by Jill Jones
Special Agent Mosier looked up from the paper, his expression grave. “They found the body of a young woman this morning in a Jacuzzi at a ski resort just outside Boulder,” he reported. The others took notes. “Her name was Helen Manders. Twenty-five years old. From California, a guest of the resort. Details about her are sketchy, but she has been identified as the daughter of Jeff Manders, one of Hollywood’s film moguls.”
“MO?” asked Ed Champion, another profiler in the unit.
“Manual strangulation from behind, like the rest. The body was viciously mutilated before being thrown into the water. The deck was saturated in blood.”
“What about the signature?” Victoria asked. “What little joke did he attach to this one?”
Mike shook his head in disbelief. “He poured a jar of crab boil into the hot water and left the container on the edge of the pool. No prints, of course.”
“Oh, jeez,” he heard one of the men say. Others swore. Victoria said nothing, but her hand was tense.
Jonathan had never witnessed this kind of investigation before. He was used to working with a small team, with their efforts focused solely on hard evidence, such as the bloody shoes. Until now, he had discounted the value of psychological profiling, but seeing Victoria and the others in action had changed his mind. Over the course of the morning, he had developed a mental image of this madman he simply would not have been able to conjure only from the scanty forensic evidence.
“There’s more,” Mosier said, and the general commotion in the room died instantly. “He’s sent another letter, this one to the Denver Post.” He passed the paper to Victoria, and she read it for them all to hear.
“Dear Old Boss, I wasn’t codding when I said I will kill into infinity. Haven’t you figured it out yet? I laughed when I read the Seattle police think they’ve caught the killer. I laugh at their stupidity, for they haven’t caught me, and I’m the one who gaffed the girl. Think I’ll stir up a little stew in your neighborhood tonight. Hoping for a double event after that, just for fun. I won’t stop ripping until I get buckled. Ripping is my destiny. It is my heritage, it is in my blood. My knife is sharp and I love my work. Can’t wait to show it to Her. Yours truly, Saucy Jacky.”
Victoria looked up at the others. “Some of this wording is taken from one of the original Ripper letters. I’d have to look it up to know exactly which words are the same, but the tone and content are carefully copied. I wonder what he meant, ‘Ripping is my destiny…it is in my blood…’”
Jonathan stared at the now-familiar handwriting. “There’s no doubt this is the same killer that sent the note in London,” he said.
“Stir up a stew…” Mike said. “That must refer to the Boulder case. He must have planned all along to throw the crab boil in the hot tub. Very organized at this point.”
“Hoping for a double event after that…” Victoria repeated the words, her voice sounding haunted, and Jonathan saw her shudder.
“The original Ripper murdered two women in the same night, and sent a letter to the Central News Agency warning of it in advance,” he explained to the others.
“He’s going to commit a double murder, tomorrow night if he keeps to his pattern.” She said it in a matter-of-fact tone, but her face was ashen. “We have to stop him.”
“It would help if we knew where he would strike next,” Mosier said, sounding discouraged.
Ed Champion spoke up. “A double event might mean he’ll strike in twin cities, like Minneapolis/St. Paul or Dallas/Fort Worth.”
“Or he could have twins on his hit list,” suggested another profiler.
“There’s something else about the letter that bothers me,” Mosier said, rustling through a file. He withdrew another paper and studied it briefly. “That’s what I thought. This is the photocopy of the note he sent to the Phoenix paper. Listen to this: ‘Dear Boss, You thought I was an English bloke, but you was wrong. I’m an American pie now. Ha. Ha. There is so much work to do here, I might never finish it all. I will kill into infinity if I must, to play out the game. All the whores must die, especially Her. Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.’”
He raised his head. “He refers to ‘Her’ in both letters. ‘Her’ with a capital H. He talks about killing into infinity, but I think he has a destination in mind. Her. The rest may be random victims, but I believe he is driven by his desire to kill a specific victim.”
“His mother maybe?” Ed suggested.
“Perhaps. It will be a woman whom he perceives to have misused him at some point in the past,” Victoria said. “It could be a relative or other parental figure, or it could just be a ‘type,’ like the type of girl who wouldn’t have anything to do with him in school. In that case,” she added, “he will likely kill into infinity unless we stop him, because ‘Her’ doesn’t exist as an individual. ‘Her’ is a composite of all the girls who rejected him.”
Jonathan was afraid there was another possibility.
“I’m not a psychologist, nor am I given to speculation,” he spoke up, surprising himself, “but I think we need to consider something else.” He quickly explained what had happened in London, and told them about the killer gifting Victoria with the victim’s liver. “If this is the same guy, then ‘Her’ could be Victoria Thomas.”
The room grew silent. Mike Mosier made the only sound, tapping his pen end over end on a yellow legal pad in front of him. Victoria withdrew her hand from Jonathan’s and steepled her fingers on the table in front of her. Her face had lost all color. Jonathan hadn’t meant to frighten her, but if they were to consider all possibilities, then they must consider this one.
Taking a deep breath, Victoria spoke. “Mr. Blake has a valid supposition,” she said. “But let’s deal with that in a moment. First, let’s take a look at the profile that is emerging here. I see the subject as a young male between twenty and thirty who comes from the same level of society as his victims and moves easily among them. He is well-educated, well-financed, but most importantly, well-organized in his crimes, which leads me to believe he’s an analytical thinker, a careful planner. By profession, he could be an accountant, a consultant in strategic planning, or on the other end of the spectrum, a computer hacker.
“On the Zodiac he’s likely to be a Virgo, because he’s someone who must have all the details in order. But he must also have some Leo in his chart, because he’s bold and impulsive and seeks notoriety for his crimes. That points me in the direction of a man who has never felt valued by anyone. He has grown up in the shadow of someone who has manipulated and controlled him until now he is impotent, both psychologically and physically. Symbolically killing the person whom he perceives to have victimized him restores his manhood and gives him a sense of power. But it is a fleeting sense of power, and he must kill again and again to try to get it back.
“I’m convinced our subject was at the Sherlockian symposium about Jack the Ripper,” she continued, “and that his participation in it triggered the first murder, which was in Whitechapel. I first thought he sent the victim’s liver to me as sort of a taunt, because he knew I was with the FBI. He was daring me to come after him. But after consideration, I don’t think that was it at all. I must represent, either physically or in some other manner, that person toward whom his rage is directed. Maybe I look like the mother who abused him, or the school girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. For whatever reason, he fixated on me in London, and his fantasy of killing me has grown with each murder. I agree with you, Mike, that he has a definite destination in mind, and that he won’t stop killing until he kills me.”
Jonathan’s blood ran cold. She, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed.
Mosier’s brows furrowed. “In that case, we’d better sequester you in that safe house—a real safe house, Victoria—until we take him out.”
Victoria shook her head. “Wrong move if you want to save lives, Mike. Use me as bait.”
“You’re out of your mind!” Mike Mosier almost shouted at her.
“
It makes sense, Mike. This killer is going to keep taking lives until he gets what he wants. If it’s me he wants, let me face him before any more innocent people die.”
“No way. We’re not about to set you up like that.”
But Victoria knew in her gut this was the most expedient way to take out the killer, and she was not going to be put off, even by her boss. She leaned forward. “Let me go back to my apartment. Let things appear normal. If he calls me, I’ll talk to him. Make a date even. You can put an electronic tracer on me and have a team on our tail, ready to strike if I need help.”
Mosier bolted out of his chair and struck the table with his hand. “No. It’s out of the question, Victoria. So drop it.”
Victoria stood up as well, furious. “I won’t drop it, Mike. It’s the right thing to do. I’m not afraid. Unlike his other victims, I know what to expect. I have a gun, and I know how to use it. And as for self-defense, you of all people know about my martial arts skills.” During her training, she’d managed more than once to throw her heavy-set boss to the floor and disable him. “If it’s who I think it is,” she continued, “he isn’t a large man, although he is muscular. I can probably disarm him before backup even gets there.”
“And if you don’t, you’ll be dead.”
Victoria straightened and nailed him with her gaze. “Then he’ll have what he wants and quit killing.”
“You’re willing to sacrifice yourself to this maniac?”
“I won’t get hurt.”
“And how do you know that, Agent Thomas?”
She didn’t blink. “The same way I knew to look for an older perpetrator when we caught William Coleman. I just know.”
Chapter Twenty
King’s College, Cambridge
Fifteenth October 1888
Dark dreams assail my nights, and melancholy envelopes me by day as I await a message from Eddy. I have heard nothing from him since our hunt, and I fear for his health and safety. At the same time, I am in agony with fear that he may not have held his tongue in regards to our work. It would be our undoing. I try to control the need to kill again, but it grows painful, and I do not know how long I can hold out for him.
My only consolation this past fortnight is that at last my notes have made their way into the papers. We are famous beneath our pseudonym. Jack the Ripper! A brilliant deceit if I do say so. But there has been no mention of my chalked message, blaming the murders on the Jews. Surely it has been discovered. I suspect the police are playing games, but I cannot guess their reason. I must not let them think we have ceased our endeavors, however, even though it has been over two weeks since our last hunt. So today I posted a little present, not to the police, but rather to Mr. Lusk, who heads the Mile End Vigilance Committee. My gift to him was the kidney, or rather half of it, which I took as my latest souvenir, and this note:
From hell
Mr Lusk
Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer
signed
Catch me when you can
Mishter Lusk
Playing with the coppers like this is an engaging dalliance, but my heart is wrenched by Eddy’s silence. I must hear from him soon, or I shall go mad.
Jonathan could scarcely believe what had happened at the end of the meeting at Quantico. In spite of all of Mosier’s objections, in the end Victoria had had her way. He could not comprehend how her boss could allow one of his top agents to put herself in such a treacherous situation. But he of all people knew how strong-willed Victoria was. Maybe Mosier knew it was pointless to try to change her mind and just got tired of arguing.
At least there was a plan in place, carefully worked out with a group of special agents Victoria knew and obviously trusted. And he was grateful he was part of that plan, even though it meant he would remain as Victoria’s “bodyguard” until it was all over.
Filled with foreboding, he stared out the window of the car that was taking them back to the cottage to get their belongings, and which then would drop them at Victoria’s apartment. The two agents in the front seat would never be far away, and a surveillance van had been dispatched to her neighborhood with agents who would monitor her every move. He recalled her anger when she’d seen the security camera in the safe house and was glad she hadn’t pitched a fit about these arrangements. The stakes now were considerably higher.
Victoria lived in a complex of red brick townhouses in a quiet suburb just outside of the nation’s capital. The driver pulled into a parking space marked “Visitor,” shifted into Park and turned to Victoria. “Mosier’s right, you know. You’re nuts.”
“Thanks for the lift, Grady,” she said, ignoring his comment. “If you want to be inconspicuous, I suggest you park on the street. My place is just a couple of doors away.” She touched the device that would allow their ears to hear everything she said and track her every move. “I’m not as big a fool as you think. I’ll expect you to come running if you hear me screaming bloody murder.”
Dismayed, Jonathan wondered if it would come to that.
Taking the suitcases from the trunk, he followed her up the walk that was lined with bright yellow chrysanthemums. Autumn leaves blew from the many trees incorporated into the pleasing landscape. Although not pretentious, Victoria’s two-story apartment was a far cry from his own modest flat. While she unlocked the door, he noted that the mullioned windows across the front were sealed, but saw two double-hung windows on the second floor. If an intruder wished to gain entry from the front, other than by the door, he’d have to do so by ladder.
Once they were inside, he was glad to see Victoria throw a heavy deadbolt into place.
“I have to make a pit stop,” she said, and headed up the stairs, leaving Jonathan to become acquainted with his new surroundings. The apartment was tastefully and expensively furnished, as he had expected it would be. A blue velvet sofa faced the brick fireplace and was flanked on both sides by armchairs upholstered in a floral pattern. Bright pillows picked up the colors from the chairs and splashed them around the room in accent chairs and on the hearth. In one corner, a bentwood rocker was covered by a throw woven in a large blue and white plaid. Artwork covered the walls and magazines smothered a low table by the sofa, completing a scene that although richly done, looked homey and comfortable rather than elegant. He wondered how Mother liked it.
Jonathan picked up the mail that had been slipped through the slot in her door and stacked it neatly on the small desk in the hall. He noticed the message light was blinking on her phone. A framed photo on the top of the desk caught his eye, and he picked it up. He recognized two of the three people in the picture. Trey Delaney was in the center, his arms around two women. Victoria was on the right and on the left was a red-head.
Meghan?
He heard Victoria’s footsteps on the stairs and his thoughts returned to the moment and the crisis they faced. “Is there a back door?” he asked when she reached him.
“Straight ahead.” She pointed down the hall. He strode to the door and saw that it, too, was secured by a dead bolt, although the paned windows could give relatively easy access. He didn’t like what he saw beyond the door, either. The small garden area behind the apartment was enclosed by a tall fence, which would give a would-be intruder privacy. In the garden was an outdoor café table set, some empty flower pots and a bicycle.
“What’s beyond the gate?” he asked.
“Covered parking.”
“Garage?”
“Car port.”
“Maybe we should have the men park back there. It’s closer.”
But Victoria shook her head. “It’s bad enough that they can hear everything we say and know our every move,” she said, pointing to the bug she was wearing. “I couldn’t stand it if they were peering in my windows as well.”
Jonathan considered what she had just reminded
him of. He was not as jealous of his privacy as she was, but he did not wish the agents who would be monitoring them to hear anything personal that might pass between them. “Can you turn that thing off?”
She grinned and pressed a button on the device. “Yes. I’m not supposed to, but there might be times…”
He heard a catch in her voice and looked up to see the question in her eyes.
“Jonathan, what’s wrong?” she asked.
He knew what she meant, but he didn’t want to deal with it. “I don’t like this business of you being set up to lure the killer.”
She came to him and laid her palms lightly on his chest. His skin seemed to burn beneath her touch. “That’s not what I meant.”
He took her hands in his. “I know.”
“It’s about Mother, isn’t it? Did she really put you off so badly that you’ve changed your mind about me?”
Jonathan thought his heart would break. Nothing could ever change his mind about Victoria. He loved her. He always would. But…
“No, it’s not about your mother. It’s…nothing. This is a difficult time, that’s all. I’m worried about you.”
Her eyes searched his for a long moment, and he saw the pain in her expression. She did not understand why he’d withdrawn from her. He didn’t understand it fully himself. He wanted her. God knew he wanted her. And she wanted him. But other than his body, he had so little to give her. He must resist the temptation to think it could work out for them, because it wouldn’t. He had to keep his distance. In the long haul, it was for the best.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “But I won’t push it right now.” She turned away from him. “But when this is all over, I want some answers.”
If Barbara Thomas, with her haughty ways and overt prejudice, had destroyed her daughter’s relationship with the only man she had ever loved, Victoria would never forgive her. She didn’t know what was going on with Jonathan, but she’d begun to suspect that Barbara had succeeded in “putting him in his place,” so to speak. She burned with fury at her mother, and no small measure of anger at Jonathan himself. Why was he buying into all that crap?