The Ripper of Blossom Valley

by S D Christopher

  "Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd come back and see if you needed any help. Unless you don't want the company?"

  "No, I didn't mean it that way." It never registered before, since she's always wearing some power suit, but I can't help but notice in her casual clothes that she's pretty fit. "You didn't happen to bring along a midnight snack, by any chance?"

  She smiles, for the first time ever, I think. She plops a brown paper bag on my desk, then circles around to Frank's desk. "Sorry it's just Jack in the Box, but In 'n Out closes at ten."

  I take a peek. Coffee, burger, and fries. At this time of night, it's the best I can hope for. I thank her as she opens her bag. I'm a little jealous that she's got a milkshake, but I probably need the coffee more right now.

  "That interview one of ours or yours?" She wipes some mayo off her lip as she chews her burger.

  "Yours. This guy from eHarmony."

  She already knows that we've been digging into guys on dating sites, so there's no harm in sharing.

  "Right, we thought we had our guy there, since he had contact with the first two victims. But he only met one of them once, and the other only went as far as phone conversations. Then he had no connection to the third victim." Very similar to our guy Zack Ross, and online gaming logs backed up his alibi. "It was frustrating as shit."

  I look up, clearly showing my surprise.

  "What? I'm not a robot, Sergeant. I do curse."

  Obviously, though I wonder how much of Frank is rubbing off on her. They've butted heads since she got here. Gotta admit, I like the way she stands up to him. "No, of course. You can call me Troy, by the way. I think we're long past the point of formalities."

  She smirks and takes another messy bite of her burger. I don't know if it's the late hour or that she is, actually, acting less like a robot than usual, but when she wipes her mouth again, I find it charming, almost seductive. "Fine, Troy, but call me Fitch, not Nora. I've always hated my name."

  "It's a nice name."

  "It's an old lady's name. And people are always asking me where Nick and Asta are."

  "...Huh?"

  "It's an old movie, The Thin Man. Anyway, why are you reading up on old interviews, when you've got a shit ton of new things to sift through for your fifth victim?"

  Yes, the fifth victim, Judy Stanton, 25, single, lived alone, two arms removed, and disturbingly, sexually assaulted postmortem. Sick fucks are taking things to a new level. Even broke in this time, no invitation like the others, a new deviation that makes it similar to the Reno murders. Thanks for reminding me that everything is shit.

  "We've been focusing solely on that for the past two days. I needed a break."

  She looks around the otherwise mostly empty office. "Which is why you're here past midnight reading an old interview for, what, the third time?"

  "...fourth." I lay the papers down and stare into her hazel eyes. Her suddenly attractive eyes. "This is how I wind down. I don't have a photographic memory, and sometimes shifting gears and reviewing something again helps spark something I didn't key into before."

  "No, I get it. We all do that sometimes. I was just hoping you would find something solid from Ms. Stanton's case...and that you'd share it."

  Whoomp, there it is. The whole reason she came here tonight. Not to bring me food as a peace offering, or to have some heart to heart, but to probe for information and cut in on our case. The way she's dressed and mildly flirting should've tipped me off. I really did need that coffee; I'm slipping. Frank warned me not to let her get too close. All I can manage is a stern expression.

  "Look, Troy, I get it. We can't get involved unless you ask us, or you find something that links our cases. But I'm going stir crazy here, just sitting around watching you guys. And Captain Doyle is about the most unpleasant person I've been around since I had to investigate some pit bosses back home."

  I return to my reading. "You shouldn't talk about the captain that way." Couldn't possibly tell her that with a straight face if I was looking at her.

  "Troy, please. I've seen the way you and Lt. Foley look at him. He and Agent Carter seem fine with standing off to the side and letting you guys take heat for this. But I just want to help find this asshole before he hurts any more women." I look up again, and I can see this is no act, no angle. "And I know you do, too. It's why you're here into the wee hours every night. It's why you challenge what Lt. Foley has to say if you think he's off base. It's why you guys are butting heads more and more. He's been a great detective for a long time, but he's not in the zone on this one, and you are, and you know it. At the risk of sounding divisive, I think he's feeling threatened by you, the younger guy starting to eclipse his teacher."

  Doubtful, but he's definitely threatened by you. "He's got stuff going on in his personal life, at the same time as all this. And you're wrong. Despite all that, he's still got better theories on these guys than any of us."

  She leans back in her chair. Frank's chair. "So you buy into a team of serial killers, two or three working together? Doyle and Carter don't think so." I shoot her a look. It's all I seem to be good at tonight. "Right, I don't think it's a bad theory, either. But without anything solid to back it up, all that does is complicate things."

  She's not wrong there. In fact, I can't deny that whenever she's interjected, she's had solid insights. It makes it harder to keep her at arm's length, when she could be of some help to us. "I sense this is leading up to something. So just spit it out."

  She leans forward again, with a look as serious and frank as I've seen from her. "Let me help, Troy. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not trying to take over. I know I'm not gonna win that battle, and I don't care about appearances or power plays at this point. It won't be in any official FBI capacity, and I'll stay out of your way during the day. Just give me something to help with after the grunts leave, and I'll sit here all night, every night with you if I have to, until we find this asshole, or this group of assholes."

  This is personal to her, somehow. Until I know why, I'll hold onto a healthy dose of skepticism. But she's right. I could use some more help, since Frank hasn't been able to pull the late hours he normally does. A new perspective here may help, though I don't want to think about the shitstorm that'll ensue if she finds something that links the Reno murders, and Frank'll never forgive me. Still, I think back to something he told me the first week we were paired together: "If it helps solve your case, do it. Worry about the fallout later. The most important thing is to get these psychos off the street, no matter what." I wonder if he'll still see it that way when he finds out that I've recruited "Agent Bitch" to the cause.

  "Alright...but some ground rules. No mention of this to anyone, or Doyle and Frank come down on me so hard, I might be working traffic duty the rest of the year."

  "Done. What else?"

  "If you do find something that links this to Reno, we work together on both cases. You don't push us to the side."

  "I can't promise what headquarters will insist on, but I'll do everything I can to keep you both involved as equal partners."

  I don't love that she can't dictate that, but I get it. Just like she won't love this part. "That means if you're the one who finds a connection, I need to take the credit. Otherwise, it's obvious you were helping, and it's my head."

  Without missing a beat, or batting an eye: "Not a problem." Her reaction causes me to blink and miss a beat. "Troy, I don't care about appearances, remember? The most important thing is to get these psychos off the street, no matter what." I smirk, and she knows she has me. She holds her hand out, and I shake it.

  As I return to reading one of her old interviews for the fourth time, I point to the pile that has become Judy Stanton's file. "You can start there. And Nor--" I remember her request. "Fitch...next time, bring me a milkshake too, will ya?"

  She smiles, and dives in. Everything is still shit for the moment, but this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  ----------

  "You
look like shit. Did you get any sleep last night?" Frank drops a cup of coffee down in front of me, then plops into his chair with his own, not looking so hot himself.

  "Some...you?"

  "A little. Another night of vomiting and cold sweats. Believe me, she's in worse shape than I am."

  "Sorry, Frank."

  He waves a hand. "Ah, I'd rather be here with you digging into this shit than holding her hair back and pumping her full of meds. It's breakin' my fuckin' heart to watch her go through this. I thought we were done with it. I'm just glad most nights aren't like that. Anything new from last night?"

  Sure. I let our closest enemy into our camp, and she's been rummaging through all of our files. You're ok with that, right? "Maybe. I re-read some of the Reno interviews--"

  "Again? What the fuck for? You been over them like three times."

  Jeez, he's more touchy than usual. "Four. I dunno, I needed a break from Ms. Stanton. Thought it might jog something."

  He nods, realizing he came on too strong. "...and?"

  "Well, a few things. First I wanted to see if any of theirs had a sexual assault postmortem, like our last one. Pretty sure there's nothing there, though. No rapes or sexual assaults at all in any of theirs, as far as we can tell."

  Frank looks puzzled. "...we?"

  Shit, I really haven't gotten enough sleep. Play it off, Troy. "Ya know, me and the mice that run around the precinct after hours."

  "Heh, at least one of us still has a fuckin' sense of humor. Tell ya what, if my girl's alright tonight, I'll come back and help you with some of that research. I know I ain't been holdin' up my end lately."

  And discover my unholy alliance? "Nah, it's alright, really. I'm able to get through a lot before I run out of steam. Then I can bounce my ideas off you during the day. It works."

  Frank looks suspicious, but isn't in a mood to argue. "Alright. So what else?"

  I confirm that there was nothing stolen from any of their victims, which makes him happy. There was one report of a missing necklace, but that turned up later. Turned out her cat had used it as a toy and it was tucked under the couch. But then I lay something new on him, which I know won't thrill him anymore than it did me when Fitch and I found it. "So, their one victim with the dangly arm...it was twisted, mangled, like whoever did it was turning it over and over to try to separate it. They were able to tear a lot of the muscle and some of the tendons and ligaments, but the twisted mess just became a kind of coil that wound up being too strong to rip off completely." Frank furrows his brow, waiting for the connection to our cases. "Almost all of our dismembered limbs were torn straight off, which meant they used more leverage and ripped it straight out, no twisting or grinding."

  "Almost all..."

  "Exactly. Melissa Templeton, our first victim, showed some signs of twisting. Not enough to stop it from being torn off; they must've changed tactics midstream. But the pattern's pretty clear. Michelle confirmed it for me this morning."

  Frank sits back in his chair, thinking quietly. "Well ain't that a bitch. Nice job, Troy...we don't tell Farter and Bitch about this for now. I don't think it's a silver bullet, but the last thing we need is for them to glom onto this one thing as a reason to pull the rug out from under us."

  I nod, knowing that Nora and I already agreed this wasn’t enough to connect them for certain. I neglect to tell Frank that Fitch and I also decided to search for people who lived in Reno for only a short time, then left town after their murders stopped and before ours began. It may turn up nothing, and will take some time. No need to get him all worked up.

  A little later in the morning, Frank gets a phone call. "Looks like we got a hit on another guy who had some interactions with Ms. Stanton and one of our earlier victims on different dating sites. No known contact with any of the others, though, so it's probably another Zack Ross situation. Wanna go for a ride?"

  "Sure. Michelle just called, confirmed there was no postmortem penetration on any of our prior victims, just the last one. She seemed insulted that we thought she’d miss that." We didn't, but it was worth asking.

  "She’ll get over it. That means these assholes are just fucking with us now. They know they can do whatever they want and take their time with it. They're gonna slip up soon; they're getting too cocky. I can feel it."

  I don't share his confidence, but I don't let on. I wonder if he even believes it himself, or if he’s just trying to stay positive in the face of this mess. We've tried everything we can think of to alert single women to the threat. We've put the word out not to leave their doors unlocked, or to allow strangers into their homes at night. But that didn't stop the death of Judy Stanton, and it only had a small impact on the number of reported rape cases in the last month since we went public with these warnings.

  ----------

  As expected, our latest interview is a dead end, too. It's almost comical how Frank and I barely even have our post-interview banter about what just went down. It's just not worth it. He drives back to the station, barely ever taking his eyes off the road. I stare out the window, noticing only in passing some of the beauty of the city. Lately, it all just looks like suburban sprawl, with no personality, no sense of community. How is it possible that none of these people notice some of their neighbors getting brutalized, terrorized, mutilated? Have we become so blind to those around us? Or do we just not care anymore?

  Frank snaps me out of my bout of mini-depression. "I've been thinking...if these ass-clowns are actually responsible for ours and Reno's..." He picks up on my slightly raised eyebrow. "IF...maybe we can gather a list of people who moved here after their last kill and our first. They were a year and a half apart, so it might be a fairly long list. Still, maybe something jumps out."

  "I've been thinking about that, too. I'll get on it when we get back." And since Fitch is already doing this for me, we might have a list earlier than you think, and I won't have to be all secretive about following up on it. At least that's one less burden. I don't like sneaking around behind Frank's back.

  When we get back to the station, I check in with forensics, and they've got something interesting, but as is always our luck, it raises more questions than it answers. The vomit we found in the bushes outside Ms. Stanton's house wasn't hers. The DNA is female, though it doesn't match anything in our criminal database. Frank thinks one of the killers could be a woman, and while this doesn't prove it, why else would someone vomit in the bushes if they weren't stalking the victim? The only other possible explanation is that a third party witnessed the murder or dismemberment and lost her lunch, then didn't report what she saw. Unlikely, but not out of the question. What was, at first, our most promising lead in months has quickly become just another mystery in this damn case.

  Chapter 14

  Two Years Ago

  Maiko

  Fudge once told me that you know things have gone bad when more and more people start treating you like either an infant or an elderly person. Since I got sick, the kid gloves have most definitely come on. The first words out of everyone's mouths lately are, "How are you feeling, Maiko? Can I get you something?" I think it would be rude to ask each of them to remove my tumor, so I usually politely say I'm fine, and that no, there's nothing that I need right now, thank you for asking.

  Heh, “since I got sick.” I make it sound like I've got the flu. It's easier to put on a strong front and have a positive attitude when I don't call it what it is. That's the Maiko everyone expects, and it puts them at ease, makes them more comfortable with the situation. I only cry when I'm alone, like now, in my lab, before the others arrive. The mice don't mind if I bawl, so they don't count.

  Wiping my eyes dry, I stare at my monitor for what seems like an eternity, looking at words like "neuroendocrine" and "PanNETs." Since my diagnosis, I've been reading up on everything I can find about my special flavor of pancreatic cancer. It turns out it's pretty rare to develop before the age of 40, and the median age for diagnosis is 71. So yeah, I feel super lucky that I'm ahead
of the curve. I guess I always was a quick study.

  How can someone so young develop it? I asked. Apparently, I was the lucky winner of the genetic lottery and have something called multiple endocrine neoplasia type 1. Fun fact: it's a really rare genetic disorder. That's a fancy medical way of saying I was born this way.

  Why couldn't I have developed ALS? I wouldn't wish that on anyone, but at least it's something I know. I've been researching this one thing for over ten years. At least if I had that, I'd know what to expect, what my options were, and how to cope. At the very least, I'd know my limited options for medication (Riluzole) and life-extension (BiPAP, physical therapy), and have a ballpark figure of how long I can expect to live (a few years if I'm lucky, or decades, if I'm Stephen Hawking). Cancer's not my field, so I'm more than a little out of my element.

  Not that having any illness classified as terminal this early in life is expected. It always broke my heart when some of my colleagues would talk about the cases they'd been researching involving children. It's just not fair when little ones have no idea what's happening to their bodies, and don't know if they'll live long enough to make it to middle school, go to summer camps, get into college, land a job they love, get married, have kids, and watch with pride as they grow and achieve life's milestones of their own. I tear up again as I think about some of the subjects I've met, who my coworkers put through some experimental and highly unproven treatments.

  Don't get me wrong, I don't compare myself to them. I got to do most of those things, so I would feel like a privileged whiner complaining about my own predicament. I don't want everlasting life. I just want to live while I'm here. Lately, though, things have stalled, and now, time may be running out.

  When Fudge and I started dating, I had been working here for a couple of years. I had a job that I loved, and had experienced more than my fair share of awesome summer camps. All that was left was the spouse and family. But Fudge has always been...challenging in that regard. And now, all of that seems impossible. I hadn’t been sure if I wanted kids, but having that option closed off to me completely makes me realize that I’ve wanted them all along. I was simply letting Fudge convince me otherwise.