loud you were being until the same cashier you had just spoken to was at your window, knuckles rapping. You rolled down the window weakly and apologized.
“What the hell?” he asked, taken aback. “Who died?”
In a raspy, small voice that did not sound like your own, you answered, “My husband.”
Ten years later
“Settle down, now, guys,” professor Pat Kennedy said congenially from his podium at the front of the classroom. “Yeah, you in the back, you included!”
Once he was sure he had the full attention of the student body, he broke into a wide grin.
“I’ve got something extra special for you today. I dug up an old friend from
waaaay back in the day, and he’s agreed to be a guest lecturer for today. If you think that
I got close to Jeff Dahmer, well… get a load of this.”
With that as your cue, you had stepped up to the front and shaken Pat’s hand. You booted up the computer and loaded up your Power Point. Not that you really needed one to go over things about Jeff, but it was just to look more professional. Without an official presentation, you probably could keep these kids here all day talking.
Following Jeff’s premature death, you had switched to research. You no longer wanted to help police in any capacity, save for your friend Pat, who had been one of many to extend condolences. The prison system had failed Jeff miserably; you suspected that, if not for your thesis, he simply would have been left to rot entirely. It was a massive waste. Moreover, him being left alone with Scarver seemed to you to be sorely negligent. No matter how notorious the inmate, they were to be protected while incarcerated. The Columbia Correctional Institute had committed a grave act of dereliction of duty, and for a time, you considered filing litigation. You decided against it only because you did not want to expose your true identity, nor your and Jeff’s relationship.
You had left Chicago altogether and had been warmly offered room and board by David. His mother, now depressed and agoraphobic, needed someone to talk to, someone who had been a lot closer to Jeff. He had never bothered to go see his brother in person, and had only briefly appeared at the memorial. There, he and Lionel had awkwardly shared memories of times gone by, in front of its few gathered guests. Roy Ratcliffe had read the eulogy. Theresa Smith, still an angel of forgiveness and grace, had been the only non-family member in attendance.
Joyce and Lionel fought bitterly over the fate of Jeff’s remains. You were on Joyce’s side—since Jeff had made the ultimate sacrifice, why not honor his memory by doing something to prevent future heinous crimes? Thus, in court, you backed her up in saying that efforts should be made to preserve his brain. Paraphilias needed to be understood and destigmatized. What if, through medical study, their source could be determined, a treatment synthesized? What if this never had to happen again? What if future sufferers could be spared their torment?
What if, what if, what if… Ultimately, Lionel won the case. Jeff was cremated entirely, and his ashes were his father’s property. Because he felt you had burned a bridge by siding with his ex-wife, you never found out where Jeff was put to rest. In a petty revenge to this, before finally leaving Milwaukee, you had thrown your ring into the lake.
Following your departure, you gave yourself a new look, not to attract attention, but rather to evade it. You also legally changed your name. If Lionel was going to go around hamming it up with a book and countless spots on TV, you vowed to bring honor to the name. You weren’t a Dahmer to capitalize on Jeff’s infamousness—you were a Dahmer to preserve his better qualities. If asked if you were related to “that creep,” you would answer defiantly: “yes, and what creeps are in
your family?”
In the summer of 1996, you were fresh off your first semester in doctorate when you had received a phone call from Vandagriff.
“Wish your boy was still here to hear the good news,” he announced, “because he was right. It went almost exactly as he described. Your perp is Herb Baumeister, and he’s got bones all over the woods around that place.”
We did it, Jeff, you thought proudly, tears stinging in your eyes.
Unfortunately, Baumeister never faced justice, killing himself before he could be apprehended by police. Nevertheless, he was proven guilty, and even into your fifties, bone fragments were being exhumed and identified. Even almost three decades past Jeff’s death, this fucker’s victims were still being dug up.
You became an invaluable scholar in the forensic psych field. Joyce cheered you on right up until her dying breath, which was about six months before you finally graduated. You were then welcomed warmly back to your undergrad alma matter to do lectures to students in both psychology and criminology. With both Jeff and Joyce no longer in the land of the living, you saw fit to protect their legacy, and so, you finally took off the mask you’d been wearing. At first, students called bullshit, until you pulled out Jeff’s turquoise ring. It had been one of his most prized possessions; the idiot had once been practically homeless, and yet had sprung $1,200 on it. You also reached into your duffel bag and pulled out other remnants of his life, secured by Lionel circa 1993. You had his yellow contacts, his wallet, the gargoyle for his intended altar, and for nostalgia’s sake, books dedicated to fish tanks. Yes, you had found and kept the books he had bought the first time you two had met. They were your treasures. Pat had also given you the famous shirt—borrowed from his son—that Jeff had worn during his first court appearance. That one never left a vacuum-sealed bag (well, except on the nights you missed him and craved his scent).
All of the usual questions were asked of you, and today was no different. You had answered them a million times, yet they still kept coming.
“Why did he let you live?”
“Did you try and stop him?”
“What was he really like?”
Then there was one apt pupil who had asked something you’d never before considered: “You research paraphilias, right? Do you realize that you have hybristophilia?”
It was a truth you had long since grappled with, and had mostly faced with denial. Only up until very recently had you finally accepted it.
In the summer of 2002, you had been on the east coast, lecturing at Quantico. One evening, on the way back to your hotel, you had spotted a billboard on the side of a building. It was for a movie. It was titled
Dahmer.
You didn’t watch it until its home release six months later. Although, yet again, you didn’t care for the actor’s portrayal, this film had been much different than the last debacle. He was much closer to the real Jeff, and the movie was much more sexually charged. You hadn’t been able to finish it. Your mind had reeled from loss and grief, but also from your undying love and affection. And then, it had happened: you had visualized him perfectly, his eyes, his scruff, his lips, the softness of his blonde hair, and then his arms, his hands, his abs, his ass, his dick. Before you’d known what hit you, you were writhing in ecstasy, imagining your fingers were his, and clasping at the sheets of the bed. You heard his soft whispered praise, felt his calm cupping your ass with its neatly-trimmed nails, and you were sent over the edge.
“Yes,” you answered simply. “Yes, I do believe that’s accurate.”
The same student: “Because he told you about Tuomi, and yet you kept… sleeping with him, right?”
“Hey, hey, let’s not get so personal!” Pat had chimed in from his own seat. “We’re here to discuss the crimes! But since you mentioned it—”
With a sigh, you had responded in the affirmative. “He volunteered it reluctantly. And I certainly had no idea that there were others. He just said that it had been an accident.”
Pat nodded. “That one was an accident, just like Hicks. But up until his arrest, you had no clue of the scope of it.”
“Correct.”
The rest of the class had coasted along smoothly. You had fielded questions about your thesis mostly. You were asked about Herb Baumeister. Nevertheless, once class was over, and you had bid farewell to Pat, it had been a huge weight off your shoulders.
David had extended the invitation of room and board with his family, but you had declined. Whenever you lectured on Jeff, you still always needed some downtime alone. It brought too much back. Memories of him were now fragmented, triggered by sensory input that reminded you of him.
The most pristine memory you still had of him, in fact, was something that had not even been real.
On that horrible day he had died, you had ditched work, gone home, gotten shitfaced, and cried yourself to sleep. In the stillness of your bedroom, made dark as night by blackout curtains, you had had the most vivid dream.
You two had been back in his apartment on Oxford Street, which didn’t even exist anymore. There had been no odor of death, no atmosphere of malice, it had only been you two. Furthermore, he didn’t look the same—he looked like he had in his interview with Stone Phillips, only in his bathrobe and jeans rather than prison uniform. You had teased him congenially about his “beer gut” that summer, and he had rolled his eyes. He said he was glad to be taking up tennis again so he could “ditch the pig belly.” But he had carried the weight, well, in your opinion.
In the dream, you had sat upon the couch, and he had been cracking a beer at the fridge. His golden hair had gleamed in the sunlight, and you had even observed the plodding of his bare feet. He had sat next to you, putting the beer down on the table sans coaster, and looked at you with happiness in his eyes. The realization that this was only a vision seized you, and the pain you had felt when you were awake resurfaced in its familiar agony. You had clung to him, burying your face in his shoulder, and cried. He had stroked your cheek gently and kissed the top of your head, asking what was wrong.
“
Jeff,” you sobbed, “you’re
dead. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Hey,” he said soothingly, and then wisecracked, “that’s
my line.”
You had chuckled in spite of yourself, then held his face lovingly. You placed one small kiss on his nose, and he had returned it with a kiss to your lips.
“Don’t worry. I’m with Christ. And we’ll never be separated.” He poked his finger to your chest, to your heart. “I’m still alive, right here.”
This had brought a fresh onslaught of tears, hitting you in wave after bitter wave. You blathered to him desperately that you didn’t believe in life after death, that all that made him
him was gone forever, and that he was dead, his body beaten unrecognizably.
“But that’s not true,” he protested, “and deep inside, you
know it. Conservation of energy.”
You paused then, pulling back, staring ponderingly. He was referencing a conversation you two had had on the nature of existential reality. He believed that God created all, from people to microscopic bacteria, and from the beginning of time to the present day.
“And when we die, we return to him. Our souls live on forever.”
“No offense, Jeff,” you had scoffed, “but that’s not possible.”
Rolling his eyes but laughing, he had quipped, “Oh, ye of little faith. How about this, then: the law of conservation of energy.”
“That energy can never be destroyed,” you said knowingly, “it can only be transformed.”
He had nodded, and finished, “That’s what happens when we die.”
Your eyes had cracked open, cutting the dream off there, and even though you suffered from a blinding headache from drinking, you had felt calmer, given a new sense of peace.
“’Is heaven for little boys like me?’” you said to yourself now in your hotel room, quoting Roy from the memorial service. As you peered out over the city of Milwaukee, now forever changed—tainted—by Jeff’s crimes, you still felt strongly that yes, somehow, he had found peace. And indeed, he lived on through you, in your mind, in the best way.
While everyone else remembered him as a monster who had taken lives, you recalled him fondly as someone who had blessed yours.
Jeff hadn’t been a monster. He had simply been a complicated man.
)or "impregnate an ftm" shit. She's fine being female and only likes men. Like all other spicy straight "queers"
![fiddler-crab-005-george-bostian[1].jpg](http://uploads.kiwifarms.st/data/attachments/4975/4975505-97754c618ed374660d4dd1d32ddca06a.jpg?hash=l3VMYY7TdG "fiddler-crab-005-george-bostian[1].jpg")
, but I hate her username choices.
