by Paul Sating
"Thanks." Monica waited until Branson close the door behind him. "Let's talk, Janis."
Janis steeled herself. "Seriously, Monica, I get it. Branson stumbled onto something and, honestly, I'm okay. It makes sense to have him do the research."
Monica shook her head. "No, I don't want to talk to about that. I want to talk to you about what happened today. About you, your, you know, state. Your health. How are you doing with everything?"
The walls pressed in. The air felt thicker, harder to draw breath. Tired of the focus on her health, seeing no one cared until they want to critique, Janis bit back her truer response. "Monica, I'm fine," Janis said. "Everything is, honestly. Don't worry about me. We've got other things going on that need our attention."
"Normally I would agree," Monica nodded, "but you haven't been here very long and there have been problems. With your health. With getting along with people. And then this explosion in the restroom."
How could she focus on that without focusing on the bigger picture, without focusing on how she had contributed to the problem? It was unfair. "In case you haven't noticed, this is an incredibly stressful story," Janis reminded her. "I'm not covering the local cultural events calendar or news out of the school boards. God, I'm covering the murders of three goddamn women."
Monica shook her head in a half circle. "There it is again."
Janis's eyes narrowed. "There what is again?"
"You. Janis, the paper has been very patient throughout this," Monica said, wrapping the end of her pen on her notepad. "There was always a risk hiring you but I was willing to take it because of your amazing talent. And don't get me wrong, you're a hell of a writer. As much as you've alienated yourself from a number of agencies around the city, you're still highly spoken, trust me. There were some reservations with the board but you're here because people took up your case. They believed in you enough to endorse you."
Where was this going? Monica kept dangling the hook then yanking it. "Great. I appreciate those people, but I didn't get here because of them, and I'm not working this type a story because of them," Janis asserted. "I'm here because of my work, what I bring to the table. Plain and simple. So, I'm sorry if my peculiarities bother a few people, but everyone has them. They just manifest differently. I have medical needs which require special attention but they don't normally interfere with my performance and, when they do, I more than make up for it. Don't I? Don't you remember? My safety was threatened because I worked late to make up for the time I'd missed. I got followed to my car by a man who might be the person the police are looking for because my dedication kept me here long after everyone else went home. So please don't preach at me. It's not fair."
"You have that luxury," Monica said. It was a quiet comment, almost full of remorse.
"What?"
Monica waved a hand at the wall separating them from everyone else. "The luxury of only worrying about you. I don't. I have to worry about everyone. And, just to be clear, I don't care about the constant pissing matches between you and Branson as long as they stay behind doors. You don't like each other? Fine. Just keep it between the two of you and, better yet, keep the nastiness in my office where I can reign you two in."
"Are you going to talk to him too?" Janis interrupted. "Are you going to lay down the law for Branson?" Subtlety be damned. Why was she being read the riot act and Branson escaping any culpability? More southern misogyny, from a woman no less?
"This isn't about him," Monica said. "And that's not your concern. This is about you. This entire conversation is about you. Jesus, Janis. I'm trying to work with you on this! I need you to work with me too."
Janis sighed. "Fine, Monica. Fine. What do you want from me?"
Monica straightened and closed her eyes. Janis had previously noted Monica doing this when she was trying to be strong. A dead giveaway. "I'm going to have Branson and Angelique stay on top of any breaking elements of the story," Monica explained. "This might be the—"
"You're suspending me?" Janis shouted, making Monica's eyes snap open.
Monica blinked and shook her head quickly. "What? No! I'm not. Don't think that."
"Then what's happening here?"
"I need you to take some time off," Monica replied. "Recharge. Refresh. Just get away from the story for a bit. It's a horrible story. Absolutely horrible. And I think I unfairly expected too much from you when I put you alone on it. I should have had either Angelique or Branson, or both, take this on with you. But, well, there's politics and I was thinking more about protecting the paper than I was the people. And I'm sorry for that, Janis. I'm really sorry. So, take some time."
She was stunned. Flabbergasted. She didn't honestly think Monica would fire her because of the little outburst in a bathroom, but she didn't expect this. Maybe a sharp talking–to or formal counseling; but not this. Not a suspension. It didn't matter how Monica framed it. That's what was happening here. "But I don't want to. I don't want to take a break! This is my story. Mine. Not Branson's, not Angelique's. It's mine!"
Monica stood and moved to her desk, putting a barrier between them. "Janis, the story belongs to the city. It's our story. And you're not doing it any justice in your state. This isn't a request."
Janis searched the floor, thinking, scrambling for any response or any retort that wouldn't sound invalid. But nothing came to her. They were ganging up on her and taking her story away from her. She'd had a simple blowup, a professional disagreement, nothing more. And now she was being pushed from her own story.
"So you can finish the day and then collect your things after the office empties, okay?" Monica tried to smile, but it was as fake as the spirit of Southern hospitality she'd found since moving to Memphis. "But I don't want to see you back here until you're in the right frame of mind. Take care of yourself." She said the last bit as if it was an afterthought. And it might as well of been.
Janis grabbed the chair arms in a tight grip. The conversation was over, there was nothing more that could or would be said.
Janis knew herself well enough to know that; anything she said at this point would just do more damage than good. She silently collected her things, sniffling as she bent down to pull her purse up from the floor. When she stood, she looked past Monica, who busied herself by punching out a new email, and out toward the cityscape below.
Out there, Memphis went about its regular routine of pretending to be a big city while clinging to its traditions. Out there, no one had any idea about the evil lurking in its neighborhoods because no one was being honest with them. Ignorant sheep, led to the slaughter.
Janis drew a deep breath, trying to calm down and summon the courage to be strong.
To not explode.
Not crumble.
She didn't have Angelique and couldn't go to her mother. In the entire city, there was no one and nothing she could depend on. And now she didn't have the story.
Her story.
This wasn't how this was going to end.
36
Three.
Legacy wasn't born on a trilogy.
It was risky to move again, with so much attention on the case, from the police to the media. From whispered conversations in coffee houses to coworkers trading "I heards" at water coolers around Memphis, everyone was talking about the murders. For now, there was nothing else newsworthy.
Caution had to be exercised, but the urge was strong. The pull, the tug, pricked.
Urgency, created by attention, sought. By respect, demanded. By the birthright of destruction.
A cleansing.
To remind.
To cement.
To carry on and return honor and purity.
***
Even as the loop closed, better to be the hunter.
***
Four.
37
Two weeks passed. Fourteen long days filled with nothing but thoughts about the story, its movers and shakers, and all the things that might have transpired since she'd been away.
E
ven though she did her best to keep her ear to the ground, Janis had fallen out of the loop in the time since she was last allowed in the office. Even Angelique had gone radio silent, the pair not speaking since the blowup. In the past, when Janis was detached, Angelique would always serve as her grounding rod, helping her feel like she was still part of the world, even when she wasn't. After everything that had transpired before and after the restroom incident, Angelique seemed to have dropped off the face of the world. Everyone had a line they wouldn't be pushed over. Janis had found Angelique's.
Two weeks of sitting around, staring at the walls, waiting for a call.
Nothing.
Janis tried to write blogs, but they fell apart before she reached the hundred-word mark. She tried to tidy up the meta-data on her YouTube channel and gave up before she realized she didn't care to understand what good meta-data even was.
The slip.
She was slipping back into a life she had fought to escape. The regression was caustic.
Everyone, except for Marshall, who was still there, abandoned her.
The two of them had seen each other a few times since Monica's suspension-that-wasn't-a-suspension. Marshall was distracted each time, as if he had more important things going on, even though nothing new had come up in terms of leads. Too distracted to express empathy that she wasn't working the story anymore.
But at least he was present.
Memphis' murders were consuming him. In the two weeks, his shaving routine had obviously become a second priority, and he looked like he wasn't getting much sleep. Twice, while meeting for coffee, Janis noticed his shirt needed to be ironed. The offer to do it for him was on her lips both times, and that wasn't the only service she wanted to offer.
Little by little, Marshall gave bits of information. Not that it was easy; in fact, he only gave reluctantly, when he gave at all. If he was tight-lipped because of her status or because something Monica said, Janis couldn't be sure, but their conversations weren't nearly as smooth as they'd been before. Yet, she chipped, and cracks appeared in his armor, but that was only because Janis knew where to look. Those small bites, though, kept her informed and aware of everything that was happening and, better yet, not happening. Every bit had to be pried out of Marshall.
The police were still searching and not finding, no closer than when she'd walked out of The Times. It was unclear if the Memphis PD were looking at new people. Marshall wasn't explicit on that topic, and Janis tread carefully as to not provoke. Not even an off–the–record comment. It was still possible that their leads had fallen through.
Janis smiled and stretched, making her way to the bathroom to heat the shower. Her morning run was cathartic, for both her physical and mental spirit. Last night was a late one, she stayed up far later than any sane person should on a weeknight, getting a run in was an accomplishment. The fresh air and empty streets helped clear her mind and wash away the filth she felt from her previous night. Poor sleep was disastrous to her bipolar management. Guilt was a wonderful corrective tool. In those times she caught herself not practicing self-care, one of the easiest corrective measures was to punish herself physically. Five miles of pounding Memphis' streets under a brutal morning sun served as a wonderful consequence.
Janis stripped off the sweaty spandex pants and sports bra, relieved when they peeled from her skin. Memphis' entertainment district probably smelled better than she did right now. Stepping into the shower, Janis thought about Monica because Monica was never far from her thoughts. How far could she be pushed? Would it be too soon to show up? Two weeks was a long time to be away in any profession. Her unfortunate explosion in the bathroom had frightened people, but that was half a month ago, and she had moved on. All of them would have by now. Surely.
Janis stood underneath the shower head. The weak water pressure manifest by rolling water that was barely good enough to lather up and get a decent rinse, and absolutely worthless for relaxing sore muscles. She didn't have the luxury of time to enjoy a soothing session anyway.
After two weeks, who knew what Angelique and Branson were prying into. What they didn't know, though, was the time away had refreshed her. Now, with her coming back, the story would be told correctly, the way it should be, the way the people depending on her demanded.
Janis stepped out of the shower and dried off, thinking about Angelique and how much she missed her. How far away from her she felt.
She was ready to be part of the team, even if that meant having to work with Branson, because the story was bigger than both of them. This was a chance to prove herself worthy, to those who doubted her, and those she yearned to be loved by. But would Monica give her that opportunity?
"Guess I'll find out," Janis said to the determined face in the mirror.
***
Angelique's world spun out of control.
When did this stop? When did the Memphis PD do their job and catch the person terrorizing the city? Why was this so goddamn difficult? They had suspects! A number of them. So what if they had to start over a few times? Manpower and money, the source of power for those who had it, the mechanism to maintain it, and in it, they had what they needed to bring the scumbag to justice. So what was taking them so long and why did Marshall look lost every damn time he came into the office?
She rested her hands on the table. There was a knock and she popped her head up. Monica stared at it as if she could see through it. "What is it?"
Without a reply, the door clicked open and the one person in the world Angelique didn't want any part of, but who she missed dearly, popped her head into the office, a smile on her lips.
A fake one, Angelique knew, but it suckered Monica any way.
"Janis? What are you doing here? Never mind that. Come in. Close the door. Hurry. Have a seat."
Angelique looked away, unable to meet Janis' eyes. It was hard enough to appear weak in front of an actually weak woman like Monica, but Janis' scrutiny was too much. A crying woman always drew attention. How long now had it been? When had she not been crying? Hours that felt like a lifetime. Angelique imagined how she appeared to everyone else, a complete wreck. Whatever they saw, she felt ten times worse inside.
"What's wrong?" Janis asked softly and paused. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Monica held up a hand. "Give me a second." She leaned closer to Angelique. "Are you okay? Do you need some privacy?"
Angelique shook her head. "No, it's fine. She can stay. And I—" This was going to hurt to admit. "I don't want to be alone, if you don't mind."
"Okay."
"What's going on? Angelique, are you okay?" Janis almost sounded like her old self again. Maybe the time away had done her some good after all. A chance to breathe, to detach from the world, might have worked for Janis. Won't do a damn thing for me, though. There was no hiding from serial killer's with an agenda.
"Yeah," was the best she could muster under the circumstances. Plus, she wasn't sure how much she was willing to share with Janis, now or until one of them no longer worked at the paper. Her love was deep, infidelity to their bond had damaged it beyond repair, at least for now. Once this mess was over, if she came out the other side, maybe then they could look at reconciliation. Not before.
"Monica?" Janis prodded.
Monica's gaze danced between Angelique and Janis, constantly checking back with Angelique as she spoke. "Marshall called me this morning. There's been another murder."
Janis snagged her notepad out of her bag, flipping it open and clicking her pen.
"Jenna Eddowes was found early this morning," Monica continued. "Same M.O., same area of the city."
"She was fucking mutilated, Janis!" Angelique exploded. "Mutilated! That's four! Four fucking women!"
Monica cleared her throat, paused, and spoke softly. "Her throat was slashed and ... and her uterus removed. The killer even removed her kidney."
Another knock on the door interrupted them.
"Jesus," Monica said in a frustrated voice. "C
ome in!" But her tone changed as soon as she saw Branson. "Thanks for getting back with this so quickly. What do you have?"
Branson pulled a chair to the table. No one argued. Angelique didn't even care about watching Janis's reactions to Branson's involvement anymore, that time had passed long ago. Where it used to be hilarious, it no longer was.
"Eddowes," he started. "That's the name of this morning's victim. The fourth woman killed in the same area of the city, in the same way, suffering the same injuries, and presumably by the same killer."
"Right," Monica said, indicating she was following along.
"Catherine Eddowes was Jack the Ripper's fourth victim at the end of September 1888," Branson continued, "a day after his third, Elizabeth Stride, was killed. Her name isn't exactly a common one, either here or in London at the time. The timeline is a little off; our Jack the Ripper is a little slower than the nineteenth-century London version, but the mode, methodology, and progression of the killings are spot on. This is the story, Monica. Everything lines up! Now they just need to find the Ripper." He paused, deep thought etched on his face. "Have you talked to Marshall?"
"Branson, a little discretion, please," Monica begged.
"Oh yeah, I'm sorry Angelique."
Before she could even accept his apology, Janis stepped in. "Guys, come on. You're making her a nervous wreck. There has to be a ton of people named Kelly in Memphis. We shouldn't play into sensationalizing this."
"How many of those people are single women?" Angelique said. "Spare me the lesson on falling for hyperbole. You're not at risk; you have nothing to worry about, so don't patronize me, not until your name is on the list."
Janis reached across and Angelique pulled away before the contact. Janis blinked, obviously hurt, and her cheeks flushed pink. She recovered quickly. "Honey, we don't know for sure that someone is trying to replicate the Ripper murders. We're speculating. This could be a coincidence."