by S A Falconi
“What about Billing?” Abernathe asked. “I need to question him about the letter.”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of it. Now go!”
Abernathe tucked the lock of hair into his pocket and raced out of the office.
Chapman turned back to Billing. The journalist was still cowering in his chair. His hair was in shambles and voluptuous beads of sweat covered his swollen, flushed face.
“First things first,” Chapman muttered, “why in God’s name did you not bring this to us the moment you got it?”
“What was I supposed to do!” Billing blurted hysterically. “I thought it was fake just like you.”
“Then why publish it? Why blindside me and the investigation with it?”
Billing shook his head and stammered, “I… I… I was angry about yesterday. Angry with the way your detective manhandled me at the crime scene.”
Chapman thundered, “A crime scene you shouldn’t have even seen!”
Billing shrank back, fear embracing every ounce of his being.
“You wanna know why we haven’t caught this son of a bitch? Your mockery of this department and this investigation. This isn’t some piss ant thief. This is a cold-blooded monster that slaughters women for the hell of it. And he’s smart. My God, is he smart. Smarter than all of us combined. But we can’t focus on tricking this sick bastard because we’re too focused on you stabbing us in the back every chance you get! I don’t think you want us to catch him. That way you can keep writing about him and selling your rag of a newspaper. You know something? Maybe you’re working with him. If that’s the case, then you’re an associate to three murders which is punishable by hanging in these parts. Is that what you want, you gluttonous oaf? To hang from the gallows like a swine on a spit?”
Billing’s head shook vehemently flapping his flabby chin. “I’m not!” he pled. “I swear I’m not!”
Chapman bent over, inching his rage-ridden face closer to Billing. “Prove it,” he uttered. “Prove you’re not a yellow pig.”
Tears formed in Billing’s eyes as he asked, “How?”
IX.
The windows of the Hanbury House smoldered as the evening’s festivities proceeded in their usual fashion. When Donaghue exited, the music and boisterous chatter momentarily spilled out into the quiet street only to be locked away once again when the door slammed shut. Donaghue sighed heavily as he gazed out across the street. Inside the Hanbury House, the air was toxic with the fumes of spirits. It was a mineshaft so deep that the only air to breathe was the Devil’s own breath. Outside though, the air was pure, natural. It soothed a man’s soul, empowered him.
With the latest extra of The East Side Herald tucked beneath his arm, Donaghue stepped into the alley that was once the temporary tomb of Molly. Donaghue couldn’t believe that Billing retracted the morning’s article on the third Ripper victim and the mysterious letter. The public, in all its asinine glory, was outraged by the matter. Not only were officers of the law swindlers, so also were the beloved journalists. Who was going to be the conscience of the masses now? That was the question posed by many. Donaghue knew that in time, the people would come to forgive Billing and return him to his throne of influence. They always did. Those who thought they’d escaped the monarchy of England were fools. There wasn’t a heralded king to dictate the lives of the masses, but there was the media. The media was the monarchy of the new nation. The media told the mass of fools what to think, what to believe. All that was fought for in the Revolution was for naught. They simply traded one tyrant for another.
As he shuffled down the alley, Donaghue considered all the developments of the investigation. Kraus reported back that Kenneth Larson was safely locked up in the asylum. Walter Blackburn was now the closest thing to a legitimate suspect that Donaghue and Kraus had scrounged up yet. Not only was he in possession of a suitable murder weapon, he also had two preserved organs that Donaghue believed were human wombs. The Ripper had to be Blackburn. Donaghue and Kraus were sure of it.
Donaghue left the alley and proceeded in the direction of the precinct. He hoped to catch Chapman alone so he could pass the information and evidence along. He had the jars and the knife stashed safely away in Kraus’ apartment and he knew the final key was to identify the organs as human uteruses. It was obvious Abernathe hadn’t a clue who the Ripper was or where he could be found. It wasn’t just a personal duty for Donaghue to assist with the investigation, it was a civic duty. Women – harlots – were being slaughtered across the city. Blackburn, not Maclellan, was their slaughterer. It was time for the city to be returned to its natural state of being.
As Donaghue walked, he couldn’t help but consider how all the victims were connected. Although Florence was from the city, Donaghue knew that Molly was nowhere near Denver. Why did she suddenly return? From where was she coming? And how did that connect her with the other victims? Surely Blackburn was selecting the girls, but on what criteria? So far, the only criterion was occupation. They were whores, plain and simple. Did that somehow make them easier to prey upon? If so, then how did Molly fit into the equation? Molly was a former girl of the line, nowhere near a Denver brothel. Molly was the outlier and yet, Donaghue could not figure out what her connection was to the rest of the victims. But it wasn’t random. There was a pattern. That Donaghue was certain.
Donaghue rounded the corner and saw a beat officer descending the stairway of the precinct. He turned in the opposite direction of Donaghue and strolled into the darkness. Donaghue remembered those days, blindly meandering the alleyways looking for trouble. Things were different back then. Back then, there was no choice to be relentless. You either were or you were dead. People feared lawmen. Fear, that was the only true form of respect.
Donaghue ascended the staircase and opened the front door gently. The precinct was in its early phase of slumber. All was quiet and most of the lanterns had been extinguished for the night. He could see the glow of a lantern seeping beneath the door of Chapman’s office though. Donaghue crept over and tapped the door.
“Come in,” Chapman grumbled.
A cigar was wedged between Chapman’s lips, but when he saw Donaghue saunter around the door, the cigar nearly tumbled out onto the desk.
“Pete,” Chapman muttered as Donaghue closed the door. “You’re the last person I expected to see around here.”
Donaghue sat in one of the chairs across the room.
Chapman stood. “You can’t stay, Pete. For God’s sake, if someone saw you in here it’d be my hide.”
“Where are you with the Ripper murders? Anywhere?”
“Pete…”
“No, Chief,” Donaghue interjected. “Where are you with the Ripper murders?”
Chapman shook his head and returned to his seat. “Honestly? Up the creek. No suspects. No witnesses. No evidence.”
“What in God’s name are you guys doing, Harold? Waiting for this guy to kill himself?”
“You don’t understand, Pete. This guy…” Chapman’s head shook again “he’s good. Smart. Leaves no trace.”
“Everyone leaves a trace.”
“Not this guy.”
“What about his modus operandi?”
“What about it?”
“Harold, the guy cuts their wombs out. This third one, was she missing hers too?”
Chapman was silent for several moments before answering, “I’m not having this discussion with you. You’re a civilian and this is an open investigation. I’m sorry, Pete, but you need to leave.”
Chapman stood to escort Donaghue out of the office.
“I know who it is, Chief.”
Chapman stopped midstride. “What’d you say?”
A grin curled Donaghue’s lips. “You heard me. I know who this bastard is. Don’t know where he is or how to find him. But I know who it is.”
“You got thirty seconds.”
“His name’s Walter Blackburn. Twenty-six years of age. Former medical student that was expelled for ro
bbing graves to practice his surgery skills. After he was expelled, he opened a small furrier shop west of Denver. I went to question him yesterday and you wouldn’t believe what I found. A twelve-inch butcher’s knife and two sealed jars preserving an organ a piece.”
“What?” Chapman whispered.
“They look like wombs, Harold. Human wombs.”
“My God,” Chapman muttered as he walked around the desk and opened the door to the office. “I hate to say it, Pete, but you’ve always been a hunter. Where can we find him?”
“I don’t know,” Donaghue replied. “The bastard escaped while I was searching his shop. But I have the knife and jars, Harold. The organs just need to be identified by the coroner.”
“Hell,” Chapman grumbled. “Alright, I’ll send someone to retrieve the evidence. Any clue where this monster might be?”
Donaghue shook his head.
“Okay,” Chapman added, motioning for Donaghue to leave.
Donaghue’s brow furrowed when he saw the gesture. “What are you doing?”
“It’s nothing personal, Pete. But I can’t have you anywhere near this investigation.”
Donaghue stood quickly and barked, “I just handed this monster to you on a platter!”
“No, Pete. You gave me a name of a person of interest. That’s all he is. Not only do we not know if these organs are human, we don’t even know where we can find Blackburn.”
Donaghue fired, “It’s him damn it! I know it is!”
“Relax,” Chapman muttered. “We’ll look into this guy. I promise. But first, you need to go.”
Donaghue stormed out of the office, brushing his shoulder defiantly against Chapman.
“And another thing, Pete,” Chapman called just as Donaghue was about to exit the precinct, “your freelance investigation with that head shrinker needs to stop.”
Donaghue scoffed at the command. “We’re the only ones tracking this monster down, Harold. You’ll have to arrest me to get me to stop.”
“Don’t make me.”
“Excuse me?” Donaghue asked, approaching Chapman. “Is that a threat?”
Chapman shook his head and calmly replied, “It’s a request of a friend. Stop the investigation.”
“Or what, Harold?”
Chapman sighed. “Or I’ll tell Billing that the first victim was Molly. I’ll tell him you’re connected to all three victims. You know where he’ll take that. You’ll be the top suspect, not Blackburn. You’ll get dragged through the slop once again. Is that what you want? To be humiliated again?”
Donaghue stared wide-eyed at Chapman as the anger percolated in his guts. “You’re a mongrel, you know that? A self-centered beast. You know I’m not the Ripper!”
“I don’t know that,” Chapman countered. “Is it unlikely? Certainly. But God knows you have motive, you have means, and your more connected to the victims than anyone else we know. I’m just trying to protect you. You have my word. We’ll go after Blackburn as long as you stay away. Understood?”
As much as Donaghue wanted to tackle Chapman and pummel his face into oblivion, he knew the only intelligent move was to submit. He had to for his own sake and the sake of all the possible victims.
Donaghue turned and opened the door to the precinct. Before he exited though, he turned again and said, “You said I was connected to all three victims. Who’s the third?”
Chapman sighed. “Genevieve Lemieux… Snowdrop.”
~
The package could’ve held anything. Roughly the size of a brick, the package weighed approximately two pounds and was as inconspicuous as any on the screen wagon. The sender’s address seemed inconsequential – 39 S. Hanbury Avenue, Denver, CO. Had the post master noticed the receiving address though, he might’ve scratched his head at the short distance the parcel was traveling. In fact, it would’ve been quicker and cheaper for the sender to just walk the package to its destination. But the beauty of the U.S. Post Office was that items could be delivered inconspicuously and anonymously.
This sender certainly wanted to remain inconspicuous and anonymous.
The screen wagon came to an abrupt halt in front of the Denver Police Department at one o’clock in the afternoon, the same time and manner it did six days a week. The post carrier reached back into the carriage and grabbed the satchel that was designated for the police precinct. Stepping down from his riding bench, the post carrier noticed that the bag felt heavier than usual, although there appeared to be the same amount of mail as there always was. As he scurried along the walkway toward the precinct stoop, the carrier brushed the back of his hand against the neck of his carriage horse. He’d been working with that same horse for the better half of six years, and although she was a bit aged, she was as reliable as ever. Because the carrier was a bachelor and hadn’t any children, he treated that horse as if it were kin.
The carrier hustled up the steps and passed through the precinct threshold.
“Good afternoon, Officer,” he remarked to the front desk watchman. He scuttled over to the counter and plopped the satchel on top of it. “Quite heavy today.”
The front desk officer peered into the satchel curiously as if it contained a secret cache of silver or gold. But it was just mail, plain and standard mail.
“Mind if I ask you something, Gerald?” the desk officer added as he grabbed the satchel and pulled it off the counter.
The carrier nodded with a genuine smile. “Of course, Officer.”
“What made you want to be a post carrier?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose I know,” the carrier responded in that Missouri plains drawl of his. “I guess I wanted work that let me talk to people all day. Ain’t many people to talk to in east Missouri. Why do you ask?”
The desk officer shrugged, scanning through the contents of the satchel. “I guess you just seem so pleasant all the time… like you’re immune to the complications and hardships of life.”
The carrier smiled again, replying, “I suppose I am, Officer. Air in my lungs, a beat in my chest, and a fid of Colorado’s finest tobacco in my pocket.” He tipped his cap to the officer and said, “You have a fine day, sir.”
“You the same,” the desk officer replied as the carrier hustled out of the precinct.
The desk officer sifted through the post satchel delicately, removing each piece and organizing it on his work space. The largest pile belonged to the beat officers. They had to search through the pile themselves because there was no way in hell the desk officer was going to sort and organize post for the lowly grunts of the precinct. He neatly stacked Chief Chapman’s mail and placed it on the stack to be delivered upstairs to the commanding officers and detectives. The stack was unusually tall and awkward likely due to that two-pound brick-sized parcel marked for Detective Abernathe.
The desk officer strolled over to the chief’s office and rapped on the door lightly. No response granted him entry. He opened the door anyways and poked his head in like a child sneaking into his parents’ quarters. The office was empty though and he placed Chapman’s post on the nearby chair.
He proceeded across the foyer and plodded up the staircase to the offices of the commanding officers and detectives. He passed the first room on the left, more a closet than a room really. It was one of two interrogation rooms. He saw the shackles fixed firmly to the floorboards and could only imagine what went on in that closet in the off hours. Detective Abernathe’s office was the first on the right. The door was ajar and the officer poked his head in.
“Afternoon, Detective. Mail’s here.”
Abernathe kept his face buried in the papers on his desk. “Just put them on the chair in the corner, Officer.”
The officer slid into the office and dropped the few letters onto the chair. As for the brick-shaped parcel, he held onto it.
“Not that it’s much of my business, Detective, but did you order something through Sears and have it sent here?”
Abernathe’s eyes lifted from his work and fixed on the desk o
fficer. “Excuse me?” he muttered contemptuously.
“This package, sir,” the officer answered, raising the package so it was visible. “Is it from Sears?”
“Why in God’s name is it any of your concern?”
“I’m sorry, Detective,” the officer replied as he approached and placed the package on the desk. “It’s just that delivery of personal post to the precinct is prohibited.”
Abernathe snatched the package and inspected it momentarily. Turning the top of the package towards the officer, he remarked, “Since when does Sears ship from Hanbury Avenue you imbecile?”
Although it took a second to truly strike a chord, the peculiarity of a package being sent via post from a sender just a mile away almost made Abernathe’s heart stop.
“That’s all, Officer,” Abernathe snorted. “Close the door.”
The desk officer fled the office, glad to have escaped the awkward moment that transpired.
Abernathe stared at that package for several moments. There was absolutely nothing peculiar about it save for the sender’s address. No name – just 39 S. Hanbury Avenue, Denver, CO scrawled in an unusually familiar and elegant script. He knew that handwriting from somewhere, but he couldn’t put his thumb on the exact source. Reaching into his pocket, Abernathe removed a two-inch knife and slid the blade along one of the flaps of the packaging. He separated the folds carefully as if opening a coveted gift on Christmas Eve. A unique scent slithered out from within. Neither pleasant nor distasteful, just unique. It was the perfume of a coroner – formaldehyde.
Abernathe’s heart raced and his fingers tore the folds of the packaging wide open. The musk was obvious now, potent. But he couldn’t tell what lay within except for the folded parchment on top. He reached in and removed the paper slowly. Unfolding it, he saw the familiar and elegant script that so ghoulishly juxtaposed the bone white parchment. It was crimson, still fresh in some places. But the ink was the least of his angst. The ink was a mere preview.