The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  I swell with emotion

  - and my eyes mist over with tears. 'It's nothing.'

  We finish up our beers and sandwiches hurriedly so we can all move on to the piece de resistance. Mike's G&Ts. Many of Mike's G&Ts. He turns up the music: our old favourite, Muddy Waters.

  - 'The big guys from Madrid haven't got a peep out of Abdon,' says Malasana. 'He won't say a word about the crimes. But there they are, questioning him til they're blue in the face. And El Dandy putting his little show on, lodging complaints and moaning about his client being tortured. Talking to the journos practically every day. Lapping it up. They won't let Abdon sleep, they question him for hours with no breaks... at the rate he's going soon you won't be able to ask anyone what bloody time it is. Madrid are euphoric but also pissed off, cos the guy won't give them what they want.

  - They've got all the proof they need.

  - But they end up looking bad because they haven't got a detailed confession for the report. All he'll admit to is committing the crimes. The rest is his usual bullshit. The Day of Judgment, plagues, bla bla bla. Crazy talk.'

  - 'The station misses you, Commissioner,' says Lopez.

  - 'Maybe you do. And this guy,' I say, pointing at Malasana. 'I'm not so sure about the rest of them.'

  - 'Everyone's sick of the Madrid team and this whole thing. They just want him to be locked up and be done with it so we can all move on.'

  Mike keeps the blues going, Demetria Taylor and Memphis Slim. We're buzzing. It's been months since the bar was this loud. The gin keeps flowing. We're all having a good time, talking loudly, smoking, gesturing, even Mike joining in, drinking more than I've ever seen him. His freckled face is red, especially his cheeks, two deep red spots like a chubby schoolboy's.

  When midnight's come and gone, Whiskey Moran comes in, hugging us all fiercely and congratulating us on the arrest. Even tonight, he sticks to fruit juice, his willpower unwavering. But fiercely happy, his joy contagious. We talk and laugh. Joke about the Madrid team. We're ecstatic to go back to normal, our small, grey lives, the safety of routine. When we finally get up to go home the sun is about to come up and none of us is walking straight. I drive home at a snail's pace, barely hanging onto the wheel. Getting home, parking and opening the front door take superhuman efforts, like climbing Mount Everest. I stumble inside and slump onto the sofa like a drunkard. Sleep comes, black and thick as pitch, and when I wake up I'm so hungover and so number that for a moment I think I believe I've forgotten the whole macabre mess.

  I love imitation

  Life is imitation

  Art is imitation

  I am imitation

  I am art...

  31

  - 'I've been expecting you.'

  Rafael Cristóbal Atienza.

  Those eyes, burned into my mind.

  - 'As soon as I found out Abdon had turned himself in, I knew you'd come.'

  He watches me calmly from across his desk. But I sense his excitement and curiosity.

  All I do is look at him, wondering who I'm dealing with.

  He gets up, half-closing the blinds to make sure no one will catch sight of us through the window. Then he opens the door to his office and tells his secretary to cancel all his appointments today. He's not here. He closes the door quietly and goes back to his expensive-looking chair.

  He's agile, strong. Decisive. He wears a suit, no tie. Angular face. Hooked nose. Large, light-blue eyes, set very wide. Salt-and-pepper hair slicked back.

  - 'You don't believe Abdon's a cold, calculating killer. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here.'

  He looks me straight in the eye. I recognise that penetrating stare. The same one as the day he walked Abdon Pascua down the stairs.

  - 'You've only seen me once. But it was enough for a man like you to know.' 'Our eyes met.' A lot was said in that moment.' 'More than being said, a lot of questions were asked.'

  He opens an old, dark wood drawer in his desk and takes out a packet of cigarettes.

  - 'I know you smoke.'

  He leaves the packet on the table and lights up.

  - 'I must say this is a fascinating matter. I can't help it. But,' he looks up and looks me in the eye again, 'I'm not the Ripper.'

  We stare at each for a long time. Eventually it's too much for me and I extract a cigarette from the packet, asking the question he's been expecting.

  - 'Why should I think you are?'

  - 'Because you don't believe it's Abdon. And someone must have manipulated him to an extreme degree for him to turn himself in, presenting himself as the killer and facing the consequences he's facing now.'

  - 'Go on?'

  - 'And who better to manipulate a mentally ill patient than his own psychiatrist?'

  - 'The evidence against Abdon is irrefutable.

  - But it could also have been tampered with.'

  Another long silence. He rummages through his desk again and pulls out a sheaf of hotel invoices and plane tickets.

  - 'I put this together for you. Invoices for a trip to Barcelona, three nights at the Fira Palace hotel. Same date as the third and fourth murders. I've also got the agenda for the psychiatry conference I attended. In fact, my speech was at 8 PM on September the thirtieth. No way I was in Baria. Please, see for yourself. Now.'

  He leaves the office, leaving me alone. I can't help myself. I pick up the phone and start making calls. First to the hotel. Then the conference organisers. Ten minutes later it's all been confirmed.

  I open the door and he comes back in, settling back into his chair. He's got a file in his hand and places it carefully on the desk.

  - 'I've been studying the case too. News. Similar cases. Pascua's record. The rumours, the tapes. Photos posted online by witnesses or people claiming to be the killer himself. There's a lot of information out there, some fake, so I took the liberty of putting together my own dossier.'

  - 'And what are your conclusions?'

  - 'I'm as surprised as you are that Abdon is the killer.'

  So I'm not the only idiot who refuses to believe the evidence.

  I tell him I've read about people who are vulnerable to manipulation. And manipulation techniques.

  He listens attentively.

  - 'Abdon is very... easily led. As you suspected, he presents all the telltale signs of someone who's easily manipulated. Schizophrenia and a fanatic obsession with the occult. Probably stemming from a difficult childhood and very low self-esteem. Total lack of maternal affection. I don't know why. Depression in his teens and his first schizophrenic episode. Probably that first episode, the one he was arrested for, the sexual assault, was a misguided attempt at eliciting affection. As far as I know, he was terrified of his mother, and that fear controlled him. He felt a compelling need to earn his mother's affection, but he failed. Never did she show him any kindness. Her death, after his father's death years before, kick-started the worsening symptoms he's had for months. The ideal target for a manipulator.'

  I root through my pocket for the flash drive.

  - 'I think that's enough for now. Do you want to have a look at this?'

  I place it on the desk.

  - 'Is that what I think it is?'

  I nod and he reaches for it, picking it up like some precious artefact.

  I spend the next few hours waiting at a pavement cafe on the other side of the road, smoking.

  I study the house til I've memorised it. When the call comes I'm back in his office in less than a minute.

  - 'I've read through all the documents. And I've watched the video, Abdon's questioning, I assume.'

  - 'The first one. The only one I've been to. He said I was the only person he would talk to, so that's why I was allowed to go in. I've been removed from the case.'

  - 'It makes sense that he wouldn't want to talk to anyone else. You also said he's refusing to describe his crimes. Just... how should I put this? repeats his message.' 'He wants th
e crimes to speak for themselves.

  - It must be a given that Abdon is guilty, do you understand?'

  - 'Yes,' he says. 'As if our conversation earlier had never happened.'

  - 'Exactly. As if we were both convinced that Abdon Pascua is the Ripper.'

  He looks thoughful. He's lost his earlier stiffness, when he had to prove he wasn't guilty, just interested in the case as a psychiatrist. Now he seems to be enjoying his role of amateur sleuth.

  - 'Now. Choosing you as his adversary is no strange thing, he's been going about it that way from the start. The messages you've received from him confirm that. I must tell you that...'

  His eyes are glued to the computer screen, the flash drive still inserted. He must have copied everything on it.

  - 'He must have some kind of connection with you, though you don't know it. Any kind of link is enough for someone who's mentally ill. But there must be something there. Or, at least...'

  - 'Yes?'

  - 'Maybe a direct tie isn't even necessary. You're well-known in Baria. You've been the Commissioner here for a few years and headed up big cases. The killer needed an adversary, a real person. You were the man for the job: a police officer with an excellent track record. And the killer is an expert on the history of Jack the Ripper. He knew the messages and letters he was going to be sending out from the start. Perhaps he felt that wasn't enough, so he took a few liberties, departed from the model... with you. More fun for him that way. More satisfying.'

  - 'What did you think of his... writings?'

  He looks me in the eye.

  - 'Why?' His expression is curious. 'What do you think of them?'

  - 'Seems to me as though they've been written by two different people. Some of the writing contradicts itself.'

  - 'Go on.'

  - 'The passages where he talks about going back to the scene of the crime are very different to the cold, clinical cynicism of the diary entries.'

  - 'Indeed. These writings are the product of a schizophrenic mind, fixted on the esoteric and occult.. The diary is.... cold, ruthless, distant even. More like the arrogant cruelty of the WhatsApp messages. That's my conclusion.'

  - 'Could the dairy entries and scene of the crime passages be written by the same person?

  - Split personality?' 'It's possible. The human mind is so complex it would be impossible to rule out that possibility entirely. Having said that... I don't think it applies in this case. I've been working with Abdon Pascua for months. He's schizophrenic and his condition has worsened because he hasn't been treating it properly, coupled with his obsession for the occult. He has these books he reads over and over again: the Apocalypse to John, the Apocalypse to Peter, mystical readings of Jung's theories, like The Seven Sermons to the Dead... those references come as no surprise to me. He talked about those passages from the beginning. He had his own interpretations of the texts. He's not an ignorant man, but he doesn't have what it takes to understand Jung. I suppose very few people do, at that,' he laughs. 'He used to come out with this mishmash of images, thoughts, dreams, it was really... well, nonsense.'

  I throw out the question, not giving him time to think. He doesn't avoid it.

  - 'Do you think Abdon Pascua could have committed these crimes?'

  He takes a deep breath and digs out a cigarette, but doesn't light it. He tents his fingers, elbows leaning on the desk.

  - 'Abdon stopped coming to our sessions a few weeks before the crimes began. He couldn't be forced to come in - he's an adult, not legally declared incapacitated yet. So the illness could have worsened in a number of ways. Don't forget - schizophrenia is one of the most complex mental illnesses, and symptoms can vary dramatically from one patient to the next. Having said that...'

  He pauses and finally lights up. He draws over an overflowing ashtray and smokes thoughtfully.

  - 'I wouldn't say he could have. He doesn't fit the profile. The force also draws up profiles, you must know a bit about this.'

  - 'How would you describe the killer's profile?'

  Rafael Cristobal smiles. He hands me a cigarette and lights one himself. We're through in about three puffs. He opens the folder and has another look.

  - 'In my opinion, Commissioner, leaving to one side the fact that Pascua is the killer, as we convened, I would never have guessed at a profile like his. All along, I've thought the killer was organised, not disorganised. And schizophrenia makes for disorganised people. These crimes could not have been planned by someone with a messy mind. He sent messages. He avoided significant risks. He sidestepped anything that would put him at risk of being identified or arrested. He followed a precise pattern in the murders and waited patiently for the rigt time to come. No. This killer is not messy. He is cold and calculating, with complete self-control. I thought he must be middle-aged. Not old - he's strong, and decisive - but not young, because he's not sloppy. His planning and execution show experience, maturity. He must have the means - economic and material - to commit the crimes. He used several different vehicles and must have had a safe place to hide victims three and four. He must live alone. Any company would be extremely dangerous. And one more thing. He's got criminal contacts if he had stolen vehicles. It's hard to imagine Abdon mixing with criminals. He'd be an outcast.'

  He grinds his cigarette out in a glass ashtray. Rafael Cristobal has given a lot of thought to these brutal crimes. Then he goes on,

  - 'He's educated. Look at his spelling and grammar, the way he's turned the media and advertising to his advantage. How he's used technology to ensure he left no trace in his messages or the terrible photographs of the crimes he posted online. And he's from here. He knows the city and its surroundings perfectly, and he knew Rita Oehlen, his fifth victim, perfectly. So he must be upper middle class. He is not schizophrenic, Commissioner. He's an arrogant, intelligent psychopath. Perhaps an extreme sports enthusiast.'

  - 'Why so?'

  - 'He's addicted to extreme emotions. Though there are psychopaths who hide their needs in their day-to-day lives, keep their impulses very carefully hidden away.'

  - 'Why do you think he started killing?'

  He shuffles in his chair, looks straight through me. His eyes seem to take in the room, but he seems attuned only to his own thoughts.

  - 'He felt the urge to kill. Simple as that. He wanted to kill. Any excuse would have been enough to begin with. And once he began, you might wonder - why kill this way? Because he has a brilliant mind. From the start, he decided to pull out all the stops. Go for more fame than any of his predecessors. The most terrifying, most notorious killer. And looking at how this has gone global, I'd say he's achieved that. Perhaps...'

  He's on a roll now. He doesn't want to stop, and I don't want him to either. He's voicing some of my own thoughts and feelings, lifting the fog. And explaining it all as thoroughly and clearly as an old professor.

  - 'Any ties he had to any one of the victims, especially his fifth victim, would have been enough to want to kill one and then decide to proceed the way he did, extravagantly, noisily.'

  - 'Why Rita Oehlen, specifically?'

  - 'I'm missing a piece of the puzzle to work that out.'

  - 'Which piece?'

  - 'The media reported that the killer broke into Oehlen's home through a window.

  - But that's not true. She let him in. The broken window was a subterfuge, to trick us.'

  - That confirms my suspicions. He knew her, and he hated her. And everything else has been an impossibly clever game leading up to his most brutal murder, the killing of the woman he detested. A normal murder wasn't enough for him. He must have hated her with all his soul.

  Then I remember Lapuerta's video. Cristina Stoicescu's pantomime with the man dressed as the Ripper. 'Ties to two of the women he killed?

  - Did Abdon Pascua know Rita Oehlen?'

  - 'Of course. Abdon Pascua's also a member of the upper class, don't forget that. They'd known each other since
childhood. But funnily enough, she was always nice to him. I say that's funny,' he adds hurriedly, 'because there weren't many people she was kind to. She couldn't have cared less about most people. But she was nice to him.'

  He falls silent, and neither of us says anything for a while. He seems tired, as if expressing his thoughts and fears on the killer had worn him out.

  - 'Doctor. Imagine we haven't caught the killer yet. If I had come onto the case a month ago, what would you have recommended I do?'

  'Go back to the scenes of the crime, back to the patterns.

  - Killers aren't made in a day, no matter how crazy they are. He must have left a trace somewhere. And he's not young, I'm sure of that.'

  - 'That's what I think too. I've talked to every school teacher in town, from thirty years back, in case they remembered anything. The officers, too...'

  - 'And why not the doctors?'

  I'm taken aback at the idea.

  - 'Remember when you and I were kids. The 70s, 80s. Secrets were kept in the family then, maybe discussed with their doctor or confessor. Not running to the police the way people do now. Baria wasn't even a city, just a small town. If anyone had got up to mischief, maybe it would have stayed in the family and only the family doctor would have known.'

  He pauses. I've never paid more attention to anyone in my life.

  - 'He hates women. To kill women that way, you have to,' he adds.

  - 'I agree, but I can't draw any conclusions from it.'.

  - 'Maybe he's...' he laughs. 'A closeted homosexual. But closeted even to himself, repressing his urges. Maybe he doesn't even know he is.'

  - 'You think? Nowadays? No one hides away like that any more.'