Almost all the desecrated corpses were found minus feet and hands, sometimes also arms and legs, and in several cases the man doing this also took heads and sex-organs. Forensic evidence suggests he used an axe and a butcher-knife for the gross work and a variety of scalpels for the finer stuff. He wasn’t bad, either. “A talented amateur,” one of the Chamberlain County deputies told Brandon. “I wouldn’t want him working on my gall-bladder, but I guess I’d trust him to take a mole off my arm… it he was full of Halcion or Prozac, that is.”
In a few cases he opened up the bodies and/or skull cases and filled them with animal excrement. What the police saw more frequently were cases of sexual desecration. He was an equal-opportunity kind of guy when it came to stealing gold teeth, jewelry, and limbs, but when it came to taking sexual equipment-and having sex with the dead-he stuck strictly to the gentlemen.
This may have been extremely lucky for me.
I learned a lot about the way rural police departments work during the month or so following my escape from our house by the lake, but that’s nothing compared with what I’ve learned in the last week or so. One of the most surprising things is how discreet and tactful small-town cops can be. I guess when you know everybody in the area you patrol by their first names, and are related to a good many of them, discretion becomes almost as natural as breathing.
The way they handled my case is one example of this strange, sophisticated discretion; the way they handled Joubert’s is another. The investigation went on for seven years, remember, and a lot of people were in on it before it ended two State Police departments, four country sheriffs, thirty-one deputies, and God knows how many local cops and constables. It was right there at the front of their open files, and by 1989 they even had a name for him-Rudolph, as in Valentino. They talked about Rudolph when they were in District Court, waiting to testify on their other cases, they compared notes on Rudolph at law-enforcement seminars in Augusta and Derry and Waterville, they discussed him on their coffee-breaks. “And we took him home,” one of the cops told Brandon-the same guy who told him about the noses, as a matter of fact. “You bet we did. Guys like us always take guys like Rudolph home. You catch up on the latest details at backyard barbecues, maybe kick it around with a buddy from another department while you’re watching your kids play Little League ball. Because you never know when you’re going to put something together in a new way and hit the jackpot.”
But here’s the really amazing part (and you’re probably way ahead of me… if you’re not in the bathroom tossing your cookies, that is): for all those years all those cops knew they had a real live monster-a ghoul, in fact-running around the western part of the state, and the story never surfaced in the press untilJoubert was caught! In a way I find that weird and a little spooky, but in a much larger way I find it wonderful. I guess the law-enforcement battle isn’t going so well in a lot of the big cities, but out here in East Overshoe, whatever they’re doing still seems to work just fine.
Of course you could argue that there’s plenty of room for improvement when it takes seven years to catch a nut like Joubert, but Brandon clarified that for m e in a hurry. He explained that the perp (they really do use that word) was operating exclusively in one-horse towns where budget shortfalls have forced the cops to deal only with the most serious and immediate problems… which means crimes against the living rather than against the dead. The cops say there are at least two hot-car rings and four chop-shops operating in the western half of the state, and those are only the ones they know about. Then there are the murderers, the wife-beaters, the robbers, the speeders, and the drunks. Above all, there’s the old dope-ola. It gets bought, it gets sold, it gets grown, and people keep hurting or killing each other over it. According to Brandon the Police Chief over in Norway won’t even use the word cocaine anymore-he calls it Powdered Shithead, and in his written reports he calls it Powdered S******d. I got the point he was trying to make. When you’re a small-town cop trying to ride herd on the whole freakshow in a four-year-old Plymouth cruiser that feels like it’s going to fall apart every time you push it over seventy, your job gets prioritized in a hurry, and a guy who likes to play with dead people is a long way from the top of the list.
I listened to all this carefully, and I agreed, but not all the way. “Some of it feels true, but some of it feels a little self-serving,” I said. “I mean, the stuff Joubert was doing… well, it went a little further than just “playing with dead people,” didn’t it? Or am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong at all,” he said.
What neither of us wanted to come right out and say was that for seven years this aberrant soul had gone flitting from town to town getting blowjobs from the dead, and to me putting a stop to that seemed quite a bit more important than nabbing teenage girls who’ve been shoplifting cosmetics at the local drugstore or finding out who’s been growing goofy-weed in the woodlot behind the Baptist church.
But the important thing is that no one forgot him, and everyone kept comparing notes. A perp like Rudolph makes cops uneasy for all kinds of reasons, but the major one is that a guy crazy enough to do things like that to dead people might be crazy enough to try doing them to ones that are still alive… not that you’d live very long after Rudolph decided to split your head open with his trusty axe. The police were also troubled by the missing limbs-what were those for? Brandon says an uncredited memo saying “Maybe Rudolph the Lover is really Hannibal the Cannibal” circulated briefly in the Oxford County Sheriff’s Office. It was destroyed not because the idea was regarded as a sick joke-it wasn’t-but because the Sheriff was afraid it might leak to the press.
Whenever one of the local law-enforcement agencies could afford the men and the time, they’d stake out some boneyard or other. There are a lot of them in western Maine, and I guess it had almost become a kind of hobby to some of these guys by the time the case finally broke. The theory was just that it you keep shooting the dice long enough, you’re bound to roll your point sooner or later. And that, essentially, is what finally happened.
Early last week-actually about ten days ago now-Castle County Sheriff Norris Ridgewick and one of his deputies were parked in the doorway of an abandoned barn close to Homeland Cemetery. This is on a secondary road that runs by the back gate. It was two o'clock in the morning and they were just getting ready to pack it in for the night when the deputy, John LaPointe, heard a motor. They never saw the van until it was actually pulling up to the gate because it was a snowy night and the guy’s headlights weren’t on. Deputy LaPointe wanted to take the guy as soon as they saw him get out of the van and go to work on the wrought-iron cemetery gate with a spreader, but the Sheriff restrained him. “Ridgewick’s a funny-looking duck,” Brandon said, “but he knows the value of a good bust. He never loses sight of the courtroom in the heat of the moment. He learned from Alan Pangborn, the guy who had the job before him, and that means he learned from the best.”
Ten minutes after the van went in through the gate, Ridgewick and LaPointe followed with their own headlights out and their unit just barely creeping along through the snow. They followed the van’s tracks until they were pretty sure where the guy was going-the town crypt set into the side of the hill. Both of them were thinking Rudolph, but neither one of them said so out loud. LaPointe said it would have been like jinxing a guy who’s throwing a no-hitter.