Here

by Sean Moynihan

  32

  The next person Falconer wanted to see after leaving Zweig and his client was Eli Levine. Falconer had remained in touch with the young professor since they had traveled out to Blackwell’s Island a few weeks earlier, and now he headed uptown to Columbia College, where Levine was finishing a day of lectures in front of his eager, young law students.

  Falconer called at Levine’s office and was led into a group of interior rooms where the faculty could rest, study, and meet with students during office hours.

  “Hello, detective,” Levine said heartily after the secretary knocked and announced Falconer’s presence. “Come in, please. And thank you, Miss Brittle.”

  The two men sat down on either side of Levine’s nondescript wooden desk that was surrounded by walls of legal treatises and other books, the majority of which appeared to concern the world of criminal law, and Levine spoke up first.

  “So, it appears that Mr. Ali’s conviction and sentencing has now effectively put our East River Hotel murder to rest, at least in the minds of the authorities, and, I’m afraid, the public.”

  “Yes,” Falconer replied, looking glum. “Looks that way.”

  “Anything new to report, I wonder?”

  “Well,” Falconer began, “I just went to see the Blackwell Island suspect, Neumann, with his lawyer, and he denies everything—says he’s been framed by someone but can’t give a reason.”

  “Do you believe him?” Levine asked.

  Falconer paused as he contemplated the question, looking down and flipping his bowler around in his hands. Then he looked back up at Levine. “Yes. Yes, I believe I do, professor. There’s just something about him that doesn’t seem capable of being crafty or manipulative. Plus, he mentioned something odd that happened.”

  “What was that?” Levine asked.

  “I asked him if he ever noticed anyone unfamiliar down in his kitchen area the day of the murder, and he mentioned a laundry worker who came around to grab some old used rags and aprons and such—said he had never seen the guy before.”

  “Did he say the man did anything unusual that day?”

  “No—said he just saw him come around and grab the laundry, but he did state that the man could have gone back into the room where is jacket was hanging and might have been near to where they found the bag and knife. So, there’s a slight possibility—”

  “—that this laundry worker planted the knife and cloth while no one was looking,” Levine interrupted, “and is, in fact, the lunatic woman’s killer.”

  “Sounds crazy, I suppose?” Falconer asked the professor.

  “Well, yes, slightly, I must say,” Levine replied. “But is it possible? Yes, yes, we’ve seen more bizarre and cunning moves by murderers in the past, as you must know.”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “I’d have to agree with you there, professor.”

  Falconer then changed the subject. “I wanted to ask you about that bit of scrawling that you found in the closet up on Blackwell’s that day.”

  “Yes, what about it?” Levine asked.

  “Well, Byrnes dismissed it, of course,” Falconer said, “but I seem to remember from your book and the others that I read that day in the library, and from newspaper accounts, that the Ripper might have sent some letters to Scotland Yard, letters that were, you know, essentially taunting the police.”

  “Right,” Levine said. “There were literally hundreds that the authorities received during the investigation, all from individuals claiming to be the Ripper, but only a few key ones have actually caught the attention of researchers and investigators. They are really fascinating little bits of evidence that may or may not have been sent by the actual killer. No one really knows, detective, and there are those on either side of the argument—some thinking that they are actual words scribbled by Jack the Ripper; others who say they’re simply the unfortunate creations of some depraved voyeur who wanted to have his fun with the police and the public.”

  “And where do you stand, professor?”

  “Me?” Levine asked as he sat back in his chair and chuckled slightly. “Well, I’d like to think that I’m a little more circumspect than your typical reader of newspaper sensationalism and would not be so fast in crediting the authenticity of the so-called letters without more solid evidence of their origination. And yet…”

  “Yes,” Falconer asked.

  “And yet, I’ve always thought, detective, that the Ripper would be the one killer who would certainly take delight in playing that game, if you will—that he would take some enjoyment in taunting the authorities and publicly daring them to catch him before he committed another murder. There’s something about the Whitechapel killer, detective, that is far more brazen and daring than other killers of his ilk. That is why I have never been able to completely dismiss the letters as the mere ravings of a vile and disturbed onlooker.”

  “I don’t exactly remember what they said,” Falconer said. “Something about a ‘Dear Boss’ letter and another about having taken a kidney from a victim?”

  “Yes, yes,” Levine replied as he stood up and moved over to the stacks of volumes on his bookshelves. “Let me get them and show them to you.”

  Levine went over to a shelf and ran his finger slowly along a line of books, finally grabbing one large yellow-colored volume and returning to his seat at his desk.

  “Here,” he said to Falconer. “There are actual photographs of them in this one…let me show you and you can see them for yourself.” Levine turned several pages in the book and then stopped, turning the book around and moving it closer to Falconer. “Here,” he said. “Take a look at this one.”

  Falconer looked down at the book lying in front of him and beheld the grainy, black and white image of a letter, scrawled in the nuanced and elaborate cursive writing of an elementary school teacher but nonetheless not completely free of an occasional grammatical error:

  Dear Boss,

  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.

  Yours truly

  Jack the Ripper

  Dont mind me giving the trade name

  PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. ha ha

  “Hm,” Falconer grunted as he finished reading. “I remember reading this now,” he said, looking up at Levine. “He’s somewhat of a comedian, I can see, and probably not the best student in his English classes.”

  “Yes,” Levine replied. “He does come across as a bit of an undereducated cad, doesn’t he? And notice the signature at the bottom of page two—that’s the first-ever written reference to ‘Jack the Ripper.’ It forever enshrined the name in history, detective. He’s been a transfixing personality ever since, a mythic figure throughout the world since he quite possibly named himself in this letter.”

  “And he mentions the earlier name, Leather Apron,” Falconer noted.

  “Yes, Leather Apron—the nickname that the press and the public favored in the initial days of the investigation. It referred to a supposed brute of a man who typically wore the leather apron as part of his trade, and who was alleged to have treated women abominably in the district. But then with the ‘Dear Boss’ letter, ‘
Jack the Ripper’ became the new nom de guerre.”

  “And where did the writer send the letter to?” Falconer asked.

  “To the Central News Agency in London,” Levine replied. “It was received on September 27, 1888, just three weeks after Annie Chapman was killed. And, because of the interesting salutation he uses, it is now known as the ‘Dear Boss’ letter.”

  “Like I said, a funny guy,” Falconer observed. He turned the page in the book lying before him on the desk and saw another couple of images, this time of a postcard addressed again to the Central News Agency. One image showed the front of the card, and the other, the back that contained a simple note, scrawled in handwriting that was very similar to that of the “Dear Boss” letter:

  I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you’ll hear about Saucy Jack’s work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

  Jack the Ripper

  “This postcard here,” Falconer said. “When was it sent?”

  “Just a few days after the ‘Dear Boss’ letter,” Levine answered. “It was received again by the Central News Agency on October 1, and as you can see, it mentions a ‘double event,’ which most followers believe refers to the murders of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes that occurred near simultaneously on the night of September 30.”

  “And he refers to cutting off a victim’s ears.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Levine answered, “but it should be noted that neither of these victims actually had their ears cut off, although Ms. Eddowes did unfortunately suffer the removal of a tip of an earlobe.”

  “So, what do you think?” asked Falconer, leaning back in his chair. “Does the timing of this card prove that this is the actual killer? He seems to tell what he’s going to do, refers to certain details, and then the news agency receives it just hours after the two murders took place. How could some hoaxer know all of that on the 1st before the papers had even published any details about the killings?”

  “That’s what many say in support of their view that the card must be an authentic note sent from the Ripper,” Levine replied. “That a person playing a hoax simply wouldn’t have been able to describe these subtle details so soon after these two killings. But others, myself included, feel that it could have been delivered on the morning of the 1st right after the morning dailies came out—dailies that did contain some of these details. So, it is conceivable, I believe, that a trickster saw the stories and quickly sent the postcard to the news agency. Here, take a look at the one on the next page.”

  Levine reached down and turned the page in the book on the desk. Falconer saw another photo of a short letter written, again, in the florid handwriting of the previous letters:

  From hell.

  Mr Lusk,

  Sor

  I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

  signed

  Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

  “Still misspelling his words all over the place,” Falconer observed. “The handwriting seems to match the others, too. I’d say it’s the same person, whoever it is.”

  “Yes,” Levine stated from his chair. “I think it’s clear that this writer is the same one who generated the other two letters. The question is, though, who is this person? Is it our killer, or is it, again, simply some twisted jokester who’s merely having his fun with the authorities? George Lusk, president of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, received the letter in a small cardboard box on October 16, 1888. Inside the box was half a kidney stored in some wine.”

  “Well,” Falconer asked, “didn’t the Ripper actually remove a kidney from one of the women?”

  “Yes, he did,” Levine answered. “Catherine Eddowes had her left kidney removed by the killer. Medical examiners concluded that the half kidney found in the box was human but could not definitively say that it was hers.”

  Falconer rapped the table with his knuckles, lost in thought for a moment, and then finally spoke up. “So, we’re left again with your ultimate question: who is this person? Is this comedian with the spelling problem the legendary killer who beat Scotland Yard and disappeared without a trace? Or is he just some fool with a lot of time on his hands? I’ve gotta’ tell, you, professor, I’m kind of stumped on this one.”

  “Yes, as are most who have struggled with these letters,” Levine replied. “They have added to the legend of Jack the Ripper, that’s for certain, but they may be completely irrelevant if they were really sent by some degenerate who, as you said, simply has a lot of free time on his hands.”

  “So, what do you think?” Falconer asked. “You’ve studied these killings, walked the streets where the murders actually took place, interviewed the people involved—you’ve got to have a gut feeling about this. Do you think it’s the actual Ripper having his fun with the investigators over there?”

  Levine sat back in his chair and interlocked his hands before his face, placing his chin against his extended index fingers, deep in thought, and then finally smiled slightly as he looked back up at Falconer. “I don’t believe that it’s he, detective,” he said. “This man who apparently wrote all three letters—either he’s playing the part of an uneducated commoner, or he really is one, and I think it’s the latter. And importantly, I don’t think that the Whitechapel killer is an uneducated man, detective. On the contrary, I believe that he is a man of keen intelligence and cunning. Some have surmised that he may be a surgeon, actually, because of the precise nature and location of the wounds found on the women, and they may be right about that. But apart from that reasoning, everything about this killer speaks of a very precise and formidable mind, a man who knows exactly what he wants to do and how to do it—and how to avoid being caught.”

  “So, the letters are probably fakes,” Falconer said. “But we’re still left with our own message scrawled in the closet out on Blackwell’s—‘That’s Two.’ I’d say it’s pretty certain that the killer, whoever he is, left that message for us. Byrnes acted like it was ambiguous, but it’s obvious to me: he’s boasting that he’s killed two ladies, and the unspoken message is that there may be more coming. Agreed?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly my thinking,” Levine replied. “No one can say for sure that the killer out at the asylum also killed Ms. Brown, but he’s sure trying to leave that impression.”

  Falconer stood up out of his chair and walked over to the stacks of books lining one wall of Levine’s office. He looked at the books and thought of the two ladies, Carrie Brown and Jenny Tompkins, and of Ali being led out of the courtroom after being sentenced to life in prison. Then he realized that Levine was standing next to him.

  “So where does that leave you, detective?” Levine asked. “Two women slain, one man convicted under dubious circumstances, and only a mysterious laundry worker as a possible alternative suspect in the second killing while the police hold another man in jail who may or may not be lying to you. It seems to be a true puzzle, I am afraid.”

  “Yes, it is,” Falconer said as he turned to Levine and placed his bowler on top of his head. “It looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “Us?” Levine asked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, you’re not going to abandon me now?” Falconer asked, with the slightest trace of a grin on his face. “Not when the chase is really starting to cook up?”

  He looked at Levine and saw that the professor, too, was slowly starting to smile back at him now as they stood in the office with the muffled noise of law students and staff alike running to and fro outside the door.

  “Help in catching possibly Jack the Ripper?” Levine said. “What criminal law professor could actually decline that sort of invitation?”

  Falconer smiled a little wider as he tho
ught of his next move in his quest to catch the killer of Carrie Brown.

  33

  Saturday, July 18

  “I’m off, Kate—have a good night, girl.”

  Eva Mallory stepped past the people milling about the doorway to the house on 30th Street and waved goodbye to Kate Blanchard, her friend who also worked as one of Marcy McClure’s girls here in the heart of the Tenderloin red light district of Manhattan. It was late in the evening and Eva was heading home for the night.

  “So soon, honey?” Kate asked with a playful smile. “You sure have good hours.”

  “Well, I have lots to do in the morning, remember,” Eva replied. “My sister’s coming into town.”

  “Oh, right,” Kate said as a threesome of young men, obviously on the town and drinking for some hours now, staggered into the bordello and doffed their hats at the two women.

  “Not us, dearies,” Kate said sternly to the alcohol-soaked men. “Keep going, boys.”

  Eva chuckled as the men walked past them, and then she stepped toward her friend, clasping her own hands with Kate’s. “Listen, you don’t stay too long now, all right? Marcy can’t keep you here all night, for God’s sake.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Kate replied. “You just be careful getting home yourself. Stick to the crowds, you hear?”

  “Yes, I promise,” Eva said. “Goodnight.” And then she stepped lightly out of the entranceway and down the stone staircase to the street. At the bottom, as more revelers of both sexes strolled past her in full-throated discussions, unconcerned with those around them, she adjusted her hat upon her head, made sure her handbag was securely shut and trapped in the crook of her elbow, and turned to walk over to the 33d Street station at Greeley Park.

  While walking through the city streets, she had to constantly dodge the multitude of people who were out seeking excitement and distraction from their hard, daily lives here in midtown. The district was alive and humming even at this late hour, with scores of saloons, cathouses, and clip joints still filled to bursting with customers and merchants alike, and Eva had to smile as she moved past the wild and noisy revelers who would call out to her at every turn.