“Sounds like a good lead. Where can I find her?”
“Lake Havasu High. She teaches English there.”
“Great.” Lenore put away her notepad, then shook Angie’s hand. “You’ve been very kind. Appreciate your talking to me.”
“No problem.”
Angie looked deeply into Lenore Harper’s green eyes. Something about her I like, she thought. Maybe I’ve made a new friend. Well…“Good luck with your story,” she said.
—
Lenore’s talk with Lyn Esterly bore colorful results. The following day’s paper carried “an exclusive feature interview” by Lenore Harper:
“Is River Killer Another Jack the Ripper?” the headline asked. Then, below it, a subheading: “Havasu High Teacher Traces Century-Old Murder Pattern.”
According to the story, if the killer continued to follow the original Ripper’s pattern, he would strike again on the thirtieth of September. And not once, but twice. On the night of September 30, 1888, Jack the Ripper butchered two women in London’s Whitechapel district—victims #5 and #6. Would these gruesome double murders be repeated here in Lake Havasu?
The story ended with a large question mark.
—
Angie, on the phone to Lyn: “Maybe I did the wrong thing, sending her to see you.”
“Why? I like her. She really listened to me.”
“I just get the feeling that her story makes you…well, a kind of target.”
“I doubt that.”
“The killer knows all about you now. Even your picture was there in the paper. He knows that you’re doing all this special research, that you worked out the whole copycat-Ripper idea…”
“So what? I can’t catch him. That’s up to the police. He’s not going to bother with me. Getting my theory into print was important. Now that his sick little game has been exposed, maybe he’ll quit. Might not be fun for him anymore. These weirdos are like that. Angie, it could all be over.”
“So you’re not sore at me for sending her to you?”
“Are you kidding? For once, someone has taken a theory of mine seriously enough to print it. Makes all this work mean something. Hell, I’m a celebrity now.”
“That’s what worries me.”
And their conversation ended.
—
Angie had been correct in her hunch regarding Lenore Harper: the two women did become friends. As a free-lance journalist, Lenore had roved the world, while Angie had spent her entire life in Arizona. Europe seemed, to her, exotic and impossibly far away. She was fascinated with Lenore’s tales of global travel and of her childhood and early schooling in London.
—
On the night of September 30, Lyn Esterly turned down Angie’s invitation to spend the evening at Riverhouse.
“I’m into something new, something really exciting on this Ripper thing,” Lyn told her. “But I need to do more research. If what I think is true, then a lot of people are going to be surprised.”
“God,” sighed Angie, “how you love being mysterious!”
“Guilty as charged,” admitted Lyn. “Anyhow, I’ll feel a lot safer working at the library in the middle of town than being out there on that desolate river with you.”
“Dan’s taking your ideas seriously,” Angie told her. “He’s still got the Village closed to tourists—and he’s bringing in extra men tonight in case you’re right about the possibility of a double murder.”
“I want to be wrong, Angie, honest to God I do. Maybe this creep has been scared off by all the publicity. Maybe tonight will prove that—but to be on the safe side, if I were you, I’d spend the night in town…not alone out there in that damn haunted castle of yours!”
“Okay, you’ve made your point. I’ll take in a movie, then meet Dan later. Ought to be safe enough with the Chief of Police, eh?”
“Absolutely. And by tomorrow I may have a big surprise for you. This is like a puzzle that’s finally coming together. It’s exciting!”
“Call me in the morning?”
“That’s a promise.”
And they rang off.
—
Ten P.M. Lyn working alone in the reference room on the second floor of the city library. The building had been closed to the public for two hours. Even the staff had gone. But, as a teacher, Lyn had special privileges. And her own key.
A heavy night silence. Just the shuffling sound of her books and the faint scratch of her ballpoint pen, her own soft breathing.
When the outside door to the parking lot clicked open on the floor below her, Lyn didn’t hear it.
The Ripper glided upward, a dark spider-shape on the stairs, and she’s there waiting to meet me, heart pumping blood for the blade reached the second floor, moved down the silent hallway to the reference room, pumping crimson pushed open the door. pumping
To her. Behind her. Soundless.
Lyn’s head was jerked violently back.
Death in her eyes—and the blade at her throat.
A single, swift movement.
pumping
—
And after this one, another before midnight.
—
Sherry, twenty-three, a graduate student from Chicago on vacation. Staying with a girlfriend. Out for a six-pack of Heineken, a quart of nonfat, and a Hershey’s Big Bar.
She left the 7-Eleven with her bag of groceries, walked to her car parked behind the building. Somebody was in the backseat, but Sherry didn’t know that.
She got in, fished for the ignition key in her purse, and heard a sliding, rustling sound behind her. Twisted in sudden breathless panic.
Ripper.
—
Angie did not attend Lyn Esterly’s funeral. She refused to see Dan or Lenore, canceled her tours, stocked her boat with food, and took it far upriver, living like a wounded animal. She allowed the river itself to soothe and comfort her, not speaking to anyone, drifting into tiny coves and inlets…
Until the wounds began to heal. Until she had regained sufficient emotional strength to return to Lake Havasu City.
She phoned Dan: “I’m back.”
“I’ve been trying to trace you. Even ran a copter upriver, but I guess you didn’t want to be found.”
“I was all right.”
“I know that, Angie. I wasn’t worried about you. Especially after we caught him. That was what I wanted to find you for, to tell you the news. We got the bastard!”
“The River Killer?”
“Yeah. Calls himself ‘Bloody Jack.’ Says that he’s the ghost of the Ripper.”
“But how did you…?”
“We spotted this guy prowling near the Bridge. ’Bout a week ago. He’d been living in a shack by the river, up near Mesquite Campground. One of my men followed him there. Walked right in and made the arrest.”
“And he admitted he was the killer?”
“Bragged about it! Couldn’t wait to get his picture in the papers.”
“Dan…are you sure he’s the right man?”
“Hell, we’ve got a ton of evidence. We found several weapons in the shack, including surgical knives. Three scalpels. And he had the newspaper stories on each of his murders tacked to the wall. He’d slashed the faces of all the women, their pictures, I mean. Deep knife cuts in each news photo.”
“That’s…sick,” said Angie.
“And we have a witness who saw him go into that 7-Eleven on the night of the double murder—where the college girl was killed. He’s the one, all right. A real psycho.”
“Can I see you tonight? I need to be with you, Dan.”
“I need you just as much. Meet you soon as I’ve finished here at the office. And, hey…”
“Yes?”
“I’ve missed you.”
—
That night they made love in the moonlight, with the silken whisper of the river as erotic accompaniment. Lying naked in bed, side by side, they listened to the night crickets and touched each other gently, as if to make certain all of
this was real for both of them.
“Murder is an awful way to meet somebody,” said Angie, leaning close to him, her eyes shining in the darkness. “But I’m glad I met you. I never thought I could.”
“Could what?”
“Find someone to love. To really love.”
“Well, you’ve found me,” he said quietly. “And I’ve found you.”
She giggled. “You’re…”
“I know.” He grinned. “You do that to me.”
And they made love again.
And the Colorado rippled its languorous night waters.
And from the dark woods a tall figure watched them.
It wasn’t over.
—
Another month passed.
With the self-confessed killer in jail, the English Village and Bridge site were once again open to tourists.
Angie had not seen Lenore for several weeks and was anxious to tell her about the marriage plans she and Dan had made. She wanted Lenore to be her maid of honor at the wedding.
They met for a celebration dinner at the City of London Arms in the Village. But the mood was all wrong.
Angie noticed that Lenore’s responses were brief, muted. She ate slowly, picking at her food.
“You don’t seem all that thrilled to see me getting married,” said Angie.
“Oh, but I am. Truly. And I know I’ve been a wet blanket. I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just…don’t think it’s over.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Ripper thing. The killings.”
Angie stared at her. “But they’ve got him. He’s in jail right now. Dan is convinced that he…”
“He’s not the one.” Lenore said it flatly, softly. “I just know he’s not the one.”
“You’re nuts! All the evidence…”
“…is circumstantial. Oh, I’m sure this kook thinks he’s the Ripper—but where is the real proof: blood samples…fingerprints…the actual murder weapons?”
“You’re paranoid, Lenore! I had some doubts too, in the beginning, but Dan’s a good cop. He’s done his job. The killer’s locked up.”
Lenore’s green eyes flashed. “Look, I asked you to meet me down here in the Village tonight for a reason—and it had nothing to do with your wedding.” She drew in her breath. “I just didn’t want to face this alone.”
“Face what?”
“The fear. It’s November the ninth. Tonight is the ninth!”
“So?”
“The date of the Ripper’s seventh murder—back in 1888.” Her tone was strained. “If that man in jail really is the Ripper, then nothing will happen here tonight. But…if he isn’t…”
“My God, you’re really scared. One of us could become his seventh victim.
“Look,” said Angie. “It’s like they say to pilots after a crash. You’ve got to go right back up or you’ll never fly again. Well, it’s time for you to do some flying tonight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You can’t let yourself get spooked by what isn’t real. And this fear of yours just isn’t real, Lenore. There’s no killer in the Village tonight. And, to prove it, I’m going to walk you to that damn Bridge.”
Lenore grew visibly pale. “No…no, that’s…No, I won’t go.”
“Yes, you will.” Angie nodded. She motioned for the check. Lenore stared at her numbly.
—
Outside, in the late-night darkness, the Village was once more empty of tourists. The last of them had gone—and the wide parking lot was quiet and deserted beyond the gate.
“We’re insane to be doing this,” Lenore said. Her mouth was tightly set. “Why should I do this?”
“To prove that irrational fear must be faced and overcome. You’re my friend now—my best friend—and I won’t let you give in to irrationality.”
“Okay, okay…if I agree to walk to the Bridge, then can we get the hell out of here?”
“Agreed.”
And they began to walk.
moving toward the Bridge…mine now, mine
“I’ve been poking through Lyn’s research papers,” Lenore said, “and I think I know what her big surprise would have been.”
“Tell me.”
“Most scholars now agree on the true identity of the Ripper.”
“Yes. A London doctor, a surgeon. Jonathan Bascum.”
“Well, Lyn Esterly didn’t believe he was the Ripper. And after what I’ve seen of her research, neither do I.”
“Then who was he?” asked Angie.
“Jonathan had a twin sister, Jessica. She helped the poor in that area. They practically sainted her—called her ‘the Angel of Whitechapel.’ ”
“I’ve heard of her.”
“Did you know she was as medically skilled as her brother?
“…That Jonathan allowed her to use his medical books? Taught her. Jessica turned out to be a better surgeon than he was. And she used her medical knowledge in Whitechapel.”
The stimulation of what she was revealing to Angie seemed to quell much of the fear in Lenore. Her voice was animated.
keep moving…closer
“No licensed doctors would practice among the poor in that area. No money to be made. So she doctored these people. All illegal, of course. And, at first, it seemed she was a kind of saint, working among the destitute. Until her compulsion asserted itself.”
“Compulsion?”
“To kill. Between April third and November ninth, 1888, she butchered seven women—and yet, to this day, historians claim her brother was responsible for the murders.”
Angie was amazed. “Are you telling me that the Angel of Whitechapel was really Jack the Ripper?”
“That was Lyn’s conclusion,” said Lenore. “And, when you think of it, why not? It explains how the Ripper always seemed to vanish after a kill. Why was it that no one ever saw him leave Whitechapel? Because ‘he’ was Jessica Bascum. She could move freely through the area without arousing suspicion. No one ever saw the Ripper’s face…no one who lived, that is. To throw off the police, she sent notes to them signed ‘Jack.’ It was a woman they chased onto the Bridge that night in 1888.”
Lenore seemed unaware that they were approaching the Bridge now. It loomed ahead of them, a dark, stretched mass of waiting stone.
closer
“Lyn had been tracing the Bascum family history,” explained Lenore. “Jessica gave birth to a daughter in 1888, the same year she vanished on the Bridge. The line continued through her granddaughter, born in 1915, and her great-granddaughter, born in 1940. The last Bascum daughter was born in 1960.”
“Which means she’d be in her mid-twenties today,” said Angie.
“That’s right.” Lenore nodded. “Like you. You’re in your mid-twenties, Angie.”
Angie’s eyes flashed. She stopped walking. The line of her jaw tightened.
Bitch!
“Suppose she was drawn here,” said Lenore, “to London Bridge. Where her great-great-grandmother vanished a century ago. And suppose that, with the completion of the Bridge, with the placement of that final missing stone in April, Jessica’s spirit entered her great-great-granddaughter. Suppose the six killings in the Lake Havasu area were done by her—that it was her cosmic destiny to commit them.”
“Are you saying that you think I am a Bascum?” Angie asked softly. They continued to walk toward the Bridge.
“I don’t think anything. I have the facts.”
“And just what might those be?” Angie’s voice was tense.
“Lyn was very close to solving the Ripper case. When she researched the Bascum family history in England she traced some of the descendants here to America. She knew.”
“Knew what, Lenore?” Her eyes glittered. “You do believe that I’m a Bascum.” Harshly: “Don’t you?”
“No.” Lenore shook her head. “I know you’re not.” She looked intently at Angie. “Because I am.”
T
hey had reached the steps leading up to the main part of the Bridge. In numb horror, Angie watched Lenore slide back a panel in one of the large granite blocks and remove the Ripper’s hat, greatcoat, and cape. And the medical bag.
“This came down to me from the family. It was her surgical bag—the same one she used in Whitechapel. I’d put it away—until April, when they placed the final stone.” Her eyes sparked. “When I touched the stone I felt her…Jessica’s soul flowed into me, became part of me. And I knew what I had to do.”
She removed a glittering scalpel, held it up. The blade flashed in the reflected light of the lamps on the Bridge. Lenore’s smile was satanic. “This is for you!”
Angie’s heart trip-hammered; she was staring, trancelike, into the eyes of the killer. Suddenly she pivoted, began running.
Down the lonely, shadow-haunted, brick-and-cobblestone streets, under the tall antique lamps, past the clustered Tudor buildings of Old London.
And the Ripper followed. Relentlessly. Confident of a seventh kill.
she’ll taste the blade
Angie circled the main square, ran between buildings to find a narrow, dimly lit alleyway that led her to the rear section of the City of London Arms. Phone inside. Call Dan!
Picking up a rock from the alley, she smashed a rear window, climbed inside, began running through the dark interior, searching for a phone. One here somewhere…somewhere…
The Ripper followed her inside.
Phone! Angie fumbled in her purse, finding change for the call. She also found…
The pearl-handled .32 automatic—the weapon she’d been carrying for months, totally forgotten in her panic.
Now she could fight back. She knew how to use a gun.
She inserted the coins, got Dan’s number at headquarters. Ringing…ringing…“Lake Havasu City Police Department.”
“Dan…Chief Gregory…Emergency!”
“I’ll get him on the line.”
“Hurry!”
A pause. Angie’s heart, hammering.
“This is Gregory. Who’s…?”
“Dan!” she broke in. “It’s Angie. The Ripper’s here, trying to kill me!”
“Where are you?”
A dry buzzing. The line was dead.
A clean, down-slicing move with the scalpel had severed the phone cord.
die now…time to die
Angie turned to face the killer.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 154