GRILLING DAHMER: The Horrifying Interrogation Of The Notorious Serial Killer

No detective could have been prepared for what they witnessed that fateful night when they rolled out to the call of a potential murder scene.

In the late hours of July 22, 1991, Detective Patrick "Pat" Kennedy of the Milwaukee Police Department was asked to respond to a possible homicide. Little did he know that he would soon be delving into the dark mind of one of America's most notorious serial killers, the "Milwaukee Cannibal" Jeffrey Dahmer.

As the media clamored for details, Kennedy spent the next six weeks, sixteen hours a day, locked in an interrogation room with Dahmer. There the 31-year-old killer described in lurid detail how he lured several young men to his apartment where he strangled, sexually assaulted, dismembered, and in some cases, cannibalized his victims.

In GRILLING DAHMER: The Interrogation of "The Milwaukee Cannibal" the reader is taken on a horrifying tour into the mind of evil as Kennedy patiently, meticulously, listened to unspeakable horrors so that a monster would be taken off the streets forever.

"This was unlike any other book I've read about Dahmer. It was magnificently written, and the details of this interrogation was as inhuman as inhumanly possible. Detective Patrick Kennedy is not just an author of this story, but the detective who interrogated Dahmer, for weeks and weeks, listening to the grotesque things that Dahmer did to the young men he lured. It is definitely not for the faint of heart, and sometimes, I just had to close the book. The details are that disturbing, but if you are interested in true crime, this one is one of the "truest" you'll find." - Amy's Bookshelf Reviews

From The Book:

*Warning: excerpt contains language

I poured myself a cup of coffee and started toward my desk when Harrell motioned me into his office as he hung up the phone.

“Kennedy, I want you and Mike to take a run up to 924 North 25th Street. I got a call from a couple cops up there that say they found a head in a refrigerator. Sounds like some bullshit to me but go check it out anyway.”

Rolling my eyes, I walked over to Dubis and told him about the hitch.

“You got to be fucking hosing me! Really?”

We grabbed our suit coats, made our way to the garage, and rolled to the alleged murder scene.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mike said with a smile as we climbed into our unmarked squad car and drove toward the assignment, “I’m certainly not going to lose my head over this investigation.”

It was my night to drive and as we rode the twenty blocks or so to the scene, Mike remembered that we had been there before. About a month earlier, we investigated the strangling death of a thirty-four-year-old Black male on the third floor. It was still an open homicide with no suspects. We pulled up to the Oxford Apartments, a three-story, thirty-six unit, white brick structure. The building was just west of the downtown area. Lower-income people of all races and ethnicities occupied it. There were some families but it was mostly people on welfare, social security, or some kind of general assistance. I remember talking to residents during the previous investigation. It had its share of alcoholics, drug addicts, thugs, and sex workers, both straight and gay.

Entering the main vestibule of the building, our nostrils filled with the sweet, putrid, nauseating smell of death, which had become so familiar to us both. The odor hung heavily in the air, intensified by the heat and humidity. We looked at each other, acknowledging the smell.

“Maybe this ain’t gonna be bullshit,” I said, wondering if I should have left my suit jacket in the car.

The smell of a dead and rotting corpse was known to penetrate the fibers of clothing and lingered for days if not dry cleaned. We took the stairwell to the second floor and rounded the hallway to unit 213. There we met a stout, veteran copper whose wildly excited eyes were as big as saucers. He was sweating profusely and his disheveled uniform gave evidence that he had been in a hell of a fight. I knew this officer from my uniform days. He had a reputation as a take-no-shit kind of guy, not necessarily heavy-handed, but someone who responded to assaultive behavior in kind.

“What the fuck is going on?” Mike said to the red-faced copper.

“You won’t believe this shit!” he responded as he led us through the apartment door.

I entered first and saw three more uniformed cops, all dripping with sweat. They were straddling a Caucasian male suspect, who lay face down on the floor, handcuffed behind his back and shackled at the feet. One officer had his knee firmly in the suspect’s back, another held his leg-ironed feet, and the third cop wiped his face with a hanky. Their uniforms looked just as unkempt as the first officer’s had.

“Take a look in the refrigerator!” shouted the portly cop with his knee in the suspect’s back.

I walked to the fridge and opened it. What I saw shot an overwhelming wave of panic and fear that rushed from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head: a clean, barren refrigerator holding only an open carton of baking soda and a cardboard box containing a freshly severed head.