The night the serial killer special aired, someone nailed an effigy of Thomas Alexander to an old post in the middle of the empty lot at 924 North Twenty-fifth Street and set him on fire. TMJ4 sent a reporter down there to film the burning Thomas Alexander, and the video went viral.
The national popularity of this video also subsumed the story that followed in Milwaukee. The effigy eventually started a fire in the apartment building adjacent to the lot where the serial killer’s building had been. It became difficult to get everyone out and to contain the fire. TMJ4 captured an image of two toddlers in pink footed pajamas standing in the middle of the street. This was the same street where once, decades ago, a child had escaped from the serial killer’s apartment, bleeding and confused, and the police had returned him to the killer’s apartment. The death toll of the fire, officially, was seven. The news anchor interviewed one woman, a resident, who stared into the camera and said only, “My life is over.”
Leif left while we were waiting on the lab results. He said he hadn’t intended to stay as long as he had, and he needed to get back on the road. I wanted to be snarky and short with him, but I couldn’t muster the strength. He asked if he could take a box of my files with him—something he’d found pertaining to Erik—but when he noticed my discomfort, he said he’d scan them and leave the originals. I called him a week or so after we got the results. Maybe I thought he had a right to know. Maybe I just wanted to hear his voice one last time.
“I’m sorry, Peg,” he said. “I really am.”
I heard some relief in his voice. Had he worried that if the bones were Dee’s, Erik might have been named as her killer? Did he believe his brother capable? Do we, any of us, know anything about one another at all? It’s impossible, I thought, to say what we know. I hated him.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You still think Frank did it?”
Did it. I hated this construction. Because we’d never had an it—done what, exactly? Had he murdered her himself and burned her body in his parents’ crematorium? Had he had someone else murder her for him so his hands would be clean and he could climb the ladder in the MFD? Had he tortured her? Had she suffered for a short time? A long time? Every question mark like a lash. I rarely let myself ask so many at once because it could easily induce vomiting. Paralysis.
“Of course,” I said. “But I blame myself more and more too now.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For everything,” I admitted. “I failed her. I failed my family. Even you. In a way.”
“Don’t say that. I was the one who fucked up. You know? Sometimes I wish I hadn’t left. When I did, I mean. Or how I did. I’m sorry,” he said. “I still loved you. But I was scared.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
“I mean it. I shouldn’t have left like that.”
“We wouldn’t have ever worked again. We couldn’t.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe you’re right.”
There was a long pause in which I thought he would hang up, but instead he said, “I’ve told you about my book, yeah?”
“Not much,” I said.
“Well, I’d love if you’d read it when I’m done.”
What did he think I still owed him? “Goodbye, Leif,” I said. A wave of regret washed over me. Briefly, I could see a whole other life, not this wasted, warped march of days ahead of me. Then it was gone.