by Paul Levine
“But then there’s Mary Rosedahl,” I said.
“Yes, and unless you’re willing to believe that Fox killed a second time to cover up the motive for the first…”
“Hold on, Charlie. We have no proof Fox had anything to do with the first. You can’t take this kind of speculation to a grand jury.”
Charlie smiled and scratched his beard. “Easy, Jake. We’re just postulating. Covering all the possibilities. Stop thinking about probable cause and proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Be a scientist for a moment. Consider every happenstance, no matter how remote. When a person is killed, always ask, cui bono? ‘Who stands to gain?’”
I drained the beer. It didn’t help my powers of concentration. “That assumes a rational motive and not a crazed psychopath.”
“And you assume we’re dealing with a psychopath.”
“Guys who leave nutty notes at murder scenes don’t usually have rational motives, right?”
Charlie watched his line as little water bugs skittered across the surface. “Unless the messages are purposeful distractions…”
“That’s what Pam Maxson said about the Ripper note.”
“Or they could be the product of an irresistible urge to scorn, to goad the authorities.”
I nodded. “Pamela Maxson said serial killers sometimes do that. They need thrills or something.”
“Excitement,” Charlie said. “Some psychopaths seek a whirlwind of excitement. Rather than seeking security, they crave risk.”
I opened another beer. Before I could take a drink, Charlie chuckled and said, “You’ve been quoting Dr. Maxson a lot lately. What should I read into that?”
“My admiration for her…credentials.”
“No doubt.”
I allowed myself a long, cool swallow. I started drinking two a day when I learned the brew might be good for fighting cholesterol. At the same time I cut back to only an occasional bacon cheeseburger and chocolate shake. Now I only eat red meat when doubling the ration of beer. Somehow I’ve convinced myself the arterial arithmetic works out.
I tried thinking it through, but my head was spinning and not from the beer. “Charlie, best I can figure, we may have a crazed killer or a sane one, or two crazed killers or two sane ones, or one of each. And the Compu-Mate connection either ties the two killings together or not, depending on whether we’re dealing with one nut or two, or two non-nuts, or one of each.”
“Verus,” Charlie agreed. “Anything is possible, but since the computer club is the only apparent connection, I suggest you pursue the computer business.”
“Rodriguez is checking out each woman’s calls,” I said.
“You got the list?”
“From A to Z, or Android to Zorro, as the case may be. You wouldn’t believe some of their handles.”
I pulled out two lists that had been personally delivered to my office by Bobbie Blinderman the day before.
***
She had stopped traffic along the law-office corridors. Ushering the tall, sleek one into my office, Cindy had raised her eyebrows and said, “Love your shoes, honey.”
It’s hard to notice shoes when the red leather skirt stops a foot above the knees, but once you do, it’s just as hard not to stare. The plastic see-through heels were filled with water and a goldfish swam in each one. The SPCA know about this?” I asked.
“It’s a performing art,” Bobbie Blinderman said. The fish only last a little while. Then they go limp and die.” She paused long enough to smirk. “Just like most men.”
“So you keep casting for bigger fish.”
“Maybe I found one,” she said, laughing, and running a hand through her dark, layered hair. She tossed an envelope onto my desk. “Here’s the printout of callers to Miss Diamond.” Then she flipped a second one at me. “And here’s one for Miss Rosedahl.”
I must have looked like a mule kicked me. “I read about it in the paper,” she said quickly. “Some fucking maniac, huh?”
There was no mention of either one belonging to Compu-Mate. That’s under wraps.”
“I recognized Rosedahl’s name. One of our regulars. Went by the handle ‘Flying Bird.’”
“You’re under no obligation to produce her calls,” I said, sounding very much like the uptight lawyer who lurked deep inside.
She laughed again. “I know, but I was afraid you’d hit me with your big, bad subpoena.”
***
Now I spread the lists on the wooden dock between the old man and the canal. On the night she was killed, Marsha Diamond computer-talked with four men.
BIGGUS DICKUS
BUSH WHACKER
ORAL ROBERT
PASSION PRINCE
Nine names turned up on Mary Rosedahl’s list.
BIGGUS DICKUS
HARRY HARDWICK
HORNY TOAD
MUFF DIVER
PASSION PRINCE
ROCK HARD
SLAVE BOY
STUDLY DO-RIGHT
TOM CAT
Charlie tsk-tsked, as was his habit when witnessing the decline of civilization. “Those names. So…
“Sophomoric,” I suggested.
“Crude,” he said. “What on earth do the men say to the women after introductions like that?”
“Apparently, everything they wouldn’t say in person. The impression I get is that your Caspar Milquetoast who wouldn’t dream of speaking to a strange woman in a bar loses all inhibitions when he’s tapping out messages in the night.”
“Did Mrs. Blinderman tell you that?”
“Sort of. She’s a little warped herself.”
“You’ve got two matches there, you know.”
“Yeah. Biggus Dickus and Passion Prince. They’re first on Rodriguez’s invitation list for a little chat.”
“Good. I’ve been doing some research for you, too. Lord Tennyson was acutely aware of madness. His father, Dr. George Clayton Tennyson, was clearly manic-depressive.”
I gave Charlie my how-do-you-know-that look.
“Relax,” he said. “I’ve been to the library. You should try it sometime. Now, the poet himself was subject to great depression. He would check himself into the 1840s equivalent of a health spa. Unfortunately, these were establishments of intense quackery. He’d subject himself to hydropathy, which is a fancy word for ice-water baths and massages. All day long, freezing baths and rub-downs with wet, cold sheets, followed by meals of bread and cold water.”
“Not exactly a weekend at the Fontainebleau.”
“The idea was to flush out the poisons, the demons of the mind.”
“Okay, what’s that have to do with us?”
“Maybe nothing, but best to remember we don’t have messages written by the killer. We’re dealing with words written by someone who apparently influenced the killer.”
“So we should learn as much as we can about that someone.”
“Exactly. For what it’s worth, Tennyson wrote ‘Locksley Hall’ after being jilted by a lover.”
“Hell hath no fury like the poet scorned. What about the first message—Jack the Ripper?”
“Here, I brought something for you to read.” He motioned toward his knapsack. Inside, next to a sandwich of smoked amberjack on sourdough, was an old book. A musty old book with pages that stuck together and a title by someone who never saw a movie marquee. A Detailed History and Critical Analysis of Police Investigatory Techniques During the Whitechapel Murders, August 31 to November 9, 1888.
I thumbed through the book, peeling yellow pages apart. “Somehow, I thought Jack the Ripper had a longer rampage.”
“Five killings over seventy days,” Charlie said. “All middle-aged prostitutes, all alcoholic, all killed within a one-quarter-square-mile area. He disemboweled them, you know. Removed the uterus from one with some medical skill. With a couple, the police missed him only by a matter of seconds.”
“Mary Ann Nicholls,” I said, reading from the book. “The first one. ‘Warm as a toasted crumpet’ when found, it
says here. What about the note?”
“There were at least three, actually. Turn to where I’ve marked it. The first letter was written in red ink and sent to a newspaper after the second murder.”
I found the page and read aloud:
“‘Dear Boss,
I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work, the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me and my funny little games.
Yours Truly,
Jack the Ripper’”
“Three days later,” Charlie said, “a postcard was mailed from the East End. Same handwriting.”
I found the page and again read aloud:
“‘I was not codding, dear Boss, when I gave you the tip. You’ll hear about Saucy Jack’s work tomorrow. Double even this time. Number One squealed a bit; couldn’t finish straight off. Had no time to get ears for police.
—Jack the Ripper”
I read silently to learn what Charlie already knew. The next morning two bodies were found. Elizabeth Stride’s throat had been slashed. The other victim, Catherine Eddowes, was quite a mess. Her abdomen was slashed open, the intestines pulled out and draped over her shoulder. And her left kidney was missing.
“Two weeks after the double homicide,” Charlie said, “George Lusk received a cardboard box in the mail. It contained part of a human kidney and a note.”
I thumbed a few pages further:
From hell, Mr. Lusk, sir, I send you half the kidney I took from one woman, preserved it for you, tother piece I fried and ate it; was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a while longer. Catch me if you can, Mr. Lusk.
“Cocky bastard,” I said. “Showed no fear at all.”
“No reason to,” Charlie said, giving up at last and swinging his pole onto the dock. “Why not?”
“They never caught the bloke, did they?” Charlie said, wiping off his hands and picking up his meerschaum pipe.
CHAPTER 10
Day in Court
“Señor Castillo,” Nick Fox said in his silky politician’s voice, “do you know any reason why you couldn’t sit as a juror in this case?”
The small, dark man in his stiff Sunday suit shook his head from side to side.
“Sir, can you understand English?”
“Sí,” the man said proudly.
I waited until the jury was sworn and approached Nick Fox at the prosecution table. “Tennyson, anyone?” I whispered.
“Huh?”
“We gotta talk.”
“You bet we do, slick. What the hell you doing with the Rosedahl homicide? You got no jurisdiction there.”
“I have to cross the county line, like a cop in hot pursuit.”
The judge was clearing his throat. “Mr. Fox, is the state ready to proceed?”
Nick Fox rose from his chair and bowed—”Ready, Your Honor”—then turned back to me. “Look, I got a double Murder One to try here. We’ll talk at the lunch recess.”
I nodded and started to move away.
“What’s on your mind?” he called after me.
“Jack the Ripper,” I said.
***
Judge Dixie Lee Boulton was just finishing her morning motion calendar when I strolled into the courtroom, a bulky black briefcase in one hand, a leash attached to a shaggy Angora goat in the other.
Arnie Two-Ton Tannenbaum was planted in front of the bench, thrusting a copy of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, Second Edition, in the general direction of the bench. “Your Honor, the indictment charges my client with entering Cozzoli’s Pizzeria ‘unlawfully, feloniously, and burglariously.’ Now, you can look high and you can look low, but there is no such word as ‘burglariously.’ The indictment must be quashed.”
“On what ground?” the judge asked, scowling.
“Unconstitutional grammar.”
“Is there any precedent for that?”
“No, and just as well,” Two-Ton answered. “It would be a pity for Your Honor to be deprived the distinction of being the first to establish the rule.”
I had taken a seat in the front row of the gallery, just between Marvin the Maven and Saul the Tailor. Marvin nodded hello and ignored the goat, having seen far stranger sights in Miami courtrooms. Saul petted the animal, then pulled away before he lost a chunk of the straw hat he kept in his lap.
“Seven-to-one Two-Ton loses the motion, then cops a plea,” Marvin the Maven predicted.
The defendant, a skinny nineteen-year-old with bad skin, dirty hair, and bad posture, slumped in front of the judge, vacant and hopeless. No one took the Maven’s bet, and five minutes later, the judge recited the Gospel of the Guilty Plea: “The court finds the defendant intelligent, of sound mind and body, and represented by competent counsel…”
It isn’t easy to tell four lies in one sentence, I thought.
“He understands the nature of the charges against him and has made the plea freely and voluntarily. Three years in the state prison.”
“Out in nine months,” said Marvin the Maven.
“Next case,” Dixie Lee Boulton announced. “South Coast Properties versus Babalu Aye Church of Santeria. Is the plaintiff ready?”
“South Coast Properties.” Marvin tut-tutted, clucking his tongue. “What happened to representing honest murderers, Jake? Even a lying newspaper’s better than a slumlord.”
“Ready,” I said, getting up and approaching the bench, leash in hand.
“Br-aah-aay,” said the goat.
“Is the defendant ready?” the judge asked.
A dapper man of about fifty in a custom-made double-breasted powder-blue suit rose from the first row. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, had skin the purple-black of a polished eggplant, and strode to the bench with an air of authority. “I am Phillipe Jean Claude Phillipe, and I will represent my church.”
“Are you an attorney, Phillipe…uh…Phillipe?” the judge asked.
“I am a Santero, a priest of Santeria,” he said, an Afro-Caribbean lilt to his voice.
“Br-aah-aay,” said the goat.
The judge raised her eyeglasses from their string of imitation pearls and peered down from the bench. “Mr. Lassiter, is that an animal?”
From behind me, Marvin the Maven whispered, “It ain’t the Queen of England.”
“Your Honor, this is exhibit one in our eviction proceeding. When the church leased my client’s property, Mr. Phillipe here misrepresented—”
“The Right Reverend Phillipe Phillipe,” he corrected me.
“Right…Phil. This gentleman misrepresented his intentions. He said the house would be used for pastor’s living quarters. Now we find they’re slaughtering animals there. Hundreds of people show up to watch.”
“To pray,” Phillipe Phillipe corrected me. “It is our ceremony to initiate new priests. We have thirteen gods, and to each we must sacrifice two roosters, a pigeon, a guinea hen, and…a goat.”
“Your Honor, it’s cruel and—”
“Is painless,” said the Reverend.
“Br-aah-aay,” said the goat, unless it was Marvin the Maven.
“The place is covered with blood,” I said. “It attracts flies and rodents.”
The judge looked a mite pale, so I toned it down. “This is a residential neighborhood, not a stockyard. They have no license to slaughter—”
“Under your First Amendment, we have freedom of religion,” Phillipe Phillipe interrupted. “Our license comes from God.”
“Which one?” I asked, but the Right Reverend just looked through me.
“Mr. Lassiter,” the judge said, “are you representing the rights of the landlord or of the goat?”
Behind me, I heard Saul the Tailor: “Whichever one pays.”
I spoke up. “Your Honor, the church has breached its lease with the landlord, and its ceremonies violate the state’s animal cruelty laws.”
“He rep
resents both beasts,” Marvin the Maven said.
“The evil of two lessors,” Saul the Tailor chimed in.
“To sacrifice animals is inhumane,” I said.
“Is painless,” the Right Reverend protested.
“The animals are conscious when butchered, they’re—”
I heard the whoosh but never saw the blade. The shiny steel machete effortlessly sliced through the goat’s neck. Blood spurted onto Phillipe Phillipe’s powder-blue suit, onto my right shoe, and onto the clerk’s lap, splattering her Today’s Woman magazine. But the goat never made a sound. It just dropped dead in its tracks, little hooves quivering.
“Is painless,” Phillipe Phillipe said.
***
“What’s this shit about Jack the Ripper?” Nick Fox demanded. He was attacking a rare cheeseburger, interrogating me, and howdying every judge, bailiff, and bureaucrat who passed our table in the courthouse cafeteria.
“You saw the lipstick message at the Diamond murder scene?”
“Yeah.”
“It mimicked Jack the Ripper.”
“So? Let the head cases at Metro Homicide worry about it. Better yet, call Sherlock Holmes.”
“There’s a link to Mary Rosedahl’s murder.”
Nick looked up from the cheeseburger, waved to a bondsman who contributed shoe boxes of cash to his campaigns, and slid his chair toward me. “What link?”
“A message there, too. A woman-bashing poem.”
“That’s it?”
“Plus they both belonged to a computer dating club and both were using its services the night they were killed.”
He leaned back in his chair and smiled. It was the election victory smile. “Maybe they both belonged to Triple-A, or maybe both were Girl Scouts. That doesn’t mean the same guy aced them.”
“No, but it’s all we’ve got.”
“You got squat, Lassiter. I’m beginning to doubt my judgment in appointing you.”