Killing Jane: An Erin Prince Thriller

by Stacy Green

  “Oh my God, shut up.” She shoved her brother across the second floor landing, dropping her voice to a hiss. “I can take her to school in the morning, but can you pick her up? I have no idea how my day is going to go.”

  “Sure,” Brad said. He worked from home as a web designer. “Keep us posted about dinner. If you’re not home, we’re going out for pizza.”

  “Speaking of sex, do you know anyone into BDSM?”

  Brad stopped shuffling and stared at her. “Wow. I said you needed to get laid, not spanked.”

  She rolled her eyes. “We think our victim made amateur BDSM videos and sold them online. Whoever killed her might be connected to the culture. So answer the question.”

  He yawned again. “The whole scene is very private, even with the new BDSM craze. I’d start with The Black Rose. It’s the biggest club. Beyond that, I don’t know. I’m not that kinky.”

  * * *

  Erin sank into a deep sleep as soon as she closed her eyes. Bonnie’s desecrated body floated through her dreams, illuminated by the gaudy glare of the cheap studio light. Sudden bursts of red splashed against the back of Erin’s eyelids as though someone had thrown a bucket of blood into her dreams. Somewhere in the background, a woman screamed. Not a scream of pain, but animalistic and frenzied.

  Jane the Ripper.

  The dream changed. A cloaked female figure chased Erin, and the wild screaming grew louder. Erin clawed to the surface of her dreams, but fatigue kept her eyes pinched shut—until her cell phone rattled on the nightstand.

  Erin flailed in the dusky darkness of her bedroom. A pink slice of dawn glimmered behind her curtains. Red digital numbers showed she hadn’t slept two hours.

  “Erin Prince.” She sounded like a veteran smoker, although she’d never touched a cigarette.

  “Is this the Princess?” A little girl’s voice, soft and frightened.

  Fuzzy-headed, Erin sat up. “Who is this?”

  “Is this the Princess?” Demanding now, a petulant kid determined to get her way.

  “This is Investigator Erin Prince. Who’s this? How did you get this number?” She tried to keep her nerves at bay and focus on the scared child. “What’s your name, sweetheart? Do you need help?”

  Fast, frightened breathing. “Buck’s Row was just the first one.”

  Ice formed in Erin’s veins, turning her entire body frigid. “What’s your name?”

  The screen flashed, signaling the call ended.

  Pain wracked Erin’s chest as though she’d been hit by a hammer. Dozens of scenarios raced through her mind, none of them good. But the child’s voice overrode them all. She checked the caller ID—blocked number. A blocked number whose owner had Erin’s unlisted cell number. A bad feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

  Erin scrolled through her contacts and hit the green circle. Todd Beckett answered as groggily as she expected and listened in silence as Erin told him about the call.

  “You’re sure this was a child and not someone playing a joke?” He yawned, and a woman’s husky voice rumbled in the background.

  “Absolutely. I’ve got a nine-year-old daughter. I know a scared little girl when I hear one. And how did she know about Buck’s Row unless she’s with the killer? If she—” Erin could barely stomach the next thought. “She had to have witnessed the murder or, at least, the aftermath.”

  “Call your service provider and see if they can trace it. And make sure your doors are locked.” Beckett ended the call.

  Erin paced to the window. The sun rose, red-gold in the clear blue sky, making the frost on the brown grass and rooftops sparkle. Was Bonnie’s killer watching the sunrise too?

  And how long before another woman—or child—was found slaughtered?

  Tracking the call proved impossible. Erin confirmed with her service provider the call came from a pre-paid phone with its GPS turned off. She quickly showered and dressed and then tried to force down a bowl of cereal.

  Beckett called back, this time more alert. “Lucy said the news mentioned your name, but their initial coverage didn’t go into detail. I think someone used their kid to play a sick joke. I’m more concerned with how this person got your personal cell number. Do you give that out to work colleagues?”

  “Only you and Clark. I always use my department cell for work. And I’ve made sure to keep my personal information as buried as possible. Every time my father makes the news, the press tries to find me. I don’t have time for them.”

  “And your brother wouldn’t give the number out, right?”

  “Absolutely not.” Brad had gone off the rails when she told him about the call this morning, going so far as to suggest she get a new phone number immediately. Erin refused. If the child called again, she might be able to help or trace the call.

  “Buck’s Row,” Erin reminded Beckett as she washed out her bowl. “Only someone associated with the scene would know that, and if we had a leak, the press would have run with it.”

  “Unless they wanted to screw with you,” Beckett said. “One of the crime scene people could have talked, maybe told a friend who turns it into a practical joke.”

  “That little girl wasn’t joking. She was terrified, Beckett. She knows what happened. And she’s trying to tell me another woman’s going to die.” Erin’s pulse accelerated. If someone tracked down her number, they might find out where she lived, putting Brad and Abby at risk. She had to figure out a way to protect her daughter without scaring the hell out of her.

  While Abby thundered around upstairs getting ready, Erin watched the Channel 4 morning news. The perky reporter’s previously taped story ran front and center. Footage showed Clark, Erin, and Beckett talking on the steps, the crowd swelling and tittering, while Bonnie’s body was carried out in a black bag and placed into the medical van.

  So far, the worst of the details remained out of the public eye. But with descriptions like “mutilation” and “a sea of blood,” Erin had little doubt someone had fed the reporter information. She gave it twenty-four hours before the bloodthirsty vultures reported everything, right down to the cleaver and Jack’s message.

  Jack or Jane? As Abby loaded what seemed like her entire life into her backpack, Erin familiarized herself with the Ripper’s killing spree. Five known victims over the course of two and a half months, although there’d been a large gap between the fourth and fifth kills. Bonnie’s murderer hadn’t been nearly as vicious as the canonical five, as the Ripper experts called them, but definite similarities existed. Hysteria hampered the case from the start, along with the lack of the technological advances cops today took for granted. A main suspect list over thirty, with hundreds more speculated on over the years.

  She clicked on the section titled “Jill the Ripper.” The idea of a woman as a suspect surprised Erin. None of the females investigated panned out, however, and most experts believed Jack likely dressed as a woman to avoid attention.

  Were the signed passages their killer’s way of causing confusion? A modern-day Jack trying to be a Jane and putting his own flavor on the legend?

  The Ripper’s second known murder occurred nine days after the first. Erin prayed she had time to find the murderer before another woman—or worse, a child—was killed.

  “Earth to Mom!” Abby’s voice pulled her thoughts back to the present and the school carpool line. “Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?”

  “Probably not. I just started a bad case.” Guilt crept over Erin. When she worked sex crimes, her schedule had been more reliable.

  “The woman who was murdered in Columbia Heights.” Racing around doing her morning routine, chattering like a banshee, Abby missed nothing.

  Erin nodded. “But I’ll try to get home before you go to bed. I’m sorry.” Sometimes she worried whether she should have kept swallowing the anxiety for an easier day for Abby. But at what cost? The daily, soul-crushing anxiety didn’t exactly help her be a good mother.

  Abby smiled, revealing the missing right molar she
’d been so proud to lose last week. “I get it. Uncle Brad lets me watch bad TV with him anyway.”

  Erin pushed anxiety to the back of her mind and planted a kiss on her daughter’s cheek before she could escape the car, breathing her in one last time for the day. She never got enough of Abby’s scent. When Abby was a baby, Erin held her for hours to inhale the sweet goodness coming from her delicate head.

  “Mom!” Abby looked out the window to see whether any of her friends had noticed. Her blue eyes shined with embarrassment. “You’re not supposed to do that here.”

  “Why not? You’re still a little girl.”

  Abby shouldered her backpack and flung the car door open. “I’m almost double digits.”

  Erin bit back a laugh at her serious expression. “Uncle Brad’s picking you up from school. You don’t leave with anyone but him. Right?”

  “Right. See you!” Abby slammed the door too hard and raced to catch up with two little tow-headed girls whose names Erin couldn’t remember.

  She navigated the treacherous traffic with her hands tight against the wheel. Parents acted crazy in their morning rush. The medical examiner locked the doors to the autopsy suite during the procedure. Bonnie’s started in thirty minutes.

  Erin hit the gas.

  The surgical mask made Erin’s face hot, but she appreciated the thin layer between her nose and the various chemicals in the autopsy suite. Bonnie Archer’s body had been refrigerated before the worst of decomposition began, meaning the scent of chemicals overpowered everything else. She still rubbed Mentholatum beneath her nose to help tame the stench when Deputy Medical Examiner Judy Temple unzipped the bag and began her initial examination.

  She noted Bonnie Archer’s height and weight, snapping photographs and dictating her findings. “The x-rays showed a broken wrist, probably from trying to break her fall. She also had a broken nose, most likely from the assailant’s efforts to subdue her.”

  The woman’s monotone voice made Erin want to run out of the room. Everything was cold and sterile, including the last person who would take care of Bonnie Archer. Her practical side accepted the detachment was necessary for the job, but Erin could hardly bear to listen.

  In death, with the blood and torn flesh washed away, Bonnie looked more alien than human. Her once porcelain skin had taken on the gray pallor of dead flesh. With her carefully applied makeup removed, her face appeared even more childlike. Her luxurious eyelashes reminded Erin of Abby’s.

  She fought the urge to reach out and take Bonnie’s hand.

  “Did Sarah Archer return your calls?” Beckett’s low voice drew Erin back to the immediate investigation.

  “No,” she said. “I left her another message this morning.”

  Beckett stood tall and motionless, eyes focused on the medical examiner. “If Will Merritt’s telling the truth, why hasn’t Sarah called? She should be one of the first in line demanding we find out who killed her cousin.”

  Dr. Temple removed the paper sheet, and Erin gasped. In the harsh light of the suite, Bonnie’s nude body revealed the true scope of her suffering. Bruises ran all the way down her knees and shins. Her right wrist bent at a painful angle. A tattoo of angel wings on her hip had a superficial slash through it. The cleaver had been removed and bagged as evidence. Bonnie’s vaginal area had been reduced to something resembling raw chicken.

  Erin drew a shuddering breath to combat the swell of dizziness. “Maybe Merritt’s lying.”

  “The bruises on her knees appear to be fresh, but pre-mortem.” Temple glared over her recorder, thin lips pursed.

  Beckett rubbed his temple. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Erin kept her eyes on Bonnie’s face, partially out of respect and partially because she couldn’t seem to draw her gaze away. She lowered her voice to a rasping whisper. “It’s a dumb thing to lie about. And it makes sense for Bonnie to keep her reconciliation with her cousin from her parents. Whatever happened between the two families, Neil’s clearly still pissed off.”

  “I thought so too. Which brings us back to my original question. Why isn’t Sarah Archer calling you back?”

  Erin didn’t have the answer, and she didn’t like the worry percolating in her head. Did Sarah have something to hide?

  “Dan Mitchell believed the first stab was to her stomach,” Beckett said to the medical examiner as she brushed past him. “Did she fall after that?”

  Temple’s gray eyes met his. A renowned medical examiner and a veteran of the 9/11 death investigations, Temple resembled a bulldog in both demeanor and appearance. Fleshy and stout, she had wobbly cheeks and a burgeoning extra chin. She also took no shit off anyone in her autopsy suite. “Since you’re new to us, I’ll give you one pass, Investigator Beckett. I don’t make guesses. And there’s no definitive way to say, short of the entire thing being recorded. Mitchell’s theory is sound, especially since lividity makes it clear she didn’t get off her back once her killer got her into that position. Beyond that is speculation.”

  Beckett didn’t seem fazed by the derisive tone. He nodded and waited for Temple to proceed.

  Erin swayed as she watched the doctor inject the needle into Bonnie’s right eye. Vitreous fluid was essential to chemical testing in an autopsy, but Erin hated anything to do with eyes.

  She refused to do Bonnie the injustice of looking away. She and Beckett stayed silent while the medical examiner and her assistant continued to work.

  “A series of bruises on her thighs and upper arms appear to be in various states of healing,” Temple said, examining the yellowing blemishes Erin noticed last night.

  “How old do you think those are?” Erin asked.

  Temple sighed. “Everyone heals at different rates. The bruises on the arms are fading purple, while the upper thighs are clearly yellow, suggesting Bonnie received them at different times. My rough guess is between a few days and a couple of weeks—but that’s a guess.”

  Erin murmured her appreciation and then turned to her partner. “One set of old bruises I could chalk up to an accident or being clumsy, but two? We need to chat with Will Merritt about those.”

  “He doesn’t seem like the type to be abusive,” Beckett said. “Of course, those guys are usually the meanest. By the way, I checked with the Archers this morning.” Beckett turned to Erin, his soft voice barely audible behind the paper mask. “They thought I was crazy asking if they were sure they didn’t have any grandchildren.”

  He paused then shook his head. “If they think she worked at Daniel’s, I’ve got a feeling there’s a lot about Bonnie’s life her parents didn’t know—including the fact Sarah had come back into it.”

  “You confirmed with Daniel’s already?”

  “Not yet, but I will.” Restaurant owner and extreme cynic, John Daniel, ran in the same circles as her father. He didn’t believe in any sort of second chance—unless it earned him something major in return.

  Erin refocused her attention on the autopsy. “Dr. Temple, how long before we get tox results?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  “Any chance you could rush them?” Erin didn’t shrink from Temple’s sharp look. “We need to rule out this being drug related.”

  Temple grunted.

  Erin couldn’t hope for anything more.

  “Did you try Sarah again?” Beckett never took his eyes off the procedure.

  “Twice this morning and said I needed to discuss her cousin. She’s probably not calling back because they’re supposed to be on the down low, but surely I’ll hear from her today. Clark released Bonnie’s name this morning.” If not, she’d have to hunt Sarah down.

  The next few minutes passed in silence as Temple and the assistant made the Y-incision and pulled Bonnie’s chest apart. Erin gritted her teeth as the doctor’s incision tore open Bonnie’s already ruptured abdomen.

  “The killer nicked her spleen,” Temple said. “She would have slowly bled out if he hadn’t cut her carotid. His work in the abdominal area was fast and s
loppy, and her organs are all still intact. He may not have had the stamina to finish the job, but there’s been no serious effort made to remove them. “

  “Was she still alive when he made those cuts?” Beckett asked the question they already knew the answer to.

  “As I said,” Temple’s voice sharpened, “she would have bled out from the nicked spleen. But the coloration on the organs demonstrates blood flow. So yes, she was very much alive. I can’t tell you if she was conscious, so don’t ask.”

  “Have you narrowed down time of death yet?” Erin asked.

  Temple continued to work as she answered, her eyes narrowed until her eyebrows touched. “Mitchell’s original time line is correct. I’d say died at least six hours before Mitchell moved her.”

  Another round of silence, the only noise coming from Temple and her assistant.

  “Did you ask your brother about the BDSM scene?” Beckett’s whisper didn’t faze Temple or her assistant.

  “He said to start with The Black Rose. It’s the biggest club. But we’re facing the same thing we are with the online stuff: too many people to go through.”

  Beckett murmured his agreement. “We should split up and try to hit as many as we can.”

  “The cleaver sliced through her cervix,” Temple said. “Her uterus is still here. Prince, did you say her boyfriend found her body?”

  Erin’s pulse accelerated at the interruption. Temple never spoke directly to the police during the autopsy unless she had something important.

  “Yes,” Erin said. “Why?”

  “Because she was pregnant.”

  Erin’s maternal instincts sent a flash of sorrow through her. She tucked the feeling away and focused on Judi Temple. “How far along?”

  “From the size of the fetus, I’d say about ten weeks.”

  “Then she may not have known about the pregnancy,” Erin said. “Especially if her cycle wasn’t regular.”

  Temple waved her fingers at the assistant, who handed her what looked like a flattened Q-tip. “I’ll do a buccal swab for fetal DNA, but the lab is backed up.”