The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  Some of the lots have been sown - crops that will now rot with the water and mud. It's hard enough work getting anything to grow in this barren land, and when finally it looks like victory is within reach, the storm hits and floods the harvest like the world drowning after the Flood.

  We pass hotel Acapulco and keep going towrds the coast. On this low coast the damage was inevitable. Entire streets submerged in dirty rainwater. Cars underwater up to the windows. Dripping terraces. Flooded basements and cellars. Whole houses looking like shipwrecks, as if they might be dragged out to sea, so near the scene is apocalyptic. The raging sea, black, roiling, threatening.

  We inch towards a strip of shops located at the crossroads of several roads. Lapuerta's Jaguar comes into sight. The lights are on in the para-pharmacy, stuffed to the gills with health and beauty products, a totem to the gorgeous, Photoshopped bodies only a handful of people can achieve in real life. The body is stubborn, untameable.

  We park on the other side of the road and wait. The parking lot is almost deserted today.

  - 'I hate waiting,' Malasana moans.

  We open the window a crack and light up. A few minutes later the air is so smoky even we can't stand it. We chuck our unfinished fags onto the asphalt.

  - 'The worst part of this job is the waiting.'

  - 'There are worse things.'

  - 'What?'

  - 'Inspector Galan said there comes a point when evil goes so far she can no longer make sense of it. She's right.'

  - 'I'm no philosopher, boss. But there is a line and if someone crosses it I do feel the urge to crucify them.

  What the Ripper's doing beggars belief. The evil he's doing... that someone can find it total normal is a mystery to me. It scares me. And makes me angry.

  - Killing people is a lot more fun than killing animals in the woods, because man is the most dangerous animal of all.' 'I like killing people because it is so much fun. It's better than sleeping with a girl,' I recall, vaguely literally.

  - 'What?'

  - 'That's what the Zodiac Killer wrote in one of his letters to the police. I suppose what he meant deep down was that to him killing was like every other fun experience other people have: a party, a few drinks, a shag, whatever.'

  Through the windows, we see the para-pharmecy's three employees gliding about in their white coats. Their faces are bored. Business is slow this morning. A gust of wind suddenly tears through the parking lot, splashing water onto the car windows. We both jerk back, as if the water was going to splash us.

  - 'We're going to get him, boss,' Malasana says, in a small, pitiful voice I've never heard him use before. He's a brave man, but he's scared. Scared of not catching him. 'I can't imagine not catching him.

  - Do you know why we catch criminals?' I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't stop myself. 'Because most of them are stupid. They make mistakes. Their crimes are barely thought out. Or they rat on each other. Or they start flashing their mysteriously earned cash out of the blue. Or they've got a record. When we know who they are they're already halfway to the nick. That's how we get them. We get them because they're stupid.'

  - 'Jesus, look at the rain now,' says Malasana. 'Radu didn't make mistakes and we caught him.'

  - 'Because it was you, only you, or someone like you, capable of doing it. Absolute, extreme dedication. And because his network had too many loose ends. He did his best to tie things up nicely, but his luck couldn't last forever. But in this case...'

  We both light up again. We roll the windows down halfway and an energic wind crackling with energy rushes through the car. The smell of ozone fills the small space, so intense it blocks out any other scent.

  'In this case, the Ripper is sharp. He's had eveerything planned out from the very start. He's got no accomplices, so he doesn't have to worry about someone talking. Someone acting alone, with no record, can commit any kind of crime and it's highly likely they won't be caught.'

  'But he's got to follow a modus operandi, and that'll be his downfall, boss.' 'For sure.'

  'I hope. He can change tack. Or make as many adjustments as he likes. He shouldn't have killed that woman in Almerimar. That crime isn't included in the list of murders usually attributed to Jack the Ripper.'

  'Maybe he did it because he couldn't wait. That means he's under stress.'

  'I'm not sure. Maybe he did it just for fun. To keep our attention and the media on him.'

  'That pride will get him, boss. You'll see.'

  'Pride is a mortal sin,' I say, my childhood catechism coming back to me. Not that it's been much use.

  'It's pride that gets them, boss. Have you ever met anyone prideful who wasn't an arsehole deep down?'

  Half an hour later the storm has let up somewhat . Vicente Lapuerta crosses the pavement gingerly, a jacket thrown over his head to protect him from the rain. He gets into the Jag quickly and starts the engine. He drives out of the parking lot slowly, stopping at a 'Give Way' sign, and when he's already out on the motorway I get moving. He crosses the roundabout and heads towards Garrucha.

  - 'If there's no signal, we're fucked,' says Malasana.

  - 'Maybe we'll get lucky for once,' I sigh, dialling.

  After a few rings, Lapuerta picks up.

  - 'Hello?'

  - 'This is Chief Inspector Carrillo.'

  Silence descends at the other end of the line. He's not driving very fast but he slows down to a crawl. In the foggy half-light and grey drizzle it must be impossible for him to make out who's in the car a hundred yards behind him.

  - 'What do you want?'

  His tone makes no bones.about it. Scorn with extra added hatred.

  - 'Where's Robot?'

  More silence.

  - 'What?'

  - 'Robot.'

  Lapuerta takes his time. So much time, in fact, that several seconds later he hangs up.

  I speed up and we move closer to the Jag. I see his right arm moving, pressing buttons on the dashboard. We look at the scanner, holding our breath and praying it's what we expected.

  Yes. Lapuerta is making a call. As if by magic, the number he's calling lights up on the scanner screen. Malasana fishes out his mobile phone and makes a call. We know that in ten minutes we'll be able to identify the phone number and locate the phone.

  Lapuerta's Jaguar enters Garrucha, crosses half the village and then turns towards the harbour. Then it turns back towards the beach and stops in front of a high stone wall surrounding a villa. Palm trees and willows peep out from the top.

  Before he has time to get out, we're out of the Golf and in the Jag in a flash, slamming the doors.

  Alarm, stupor, rancour. The bottomless, endless rancour bad people give off.

  He tries to open his mouth to protest, to shout, but he just grunts heavily when Malasana hits him in the side with all his might.

  His cry of pain lasts minutes. His eyes fill with tears and then, little by little, he tries to get his breath back.

  - 'You'll pay for this,' he warns us.

  - 'When we've finished with you you won't have one friend left. So save your breath.'

  I light up. Then blow smoke in his face. He coughs pathetically.

  - 'I see your health is a big concern!' I say.

  - 'But not the girls' health, isn't that right,' says Malasana.

  - 'What do you want?'

  - 'Robot.'

  We don't need to say anything else. And he knows it, though he makes a weak attempt to pretend otherwise.

  - 'What...?'

  He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. I let him see me spilling ash on the leather seats.

  - 'I'm sure you'd love this to be girl hide, instead of cow or goat leather. What a shame for you, eh?'

  - 'You'll pay for this. All of it.'

  - 'You think you're somebody? Because you have important friends? Because you've got dough? Your friends and money can suck my dick,' spits Malasana.
>
  - 'No need to be so explicit, officer,' I say. 'Mr Lapuerta knows he's not going to have any friends left after this. Not even Robot.'

  Lapuerta flinches, something I didn't expect from his icy hatred. He tries to open the door and run off. But Malasana's much too quick. He smashes his fist into his thigh and that's enough to stop him short. He's wheezing again. Like all tormentors, he can't stand pain.

  - 'Get the magic baggie.'

  Malasana proudly displays the baggie he's extracted from his jacket.

  - 'Methamphetamine, speed, ecstasy and viagra,' I explain.

  Malasana looks for the comparment with a lid under the passenger seat. He places the baggie inside it with care. Then he takes a couple of photos with his phone.

  - 'Right then, my little Vicente,' I say. 'Playtime's over. Either you tell us where Robot is and who was disguised as Jack the Ripper in the video or these drugs will have been found in your car. We also want the video, of course.'

  I can smell Vicente Lapuerta's cold sweat. All perverts are helpless and pathetic when they're caught. I hear the cogs whirring in his dirty mind. He weighs up the pros and cons and then, since things can't go any other way, he decides to talk.

  - 'Damián Arbor Lachas. He lives in the prefab houses next to the motorway.'

  - 'We already knew that. He's not there. Where's he hiding?'

  He looks surprised to hear we already know. Marcos Atienza mustn't have told him about our friendly little chat.

  - 'How should I know!' he shouts hysterically.

  - 'Who was the other guy? In the cape and top hat?'

  - 'What?'

  He can't believe we know so much. His body language betrays him.

  - 'Being involved in these crimes isn't going to look good for you, Vicente. Your clientele will dry right up. I'm going to charge you on suspicion of concealment.'

  - 'You can't do that! I've got nothing to do with any of this!'

  - 'Who?'

  Malasana puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth. Lapuerta cries like a baby. He holds his head in his hands. He's starting to smell bad. His fear stinks.

  - 'I don't know. I don't know who he is. Only Damian is allowed to know. He showed up in his mask and never took it off,' he manages to sob. 'He never said a word. Just... did what he came to do and left.'

  Malasana looks at me and I nod. It lines up with what Radu said.

  - 'Does Robot know him?'

  - 'If he didn't, how was he supposed to be there?' he asks as if I were stupid.

  - 'The video. I want the video. Now.'

  Lapuerta nods. He's sobbing.

  We drive back to the para-pharmacy, Malasana at the wheel of Lapuerta's Jag.

  We go into the office, the employees watching us curiously. It's all there on their boss's face and they keep their mouths shut. Lapuerta picks up a bottle of pills from a shelf and hands us a flash drive.

  - 'It's a show. Nothing really happened,' he says defensively.

  A damp, cobbled street. A brick wall. A dark covered window. A gas lamppost. Darkness. A girl is smoking a cigarette, leaning against the corner of the wall. Wearing clothes from a century ago.

  Steps ring out. Heels. Click click click. Slow.

  Out of the darkness emerges a man, seen from the back. He wears a top hat and black cape.

  The woman calls out to him. He stops. She shimmies around the man, touching his arm, his shoulders. His back. She lifts her face and it comes into focus for the first time: the profile of Cristiana Stoicescu. She fakes a smile. It's grotesque. The drugs have left her face twisted, blurry. Her expression slow and sleepy. The man moves. Now he's seen in profile. Then he looks at the camera. A dark stare from a terrifying mask.

  After staring at the camera slowly and deliberately, he turns his head slowly towards the woman. She leans on his chest, shuffling up close to him. He takes out a note and slips it into her cleavage. She laughs. Takes his hand and makes to lead him away. The man looks around. He puts an arm around her back, the other on her breasts. They turn. Moving towards the camera. The woman, so small before the man in black. Her sleepy, unfocused face. The mask. The man flings out his right arm, his cape rippling. A knife glints in his hand. Then, with the precision of a violinist, he moves the knife up to the woman's throat and makes a cut. In one fell swoop. Then another. Immobile in his arms, the woman's head drops to one side. The man lays her body on the ground. A pool of blood starts to pour out next to Cristiana Stoicescu's head. The man kneels down next to her. As if to worship her. He slashes open her gown and shows her naked body to the camera, feigning one cut after another, cutting and removing her organs, cutting and removing.

  Fade to black.

  We stay silent for a few moments too.

  The title of the video we've just seen: The Ripper. But there are many more films on the flash drive we forced Lapuerta to hand over. The Night Porter. Tesis. Eyes Wide Shut. In the Realm of the Senses. The Story of O. An 8mm murder, the first video we saw.

  Lapuerta has admitted that every once in a while, in addition to the orgies, there were 'drama nights'. Special nights with only a few special guests in attendance. Robot was in charge of organising it all and writing the scripts. Lapuerta has not identified the attendees. They always wear masks. 'Some of them were real bullies, Chief Inspector,' he says.

  The first theatre night was An 8mm Murder. It was Robot's idea. That's why there aare so many more people in the video. When he saw it, he realised they could stage similar shows based on other films, with a more select audience. He swears up and down nothing ever went further than a staged representation.

  We go through all the other videos. The masked, caped man is not in any of them. But it makes us sick to the stomach to see how hired women lick the boots of the SS uniforms Lapuerta and company wear.

  We inform the Madrid team. The watch the Ripper video. Then the rest of them. They send them off to be analysed. An anthropometry program enables them to deduce that the Ripper actor is around 6 foot tall.

  La tierra parece haberse tragado a Robot. Now we have a description, Malasana confirms that he is the man who drove Cristiana Stoicescu to the El Desfiladero guesthouse. The owners and a cleaner have confirmed they saw a man of that description.

  Another report comes in, on the analysis of the occult symbols used by the murderer. It doesn't add anything new to the explanations Don Silverio Carranza gave us.

  Tracking Geoffrey Hunt has not done much for the COU unit, except for confirming he's a drunk and a pervert. According to Lila, the detective does what a detective does. Searching, sniffing things out, asking around.

  Fallaron las vigilancias por saturación, la investigación puerta a puerta, la búsqueda masiva de furgonetas, el rastreo de antecedentes, la indagación de matanzas de perros o de compras de cerdos, los visionados de vídeos de las calles.

  We've failed at everything.

  We've got nothing.

  - 'Those parties have got nothing to do with the Ripper, boss. They're just some pervert's idea of a good time. They included the Ripper just like they had a staging of An 8mm Murder and The Night Porter. The actors in those films haven't killed anyone. So why should we think the Ripper actor started killing like him a few weeks later? Es una tontería.'

  Inspector Galan adds condescendingly:

  - 'Either way, we'll question him if you bring him in.'

  She looks out of the window in my office, arms folded. The sunset is dark and blurry today after the huge storm, now fading into grim drizzle and grey. Dark, threating clouds still hang overhead. A gust of wind blows raindrops against the windowpane. The street outside is empty and water streams along the road seeking out a gutter. Two men come out from under the arches to smoke and look at the sky. One wears a butcher's apron.

  - 'The first suspect was a butcher,' she says.

  - 'I know.'

  - 'Do you think we'll catch him?'

  - Looks li
ke we've all got our minds on the same thing today. There have been too many serial killers that were never caught.

  - 'Do you know why Jack the Ripper is a legend?'

  - 'You tell me.'

  - 'Because he was the first killer to be so prominently featured in the press.

  - He's a legend because he never had to answer for his crimes.'

  She falls silent and bites her lip. Her large, honey-coloured eyes light up her face: bright, frank, lending her a gravitas and an attractiveness she wouldn't otherwise possess.

  - 'I'm terrified of not catching him,' she says.

  - 'They all make mistakes,' I lie, to cheer her up.

  - He hasn't so far. So much so that the only trace he left was to have a laugh at us.

  - At me.'

  - 'How did he get that cigarette butt?'

  I shrug.

  - 'On the street... at a cafe... All he would have had to do was follow me for a while to pick one up.'

  - 'You smoke a lot?'

  - 'Too much.' 'But now's not the time to stop.'

  She smiles.

  - 'No. No it's not.' 'When you don't have anything at all, like us now, there's only one thing you can trust.' 'The profile.'

  I remember the profile sent down from Madrid. I wonder if she put it together. And the profiles I've read over the past few weeks: COU's take on the killer, self-proclaimed psychiatrists online. Almost all of them exactly alike.

  - Any profile we put forward could be proved wrong in a flash.

  - 'He's organised,' she begins. A long pause. 'He's not psychotic, of course. He's a psychopath. No spring chicken, either; he's too painstaking. But not too old, because he's very strong. I see a lot of adrenaline in his crimes.'