Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside

by Heather Graham

“Our next step,” he told her, “was going to be to remove the head, dissolve the flesh—Fullbright likes maggots, actually—and then send the skull to a woman down at the Smithsonian. But…may I?”

  “Of course.”

  She stood, letting him take the chair at the desk. She watched as he emailed the likeness to someone, typing, “I know it’s late. Use any newspaper contact. I need this out there—neighborhood websites, flyers, too. Copy should just read, ‘Do you know this woman?’”

  A second later, he got his reply. “On it, Jude. Not too late. I can get it in for tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you now.”

  “Hey, I was up. I’ve kind of got a guy, Jude. We have coffee. We chat. Who knows… I was on the phone with him when you emailed.”

  “Good for you, girl.”

  “But don’t worry—I’m always your girl first, Jude.”

  Jude replied, “You’re a good egg, Hannah.”

  “I’m the best.”

  He eased back in the chair, and then sat forward again, emailing the likeness to himself. Then he rose, looking at her strangely. “Thanks. Yes, we’ve had some sketches done. But…this is—detailed. It’s as if she could walk off the page. I don’t know if we can find out who she was, and if we do, if that can help us catch her killer, but…hey. Everyone deserves a burial, and no one deserves to die like that.”

  Whitney nodded. “Sure. I agree.”

  She felt as if they shared a bizarrely awkward moment. He had discovered that he didn’t dislike her and she just might be useful.

  She had just discovered that she liked way too much about him.

  “Listen, I have a two-bedroom place in Hell’s Kitchen and you’re more than welcome to come back with me. I’d appreciate it, actually. I don’t like thinking about you down here by yourself.”

  “You live in Hell’s Kitchen, too?” she asked him.

  He laughed. “The apartment next to my father. He was bright enough to buy when things went co-op a couple of decades ago, and I just pay him a minimum rent—his pleasure money, as he calls it. I think he charges me because he knew I wouldn’t accept the place if I didn’t pay him something. And, hey, I’m sure he’d be happy to have you for the night, too.”

  She was tempted. Really tempted. She wasn’t afraid of Blair House, or of being alone. She was afraid that the more she was with him, the more she liked him, and the more she was close to him, the more she realized that he was really an attractive man—and she was attracted to him. Not a good thing on the first day of a new investigation.

  Whitney certainly had no desire to appear to be afraid just to be with him—or anyone.

  And he probably didn’t understand that she needed to be in the house by herself for the night.

  “I’m all right, honestly. Like I told you earlier, I’m not the fearful type. And I have some work to do tonight. I have to decide where I think we’ll need our camera equipment, and just what we may want to film or record on tape…”

  He stared at her blankly.

  “We always keep track of what happens around us,” she said. “And, of course, we’ll want to watch the property next door.”

  He still stared at her.

  “Oh. For shadows and ghosts and things?” he asked. His tone was polite.

  “For anything that’s going on,” she said. “Trust me—it’s good.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Good. And I’m okay, really. I’m not a fool.”

  He smiled, and it was a real smile.

  “Maybe not staying here would make you the intelligent type,” he told her.

  She grinned at that. “Thank you. Sincerely, thank you. But I have a phone. There are cruisers in the street tonight. I’m not going back out, and I’ll sleep with my gun under my pillow.”

  He nodded; her words were rational.

  “All right, then. I’ll be here at seven-thirty, sharp. You need a wake-up call or anything?”

  She laughed at that. “No, but thanks again. I have an alarm on my phone. I’ll be fine. Honestly.”

  She walked him to the door. “Good night, and…”

  “And?”

  He hesitated just a minute, gray eyes guarded. “I look forward to meeting the rest of your team.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Again, the moment felt slightly awkward; almost as if they’d been on a strange date all day.

  She made sure he heard her sliding the bolts on the front door as he left, and she watched through one of the etched-glass windows in the door as he walked back out to his car.

  When he was gone, Whitney walked through the house, leaving the large hallway light on as she wandered the downstairs. She could well imagine that it would be a fine tourist attraction when the renovations were done.

  She didn’t have any of the equipment; that would arrive with the others. But it would be good to have a sense of where she wanted cameras and recording devices.

  Upstairs, Whitney took stock of the bedrooms. There were six of them, and everything in the house seemed to be proportionate. Three on one side, three on the other.

  She paused at a window that overlooked the construction site next door. The book she read that day had shown pictures of the structure that had been there when it had been the House of Spiritualism; then, a two-story building with a circular porch had stood. The steeple was still standing toward what had been the rear of the structure. People had entered from the same sidewalk that led to the path to Blair House.

  Whitney stood in the darkness, watching the site. Patrol cars rounded the corner regularly, and she was pretty sure that when Jude Crosby left her, he had called in to make sure that the cars would watch Blair House throughout the night.

  When the equipment arrived, she knew that they would want to keep a good eye on the site.

  Pulling her phone from her pocket, she saw that it was nearly midnight. The time had gone so quickly that day. She told herself that she had to be tired; she had not known this morning that she’d be spending the night in New York City. But she wasn’t tired; she was wound up.

  In the kitchen, she brewed herself hot tea and made mental notes about where she wanted cameras set up. She wanted a couple of cameras looking down Broadway at all times, but, of course, they couldn’t cover every possible nook and cranny and shadow. Yet the cameras would catch movement of anyone who did come onto the street.

  Finally, she went back into the hallway. She stood very still, waiting. Nothing happened. No shadows moved. The old house didn’t even creak.

  “What? Did everyone die in this house in a state of absolute bliss?” she said aloud.

  Nothing. Just the darkness.

  Of course, it wasn’t Blair House where the supposed evil had taken place; it had been next door, at the House of Spiritualism. But she wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t going to go out to explore the area until the rest of the team had arrived.

  At last she convinced herself that it was time to get some sleep. She put her service revolver on the little table next to the bed, changed into pajamas and curled up to sleep.

  She couldn’t sleep, and so she rose, and in the quiet of the night, headed for the stairs.

  Downstairs, she looked at the pictures she had taken at autopsy. They were a good record, and she would show them to the others, but at the moment, they weren’t giving her any information that would help in finding a suspect.

  She found the book that Andrew Crosby had loaned her. It was fascinating reading, all about the demise of the Five Points area, the House of Spiritualism and the founding of the NYPD. And the murder of Carrie Brown.

  The author had been convinced that there had been other victims.

  She tried to imagine the squalor of the Five Points area, so near to this one. What had happened to the sea of humanity that had lived in those tenements when they had been brought down? The area had been so similar to Whitechapel in London; filled with immigrants eking out an existence. Filled with crime—and pol
ice who increased their incomes by taking bribe money from all the establishments in the area. Money paid so that the police force would protect shop owners from thugs and criminals; money paid so that the police would overlook code infractions and other illegal activities.

  She smiled; impressed and thinking about Jude Crosby. The man was truly intelligent and well read. He wasn’t unlike most of humanity; he believed in what he saw, in flesh and blood. In bad people who did bad things.

  “Well, yes—there is a truly evil person, flesh and blood out there,” she said softly. “But, if someone is in this house, I’d love to speak with you!” she added. Nothing.

  Hoping she could sleep at last, she closed the book, headed back upstairs and willed herself to try to sleep. Finally she dozed, and then she slept deeply.

  She didn’t dream. No images flashed through her mind in the night, at least none that she could hold and retain.

  When she woke up, sun was filtering through the chintz drapes.

  She yawned and stretched, and looked toward the foot of the bed.

  And froze.

  A woman stood there, her image hazy and then solid. She appeared to be in late Victorian dress; her clothing was poor, simple cotton. A crocheted mantle sat over her shoulders. Her hair was queued, and yet tendrils were escaping. She looked to be about thirty, but her appearance was worn and tired…

  Like that of the image of Jane Doe wet Jake had created from her death photos.

  But she wasn’t Jane Doe wet. She had lived long before Jane Doe wet.

  Whitney thought that she heard something, like a whimpering. She realized that the woman wasn’t alone. At her side was a large hound, a mix between a shepherd and a wolfhound, perhaps, but a large shaggy creature that stood valiantly at her side.

  The woman began fading away again.

  “Please, please, stay!” Whitney begged.

  The dog lingered just a moment longer.

  But the woman disappeared, and then, more slowly, the dog. Whitney was left to wonder if the images had really been there, of if she had imagined both the woman and canine in the desperate hope that she could learn something from the beyond.

  5

  It was barely the crack of dawn when Jude pulled the last of his information sheets from the printer in his home office and arranged his discourse for the task force meeting the next morning. He had pictures and every note taken on the Jane Does, and he had every note they’d thus far acquired regarding Virginia Rockford as well. And, he had drawn up a time line of Jack the Ripper in London, the murder of Carrie Brown and everything he could find on the House of Spiritualism as well. There was nothing to be found on the mysterious Jonathan Black other than what had been written by his contemporaries. Hannah was searching records, but she had found nothing that registered he’d been in the country, or in the city of New York.

  It was possible, of course, that the murders were not related in any way, and that the murder of Virginia Rockford was unrelated to any past or present Ripper. But Deputy Chief Green had been disturbed enough by the similarities to call in a special unit, and there was no reason not to entertain anything that might help in the investigation.

  He dreaded the thought that another victim would tell them whether or not they were moving in the right direction.

  Allison, his blue-eyed mixed-breed cat, meowed, cleaning her paws as she sat at the edge of his desk.

  “Too damn bad they hadn’t invented credit cards back then,” he told the cat.

  He was startled by a knock at the side door to his office.

  When his dad had bought the apartments, they’d discovered that the place had once been owned by a notorious madam, Madam Shelley, who had been a voyeur. What had appeared to be wall actually hid a door, and that door led to the apartment next door. When he’d had to fix the wall because of water damage from a leaking pipe on the floor above, they’d found out that there had been an entrance and exit between the two apartments—and a way for the madam to spy on her clients.

  They’d kept the exit/entrance something of a secret door. Jude’s father had never interfered with his life, and it was nice that he was close. He could feed Allison when Jude wound up working crazy hours on a case.

  He stood to unlock the door, letting his dad in.

  Andrew remained on his side of the doorway, hands behind his back, waiting for an invitation in. Jude smiled, looking into his dad’s back parlor. A lot of the things crammed in here had been his own—a huge desk and computer and game player, for example; the shelves were crowded with books, and more. Animal skulls, comics, Star Trek and Star Wars toys and all kinds of collectibles.

  “Sorry, I know it’s early but I heard you rattling around in here,” Andrew said. He grinned and drew his hands from behind his back, producing a large paper coffee cup. “Didn’t know if you’d bothered to brew yourself any.”

  Jude took the cup, stepping back. “Thanks. Good and strong?” he asked.

  “You bet, killer strong, just the way you like it.”

  “Come on in. You know I always appreciate your advice.”

  “The media just keeps going crazy. Slow day for catastrophes yesterday,” Andrew said with a shrug. “No storms or oil spills or other such activity. The major cable stations have all hopped on the bandwagon. Everyone across the globe has to be getting information regarding Virginia Rockford. I can’t help but wonder if she’s happy in heaven. She found her fifteen minutes of fame—a lot more than fifteen minutes. There are even some takes from that movie on the internet—don’t know how people got them. Well, barriers can only keep onlookers so far—it’s gone viral. That movie is going to make a fortune!”

  “Yes, I guess it is,” Jude said.

  “And don’t hesitate, son, if you want any help on anything, let me know. There’s got to be something else useful in my book collection. if you want any research done and your folks are bogged down—though I guess you have half the department on it—let me know, okay. Even if it’s just coffee.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take you up on that. And, hey, I’m going to leave my side of the door unlocked. Will you check in on Allison this evening, give her an ear rub and make sure she has water and food?” Jude asked.

  Andrew laughed. “I’ll even clean the litter box! I can see you gotta get out of here. Talk to you later.” He turned to close the door.

  “Hey, wait,” Jude said.

  His dad paused, brows arching with anticipation.

  “Yeah, we’ve got lots of people, but you are a reader and you have one of the best book collections I’ve ever seen. Keep reading. See what you can find on the House of Spiritualism, Jonathan Black—and Blair House.”

  “Of course,” Andrew said.

  He left, closing the door between the two apartments. Jude headed out. As he did so, he picked up the morning paper at his door, flipping it over:

  Have You Seen This Woman?

  He was pleased to see that Hannah had gotten Jake Mallory’s computer rendition of his victim on the lower-right side of the first page of the paper. Since he’d spent the night preparing for the meeting and grimly realizing how little they had to go on, it was a pleasant perk to see that the likeness was in the paper, and just as he had wanted it placed.

  The paper was on the front passenger’s seat of the car when he picked up Whitney; she was in front of the house, waiting for him at precisely 7:30 a.m. He couldn’t help think again that everything about her was gleaming, from the pert curls in her hair to the tone of her skin and on to her eyes. She was entirely unique—and absolutely mesmerizing. She would surely draw attention no matter where she went. He did wonder if that would prove to be an asset or a distraction.

  He admitted grudgingly to himself that she had probably drawn more from Angus Avery than he would have managed.

  “Nice,” she said, accepting the newspaper and seeing where the picture had been displayed.

  “How was your night?” he asked.

  “Quiet,” she assured him.


  “You slept well?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Well, I won’t have to be worried tonight. You won’t be alone. The rest of your team gets in today.”

  “I wasn’t worried last night,” she assured him. “But I like my team. I’ll be glad when they’re here. And, I think you’ll like them, too.”

  “I’ll like anyone who can move this investigation in a forward direction. The news has picked up on the unknown victims we discovered. It’s a media frenzy.”

  “Strange,” Whitney murmured. “Or maybe not so strange.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Think about the late eighteen hundreds in London. There were murders that occurred constantly, especially in the East End. But the Ripper murders were the first to really gain attention. They were so ghastly that people were forced to notice people and the horrendous conditions under which they were living.”

  “That’s not a comparison. They don’t need to notice this area. Five Points is really long gone.”

  “Yes, but Five Points wasn’t cleaned up until the 1880s, 1890s. The Bowery was filled with seedy bars and hotels—it wasn’t a nice area! And what happened to Carrie Brown turned into a huge case as well, with the media heavily involved. Some people believe that Jack the Ripper was out to draw attention to the absolute misery of life.”

  “Personally,” Jude told her, “I don’t think that Jack the Ripper was hoping to clean up the Whitechapel area of London. I think he was a psychopath with a bitter hatred of women, and there was nothing about him that should have been romanticized. I don’t believe he was in the royal family, and I don’t believe any of the half-cocked theories that have come out about him in books in the last few years. Possibly, he was a butcher—the degree of his anatomical skills has been argued throughout the years—who suffered from a sexually transmitted disease. And it’s likely that he got that disease from a prostitute. Or maybe his mother had been a prostitute, and he’d spent his formative years watching her ply her trade. Today, he wouldn’t have gotten away with his crimes—we rely so heavily on forensics now. Back then, there were slaughterhouses in the area and a lot of the population walked around bloodstained—people walking around bloodstained are noticed these days, even in New York City. The populace might be busy and impatient, but they’re not blind or ignorant.”