The makeup artist managed to brush some powder a little too close to Sirk’s eyes, producing momentary irritation. “Sorry,” she deadpanned.
“At any rate,” Sirk continued when he had wiped his eyes with a pocket square, “I can’t vouch for any criminal implications to these disappearances, but some of them could be deemed suspicious. You’ll see why when you read the reports.”
“You have them with you?” Jennifer asked.
“My researchers printed out the relevant pages and made copies. Said copies are in my attaché case. Unclasp it and you’ll find a manila envelope.”
Jennifer retrieved the envelope. It felt disappointingly light. There weren’t many pages inside.
“They didn’t find much,” Sirk said as if reading her thoughts. “The stories were not given much play. There was a great deal of crime in Venice and surrounding areas in those halcyon days, and only the juiciest tidbits made the headlines. A missing woman, who was inconsiderate enough not to leave behind any bloodstains or shredded undergarments for public titillation, was strictly small beer. Still, you’ll find names, locations, and dates. Take a look. And keep them in order, please. They are arranged chronologically.”
Jennifer pulled out the contents of the envelope. Eight pages in all. The articles, brief items from the inside pages of the newspapers, were circled in red ink on the photocopies. She read the first one.
The Los Angeles Examiner, January 16, 1908. Venice-of-America. Police authorities are making inquiries relative to the unexplained disappearance of Marianne Sorensen, a waitress presently employed at St. Mark’s Hotel. Miss Sorenson is described as twenty years of age, with dark brown hair, regular features, and a compact figure, standing slightly below medium height. She was last seen boarding a northbound electric car at about five o’clock Tuesday evening. The car was to have delivered her to the vicinity of Dimmick Avenue, where she had been staying with friends. She did not arrive, and has not been seen in subsequent days. It is conjectured that because she had a recent falling out with her boyfriend, she may have done herself harm....
“What the heck is an electric car?” Maura asked, reading over Jennifer’s shoulder
Sirk answered. “A trolley. They were the principal means of local transportation at the time.”
The second article was on a new subject.
The Los Angeles Express, August 7, 1908. Venice-of-America. Questions have been raised pertaining to the disappearance of Annette Thurmond, a young woman commonly known in the strand as the “flower girl,” because she customarily sells bouquets of flowers outside the Auditorium.... The supposition is that Miss Thurmond, who had often spoken of plying her trade in San Diego, may have departed for that city on a whim....
“It looks like nobody really gave a damn,” Maura said.
“Quite right,” Sirk agreed. “In a bustling young community there were higher priorities then a few disappearances. Even if crime had been suspected, it would hardly do to advertise the fact and possibly damage the tourist trade.”
The first two items have been dated 1908. The third was the following year.
The Los Angeles Daily Times, March 18, 1909. Venice-of-America. There is much speculation among the idly curious about the disappearances of three or four young ladies of dissolute character over the past two months. Wild rumors and exaggerated conjecture have been patiently addressed by the police authorities, who are of the mind that such women are habitually on the move, rarely sojourning in one community for very long. With the regrettable decline of the strand’s business activity in recent months, it is hardly surprising that some of the parasitic class who require a steady supply of tourists and sightseers would seek out more hospitable climes....
“Three or four women,” Jennifer said. “And that doesn’t include the victims in the first two reports.”
“If they were victims,” Sirk observed.
The makeup artist powdered Sirk’s ears, then stepped away. Sirk untied the bib around his neck and inspected his countenance in the mirror.
“Excellent work, Helen. Whoever said the camera never lies must have been unfamiliar with your magic arts.”
Helen left the room without a word.
The next two stories were datelined Santa Monica and its southernmost neighborhood, Ocean Park.
The Los Angeles Herald, November 5, 1909. Santa Monica. The family of Mrs. John Wright are requesting the assistance of the public in determining her whereabouts. Mrs. Wright, known familiarly as Kathleen, was last seen at the fruit and vegetable market at the end of the Long Wharf, early on Wednesday morning. One witness says he saw her speaking with a dark-complected man of medium height, but as this witness is a vagrant known for his intimate familiarity with the bottle, the authorities are disinclined to credit his report....
The Santa Monica Outlook, May 17, 1910. Ocean Park. A woman’s screams were reported by residents of the 400 block of Pier Avenue last night at about 10 o’clock. Investigating officers found no signs of disturbance and believe the sounds in question may have been drunken laughter....
“That one could be nothing,” Maura said. Jennifer nodded. She flipped to the next pages.
The Los Angeles Sunday Times, October 16, 1910. Venice-of-America. A tourist from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Mrs. Thomas Mayhew, has been reported missing by her husband. Authorities fear that Mrs. Mayhew, an inexpert swimmer, may have drowned in the heavy surf off Venice Beach. As yet, her body has not been found...
The Los Angeles Examiner, March 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. Employers of Miss Mary Hatton are concerned for her welfare after her repeated failure to report for her duties at the bathing pavilion, where she worked as a towel girl in the women’s changing rooms. Miss Hatton, described by her employers as “a little thing and rather delicate,” was well liked by the ladies who frequent the pavilion....
The Venice Vanguard, June 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. The police of this city are inquiring into the disappearance of Mrs. Ronald Paynter, wife of a businessman who recently purchased a home on Park Avenue after relocating from Glendale. Mrs. Paynter vanished more than a month ago, but her husband at first chose to retain a private investigator in hope of locating her. These efforts having failed, he has belatedly brought the matter to the attention of police. By now the trail is believed to be quite cold....
There were no other reports. The articles ran from the beginning of 1908 to the early summer of 1911. Viewed all at once, they suggested a rash of disappearances, but spread over three and a half years, in more than one community, and involving women of varying ages, backgrounds, and social positions, they would not have suggested an epidemic at the time—especially in an era when the very concept of a serial killer was barely understood.
It was doubtful that all these women had been Edward Hare’s victims. Perhaps the unfortunate Mrs. Mayhew really had drowned in the surf, and perhaps Mrs. Paynter had run away with another man—which would explain why her husband tried to keep the matter confidential. But it was a safe bet that some of the half-dozen skeletons in the cellar had been named in these newspaper accounts.
Marianne Sorensen...Annette Thurmond...Kathleen Wright... Mary Hatton.
Names for the moldering bones in the crypt. Names that made them people, not just relics.
Names...
“You see something,” Sirk said.
She glanced up and caught him watching her reflection in the mirror.
“No, not really.”
“You’re prevaricating, Jennifer. I saw it in your face—recognition. Of what?”
“Just an idea that occurred to me. I don’t know if it means anything.”
“Why not share it with the rest of the class?”
“I’m not sure it’s worth sharing.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Abberline had said nearly the same thing to her. Perhaps Sirk really was the faceless man on the Internet. She wouldn’t put it past him.
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” She slipp
ed the papers back into the envelope. “I appreciate your help, but this is something I need to handle on my own.”
“Oh, I hardly think that answer is satisfactory.” Sirk heaved himself out of the barber’s chair. “As Maura can attest, I never do anything out of the goodness of my heart. I believe I suffer from the same congenital malady as Dr. Seuss’s Grinch, who, as you may recall, was born with a heart two sizes too small. As with any good deed that emanates from my person, there is a quid pro quo. I’ve helped you, and now you are to help me.”
“Help you how?”
“By telling me the rest of your story, of course.” He stepped closer, and Jennifer smelled alcohol on his breath. “No more secrecy, no more evasions. You and I are partners now.”
Maura waved a hand. “Hold on, Harrison. All I ever asked you to do was talk to my friend. I wasn’t trying to midwife some kind of business arrangement.”
“And yet you have done so, without even trying. Such is your skill as a businesswoman.”
Jennifer stood her ground. “I’m not going to tell you anything more.”
“I didn’t engage my research assistants in a full day of work for a rather hefty fee merely to get nothing in return.”
Maura snorted. “You don’t pay your research assistants a hefty fee. You pay them squat.”
“How can you possibly claim to know that?”
“Because I know you. You’re a cheap bastard.”
“And you are a purveyor of dirt. That’s all real estate is, ultimately. You’ve built your life on dirt.”
“You’ve built yours on blood,” Jennifer said, while Maura stepped back, speechless for once.
Sirk wheeled in her direction. “I would be careful, Miss Silence, about leveling such an accusation. Given your family history.”
“My family is none of your business.”
“Everything related to crime in our fair metropolis is my business. Including the Devil’s Henchman.” His eyes narrowed with malicious merriment. “You know, there is one detail about that case that never made the papers. I should have mentioned it yesterday, but I was hamstrung by discretion.”
“What detail?”
“Only this. The Devil’s Henchman abused his victims. I mean to say, he used them...sexually.”
She refused to let him see any reaction. “He raped them?”
“In a manner of speaking. They were already dead, you see, so the coitus was entirely postmortem.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
“I thought you deserved to know. You do have a rather pertinent interest in the case. I use the term interest in the dual sense of curiosity and of a personal stake in the outcome.”
“You’re just trying to hurt me.”
“Not at all. It’s not as if I said your father was a butchering pervert who had sex with corpses. For all I know, the dear man was altogether innocent.”
“Jesus, Harrison,” Maura mumbled, aghast.
“Is there a problem?” His eyes had not left Jennifer’s face. “I should think you would welcome any fresh data in your fearless quest for truth.”
She held his gaze. “Maybe you can tell me if the killer used the missionary position.”
“Actually, my understanding is that he took them from behind. Perhaps he preferred not to see their faces. Incidentally, Jack the Ripper throttled his victims from behind. Remarkable how many parallels one can draw between old Jack and the Devil’s Henchman, isn’t it?”
“Like you said”—her voice was even, betraying nothing—“there are only so many ways to disembowel a woman.”
“Yes, but consider. The Venice killer roamed the streets on foot—like Jack. Preyed on down-and-out females—like Jack. Eviscerated them—like Jack. Was thought to show the skills of a surgeon or a slaughterman—like Jack. Took his victims from behind—like Jack. Of course, Jack didn’t rape them, so the similarities end there.”
“And what’s the point of listing all these details?”
“Merely to suggest that you may have a more personal connection to the Ripper case than I had imagined.”
“My father was born several decades too late to have been Jack the Ripper.”
“But not too late to be descended from him.”
It required all her willpower to keep her gaze level. “That’s crazy.”
“Before yesterday, I would have thought so. Today I’m not so sure. Seeing your face right now, I’m even less sure.”
“Harrison,” Maura hissed, “you’re behaving like a total shit.”
“No, my dear, I’m behaving like a historian of crime whose sensitive proboscis is beginning to catch the scent of the biggest story he could possibly hope for. The kind of story that would crown a career.”
“There’s no story,” Jennifer said.
“My every instinct tells me otherwise. And my instincts are rarely mistaken. They have earned me a great deal of money and brought me a fair degree of fame.”
“But not enough?” she asked.
He smiled, a paper-thin smile that spoke of limitless appetites. “My child, it is never enough.”
twenty-seven
It was one o’clock when Jennifer boarded the elevator with Maura and descended to the parking garage.
“Heading home?” Jennifer asked. They had taken separate cars to Hollywood. It wasn’t safe to leave a vehicle parked in Dogtown for too long.
Maura shook her head without answering. She had said little since Sirk’s outburst.
Jennifer tried to get the conversation started. “Got plans?”
“I’m going downtown.” Maura looked away. “Business stuff.”
She seemed to be hiding something, but Jennifer couldn’t imagine what.
They got off at the garage level. A few steps from the elevator, Maura stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Sorry for what?”
“For hooking you up with Harrison. I didn’t know—I never saw that side of him—”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. But I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?”
“Never mind. I just will. And you need to call the cops.”
“So far I have nothing but suspicions.”
“So report your suspicions.”
“Not yet.”
“Damn. You are the stubborn one.” Unexpectedly she gave Jennifer a hug. “Take care of yourself, kiddo. And remember, there are wolves in the woods.”
Jennifer watched her walk away, her flat-soled shoes echoing on the concrete floor. In the past, she’d resented Maura for abandoning Richard. It had never occurred to her that Maura was the aggrieved party. And she had stayed quiet about Richard’s transgressions, preferring not to sully his image in the eyes of his sister. There was nobility in her tactfulness, and simple kindness that was rare anywhere—perhaps especially so in Los Angeles, a city with a warm climate and a cold heart.
She arrived home by two P.M. and went immediately to the back of the house. Her laptop had been left on; so far there had been no reply by Abberline to her instant message. It wasn’t her highest priority now.
What she’d seen when she looked at Sirk’s news clippings was more than a hunch, less than proof. But the proof might be waiting here, in her study.
She took out the loose pages of her notes from the meeting with Sandra Price. She arranged the four crimes—two homicides, one assault, one disappearance—in chronological order, then wrote three lists.
First, the Ripper’s five initial victims in London.
Mary Ann (Polly) Nichols
Annie Chapman
Elizabeth Stride
Catharine Eddowes
Mary Jane Kelly
Then four of the missing women in Venice a hundred years ago.
Marianne Sorenson
Annette Thurmond
Kathleen Wright
Mary Hatton
Finally, the local women who had been attacked or who had disappeared within the past eighteen months.
Mary Ellison—eighteen months ago
Ann Powell—twelve months ago
Elizabeth Custer—seven months ago
Chatty Cathy—three months ago
The first victim in each sequence was Mary Ann, Marianne, or Mary. The second was Annie, Annette, or Ann. The third was Elizabeth Stride in 1888 and Elizabeth Custer recently; there was no corresponding name in the old news accounts Sirk’s people had dug up, but that point in the chronology matched the reported disappearances of “three or four” anonymous women of low repute. One of them could easily have been Elizabeth or Liz or Beth.
Fourth came Catharine or Kathleen or Cathy. Fifth, Mary Jane in 1888, Mary in 1911. There hadn’t been a fifth homicide in the newest series. Not yet.
The police wouldn’t have seen it, of course—not in the early 1900s, and not today. In neither instance would they have been looking for the parallels.
According to his diary, Hare had not known his victims’ names in London until after the fact. But once in Venice, years older, he must have recreated the glories of his youth, deliberately targeting women with the same—or similar—names. As a lark? More likely, it was a message for the future, a code to be deciphered. He hadn’t wanted his work to be uncredited and unappreciated for all time. He must have hoped that someone, someday, would see the pattern—perhaps after finding the crypt and the diary, his secret time capsule.
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