by B Anders
The radio on the alarm clock clicked on abruptly with a bouncy tune from the 60's. The voice was not the soaring vocals of Petula Clark but the giggling rambles of a fucking moron.
"deadtown, nothin' great matters in deadtown,
‘cause your guts spilled on your shoes in deadtown,
nothin' matters for you 'cause you're dead,
deadtown,”
Colby’s eyes snapped wide-awake at the lyrics. She bolted up to grab the radio only to miss by a foot. Her body hit the wood floor hard as the chuckling disembodied voices began their Friday morning shock jock rants which passed for Boston drive time radio.
"Well, boys and girls, the Ripper’s Daughter is at it again! She’s gone and gotten herself another man. What a woman!"
In the background, the loud groans and muffled laughter from the assorted studio sycophants pretending to be a “live radio” audience, only served to egg the irrepressible host on further. Colby spat in disgust, she was sick of all the shit from the local garbage media. They were nothing but vultures—scavengers feeding off other people’s grief and fear. They and their goddamned radio shows and their tabloid headliners screaming “My Father married the Ripper’s Daughter.”
“Fuckin’ cocksuckers,” Colby grumbled. "The media boys will shit themselves stupid when they realize they should have been out looking for a killer with a dick in the first place. Ripper’s Daughter, my ass."
Unlike the gonzo press, Colby was certain the Ripper was a man. No woman could have gotten the drop on Marty. He was built like a bear and he was fast, much faster and quicker than you would expect. That was Marty’s edge, he was a wolf dressed up as mutton.
She knew him better than most because they went way back. For some reason, she could never figure out, Marty took it upon himself to look out for her ever since she was a first year rookie fresh out on the streets. He saw to it that she moved up the ranks, no questions asked, until she got her own gold shield. He even made sure she got a cushy position as Detective Sergeant under him. There wasn’t anything Colby wouldn’t have done for the man. Only when things went from push to shove, she failed him when he needed her the most.
The problem was Marty, a unique character in most respects, was like every damned cop in the city when it came to Boston’s own little backyard monster. Marty was obsessed with the Ripper case. He said he was going to catch the psycho. Then he could hang up his holster and retire with thirty two years behind him riding his high horse, white hat, and all.
He was going to write a best seller about the manhunt and from there on in he’d be laughing all the way to the bank. He’d do the rounds on all the big name New York talk shows—Springer, Oprah, Letterman, O’Brien. He'd even show up for that blonde dyke with the funny name to prove he was equal opportunity.
When Marty got going he was a hell of a something else, but even Marty-the-Great had to admit they were nowhere close to a solid lead. They still had no suspect. After thousands of hours of good old fashion police leg work, pages and pages of eyewitness transcripts, and an evidence room full of trinkets from the murder scenes to rival even the Smithsonian, they knew about as much as they did two minutes after the first call came in on victim number one. Fuckin’ zero.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, how can you freakin’ catch a fuckin’ lunatic? This fucker’s a bloody ghost.”
The curse became Marty's mantra night after night; dead drunk and tired beyond exhaustion after a fifteen hour work day and too many shots of Jack. While sober, Marty had a way with words. But, it was his waxing poetic when he had a few too many which probably played a role in his never making Captain.
The shock jocks' renewed chatter rattled Colby back from the grip of her thoughts.
"Oh, what? I'm the bad guy now? You're gonna gang up on me when Boston's finest have been complete and total failures handling this psycho! People, I’m talking seven bodies here. Our girl has been sending Boston a sticky body bag or two every Christmas for the past five years and the cops have not a single shred of evidence to show for it."
The voice paused briefly for effect. Radio bad boys liked to make themselves out to be so tough. Colby wondered if they would sing the same song when she had them handcuffed to a desk in the interrogation room with a night stick stuffed up their miserable, lily white asses. Colby knew she’d enjoy fulfilling that particular fantasy; probably a little too much for her own comfort.
"Ooops, my bad, not seven anymore, body number eight was found this morning in a half melted snow bank in the Fens. What are the odds there’ll be any physical evidence left in a four month-old sludge pile? Doh!"
As the voices on the radio began to argue on the finer points of the gruesome find, Colby tried to pull herself off the floor. She was in bad shape; her balance was shot forcing her to steady her ravaged frame by leaning on the bed. Once she was upright, her stomach flipped as the throbbing in her head kicked into high gear. The gagging started almost immediately forcing her to stumble mindlessly into the bathroom for the porcelain throne. Every day was generally bad for her. This time of the year just made life a little more unbearable.
Once she was sure her belly was finished hurling up the sour contents lingering from last night, she looked up to assess the damage from yet another round of self-inflicted abuse. Blood shot eyes stared back at her from the dirty mirror. She was looking at a fuckin’ stranger’s face. Some pale, gaunt, washed up cop just short of getting her ass thrown out of the door with a HR file that could pass for a phone book. She knew the type, the ones that couldn’t cut it anymore. The ones the Captain tossed overboard as shark bait for Internal Affairs now and then. It kept them busy gnawing on a bloody carcass the Captain no longer had any use for.
She was disgusted with herself, but slow suicide would have to wait today because she had work to do. If they found another victim, the Captain would be looking for her and there would be a couple of calls she needed to make. First on the docket was to look for her clothes.
Her pants were hanging on the side of the claw foot tub. They reeked of booze, vomit, and smoke; the aftermath of another hard night’s worth of boozing. No matter what people were saying behind her back, Colby didn’t binge because she was some garden variety drunk. She drank for a reason. The problem was she could never remember what the reason was the next morning.
Her cell phone was still jammed into the back pocket of her pants. A quick check of the screen showed eleven missed calls. Two from the Captain and the rest were from Faust. She pressed the button to return the call to the person who’d give her the least amount of shit.
"It's 'bout time you woke up, Willis,” a light feline like voice answered on the second ring.
Esmera Faust was a second year detective. Colby considered her a personal pain in the ass. Faust made herself easy to hate; honor roll at the academy, promoted after four years on patrol with an unblemished record, and a commendation for bravery under fire. It also didn’t hurt that Faust was easy on the eyes and real smooth with the Captain. The woman was a heart breaker. Latino with olive skin and all the right curves, topped off with a face that could make you forget you had someone waiting for you at home.
Faust made Colby nauseous in a bad way and the feeling was mutual. Colby was a character study in contrast to her latest partner. She was mostly Irish with some American mutt thrown in for good measure, close to six feet tall, angular, and awkward. Dark hair and eyes made her pale white skin all the more striking. She had a sullen, androgynous quality about her that women found attractive but intimidated most men.
"Shut it and hit me with the highlights," Colby snapped.
"Someone’s all bright and cheerful this morning. The vic is a white male; say late twenties to early thirties, possibly older. Body's in rough shape so it's hard to tell. Dressed in nice sweats and expensive running shoes so he’s probably some fitness freak out for a run and not homeless. A wallet with a MA driving license was found nearby. Chances are we’ll be able to get a positive ID from the lic
ense but he's so banged up we can't even be sure of the height never mind what his face used to look like. We're going to need dental records. Captain says we can't let family look at him." Faust gave a weary sigh, "I don’t have the update about a missing person’s report yet but I’m sure there is one. Young, white males don’t disappear in this town without their mothers, wives, or SO's getting together a search party with sniffer dogs and psychics."
"You got a name from the license in the wallet?"
"A Jacob Eagan. He’s local."
Colby scrubbed the sleep out of her eye as she asked, "Where are you?"
"I’m on the scene with Mr. Creepy Guy from forensics, the one with the hots for you. You know who I mean, tried to ask you out on a date last month. He thinks the vic was probably killed around Christmas. You remember the first snow storm we had in December? The one that made everything real pretty for the holidays. Well, pretty for everybody but Eagan. The body was left in a cave cut into a snow bank facing the MFA. This next part is nasty, you got a bucket handy?”
"Funny, Faust. Just don't quit your day job."
"Don't say I didn't warn you, Wills. A used sanitary napkin was stuffed in his mouth. Wrists and knee caps were broken, probably by a heavy blunt instrument like a claw hammer. The elbows were duct taped together behind his back."
"Fuck. The lips ... he super glued them?" Colby could hear the trembling in her voice as she sank to her knees.
"Yup, Bitch super glued them together.” Colby noticed that Faust made a point of correcting the gender modifier before continuing in a careful tone. “Captain said not to get chatty about your theory that the killer’s male or about the super glue when we're around the paper boys. He says to zip your lips.”
The memory of the words from her dream hit Colby hard making her stomach churn. This killing was the real deal. Not some wanna be copycat looking for a free ride on the day’s headlines. This was an anniversary present just for her.
“There hasn’t been a leak yet and there ain’t gonna be one now so quit your yapping and fill me in on the rest of this horror show,” Colby snarled back trying desperately to pull her bravado together.
"Right. The vic had a surgical incision from left to right across his midsection, most likely made when he was unconscious but alive. The cut is a parody of a Caesarean section just like all the others. A slinky was snagged to the intestines and then up around his neck. With every shake and shudder, the guts were inched out. Next part is all theory because the body got knocked around pretty bad every time more snow was dumped on top of the pile by Mr. Plow."
"Spit it out, Faust."
"Forensic thinks he was deliberately left on his knees so gravity would play a big part in a very slow and painful disemboweling. It's hard to be sure about the exact position. There was piano wire on scene near the body. It was possibly looped around the neck at some point in time but ended up tangled around the body when a plow severed the head from the shoulders. He was probably dead before that happened because there was no blood spray."
"Or the plow guy ignored it, but it doesn't really matter for our purpose."
"True." Faust paused before asking, "What do you think? Is this our girl?"
"I ... need to see the scene."
Colby knew she was just trying to buy time. Delaying the inevitable by asking to go down to survey a completely deteriorated crime scene was beyond useless. A request she was sure the Captain would shoot down. He would already have a full day planned out for her at the station.
She would be expected to spend some quality one on one time with the lead investigation team. They would sit her down and go through each piece of physical evidence bit by bit to recreate the victim’s slow painful demise in all its psychedelic glory. Everything twice over with a fine tooth comb whether she wanted to hear them out or not—Captain’s orders.
They needed her to catch the killer. It was the only reason she was still around. That and Marty's well connected friends, but every year she put between his grave side service and her current pay stub, more doors slammed shut. She was running out of friends as quickly as she was running out of time.
"Wanna buy me breakfast, Willis? Make it a date and I'll show you the glossies," Faust's deadpan barely masked her contempt.
"You're a freakin' laugh riot, bitch," Colby muttered as she breathed deep trying to still the herd of elephants doing somersaults in her belly. Somehow she was sure these particular pachyderms were pink. "I need an hour to clean up and get to my desk. Meet me at headquarters."
"Boss man is plenty pissed at you. Better be at your desk in twenty."
Before she could argue, the line went dead. Colby pulled her legs in tight under her as she looked up at the sunlight streaking through the skylight above her head. Despite the vibrant morning, she felt tired and cold. This was what it felt like to still be breathing three years after Marty went and got himself cut up like a side of butcher’s beef.
"Happy anniversary, old buddy, the Ripper sends his regards." She said to the empty apartment and the silence which filled her life since Marty's death returned her greetings.
***
She hated the afterwards, the sensations of waking after the living death. Hated the throbbing in her head, hated the dry mouth, hated the long moments as her drugged mind struggled to collect the scattered broken bits of itself—herself.
This time was no different from the others. Her body was dumped face down on the plinth in Dr. Leshkari's office. She was left lying in a pool of excrement, mucus and blood leaked out from her torn anus. Her arms were trapped in the folds of the heavy straight jacket. Her hands had gone numb long ago. She took a moment to savor the feel of the canvas against her hot, feverish skin. The straight jacket was a mixed blessing. It, at least, covered part of her nakedness, providing a bit of comfort in her otherwise nihilistic existence.
The cigarette smoke wafting across the room was a signal that the session was over. The good doctor only allowed herself to smoke after she was finished.
"Perhaps," the doctor sighed, "you think not cooperating with your care is clever. You think refusing your medication wins you a few days of clear thinking. And if you somehow manage to gather enough hours of clarity together you'll be able to figure a way out of the Castle."
The doctor inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a lingering moment and then exhaled broadly with a thin smile.
"But, I’m telling you it won't work. I see through your little schemes. Every time you fight back or refuse or strike out is another excuse for me to use force, to discipline you, to throw you in restraints. But, I am not complaining. I enjoy our quiet moments together. I like you. We could be such good friends, but no. You have to be difficult."
Another deep inhale and a pause followed by a sigh, "I merely want you to be aware you cannot escape me. You will never leave my care. You will never be free. You will never be safe from me."
Silence hung heavy as the smoke in the air. She knew the doctor was letting the words sink into her sub-conscious; a little ticking time bomb to go off later when she was fully awake. She was used to the doctor’s little tricks.
"Oh," she giggled as she rolled onto her side facing the doctor, "I'm sorry. Were you speaking to me? I wasn't listening.” Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the doctor and bared her teeth in a monstrous grin. “Go ahead and repeat yourself. I'll try to pay better attention this time.”
*****
Chapter 3
The photos were pretty much what Colby expected, disgusting and useless. The body was mangled beyond description; decomposing rapidly after the Medical Examiner removed it from under the melting mound of snow.
It made no difference to Colby. She'd seen the killer’s handiwork before, only the victims and locations varied. This particular runner had been extremely unlucky. His first bit of bad luck was running smack into a murdering sicko. It all went downhill from there but not quickly. Not quickly at all.
"The ME will have his full report to us before n
oon tomorrow or the next day at the latest but the initial exam on site was pretty grisly," Faust noted in a weary voice. "The cold probably prolonged the poor bastard's misery. He could have lasted for hours if not a day. The damage to the body from getting tossed around by the plows and the state of decomposition is making it hard to figure out what was what. We can’t tell what was post mortem damage from what was self-inflicted by the victim as he struggled to get free from the injuries directly sustained in the assault. But, Dickie went out on limb and said the broken knee caps, wrists, and surgical incision were courtesy of the Ripper’s Daughter."
"Great, now they got you calling the perp that too,” Colby complained before popping an Excedrin Migraine in her mouth and chewing it dry. “Faust, the killer’s male. He has to be.”
Faust watched her with a look of disgust. "You're killing yourself with those pills. You won't have a sliver of liver left if you keep on the way you're going."
"I didn’t ask for your fuckin’ opinion. Why don't you mind your own business, fuck face?"
