Killing Jane: An Erin Prince Thriller

by Stacy Green

  He meant to be conversational, simply tossing a theory back and forth the way partners do. But Erin’s skin still heated with embarrassment. Why couldn’t he back her up in front of Clark? “I guess.”

  “The number is a South Carolina area code,” Clark said. “So if she is in town, she’s visiting. I’m going outside to make the call.” He shook his head, looking disgusted. “It’s not right, but this murder is going to make the news. Possibly national. A prominent, white college professor literally slaughtered in her home. That’ll be the sickeningly sweet icing on the press’s shit cake. Her family can’t find out that way.” He took one last, long look toward the dead woman. “Figure this out before things get worse.”

  Beckett strode back over to Mitchell.

  Erin took her time, trying to gather her emotions. She forced the steaming indignation into the same reservoir she always did and focused on the issue at hand. “So we are sure she was killed at least eight hours ago?”

  Mitchell nodded. “She’s in pretty good rigor.”

  “So somewhere around eight or nine p.m. last night.” Erin spoke before her partner could. “That’s when he attacked and smothered her. But could the killer have come back and mutilated her and then made the call?” She directed her question to the death investigator still cataloguing the injuries.

  Beckett answered before Mitchell had the chance. “No way. The 9-1-1 call came in less than an hour ago. She would have been in at least partial rigor then. And the blood flow would be completely different, correct?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Absolutely. I’m not saying your killer didn’t make the call. But the mutilation happened shortly after death.” He pointed to the walls and then the ceiling. “No arterial spurt. It just drained out of her like a sink drain after you take the stopper out. All this damage occurred right after her heart stopped beating.”

  Erin flushed at her foolish mistake. “Okay, so let’s work the scene. When’s the crime scene crew due to arrive?”

  “They’re at least twenty minutes out,” Mitchell said. “Some kid found a guy in a dumpster. The body’s a few days old, and the scene is a mess. Marie’s been there all day. I woke her up.”

  “You couldn’t call another crew?” Erin asked.

  “Marie worked Bonnie’s murder,” Beckett spoke up. “It’s better if she works this one. She has an idea of what to look for. And using her will help keep information contained.” He knelt down to look closer at the victim. “Is that bruising on her face from the suffocation?”

  Mitchell took a closer look, slipping on a pair of glasses that made his Droopy eyes enormous. “He punched her in the face before she died. She’s discolored from suffocation and the effects that followed.”

  He touched Virginia Walton’s forehead, which had a strange blue circle of blood in the center. “But this almost looks like lividity. Just the initial stages.”

  Erin tried to figure out the size of the blood pool. “If the killer turned her over, wouldn’t it be obvious?”

  Dan pointed a gloved finger to the center of the enormous bloodstain. “At first, I thought the circumference was smaller than Bonnie Archer’s because the carpet soaked up the blood. But there are no arterial spurts since Virginia died before he started cutting. And you can see she simply bled out.” He touched the soft flesh of Virginia’s outstretched arms. “This looks like possible lividity here too.” His eyes danced like he’d won the jackpot. “Can you help me turn her over?”

  A body in rigor is literally dead weight, and Virginia Walton had ample flesh on her frame. Mitchell and Beckett took several minutes to carefully turn her, both men’s faces red and sweating with the effort.

  Time stilled. The whoosh of blood roared in Erin’s ears to the point of being painful. Her lips moved, but no sound came out of her mouth.

  Beckett appeared to be rendered mute as well. Huffing, he stared down at the dead woman’s back as though he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

  “Holy hell,” Mitchell said. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  The killer had signed Virginia’s ample back, slicing into her flesh with the flourish of someone who clearly enjoyed the task.

  Jane the Ripper.

  “The killer is a woman.” Erin whispered, unable to speak any louder.

  Beckett stared back at her, white-faced. “If a woman did this ... if a woman stuck a cleaver in Bonnie’s vagina ...”

  Erin’s patience snapped. “Look, I know I don’t have your experience. But I have instincts, and every single one of them tells me we are dealing with a woman. Women are vindictive, cruel creatures when they’re scorned. Add in a little bit of insanity and obsession, and you’ve got the perfect recipe. She signed her fucking name in this woman’s skin!”

  “But why?” Beckett countered. “Common sense—not to mention crime statistics—indicates the killer is a man. Why wave the truth around like a red flag?”

  “She wants credit. She’s proud of what she’s done. The media will love her.”

  Beckett rubbed his face until the skin turned red. “All right, fine. Virginia Walton is over fifty. She’s not pregnant. She’s not a prostitute or drug addict. She has zero in common with Bonnie Archer. You’re still quite a ways from the Ripper’s preference.”

  “You know it’s possible,” Erin said. “You’ve seen what a woman is capable of.”

  “Don’t tell me what I know.”

  Beckett’s sharp tone surprised her.

  “I know people are capable of terrible, terrible things. People can masquerade as anything. Women can be the most vicious creatures on earth. And the most resourceful.” He closed his eyes. “But this. Physically ... how?”

  “She incapacitates first,” Mitchell said. “Both Bonnie and Professor Walton were beaten first. If the killer—if she—planned ahead and had the right tools, it’s plausible.”

  “But why the name Jane?” Beckett asked. “The lore calls her Jill the Ripper—Jack and Jill. So why hasn’t she used that name?”

  “Maybe her real name is Jane. Considering the way she’s cutting people up, it’s not high on my list of things to ask her.”

  “Don’t forget the cross-dresser at the strip club,” Beckett said. “Jack supposedly dressed like a woman. It’s just another piece of the lore this killer’s choosing to emulate.”

  “A cross-dresser who seems to have disappeared. And Bonnie’s the only dancer at Sid’s who reported any issues with him. I don’t think he’s the killer.” Why the hell was Beckett so against the killer being a woman? The questions boiled inside her, but she fought them back. Dressing him down in front of Dan would be unprofessional and rude.

  Erin followed the trail of dark crimson dots on the hardwood floor leading to the dining room. “She wasn’t as careful this time. Maybe Jane ran out of time.” She crossed through the two mahogany pillars separating the living room and dining room, stopping at the pool of blood next to the antique dining room table. “She stood right here.”

  The mess on the table nearly gave Erin hives. Essays on dreams and their impact on everyday life had been stacked neatly next to several textbooks and an agenda. Professor Walton still operated in the old school world. Most people used their phone or computer calendars to plan their lives. More red caught her eye. One of the papers had a series of drips on the inside panel, its contents scattered over the table.

  “Damn,” Beckett said. “I hoped we’d catch a bloody fingerprint.”

  He seemed resigned, but she noticed his trembling fingers.

  Her blue latex gloves shining beneath the modern chandelier light, Erin carefully thumbed through the papers. “Oh shit.”

  “What?” Beckett had started leafing through the planner.

  “Virginia Walton is a counselor at the Adult Learning Center.”

  “So there’s our connection to Bonnie Archer,” Beckett said. “But if Virginia knew Bonnie, why didn’t she come forward after her murder?”

  Frustration built into a screa
m from somewhere deep in Erin’s gut. Every time she thought she found a crack in this case, another unanswered question snapped it shut. “But so much for asking her now.”

  The fetid air clawed at Erin's throat, and her stomach heaved. She stepped out on the porch to breathe in some fresh air.

  “Investigator Prince!” The redhead’s shrill voice cut over the din of birds greeting the dismal morning.

  Crap! She had forgotten the press vultures had arrived shortly after the crime scene crew. Erin nearly flipped her off, but throwing fresh meat on the lawn would have caused less of a ruckus. The last thing she needed was the reporter who kept calling her “The Princess” asking questions while she felt sicker than a dog. She couldn’t let the press know the crime scene had overwhelmed her or Red would have a field day with it.

  “I heard the victim has multiple stab wounds. Is this related to Bonnie Archer’s murder?”

  Erin stepped off the porch, wincing as the digital cameras started clicking away. “No comment.” She’d pretend she had come out to check on the status of the search for the throwaway phone.

  She dropped to a squat and twisted to look beneath the porch. A scrollwork border kept critters from burrowing underneath, and no way could someone squeeze the phone through one of the intricate loops.

  “If it’s not related to Bonnie, then why are you here?”

  Red wasn’t ready to give up.

  “Because I happened to be on rotation.” Erin pushed through the dead rhododendrons and scanned the foundation.

  “Isn’t that a lot of pressure for an inexperienced homicide investigator?”

  Erin’s gaze snapped toward the redhead.

  A lackey held an umbrella over the reporter’s head to protect her perfect hair.

  “No comment.” Erin stood and strode toward one of the uniforms searching near the backyard.

  “What does your father think of you going into homicide? Surely he would rather you do something safer.”

  Erin changed direction and closed the distance between her and Red. She lowered her voice. “Listen. These murders aren’t about me or my family name. Do the victims some justice, will you?”

  After checking with the uniform, she stalked back into the house. In the entryway, she placed a call to Metro. She needed the moment to settle before facing the crime scene again.

  She rejoined Beckett. “I talked to Fowler. He cross-referenced the numbers on Bonnie’s phone with the 9-1-1 caller’s. Not a match. And he lives near American University, so he’s heading in to interview the staff.”

  Beckett watched Marie gather trace from the dining room. “Still worth checking.”

  Erin scowled.

  Beckett gave her a sharp glance. “Something wrong? Beyond the obvious nightmare of a morning?”

  “Just that asshole reporter. Nothing major.”

  “I think asshole is a requirement on a fledgling reporter’s résumé,” Beckett said without humor. “Mitchell’s getting her ready for transport.”

  “Jane.” Sickness built in Erin’s throat. “How could one woman do this to another?”

  “Let me ask you something,” Beckett said. “Why are you so sure it’s a woman? We could still be looking at a smoke screen, a damned good one.”

  Erin tried to frame her answer in a reasonable and mature way instead of losing her cool the way she had earlier. “It’s Mina. I keep hearing the sheer terror in her voice and the way she said her. Like she was afraid of that person, not worried about her.”

  “Possibly,” Beckett said. “Or maybe your memory is tricking you. It happens to all of us.” Beckett raised his hands in either defeat or frustration. “But for the record, I’m confused as hell. And you could well be right.”

  “I think you just don’t want this to be a woman.”

  He looked up at the somber sky. “Do you?”

  “I want to stop her before she kills again.”

  The drizzle picked up as they walked to their cars. The reporters—with Red front and center—called out more questions. Erin and Beckett ignored them.

  Erin’s phone pinged with a text. “Sergeant Clark says the daughter’s still in South Carolina. She teaches and can be alibied. So that wipes the theory.”

  “At least we can throw it out quickly.”

  Across the street, a woman in a blue robe watched them and waved at Erin.

  “Have we talked to any of the neighbors yet?”

  “Not yet,” Beckett said. “Most are just waking up.”

  Erin crossed the street with Beckett on her heels. “Let’s see what she wants.”

  The short, stocky woman met them on the steps. Her hair still stuck up from sleeping, and the intoxicating aroma of coffee wafted from her. “Your medical examiner’s van is here. Did someone murder Virginia?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t give you details,” Erin said. “But she is deceased.”

  The woman sagged as though she’d been hit. Erin guessed her to be about the professor’s age, although Virginia Walton’s swollen face made comparison impossible. “I had a feeling she was in trouble.”

  Beckett shifted beside Erin, leaning against the handrail. “How so?”

  “I don’t know her well,” the neighbor clarified. “But we talk, coming and going. Sometimes we have coffee together.”

  “What did Virginia tell you?” Erin asked.

  “She’s been through a lot the past couple of years.” The woman played with the edge of her robe tie. “Finally coming out and then trying to navigate that lifestyle as a middle-aged woman.”

  “Virginia Walton was a lesbian?” Erin asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said. “And I didn’t care, mind you. I’m not one to judge. Live and let live, I say. But the transition was hard. That’s why she came here from South Carolina. Guess she taught at a small Christian college there. You can imagine their reaction.”

  “Right.” Erin remembered the whisper-mongering among her parents’ friends after Brad came out—though most of them already suspected. Apparently, in their conservative circle, daring to own one’s sexuality was a greater crime than the actual preference. “Did she have issues with her colleagues at American University?”

  “She never mentioned any. And I’m not saying her murder had anything to do with sexuality. She’s had a tough time of it. Maybe she latched on to someone she shouldn’t have.”

  “Did you see anyone unusual around last night?” Beckett asked.

  “No, but I went to bed early,” the woman’s voice shook. “I normally don’t.”

  “Did you notice any visitors?” Erin asked. “Maybe a girlfriend?”

  The woman nodded. “The dark-haired girl. Small thing and half Virginia’s age. Of course, they may not have been involved.”

  Erin clung to a neutral expression. “How often did this girl come around?”

  “I only saw her a few times a couple of weeks ago.” The neighbor glanced around them to look at Virginia Walton’s violated home. “But ever since she showed up, Virginia had become really edgy. Nervous. She didn’t like my noticing the girl, and I thought maybe she was a student at AU. That’s probably some sort of violation.”

  “Quite possibly,” Erin said. “Did Virginia mention the girl’s name?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  Erin chewed her bottom lip, hoping to figure out how to proceed. She pulled her phone with Bonnie’s picture out of her bag. “Is this her?”

  The neighbor retrieved a pair of reading glasses from her robe pocket and pulled the phone closer to her face. “It could be. She looks small like this girl. Same hair. But I never saw her face very clearly. I just can’t be sure.”

  “Thank you,” Erin said as Beckett stowed the phone. “You’ve been a huge help. Our sergeant is going to come by in a while, and he’ll ask you more questions.” She handed her a card. “Please call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Of course.” The neighbor’s face suddenly fell. “God, Virginia is really dead. You don’
t think about something like that happening here.”

  “We believe it’s an isolated incident,” Beckett said. “But do take extra precautions.”

  “We need to check with the bartenders at The Point,” Erin said as she and Beckett jogged through the drizzle to their respective cars. “It’s high end and a private gay bar in a safe area of the city, which might be the perfect spot for someone relatively new to the local scene. Virginia might have checked it out.”

  Beckett ducked his head against the rain. “I want to get my hands on Bonnie’s laptop. The killer stole it because he was on there.”

  “You mean Jane,” Erin said.

  “I mean the person who wants us to believe it’s Jane.”

  Erin stopped near her driver’s door. “I’m trying to be polite, but I’m tired and cranky, so I’m probably going to sound like an asshole. Why are you so against this killer being a woman?”

  Beckett’s face smoothed into a plastic-looking, fake expression. “I’m not against it. I’m trying to look at the entire picture. Tunnel vision in an investigation causes major mistakes. I learned that the hard way. And we might be looking at a man in cross-dress. Don’t forget Tori.”

  He hadn’t shared the entire truth, but Erin doubted she’d get anything more from him. “As for the missing videos, they might answer a lot of questions. But Bonnie wasn’t a student at AU, so if the professor got involved with her, she didn’t break school rules.”

  “What about societal rules?” Beckett asked. “We’re in a liberal zone, but how would people react if she were dating a girl half her age?”

  “No clue,” Erin said. “What if Bonnie and Virginia were seeing each other, and Bonnie told Virginia about making the porn? Jane finds out and gets pissed. If Tori’s our killer, what’s his motive? Although plenty of men who cross-dress still identify as straight males, so I suppose he might have had a thing for Bonnie and gotten jealous.” She shook her head. “But why call the professor a snitch? Bonnie’s videos aren’t illegal. Unless Virginia planned to tell Bonnie’s parents. But if she cared for Bonnie, that doesn’t make sense either.”