by Rick Polad
About ten after nine, a jeep pulled into the drive behind Charles’ beat-up Chevy. A very attractive woman got out. She was dressed in a fancy white gown and was carrying a small bag. She also let herself into the house. Sarah was more shocked than angry. It must be costing Charles a small fortune to get a woman like that to sleep with him. And he must be getting the money from gambling. After all she had done for him. The lying bastard would pay dearly.
Chapter 40
After breakfast, Spencer called Stosh and said he was still wondering about the coins.
“And why are you wondering that?” asked Stosh.
Spencer told him what Don had said about Dr. Bell.
“So you’re making some connection between Bell and Jack?”
“Not really. But it seems strange that there are two historical events here. And you once told me information is power.” Spencer twisted the phone cord around a pencil.
“Yup. But withholding information can be powerful too.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“What good would it do?”
“Couldn’t hurt.” He pulled on the ends of the cord, trapping the pencil like one of those Chinese finger puzzles.
“I know my detectives have already looked at that angle and come up empty.”
“So you’re not giving me anything valuable.”
“I’m not giving you anything at all. Be home tonight. I think Rosie said she needed to talk to you.”
“Thanks, Stosh.”
“Don’t thank me. This is the only way I can get rid of you. We never had this conversation.”
“Right.”
“And kid...”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me if you come up with something.”
He hung up. Somebody needed to teach Stosh some phone manners.
Chapter 41
Charles arrived home a little before six that evening. He knew Sarah had watched him last night and was probably watching again, so he had hidden the envelope with the money in the trunk. It was Sarah’s night out with the girls. He would put the money in the baggie after she left.
* * *
Jimmy was waiting with great excitement and was disappointed when Mr. Lamb didn’t appear. But Jimmy was very patient—and very lucky. He ate dinner and again took up his position in the tree house. Fifteen minutes after Mrs. Lamb left, he was rewarded for his patience. Mr. Lamb came out the back door and went straight to the spot in the bushes. He looked around, retrieved the baggie, and put in more money. Jimmy was right. This was Mr. Lamb’s bank.
Jimmy again fished the baggie out of the bushes and was amazed at the amount of money in fifties and twenties. Deciding Mr. Lamb would never miss a little, he took two twenties and added that to his notebook in code. He drew a little picture of a bird for each twenty.
* * *
There was now three hundred dollars in the baggie. On the way back into the house, Charles wondered what he was going to do with the money. He couldn’t buy something expensive or Sarah would know. But he would have money for gambling that Sarah would never know about. He could bet all he wanted. And he would be able to buy drinks for his friends. He would be the most popular guy in the bar.
If only he wasn’t stuck with Sarah. And then, suddenly, he thought of the safe in Amanda’s desk and the pile of cash. That would buy him freedom—freedom from Sarah. He could go somewhere she would never find him. If only that money were his.
Chapter 42
Rosie called Spencer about nine. She asked no questions—just said she had the information he wanted.
There were five coins: a half dollar, quarter, dime, nickel, and penny. The first pile was arranged in order of size with the half dollar on the bottom and the dime on the top. The next piles simply moved the top coin to the bottom. So the second pile had the penny on the top and the dime on the bottom. The third moved the penny to the bottom.
“Any thoughts, Rosie?”
“I wasn’t told to share thoughts. I was just told to tell you what I just told you.”
“Rosie! This is me you’re talking to.”
“I know, Spencer, I’m sorry. I’m just following orders.”
“Okay. I understand.” He paused. “So, any thoughts.”
“Jesus. No, none that make any sense.”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
“Yes you do.” She hung up. Stosh must be coaching her on phone etiquette, Spencer thought.
* * *
Spencer called Don and told him about the coins and the pattern.
“Do they have any ideas about the pattern?” asked Don.
“No. Or none that they’re sharing.”
“Do you?”
“Well, no, but I haven’t given it much thought yet. I called you right away.”
“Run through it. What do we have?” asked Don.
“Well, five coins.” Spencer hesitated. “And five victims of Jack.”
“And three current victims,” Don added. “So, if he is a copycat, the good news is there are only two more victims.”
“That may not be good news,” said Spencer.
“I didn’t mean two more people dying is good.”
“Not what I meant,” said Spencer. “Maybe two left in the Jack pattern. But if this guy likes to kill, he may find another pattern, or no pattern at all.”
“So, we may have two more chances to figure it out.”
Spencer sighed. “Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?”
“If the guy is playing a game, there may be more to it than just the number match.”
“Maybe. Any suggestions?”
“Read the book again, Spencer.”
“And if I still don’t find anything?”
Don took a deep breath. “Well, then maybe it’s just a game. A literate murderer messing with your mind.”
“And that’s a game we can’t win.”
“Probably not.”
“So, what then?”
“Then you rely on good old-fashioned police work. Good luck. See ya.”
“Yeah, see ya.”
Spencer felt like he was backed against a wall. But it was nice to talk to someone who said goodbye.
Chapter 43
Laura went out Tuesday night and was on the street by nine. She was hoping the man who gave her the warning would be back. He might have seen Katherine.
The night was warm and she was comfortable without a jacket. She had also told Stretch she was going to walk farther down Broadway than usual. Her team was ready to follow wherever she went.
It was easy for her to identify women who were working the street and she sought them out for a brief chat. Some wanted to talk, some didn’t. She didn’t blame the ones who didn’t.
Only three men stopped her in the two hours she was out. None were buyers.
* * *
Stretch watched from across the street. Team members would move around the street but there was always a member of the team within twenty feet of Laura. Stretch noticed a large man talking to a couple of the girls Laura had talked to. He didn’t approach Laura. And he didn’t hire either of the girls. It was a slow night.
Stretch watched Laura talking to other women. He saw her show them what looked to be a picture and wondered what it was. She had done this before and Stretch had wondered what she was doing. But he had stopped thinking about it—he wasn’t paid to think.
Chapter 44
Spencer got a bottle of beer and picked up the book again. He told himself not to think about it, just to read it like he had never read it before. Maybe something would pop out at him. The phone rang as he got up to shut off the TV.
“Spencer, Ben.”
“Hi, Ben. How’s life treating you?”
“Well, a bit tired. You read about the Spiney case?”
“Sure. The little girl who was abducted and found dead. They caught someone, didn’t they? And they have a good case. As I remember, they found some of her clothes in his apartment.”
�
��Yeah, and guess who’s defending him?”
“Man, you need a vacation, not a big case.”
“No argument there, Spencer. But my boss has other ideas. Anything on Laura?”
“No. I’ll pick her up again Friday night.”
“Bad choice of words.”
“I guess,” Spencer said with a laugh. “I’ll give you a call Saturday.”
“Thanks. Don’t work too hard.”
After hanging up the phone, Spencer settled back into the chair with the book.
* * *
Spencer took a swallow of beer and wished he hadn’t. He liked cold beer and it was now almost room temperature. He gave up on the beer.
As he read, he scribbled on a notepad. The string of five murders accredited to Jack the Ripper had begun on August 31, 1888, a little after midnight. The body of Polly Nichols had been found in an alley about three a.m. with two deep cuts along her neck that nearly severed her head. She’d been viciously butchered, with knife slashes from her groin to her breastbone. In the early morning hours of September 8, the police were summoned to a back yard on Hanbury Street by a neighbor who had heard noises and had found the mutilated body of Annie Chapman. Her throat had been cut and she had been disemboweled. Her entrails were wrapped around her neck. Various organs, including her heart and womb, were lying next to her lifeless body. There was a public outcry, but the police were left without a lead. The gruesome murders, just a stone’s throw from the seat of the British government, were to continue.
In the 1880s, crime detection was limited to eye witnesses and informants. There was no blood typing. The police couldn’t tell the difference between human and animal blood. Even fingerprints were more than a decade away. The murderer, covered in blood, could be staring at his victim, and the police would have no way of proving he did it. So the police were limited to putting on more constables and crossing their fingers. Prostitutes were certainly afraid, but needed to make a living and warily continued. They just assumed the attitude it won’t happen to me and trusted in luck. But three more weren’t to be so lucky.
On September 30, Jack had struck again in what was termed the double event. At one a.m., a man named Israel Schwartz had witnessed a struggle between a man and a woman near Berner Street. Israel had run away. A short while later, another man had come upon the lifeless body of Elizabeth Stride and called the police. Her throat had been cut, but there were no other marks on her. That led police to believe that the second man had interrupted the murderer, who may have been scared away by the arrival of the second man. The murderer may even have been watching from the shadows of a church across the street. The church had become known as prostitute church, and the area was called the round-about because the prostitutes would walk around and around the church. If they stopped walking, they were arrested for loitering. Israel Schwartz later identified a man named Kosminski as the man he saw struggling with Elizabeth, but refused to testify against a fellow Jew. Kosminski was released.
Forty minutes after the murder of Elizabeth Stride, a police constable had found the butchered body of Katherine Edows just a few hundred yards from the church. The police had theorized that the murderer had been interrupted with Elizabeth, hadn’t been able to finish his butchery, and had needed another victim to satisfy himself. Katherine Edows’ throat had been cut all the way to her spine. The tip of her nose had been cut off, her kidney and womb removed, and her intestines ripped out and slung over her right shoulder.
No one had heard or seen anything, but this time there had been a few clues. A piece of blood-stained apron, belonging to Katherine, had been found on a path a few blocks away, and a message was scribbled on a brick wall near the murder site. The message read: The Jews are the men that will not be blamed for nothing. Amazingly, Commissioner Warren had ordered the message removed without even taking a photograph. He had said he wanted to avoid a race riot against the Jews.
Even Queen Victoria had voiced her concern, but still the police were helpless. Extra constables were put on the streets, some dressed as women. And still the prostitutes had gone out at night. They said their only other option was suicide.
On October 16, another clue had arrived at the home of George Lusk, a member of the vigilante committee that had been formed to patrol the streets. George had received a letter and a small packet. The letter had taunted him, saying catch me when you can and stating that the murderer would “rip” again. The packet had contained a small piece of kidney. The sender had said he’d fried a piece of the kidney and eaten it—it was very tasty. The letter and piece of kidney had been assumed to have been sent by the murderer, but there was no proof. There’d been no way of tying the piece of kidney to Katherine Edows. But from then on, the murderer was known as Jack the Ripper.
After the last Chicago murder, the cops named their suspect Friday.
Trying to forget about Laura, Spencer put down the book and thought about the general pattern of the London murders. Of course they were all prostitutes. But they were also all alcoholics. Maybe that was something to check. Maybe it was a thread. But it wasn’t surprising that a prostitute would be an alcoholic. All the murders occurred in the early morning hours and they were all found in accessible areas. The murderer made no attempt to hide the bodies. He wanted his crime to be discovered. And all the murders were within a mile of each other. The current murders matched the old murders in some of these respects, but there was nothing there that gave a clue to the murderer. One fact still remained. It was very difficult to catch someone who picked victims at random.
* * *
After some information about police efforts, the book got to the fifth and last murder, the most vicious of the bunch. In the early daylight hours of November 8, a rent collector, sent by the landlady, knocked on the apartment door of Mary Jane Kelly. Getting no answer, he walked outside, peered in the window, and then ran for the police. He would never forget what he saw. Mary Jane Kelly was lying on the bed, her head severed from her body. Her face had been skinned and her throat cut all the way down to the groin. This time the murderer had taken plenty of time. He had known that he would not be interrupted. Again there had been no good clues. At three a.m., a witness had seen Mary Jane leave a pub along with a man but could give no good description. A little before four a.m., neighbors had heard someone yell murder, but had ignored the shout and had gone back to sleep. Mary Jane Kelly had been left to her fate.
That had been the last murder. And, as Spencer already knew, after that murder the police had started to follow Mr. Kosminski, who ended up in a sanitarium. Whether or not Kosminski was Jack the Ripper would never be known, and it really didn’t matter to Spencer.
He thought about the Chicago murders and realized there was another similarity. Even though crime detection had certainly come a long way, the Chicago police had no more clues than the London police. The current murderer was just as free to commit his butchery as Jack was, but with one advantage. As far as anyone knew, no one had seen him. But there was one difference that seemed important. The Chicago murders were all on Friday nights, or Saturday mornings. They were at least a bit predictable. Spencer wondered why.
* * *
Spencer sat quietly, trying to shake the helpless feeling that filled him. He wanted a plan of action. He wanted to be doing something. But, other than following Laura, there was nothing to do. Following Don’s advice, he started reading again.
On August 31, the body of Polly Nichols had been found at three a.m.
Spencer sat straight up in the chair and put down the book, as he thought of Laura’s sister, Katherine. The fourth victim of Jack was Katherine Edows. He was pretty sure the last Chicago victim was named Jane. He flipped back through the chapter. Jack’s last victim was Mary Jane Kelly.
Spencer called Rosie.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Rosie. Spence.”
“Hi, cowboy. You find something about the coins?”
“No. I have another question.”
“You’re going to make me work on my night off?”
“Should be pretty simple. But if you’re busy...”
“No, not too. What is it?”
“What are the names of the three victims?”
Spencer jotted down the names as she said them, thanked her, and hung up.
Placing the names on top of his book notes, Spencer compared them. Jack’s first victim was Polly Nichols. The second Chicago victim was Paula Stannard. Jack’s second victim was Annie Chapman. The first Chicago victim was Ann Benning. Jack’s third victim was Elizabeth Stride and the fourth was Katherine Edows. Jack’s fifth victim was Mary Jane Kelly. The third Chicago victim was Jane Deltine. There was no Chicago victim named Katherine or Elizabeth—yet.
The first and third Chicago names were the same as Jack’s victims. The second was similar. Two matches could be coincidence. Three had Spencer wondering. If it wasn’t coincidence, then Friday was picking his victims by their names. That meant he had to know their names, and it would take some legwork to find out the names of prostitutes without attracting attention. Drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, Spencer thought about the possibility. If the killer was doing this, then the next victim might be named Katherine or Kate or Kathy, or it might be Elizabeth or Liz or Ellie. That gave the police a slight advantage. But first they would have to find all the prostitutes with the right name and alert them to the danger. And prostitutes didn’t exactly register with the cops or use their real names.
They could get out the message on the news and in the papers, but then Friday would also be alerted, and if Friday knew they knew, he may not follow the pattern.
