Matt Turner, born in 1971, was a Chicago man. He lived on the north side of the city and worked at a local pizza restaurant, where he bussed tables. He loved to chat to the customers-friends and employers would later remember him as a warm, bubbly soul. He lip-synced at a bar, under the performer name of Donald Montrell. He’d been tossed about a bit by life, but was feeling confident enough to strike out on his own.
Enter Jeffrey Dahmer.
Matt apparently loved to “dress up and have his picture taken”, according to a friend, and so that’s most likely how Dahmer lured him back to the apartment. He met him at a Gay Pride parade, offered him money to come back with him-his usual modus operandi. Matt accepted, and rode back to Milwaukee with him on a Greyhound bus.
Matt never did go back to Chicago. His relatives were at first untroubled, because Matt had the habit of disappearing for weeks at a time. They thought he’d come back eventually. But Matt Turner would never come back to his home city, to talk with the customers at his workplace and lip-sync in bars, as he liked to do. Dahmer had drugged him, murdered him, and kept his skull as a keepsake.
A whole life gone, just like that. A lovely person, cheerful and social, wiped off the face of the planet completely by a man who was the complete opposite of him.
The body was either a) thrown in the trash, b) dissolved, or c) partially eaten. Twenty years old, and a skull is all that was left of him. If any fangirls perchance are reading this, I request you to think about that. Think hard about the concept of fourteen lives obliterated so far, with three left to go, by one single man-who, incidentially, you worship.
Rest in peace, Mr. Turner.