The Ripper's Daughter

by B Anders

  "No," he shook his head and said, "I know you're pathetic."

  Colby was out the door and making for the stairs, before the Captain finished answering his phone. She needed out and she needed air. She had finally reached the end of the road, plain pissed on everyone’s head but it didn’t matter anymore. She was a dead woman walking. If the sharks at IA didn’t get her, the Feds eventually would. They would never leave her alone.

  She knew things, bad things no one ought to know. It was time to go speak to Jessie. She was the only other person alive who knew what Colby knew. But, the difference was, Colby was certain Jessie remembered every bad detail.

  ***

  The cell was pitch black, cool and dark the way she liked it until the lights came on in a flash of brightness and pain. She was unable to suppress the groan that followed or the tears spilling out in sympathy from her burning eyes.

  "Visitors," she thought snapping her eyes closed.

  Other than wait, it was all she could do to mitigate her discomfort. Her hands and feet were secured by leather restraints, while a chest strap kept her bound tight to the bed.

  As the lights snapped off again, plunging her back into the dark, she counted the seconds before the door to her cell was unlocked. It was the same, a count of ten and the lights clicked back on. She knew the burly guards were now in the room, she could smell them. It was the unmistakable sourish tang of sweat mingled with cheap aftershave. After a brief pause the soft sound of Dr. Leshkari's silk slacks followed.

  Jessie Walsh smiled at the subtle hesitation. Although she appeared confident, the doctor always delayed her usual regal entrance for several seconds so she could reassure herself from the doorway her patients were still securely restrained. Jessie learned over the years Dr. Leshkari's seemingly abundant confidence was merely superficial—a smoke screen to fool the dull and the inattentive. Unfortunately for the good doctor, Jessie was neither.

  Jessie briefly opened her eyes curious as to the reason for this unexpected call. After three years of waiting and watching, she could distinguish the times when the doctor was truly frightened beneath her otherwise outwardly calm exterior. She looked forward to these occasions, savoring each precious moment like snowflakes on her tongue, each delicious in its own naked purity.

  Letting her eyes take their time along each curve and plane. She noted there was a change in Dr. Leshkari's stance. Jessie was witnessing something different on the doctor's part, not just fear but uncertainty to the point of panic. She let a small smile crack the edges of her parched lips. The doctor's raw emotion was novel entertainment on what was a very slow dullish day.

  "You have visitors coming. They will be here within twenty four hours but will only be permitted to stay less than thirty minutes. You will not speak or make eye contact. You will be a model patient or I will document your uncooperative behavior on yet another report to your guardian. Who knows, perhaps if I write my note correctly, it may trigger a surprise visit. Wouldn't it be lovely to have a visit from your guardian?"

  Jessie's smile faded allowing the doctor's to grow broader.

  "You will be washed and cleaned up before the visit and you will be allowed to eat afterwards. Perhaps, I might even let you sleep for a few nights without your restraints, if you're a good girl and only if you are a good girl." The doctor smiled wistfully trying to stoke up her own confidence on the back of Jessie’s distress.

  Jessie giggled. "But, I'm not a good girl, Doctor. I'm as far from being a good girl as a girl can get. I was dreaming about you drilling my upturned ass again with that big, bad cock of yours. You cum so much the last time, I could smell it leaking out of your cunt. Does Mr. Leshkari know you think of me at night when he sticks his dick into you?”

  Jessie’s small smile slowly widened into a broad grin as the doctor abruptly turned away followed by the guards. The doctor's distinct high heeled footsteps echoed off the hard concrete floor before the door slammed shut again.

  *****

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, March 14th

  Colby’s first thought as the gothic spires loomed into view, high above Route 9, was it all looked too much like a page out of a Batman comic book. The wild rolling hillside, an endless road, and the big creepy building waiting to swallow her up at the end of it. The steel grey March sky hanging menacingly low over the hill like a history of violence did nothing to lighten the mood. Colby knew it would pour soon in classic New England fashion to complete the inhospitable setting.

  She took the first right after the sign for Wellesley Hills. The road narrowed considerably with overgrown trees and greenery crowding the shoulder. Their wild, untamed branches made a dark day, darker still. What would Bruce Wayne say? All in all probably something gloomy, deep and cheesy about madness making us what we are.

  Colby never told anyone but she loved the Caped Crusader. Her secret obsession with the Dark Knight began with the very first issue of Detective Comics she clipped from the half rotten wooden rack at the Park Street T newsstand. All his brooding machismo struck a chord with a skinny, insecure kid from the wrong side of Dudley Square. Batman was the ultimate survivor. The hero the bad guys could never kill, but no one ever stopped to count the myth's real cost. The burden of guilt he carried when the people around him dropped like so many flies amid the never ending carnage.

  Colby startled back to full attention at a particularly sharp turn. Half expecting to be overtaken on the curve by a speeding Batmobile, she shifted a little late. The pitiful sounds of metallic torture coming from the much abused engine as the gears started grinding made her cringed.

  “That’s gonna bite me in the ass when I can least afford it,” She muttered to herself as a stray piano chord formed in her mind.

  "F#."

  The car belonged to Marty once upon a time. Being a sentimental old fool, he entrusted the care of his baby to Colby in his will, never actually expecting he would die before selling it to fund his retirement. Colby was the type nobody in their right mind would entrust with anything mechanically more challenging than a can opener much less a classic and lovingly restored 1973 Dodge Charger.

  Marty loved cars. He could never quite put a finger on it but there was something about bright spray painted sheet metal and exhaust fumes which lulled his senses in a siren song. He told Colby he couldn’t afford his own set of wheels when he was in high school and it left him feeling cheated, like he somehow missed out on a youthful rite of passage. He bought the Charger from a junk yard in West Roxbury spellbound by its 440 engine, content to spend more than a few summers restoring his long neglected sleeping beauty.

  The car, like Colby, suffered since his passing. The transmission needed work and the engine was beginning to splutter. Despite her best intentions, Colby knew it was only a matter of time before she would be forced to sell out. She loved the car but she lacked the cash and the genius to keep it running and on the road.

  The road levelled out close to the top of the hill. There were several smaller side roads that broke away on each side but she decided to keep to the main thoroughfare climbing ever higher up into the Wellesley Hills. Colby slammed on the brakes a little harder than needed at the sight of a small blue sign with a white arrow just before an obscure left turn, causing the temperamental Dodge to fishtail on the slick road.

  The roadways around Route 9 were always slushy this time of year regardless of the weather. Today the melting snow was causing run off from the hills to flow right into the road. A horn blast from the truck behind her let Colby know she needed to take the turn quick or her back end would soon end up in need of more repairs than the transmission.

  Colby managed not to spin out on the sharp turn. Carefully she came off the brake and tapped the gas to give her car a fighting chance on the slippery road. It might be spring but there was still plenty of black ice to spin her tires and send her careening backward down the long, narrow way.

  As she drove, an ancient red brick fortress came into view. The Abhorda
le Clinic was designed as a convent for Roman Catholic nuns at the turn of the 19th century. Built at the direction of Cardinal O'Connell, it was a towering architectural statement of the growing strength of the faith in America. Viewed by some as an unprecedented insult aimed at the affluent Protestant community living in the surrounding area, it heralded the end of an establishment that started with the Mayflower and the rise of a new world order, built brick by brick on the backs of the immigrant faithful.

  But, that was a long time ago. The property was eventually redeveloped by the diocese into a private psychiatric hospital, despite the protest of surrounding residents. They had lobbied the Church for years to tear down the eye sore, more commonly known as “The Castle,” and replace it with something of benefit to the local community, such as a school for special needs children.

  Keeping an eye out for a familiar dark green Ford Explorer, Colby did a loop round the outer edge of the parking lot. The vehicle’s presence would signal the formidable Melissa Swartz was already on site. Colby was mildly disappointed to see counsel had not yet arrived.

  Ms. Swartz had been appointed Jessie’s lawyer at the time of the arraignment. She was instrumental in convincing the presiding judge to order a thirty day mental health assessment. While the prosecutor was attempting to charge Jessie with her father's murder, she was just as eager to paint Jessie as a victim. In the end the mental health team deemed Jessie Walsh mentally incompetent for trial. Story was they didn’t need thirty days to come to a decision. They closed her file after Jessie bit into the femoral artery of the first analyst she saw.

  The prosecutor and police commissioner determined after the mental health assessment came back to clear Jessie of any possible involvement with the Ripper murders. It would not do to have the Ripper's Daughter end up a drooling maniac unable to stand trial when she had eluded capture for so long. This left Jessie Walsh on record as nothing more than an innocent bystander to her father's murder.

  "You get what you pay for and it seems Jessie pays well," Colby commented to herself as she pulled into a parking spot in front of the palatial institution.

  Colby always found it strange Jessie could afford a high powered defence team from Robeson, Grace, and Strake and a private psychiatric hospital. The firm was not known to take on many pro bono cases, while the Abhordale Clinic was very private and very exclusive. It was one of the few in the country to offer private care for the criminally insane.

  Colby tried to ferret out from her sources at the courthouse who would have the pull to secure Jessie her legal team. Her questions quickly got back to the Captain. He told her in no uncertain terms to back off, like he was running scared or something. Colby always had a bad hunch about the “or something” part when it came to Jessie Walsh. Nothing about her after Marty’s death made sense.

  “Well,” Colby remarked dryly climbing out of the car,” here we are at The Castle. Let the games begin.”

  ***

  “Detective Willis,” Colby announced loudly as she flashed her shield at the receptionist on duty, “I’m expected. I have a one o’clock appointment with Jessie Walsh and her attorney.”

  Dressed in a shapeless smock, the woman behind the counter was in her mid-fifties, frumpy with thick plastic framed spectacles. The charmless glasses made her shifty eyes look even more rat-like in the dank surroundings. She took no notice of Colby and continued, instead, to straighten out a paperclip which she carefully added to a half filled jelly jar placed prominently in front of her otherwise barren work station.

  Colby narrowed her eyes and mentally counted to ten as the woman reached into an open drawer and took out another paperclip. She hated having to deal with the staff at “The Castle,” it was always mind games with them. They were always trying to push her patience and patience was in short supply with Colby. But Colby knew the deck was not stacked in her favour, one slip of the tongue, a raised voice and they would throw her out faster than she could say “motherfucker.” If she wanted to see Jessie Walsh it was in her best interest to dig deep and be pleasant. Determined not to be brushed off again, Colby was about to open her mouth when the woman suddenly cocked her head at the lobby area and whispered out loud to an imaginary point somewhere above Colby’s right shoulder.

  “One, two, the lawyer man? Button his shoes. He’s waiting over by the fish tank. Three, four, I’ll let Dr. Leshkari know both of you are here. You fuckin’, sucking dyke.”

  Without giving Colby a second look the woman picked up the phone and began to page the doctor on the crackling PA system in halting Spanish. Colby trudged to the lobby somewhat sullen with the abrupt dismissal, but not unhappy to put some distance between the woman and herself. It was too bad she pissed Faust off before the trip. Colby hated having to deal with The Castle's crazies alone.

  “What a cracked cunt, I friggin' hate nut jobs.” Colby’s muttered complaint was met with a loud chuckle and a blazing smile.

  “She’s probably a former resident of the facility,” a booming baritone voice attempted to stifle another chuckle and failed miserably. “According to Social Services, the Abhordale Clinic is attempting to integrate their long term residents back into society by providing them with meaningful work experience."

  Colby glanced at the pudgy hand extended as an offered greeting.

  "More like getting away with slave labour," Colby countered and the man laughed. He was late twenties at most but well on his way to bald; a large man over six feet tall with blue twinkling eyes. His round face and ruddy cheeks seemed hairless at first glance, but a second, more careful look revealed fine blond eye brows and lashes. The delicate cherubic features looked out of place on the burly man, making him resemble an overgrown boy scout, with the finely tailored suit adding to the allusion of lightness in spite of the obvious bulk.

  “You must be Detective Sergeant Colby Willis. I’m Harrison O’Neil. I’m Ms. Walsh’s new attorney.”

  Colby shook the man’s hand, before opening with an unkind question, “What happened to the old bull dyke Swartz? Jessie decided to bite off her face or something?”

  Harrison gave a gentle smile which belittled any offence Colby might have intended.

  “I'm surprised the appointment coordinator didn't mention the change of representation to you. He must have thought you already knew. Most everybody knows by now. Ms. Swartz passed away last winter. It was a private funeral. She didn’t have any family left in Boston so the office arranged it. She had an accident at home, a bad fall down her cellar stairs. She broke her neck and quite a few other bones as well. She survived for a few days but was too injured to summon help. It was weeks before we found her. The undertaker said it best, there's nothing worse than dying alone unable to ask for help which you know for certain is within reach.”

  He blushed slightly, "It’s a bad habit. Some lawyers remember judges' rulings, I remember pathos."

  Colby raised a shocked eyebrow at the information. She had never been fond of Melissa Swartz, but even she would not have wished a lonely pain filled death at the bottom of a freezing flight of stairs on her worst enemy. There were more comfortable ways to get to hell and Colby was an expert on most of them.

  Harrison misunderstood her expression as doubtful and rushed to explain.

  “She was on Christmas leave from work. Nobody from the office was unduly alarmed when we couldn’t reach her. We thought she might have gone away to Florida to visit her aunt and not told anyone. She was a very private person. We didn’t start worrying until she didn’t show for an appointment with an old client. Ms. Swartz was always very reliable," Harrison O’Neil explained.

  “I suppose Jessie Walsh has an air tight alibi for this last holiday season,” Colby asked in a tone that was only half joking.

  Harrison’s reply was refreshing if boring, “I reviewed the parking lot security tapes from Abhordale myself. Foul play involving Jessie Walsh was my first thought as well. The Medical Examiner’s report indicated no foul play. She suffered no other injuries
except the fractured neck and broken bones consistent with a fall. Still, I would have been happier if the Boston PD was informed. I had reservations about the Wareham cops finding their own dicks never mind uncovering a murder by somebody as dangerous as Ms. Walsh. But, Mr. Strake did not want undo attention brought to an accidental death of a rising partner.”

  “Mr. O’Neil …” Colby stammered as she tried unsuccessful to close her mouth before she swallowed a fly.

  Harrison was a man of many surprises and Colby was beginning to like him against her better judgment. She could just see him working the courtroom with those Boy Scout manners of his, wrapping the jury around his pudgy little finger.

  “I thought you guys were all about defending the rights of your vicious little nut job clients and screwing the system.”

  Again, Colby found Harrison unflinchingly open and candid.

  “My job is to protect Ms. Walsh. That means protecting her from unfair treatment by the Commonwealth but, also, from any harm she’s likely to inflict on herself. Detective, I am well aware my client is seriously ill. There is no doubt in my mind that left unsecured, Ms. Walsh would harm herself and anybody stupid enough to be within striking distance of her. Her financial guardian agrees with me on this and while officially our priority is her eventual rehabilitation, we are both realists. It is unlikely Ms. Walsh will ever be well enough to live in an unsupervised setting.”