“You don’t believe it,” she said.
“It’s just—it just doesn’t sit right. It would have been easy enough, I think, for anyone to have slipped into the veterans’ home—it’s open to visitors, and it’s not a prison. They’re still feeling their way on how to run the place. But whoever did this seemed familiar with police procedure. I suppose that Angus Avery could have worked with any number of police consultants over the years. And he would know that he had to kill quickly—before a victim could scratch him, or get a hold of him in any way that would give us DNA. These days, I’m sure, with the number of police-procedural shows, most people are aware that DNA can be a clincher in court. He would know, too, that the law would require due process…but so would anyone. Here’s what I don’t get as well—he knew nothing about anatomy, as far as we can discover. Not that the Ripper murders were necessarily carried out by someone with real medical knowledge—but the killer did know something about anatomy.”
Whitney shrugged. “Maybe he studied anatomy books?” she suggested.
“Thing is, a lot of this is harder than some people realize. You need strength to strangle someone. You really need strength to nearly sever a human head.” He shook his head. “One of the limo drivers had to be involved. That, or the killer had to have an accomplice. There had to be some blood on him, and that costume would have been noticed in the subway—even in New York.” He took another long swig of his beer, and moved the tray onto the bedside table. He leaned toward her. “There’s still work to be done, I’m afraid, if I’m going to accept all this. But, at least, I can pray that the murders will stop.”
Whitney nodded. She tried to shake off the somber mood of their discussion. “I say we call in for Chinese.”
“I think that’s great,” he said huskily.
“I’m going to phone Angela and let her know that I’ll be late.”
He reached out, stroking her cheek. “Call Angela, and tell her that I’ll have you back in the morning,” he suggested.
She smiled. “Okay.”
It was an amazing night; the Chinese food was delicious. Whitney wasn’t even sure what they ate. She teased him about being a cat person; he told her that cats were independent, and so, made very good pets. “Dogs are great animals, but they need a lot of attention,” he said.
Whitney thought about her ghost dog. “They give a lot of love,” she told him.
“That may be true,” he said. “But cats rule. And,” he said, pulling her close to him, “people can give devotion and love and all that, too,” he said.
“Not to mention really great sex?” she whispered.
It hadn’t actually been an invitation, but he took it as such. When they were exhausted and replete again, it was late, and they both drifted off to sleep, still entangled with one another, as if they needed to connect forever.
But that night, Whitney dreamed. She was back in her room at Blair House, and she woke because the dog was tugging at her nightgown. She didn’t want to waken, but she did. She sat up. The dog wasn’t alone. Her room was filled with women. Annie Doherty stood at the front of the group, her eyes sad and entreating. Behind her were other women; at first, she thought that they were all in period dress. But then she realized that there were four who were not. She recognized the face that Jake Mallory had created on the computer, the face of Sarah Larson. And there was Virginia Rockford, and behind her, Melody Tatum. And in the far corner, Jane Doe dry, the girl who still had no name.
One by one, they turned and started out of the room.
The dog remained, tugging at her nightgown, whining and thudding his tail. She was supposed to follow, she knew.
They led her down the stairs and out of the house, and the night was misty and dark. They walked down the block, and she could see faint lines, as if of a movie projection in the air, where the House of Spiritualism had once stood. And she could see the maw of the foundation.
Down to the depths, where the darkness writhed. It was the same shapeless…shape that they had seen on their screens.
Whitney didn’t understand what she was supposed to see—the bodies of the women murdered at the House of Spiritualism had been discovered; the bodies of the current victims were at the morgue as well.
But there was something else there. And she was supposed to find it.
She felt as if the abyss were sucking her in, as if she were moving on some kind of astral plane in that direction.
She paused. The shadow rose from the ground and took form—the silhouette of a man in a cloak and a tall hat, and he held a long-bladed knife. She saw a woman walking near him, and saw the man reach out, and he jerked her against his form, his one hand choking her…
She began to slump against him.
He ripped the knife against her throat, and shadow blood began to spurt from the wound.
Suddenly, a loud screeching noise burst upon her. She awoke, startled, not sure where she was.
She felt warm arms around her; naked flesh, powerful arms.
“Just the phone,” Jude said, rising by her side and fumbling on the nightstand for his phone.
He answered it. “Crosby.”
His features went taut, his mouth pursed into a grim line.
“I’m on the way,” he said.
Whitney stared at him.
“There’s another victim—off Broadway. Her throat was slashed, probably half an hour ago now. She was discovered by one of the police officers patrolling the area. The blood was still oozing from her throat and her body was still warm.”
14
Just like Elizabeth Stride, the fourth victim of Jack the Ripper. This woman’s throat had been slit, but there was no sign of any mutilation on her body. The officer had come upon the killer, and interrupted him before he could carry out any further atrocity.
Hunched down by the body, Jude felt numb and dull as Dr. Fullbright performed his cursory inspection of the victim before the body was taken for autopsy.
Could he have stopped this anyway? Doubtful.
But he stood, searching the street. He looked over at Sayer, who was standing quietly about five feet away.
“Ellis—”
“Jude,” Ellis said quietly, “I have our entire task force and half the beat police in the city walking the streets.”
“There’s going to be a second murder,” Jude said. “There’s going to be a second murder very soon, and when we find that body, it will be more horribly mutilated. This killer is definitely imitating the past closely, and the women in the Victorian East End were killed within the hour—the double event. Someone else is going to die soon—if he hasn’t chosen his second victim already.”
“I’d say she died just minutes before 1:00 a.m.,” Fullbright announced. He looked up at Jude. “But you didn’t really need me here to know that—Officer Grayson walked this street at a quarter to one and walked it again thirty minutes later and found Miss Laurie Thibault.”
Jude felt as if he could barely stand still; he was powerless, and he loathed the killer with a frightening vengeance. They were being played, and in a city the size of New York, there was little that he could do about it. Hundreds of police officers were now searching the area.
They knew the victim’s name because her handbag was still over her shoulder. She had performed in a burlesque show running in a tent near South Street Seaport, according to the flyers in her handbag. Since her cell phone was in her bag as well, they’d been able to call the director of the show, who had already told them that they’d been to a party at the Ritz downtown; she had left to get a cab home at eleven-thirty, and no one knew what had happened from there.
Jackson stood near him; he had already assessed the body. Whitney was at his side. The rest of the team was with the police, searching the area and desperately trying to stop the next murder.
“Oh, my God!” Whitney gasped suddenly.
Jackson looked at her, waiting. Jude walked to her, taking her by the shoulders.
“The con
struction site!” she said.
“We have cameras in there—we’ve observed from the beginning,” Jackson said, frowning.
“The next victim won’t be down in the deep section. We’ll find her somewhere along the chain-link fence.”
She turned, hurrying down Broadway. Jude, Ellis and Jackson followed her.
Jude damned the city for not having brighter lights in the area. Budget cuts, he thought resentfully. Running, he saw that there was some kind of dark blob on the sidewalk. A chill swept through him.
She had been right. Whitney had been right.
He got ahead of her, calling out for the others to stay back.
The woman lay on her back, her arms fallen to the side. Her palms were upward, and her fingers were slightly curled.
Jude hunched down. His hands were already gloved. He didn’t touch her to see if she was alive—it was more than evident that she was not. Her one leg was crossed over her body; her abdomen was sliced open, and her organs had been ripped out and arranged around the body.
He steeled himself and took a deep breath.
How in the hell had the killer managed what he had at this time? The place was crawling with cops, and there were lights everywhere now…
He had functioned by sleight of hand, Jude thought. While all the attention had been at the first murder scene, he had carried out his gruesome mutilations. He’d had to have known as well that he would be in extreme danger of being caught. Perhaps that had made it all a greater thrill for him.
The double event. The killer had gone for the double event on the night that Angus Avery had been under house arrest. The body of this woman lay identical in pose and mutilation to that of Catherine Eddowes, fourth Ripper victim. When the autopsy was performed, he knew the findings would be nearly exact.
She was warm.
She hadn’t been dead long.
He spoke into his radio mouthpiece. “Get Fullbright over here. Get him over here now. And get every man on the street moving. Subways, alleys—set up a roadblock along Broadway. I don’t care if we bring the entire city to a halt.”
He stood, feeling as if his veins and muscles were made of ice, as if he had grown very old. Then he walked over to where the others were standing a distance from the body. “Ellis, stay with Fullbright, please. Keep every available person searching the streets. Somewhere nearby, we’re going to find the words The Juwes are not the men to be blamed for nothing written over a doorway—and there will be a bloody piece of our victim’s clothing beneath it.”
He looked around the street. He stood and started walking. A bit in the distance, he could see the spire of Trinity church. He considered himself a decently spiritual man, if not a religious one. At that moment, he wished he could go into the church, fall on his knees and beg God to send them all a miracle.
He started for the church, but then he paused.
He knew where he would find the writing.
Whitney must have read his mind.
“Blair House,” she said from behind him.
They were both right; the gate to the house was open. They didn’t need to speak to one another to remember to touch nothing.
On the porch lay a bloody strip of fabric, ripped from the last victim’s skirt.
And over the door of Blair House was written in chalk the words that Jude had just said.
The Juwes are not the men to be blamed for nothing.
“We’ll get Forensics,” he said wearily. “We’re going to need several teams out here on the streets tonight. No one sleeps.”
If the city had been in a panic before, it was afire now.
The papers and media carried nothing but information on the New York murders, and the hotels in Lower Manhattan were emptying.
Angus Avery screamed for his freedom, demanding that he be set free from his electronic monitor.
But because of the evidence against him, Deputy Chief Green could continue to hold him; it was more than possible that the murders had been committed by more than one person, and that Avery’s accomplice had purposely timed the double event when he was under monitor and guard, therefore trying to prove his innocence.
Jude spent the day at the station reinterviewing every possible suspect and witness. He had in Captain Tyler and Major Radison, as well. He had in the best possible sketch artist, and he gave the sketch to both Hannah and Jake Mallory, and both returned the typical Victorian gaslight picture of the Ripper, excellent 3-D images.
He questioned both men further about the killer’s face.
Captain Tyler proved to be no help. He hadn’t seen the man’s face; he had only seen the figure at a distance. Nor had his memory returned about anyone having been in his room. He’d had some water before he went to sleep…he often did when he could. But he hadn’t seen anyone in his room.
Major Radison gave the question of the man’s face deep thought. “It was very odd,” he said.
“Odd how?” Jude asked him.
“Like—blank. As if he was wearing some kind of Venetian carnival mask,” Major Radison said after a minute. “As if there was really nothing there, just a white face with no expression and nothing…live about it. Nothing real at all.”
Jude sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. A mask. That brought him back to costumes and make-believe—the movies.
But it was true that Angus Avery had not left his apartment during the night. His ankle monitor had not gone off. Any device could be hacked, Jude knew, but several cops had been watching the director’s place. It would have been damn hard for them all to be crooked.
He allowed the old soldiers who had tried valiantly to help to return to the veterans’ home. They had become good friends, so it seemed, in the time they had been at the police station. Trying to help had seemed to strengthen them both, and Tyler was mortified that he couldn’t help more. Jenna, at the station with Jackson, Whitney and Jake, assured the captain that he had done a great deal for them, and it was not his fault that he could remember nothing—it had been the drug.
He had Mrs. Allie Lipton, the wardrobe mistress from the movie set, brought in. At first, she stubbornly denied having made any mistake on her calculations; she knew that Angus Avery was strict. He had to stay on budget. He wouldn’t stay on budget by having to replace costumes stolen by two-bit extras.
But then he asked her why one of the limo drivers had had to go to a fabric store.
She was an older woman, plump, somewhere over fifty. He saw her hesitate, though she quickly gathered her wits and said, “Costumes are always tearing, and I’m always mending something. He went for patches, thread, that kind of thing.”
“And, of course, a receipt was turned in. I’ll get a copy of that receipt,” Jude told her. “Even if you don’t have it, believe me, I’ll track down your purchase.”
She sat very still, and then her lower lip began to tremble. “One of the cloaks disappeared—they’re actually caped coats, you know—regular coats with sleeves, and then a short cape over the shoulders. I didn’t dare tell the director. He would have said it was my fault. And I could swear that every extra on the set returned his or her costume. I could swear it! Avery would have fired me for not having control. I can’t get jobs as easily as I used to—you’ve got to believe me, Detective, the movies are run by the young.”
Jude stared at her. He wanted to tell her that her lie might have cost lives, but it wouldn’t have been true—they had suspected that the killer’s period costume had come from the movie set.
“When did the cloak disappear?” he asked her. “At the shoot at the construction site?”
“Oh, no—two weeks before that,” she told him. “We’d been working on Staten Island. That’s when the cloak disappeared. I didn’t try to replace it until we had the same number of extras working again. That’s why…that’s why I didn’t believe that its disappearance could be related to the killing that night. And the papers said that there were Jack the Ripper victims, but they didn’t say that anyone had ac
tually seen Jack the Ripper walking around. Please, please, you can’t tell Mr. Avery. Of course, Mr. Avery has a court date now, but…oh, he couldn’t have anything to do with this! Detective, I know that you have this information, but, please, please, please, don’t report me to the powers that be at the movie company. I used my own money to buy the fabric to replace the cloak. Please.”
He couldn’t help but feel sorry for Allie Lipton. “I need the information for our investigation, Mrs. Lipton. I’m not the movie police.”
He let her go; she could return to work. Apparently, the assistant director was filming action shots that day with the film’s stunt performers.
Sherry Blanco came back in, her lawyer in tow this time. Jude was surprised, but he had nothing against the lawyer sitting in.
“Miss Blanco, we’re not accusing you of anything, but I’m afraid that you were working with a murderer at some point during this film,” he said.
She looked at her lawyer, and then at Jude. “I told you, and I don’t know why you don’t understand this. I don’t know the extras. Sometimes I don’t even see the extras.” She sat back, shaking her head, and then she leaned forward again. “Look, I’m not trying to pull any kind of…rank here, but I’m the star. Stars don’t have to know the extras, or even the bit players. I don’t eat with the others, I don’t get warm and chummy with the others. And, hey, I’m not a nasty person. I do make friends, but you have to realize, people want to use me, too. I have to keep my distance.”
He smiled. She wasn’t going to give him anything. He was going to give her something to think about. “Well, I suppose that’s good. Because the killer could still be working on your set.”
“You’ve arrested Angus Avery, remember?”
“Two women were killed last night, remember?” Jude countered.
“Then maybe you should let Angus go,” she said, smirking.
Sacred Evil (Krewe of Hunters) Page 24