The Eye of the Devil

by S A Falconi

  Billing’s clerk was waiting for him in the office. The clerk, Aubrey Geldmann, was a ripe lad, hand-selected by Billing from the lowly reporters’ ranks a year before. He was a lanky fellow although his face still carried that unblemished innocence of his lingering youth. Billing doubted the boy even shaved. But he was talented, both as a writer and as an investigator. His looks and quiet demeanor charmed women and disarmed men. To both sexes, he appeared harmless, so information came to him easily. What all those men and women didn’t realize was that the harmless lad was the information funnel for T.G. Billing.

  “Anything for me?” Billing inquired upon entering the office.

  Aubrey’s voice chimed, “Mayor Speer would like to discuss his re-election campaign with you. Chief Chapman is expecting you at eleven for an exclusive on the Maclellan arrest. And this came for you…” Aubrey handed Billing a weathered letter envelope. No address, stamp or any sign of official delivery was on it though. Just Billing’s name written in eloquent cursive.

  Billing took the envelope, glanced at it absentmindedly, and tossed it on top of his desk.

  “That all?” he asked as he removed his jacket and took a seat behind his desk.

  “Yes, sir,” Aubrey answered, turning on his heel and leaving his boss to his matters.

  Billing removed a gold-plated paper knife from his desk drawer and primly sliced the envelope open. He removed the parchment within and unfolded it. Something fell from the folded paper, a feather Billing initially thought, and landed on the desk below. Upon further examination though, the object was no feather; it was a lock of curly, brunette hair. Billing’s gaze shot back to the unfolded letter and a wave of fright overcame him so powerfully that he dropped the paper knife and gasped. The letter remained locked in his fingers, fixed yettrembling. Dark red ink adorned the entirety of the page in the same penmanship as the envelope. But the dark red ink wasn’t ink at all. It was blood.

  “Aubrey!” Billing billowed. “Aubrey!”

  The clerk stumbled into the office, terror-stricken himself for fear that one of his duties was unsatisfactorily completed.

  “Yes, Mr. Billing?”

  Eyes still locked on the letter, Billing uttered, “Who delivered this letter?”

  The clerk’s brow furrowed slightly. “It was sitting on the stoop this morning.”

  “When did you arrive?” Billing demanded.

  “When I always do, sir. Four.” Aubrey stared confusedly at his boss. The confusion evaporated though when he realized the fright that was seeping from his boss’s gaze. “What is it, sir?”

  Billing stared disbelievingly at the letter for several moments more before he finally answered, “Nothing, Aubrey. That is all.”

  The clerk turned and slowly left the office as he wondered what the envelope contained that would put his boss into such a fright. Once Aubrey was gone, Billing attempted to read the bloody writing.

  I’ve freed the innocents – two thus far but my work has only begun. They were innocent, you see. All of them. They once were not, but I transformed them. I made them so. But this Sodom in which we live recognizes not my work for that which it is. It is not murder I am committing. It is redemption! It is salvation! It is freedom!

  Regards,

  The Ripper

  Billing’s hands trembled as he stared at the letter. Could this really be from the Ripper, he wondered? Or was it just a childish prank? Abernathe and Chapman thought Maclellan was the Ripper, didn’t they? If they were correct, then surely this was someone trying to fool him. But Donaghue believed this was a mass murderer and this letter certainly supported that belief.

  With the letter in hand, Billing rose from his chair to have Aubrey fetch the police. Only after a few steps though, he halted.

  What if this really is a prank and I blow the whistle over nothing? Sure, if this letter is truly authentic, then I’d be responsible for providing a crucial piece to the puzzle. But if I’m wrong… God help me. Billing also had to consider the people he was supporting and reproaching if he took this to the police. He didn’t much care that he’d be reproaching Abernathe, Chapman, and the rest of the police force, but he certainly didn’t want people to think he was supporting Donaghue. Although, who else knew that Donaghue was freelancing the case in the first place?

  Billing was torn, not in the capacity of morality but in the capacity of self-interest. Journalists weren’t supposed to be part of the game. Certainly, they were supposed to manipulate the game’s outcome from the sidelines; but direct involvement was dangerous and foolish.

  Returning to his chair, Billing replaced the letter and the lock of hair in the envelope, and tucked it into his desk drawer.

  One more will have to die before the public sees that, he thought.

  ~

  Reynold Parsons had eaten the muzzle of his Colt revolver a few months prior – at least that’s how Parsons’ former landlord phrased it when questioned by Donaghue. As Donaghue made his way across town to his next suspect’s last known whereabouts, he wondered if Kraus was having any luck scrounging up information on their third suspect, Kenneth Larson. Last they heard, Kenneth was tossed into the asylum a year ago where he was likely still rotting away. His presence or lack thereof would be telling in its own right. If Kenneth was at the asylum, he sure as hell wasn’t responsible for the murders. If he wasn’t, then Donaghue and Kraus would need to hunt him down.

  Donaghue was on his way to question Walter Blackburn, last seen in the foothills west of Denver. Blackburn had opened a small furrier shop where he used his intermediate surgery skills to disembowel wild game and prepare their pelts for the transformation into clothing and furniture upholstery. It was an eerily appropriate occupation for a guy who was caught robbing graves a few years before, Donaghue thought.

  The ride to Blackburn’s shop took nearly the entire afternoon. When Donaghue pulled up to the ramshackle shop, the sun had just disappeared behind the peaks surrounding Clear Creek Canyon. Outside the shack, deer and elk antlers littered the ground and the stench of rotting flesh was an overwhelming cloud.

  Donaghue dismounted his horse and called out, “Blackburn!”

  A crow squawked in reply. The wind rustled the pines. But no sign of human life emerged.

  “Blackburn!” Donaghue called again.

  BANG! The bullet scattered dirt at Donaghue’s feet and he stumbled back several steps.

  “Hold your fire, Blackburn!” Donaghue exclaimed as he drew his revolver. But he could hear the bolt of his attacker’s rifle slide and lock.

  BANG! The second bullet screamed passed Donaghue’s head this time, lodging into the trunk of the pine behind him.

  “Hold your fire, damn it!” Donaghue barked.

  The bolt slid and locked a second time. Donaghue waited anxiously for the third shot to come. Several moments passed though with no shot fired.

  “Who are you?” a voice boomed from a small window in the shack.

  “Pete Donaghue,” he answered. “I just came to ask you about some furs is all.”

  BANG! A third bullet flew by Donaghue’s ear. This crazy bastard can hit any target he wants, Donaghue thought. He could put one between my eyes if he so desired. But he won’t, not yet at least. He wants to watch me squirm helplessly first.

  The voice hollered, “Donaghue you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  There was a brief pause before the voice called, “What’s a drunk detective doin’ lookin’ for furs?”

  “I ain’t a detective no more,” Donaghue called. “Didn’t you read the papers?”

  The voice cackled. “I wouldn’t listen to a word those bastards wrote. Didn’t you read what they wrote about me?”

  “I didn’t,” Donaghue remarked, “and I don’t much care. How’s about you put the rifle down and come talk to me like a civilized man?”

  Blackburn didn’t respond though. Donaghue waited for the click and slide of Blackburn’s rifle, but he heard nothing. The crow squawked again i
n the distance. Then the front door slowly drifted open, an ominous croak emanating from its rusty hinges. Donaghue pulled the hammer back on his revolver as the gangly form of Blackburn drifted through the threshold of the shack. Blackburn was filthy. His face was covered in soot and a bloody apron covered his starved midsection. He held the rifle by his side loosely, carelessly.

  Blackburn grumbled, “What you want, Donaghue?”

  “You said you don’t read the papers,” Donaghue answered. “Do you know what’s been happening the last few weeks?”

  Blackburn’s crooked smile emerged. “Thought you was here about furs?”

  “Just answer the question,” Donaghue retorted. “Do you know about what’s been happening?”

  “I said I don’t read the papers, but I’m not exiled. I know what’s going on.”

  “How much?”

  Blackburn shrugged. “I know two whores are dead, nearly decapitated. Police think it was Maclellan.”

  “Anything else?” Donaghue inquired.

  Blackburn spat on the ground and glowered at his intruder. He muttered, “Let me ask you this, Donaghue. Why the hell you coming around here asking me about it? You were fired weren’t you? Relieved of your duties?” Blackburn stepped forward, all the while his rifle remained carelessly at his side. “Tell me. What’s any of this got to do with you?” Blackburn continued to step away from the shack and out into the clearing where Donaghue stood.

  Donaghue took aim at Blackburn’s chest, but his gait didn’t falter in the slightest.

  “Why are you out here, former-detective Donaghue? You trying to freelance this case? See if you can redeem yourself so they’ll give you your badge back?” Blackburn cackled loudly, still pacing toward Donaghue. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Detective, it’s that redemption is a myth. It’s a farce. A fallacy. Your former self is dead. Your former life is gone. You’ve been reborn – we’ve been reborn. We’re being punished in this life of new for the transgressions of the life of old. And there ain’t a damn thing we can do about it.” Blackburn stopped just ten paces away from Donaghue. “You understand?”

  Blackburn was a lunatic; that was clear to Donaghue. Donaghue wasn’t trying to seek redemption, not for himself at least. If anything, he was trying to unearth the truth regarding Molly, unearth the truth about her death and unearth the truth about her exodus. Where had she gone those years before and how did that connect to her fate now? He hadn’t considered that before, but somehow Molly and Florence were connected. But how?

  “So am I under arrest or what?” Blackburn uttered.

  “Maybe,” Donaghue muttered. “Can you tell me where you’ve been this last week? Specifically the nights of the 8th, the 12th, and yesterday?”

  Blackburn spat a wad of tobacco onto the ground. Lifting his rifle from his side, he grumbled, “Would you believe me if I told you?”

  “You shoot me,” Donaghue added cooly, “and that’ll sure tell my associates everything they need to know.”

  “S’pose that’s a risk I gotta take,” Blackburn answered, closing his eye and sighting the rifle.

  Donaghue didn’t even grant Blackburn the opportunity to fire first though. With a flick of his finger, Donaghue pressed his trigger and sent a slug into his adversary’s right shoulder.

  “Gah!” Blackburn howled, his upper body recoiling from the force as his rifle flew from his grasp.

  Donaghue pounced, rushing forward and grabbing the rifle.

  “Bastard!” Blackburn roared, reaching at his side for his blade.

  Donaghue swung the stock of the rifle in a swift uppercut, catching the cliff of Blackburn’s haggard chin. Blackburn’s head snapped up as he stumbled backward. Donaghue slammed the rifle butt into Blackburn’s chest, sending the furrier to the flat of his back. Blackburn hacked thunderously as he fought for breath. Before Blackburn could regain his senses and grab his knife though, Donaghue slammed the heel of his boot on Blackburn’s wounded shoulder and pointed the muzzle of the rifle in his face.

  Blackburn’s struggling ceased and he slowly put his hands by his chest. “What?” he uttered. “You gonna kill me?”

  Donaghue considered it. After all, Blackburn was just the type of mongrel that could do the despicable things that were done to Molly and Florence. But despite Donaghue’s raw desire to avenge the murders, he knew there’d be no better feeling than to drag Blackburn up the steps of the police precinct and present the Ripper, the murder weapon, and any other incriminating evidence directly to Chapman and Abernathe.

  Donaghue raised the rifle. “Not yet,” he replied. Taking his foot from Blackburn’s shoulder, Donaghue knelt and seized the front of Blackburn’s shirt. “Get up,” he muttered, hoisting the furrier from the ground.

  Blackburn stood as he grimaced with pain. “I think you caught the bone,” he grumbled.

  “Good,” Donaghue answered, shoving him toward the shack. “Then you can just sit here while I take a look around.”

  Donaghue restrained Blackburn’s hands behind his back with a stray length of rope and plopped the suspect at the base of a nearby tree. After lashing Blackburn to the tree’s girth, Donaghue took his knife and searched the rest of his person for any other weapons or devices of escape. Finding none, Donaghue returned to search the ramshackle shop. The shack was little more than a few small rooms scantily lit by the occasional window. There was a large work table above which hung a lone oil lamp. Knives of varying lengths adorned the blood-stained table. Although there were at least a dozen blades, one in particular caught Donaghue’s attention. More a saber than a knife, the blade alone was well over a foot in length, supported by a thick wooden handle. The tip of the knife swooped in an upward fashion, creating an almost sickle appearance. Donaghue had seen such a knife before. The coroner had identified that very style of blade as the one that killed Molly.

  Donaghue located a gunny sack hanging from a nail on the wall, snatched the knife from the table, and placed it in the sack. His heart raced as the realization that he might’ve just found the murder weapon fully came to him. That morning, Blackburn had been nothing more than a name on a slip of paper, an insignificant pebble in the trail to hunting the Ripper down. Now though, given the knife as well as Blackburn’s incredibly suspicious behavior, it seemed quite possible that he was the Ripper. But hundreds of men in Denver owned blades such as this one. Certainly the knife was increasing the likelihood of Blackburn’s guilt, but much evidence was still needed to prove to Abernathe and Chapman that he was the East Side Ripper. But what?

  It was then that Donaghue recalled the most peculiar connection of all the murders – the extracted wombs. Kraus had said that the wombs were keepsakes, momentos through which the Ripper could receive post-humous pleasure. Although the most disturbing theory, it certainly seemed like the most plausible. And what was better, finding the preserved wombs in Blackburn’s possession would be irrefutable evidence that he murdered the two women.

  Donaghue scanned the main room frantically for the preserved organs. There were animal remains seemingly all over the place. Pelts scattered about the ground. Racks and skulls hanging from the walls. But nothing else stood out to him. He shuffled into the adjoining room, Blackburn’s scant living quarters. There was a small iron stove in the far corner as well as a shabby cot. There also were three long shelves fixed to the far wall. Donaghue’s heart nearly jumped into his throat when he caught full sight of the dozens of glass jars lined on the shelves like books in a library. In the scant light, he could hardly discern what was within each jar, but one thing was certain – they were body parts.

  “My God…” Donaghue whispered as he rushed over to the shelves.

  Each jar contained formaldehyde as well as an organ that the liquid fought to preserve. Donaghue was no doctor, but he recognized a small brain in one jar, a heart in another, and an eyeball in a third. Only when he looked upon the top shelf did he notice two identical organs next to each other. They were the size and shape of large pear
s.

  Donaghue bolted back into the main room and through the entrance of the shack. His heart was racing by this point; he’d hunted the monster down! But when Donaghue looked at the base of the pine tree at which he’d left Blackburn, there was nothing there except for a frayed piece of rope.

  VIII.

  Detective Abernathe stared at the mouth of Clear Creek Canyon as he stood on the pebbled banks of the creek just east of the Coors Brewery. He marveled at the sight. He recalled gazing at the expanse of Lake Michigan when he worked in Chicago, and while that was quite extraordinary, this was beyond comparison. The canyon was carved by the hands of the Almighty into the western slope of the Rocky Mountains bordering the greater-Denver region. Snowmelt from the peaks of the Great Divide began gushing down the slopes every vernal equinox and weaved throughout the scarps in amassed chaos.

  “You ready, Detective?”

  Abernathe’s trance was broken and he turned toward the police officers gathered down the bank. They were clustered together, but the gaps between their legs provided a shuttered glimpse of the body they were hiding. Abernathe approached, selecting his steps with caution as he navigated the uneven, polished stones of the creek bank. When he reached the officers, they scattered from the body.

  The woman was older despite her youthful appearance. Her hair was yellow and bobbed and her features were rounded with beauty despite the absence of life. The Ripper had done nothing to be conspicuous save for dumping her in the rural tendon between Denver and Golden. She was stark naked, although her decency was relatively covered by the deep crimson stain that originated from beneath her chin. The throat wound was not nearly as brutal as her predecessors’, and yet, the scene was the most gruesome of all of them. Abernathe could barely allow his eyes to travel to her lower midsection, a now ravaged void that once sheltered her life-bearing gift.

  “Have we found the womb?” Abernathe inquired of the officers.