Rip

by Paul Sating

  And if I do get him alone, we can do more than talk about the case, the devilish thought made her legs twitch.

  If Marshall was irresponsible with his words, he might be with his actions too. Janis hadn't had a chance to test that yet.

  But she would.

  She would make sure of it.

  32

  Where the fuck were they? Angelique had completed the tour of Monica's credenza a hundred times, half aware of her boss's eyes trailing her movements. She didn't want to wait anymore though, even though Monica told her they needed to. Janis needed to get her ass back. Angelique swallowed the rising fear the best she could at the moment. Marshall needed to be here too. This information was too important, too upsetting, to wait another minute before sharing it with the people who could do something with it.

  Marshall and Janis had stepped out over an hour ago and in that time Branson did what Branson always did, he upset people.

  Angelique knocked her knuckles on the credenza.

  "Please," Monica begged, "sit down, Angelique."

  "I don't want to."

  "But you're making me nervous," Monica's comment bordered on pleading.

  Angelique continued, back and forth, sending Monica a defiant glare. She didn't want to go over it again. In fact, Branson filled the entire hour thoroughly diving into his theory. The last thing she needed was to hear it one more time. It teased and promised a lot, but failed to deliver. But Monica, probably because she was too nice to say differently, seemed to buy it.

  "I sent him a text to see me before he leaves," Monica said. "They'll be up soon, I'm sure."

  Angelique loosed a growl. A minute was too long. One more minute wasted here having a conversation was another minute a serial killer was free somewhere in Memphis. She tried to concentrate on her short breaths, slowing them, elongating them. But the office felt like a cage, and she was the animal being poked and prodded by all the unknowing elementary school students making their trip to the human zoo. A cage she couldn't escape.

  The door clicked and Angelique spun. Relief washed over her when Marshall and Janis walked in together.

  "You two all squared away?" Monica asked, a tight waver in her question.

  "Yes, we're good. Thanks for letting her step out," Marshall stood by the door, keeping it open.

  Angelique tempered her frustration at Marshall's blatant display that he wasn't planning on hanging out for long because of what she saw in Janis' expression. It was easy to read the woman most of the time, the problem was trying to figure out which trouble bothered her friend the most at the moment. Janis was complex, a woman with an unfair amount of demons, all of which took turns tormenting her. Angelique had been there for the highs and the lows, one of the few people who could handle Janis, especially when her bipolar stuff flared up. That's what Janis' expression said now, that she was in mid-struggle with something deep. Angelique walked over to her, wrapping an arm around Janis' shoulder, and leaning her head on her. "Are you okay, honey?"

  "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks."

  The restricted answer only made Angelique more curious about what had happened over the past hour.

  "I've really got to get back to the station," Marshall said. "I wasn't planning on being here this long, so can we reschedule whatever you needed to see me about? Do lunch tomorrow?

  Monica straightened in her chair, her lips pushing and rising against each other in a silent struggle to either keep her mouth shut or put voice to Branson's information. For a brief moment, Angelique wasn't sure if the woman would spit it out. If Monica didn't, she would. As much as she hated to think Branson might be onto something crazy, it was still information that could lead Marshall and his team in the right direction. And if that was the case, that shit wasn't staying in this office.

  But Monica finally opened her mouth, and the revelation lay exposed. "No, it needs to be now. Branson has something you need to hear."

  Marshall gave her a tight nod. "Be quick. In case you all don't remember, I'm dealing with three dead women and a serial killer."

  Monica didn't let the redundant prodding go. "You need to hear this Marshall. Branson, tell him."

  "Fine," Marshall sighed. "What you have?"

  Branson, leaned back in the chair, his hands cupped over his stomach, and squarely faced Marshall. "How's this for quick?" he said with all the cockiness of a guy addicted to weightlifting and looking at himself in the mirror. "I know who the killer is."

  Cooly, without taking his focused eyes off Branson, Marshall closed the door. "What in the world are you talking about?"

  Branson swayed from side to side in the chair. Annoying. "I said I know who the killer is. There was something I noticed after the second murder, the Margaret Chapman one. Honestly, I was surprised no one else mentioned it before because it stared me in the face, so I thought it was obvious. I waited, but no one ever brought it up and I started doubting myself. But this last murder solidified it for me."

  She leaned against the credenza, arms crossed. "Stop stroking yourself and tell them about your theory."

  Janis moved to the table and sat. Her face twitched like only she smelled something bad in the office air. Something to do with the time she just spent with Marshall? The woman thought she was smooth, that she played the game so tight, but it was obvious to anyone with a pair of functional eyes that Janis pursued Marshall more doggedly than some of the creepiest guys around town who simply refused to believe that Angelique was, indeed, a lesbian. At least those guys had an excuse; they were men, blinded by balls full of semen. The same old traps called Janis back, chasing men she didn't need to be involved in relationships with in order to fill a daddy-sized hole in her heart.

  But what Angelique now saw in her friend's expression was different, not the typical struggle to be the center of attention. Simple rejection? The pair had been gone long enough for Janis to do something inappropriate since it never took her more than a few awkward sentences when she was on the prowl. Marshall could flirt, but he didn't shit where he ate either. Janis should have known that.

  Janis blinked absently as Branson spoke.

  "Whatever," he answered Angelique's insult. "Margaret Chapman was killed just days after Lacy Nichols, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And then we go a few weeks before Ms. Stride is killed," Branson frustratingly listed out his theory for Marshall, just as he had over the past hour. It was more excruciating going through his buildup a second time.

  "Right, I know the timeline," Marshall made a circular motion in the air with his finger, indicating Branson needed to speed it up. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time. If you think you've got something, I'm all ears. But if you're looking to philosophize or theorize, then I want you to hear me clearly, I'm not interested."

  That smirk never left Branson's face as he replied, "I promise, you won't regret this."

  "Then tell me what you have."

  "So I was going through the circumstances of these murders," Branson continued, "looking at the demographics of the three victims, seeing that they were all women. All women of ill repute."

  "I wouldn't say that's accurate at all," Angelique corrected, repeating what she told him earlier. Branson was slow to learn not to talk about them as if he had the allowance to set the narrative. A stereotype of the conservative Southern man. It wasn't an office secret about Branson, all the women in the office knew he had issues with women, grounded in the fact that he struck out each time he tried to play the dating game. But that didn't mean she would give up on setting him straight.

  Branson looked at her briefly, a response at his lips, but moved on quickly. "Anyway, three women, single, all of possible ill repute by our community's standards. Maybe, maybe not. It doesn't really matter unless you consider what else I noticed."

  "And what's that?" Marshall still didn't sound impressed.

  Branson flinched. Angelique doubted he enjoyed this lack of admiration on Marshall's part. "The way they were murdered," Branson stumbled. "
What was done to them."

  "We know that there are significant consistencies in not only the way they were killed but also the physical evidence. We get it," Marshall said. "That's why we're looking at a single killer. So unless you're going to tell me we're wrong about that, I'm curious what all this is about. I don't have time to dance; do you have a name for me or not? And if you do, I want to know why."

  "That's the thing, Marshall, if you give me a second," Branson pointed a finger. "Not only were they killed and found in the same part of the city, but they were murdered and disfigured in pretty much the same way. You said yourself that it's possible the murderer in the Stride case was interrupted, that she wasn't disfigured like the other two because he wasn't able to finish. Because of this witness, possibly? Right?"

  "Sure," Marshall said carefully. "I'm still not sure where you're going."

  Angelique snickered. "Don't worry, he's always like this."

  Monica turned on her. "Angelique, please."

  "But that's not the only similarity they have," Branson paused to soak in all the tension. "They also have their names."

  "What?" Janis shot forward in her chair, suddenly attentive to the world around her.

  Marshall took a step further into the room. "What about their names? They're not the same. There's no relation. What am I not understanding?"

  "The Whitechapel murders," Branson smirked.

  "The white what?" Marshall asked.

  Branson swayed, back and forth, making sure to draw all eyes. "In nineteenth century England, in an area of London known as Whitechapel, a series of murders rocked the community for years," Branson recited. "In fact, it bore a legend. Women were murdered and disemboweled, much like what's happening here."

  Marshall stood squarely facing Branson, his arms now crossed. "Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"

  "It makes sense, doesn't it?"

  Janis, still stiff in her chair, looked between Marshall and Branson. Her eyes never connected with Angelique's. Hiding something, Angelique thought. What the hell happened to those two out there?

  "Does anyone mind telling me what's going on?" Janis asked.

  Marshall's gaze never left Branson as he filled in the missing details. "He's talking about Jack the Ripper."

  "Jack the Ripper?" Janis exclaimed. "That doesn't make sense. These women, they were killed by someone here in town."

  "They were butchered, like Jack the Ripper's victims," Branson corrected. "All female. Each had their throats slashed, just like his victims. In case that isn't enough, Jack the Ripper disemboweled his victims, just like Lacy Nichols and Margaret Chapman."

  It still didn't make sense to her, even hearing it again. Sure, there were connections, she saw those without him going over this a fifteenth time, but his theory was ridiculous, too fantastic. "Stride wasn't disemboweled."

  Branson wagged a finger at her, as if he anticipated the question. "Because the killer got interrupted. Marshall said as much."

  Out of her periphery, Angelique saw Marshall nod. "Our suspicions are holding up," he said. "We still think that's what happened. Interesting."

  "So the same type of victims, all killed in the same manner as Jack the Ripper's victims," Branson reiterated.

  "No, no, he killed prostitutes," Janis argued, pounding her finger on the desk. She was right, if Angelique remembered her lore correctly.

  Marshall nodded at that too. "Some of his more famous murders were prostitutes, yes. But do we want to be pedantic? I'm not so sure."

  Janis threw her hands up in the air, solidifying Angelique's gut feeling that something happened in her conversation with Marshall. After work, it would be ladies' night. A few drinks in and she'd pry the latest drama out of Janis if she had to. "Are you falling for this, Marshall?"

  "Is it really that crazy, Janis?" Branson actually sounded hurt. "Or are you jealous that I've cracked a link you failed to make?"

  "We're not here for that," Monica cut off the pending explosion. "Marshall, what do you think?"

  Marshall tapped his lips with his forefinger, lost deep in his mind. "It's not a bad theory," he admitted. "We typically don't see a copy-cat murder a century later, but that doesn't mean this isn't what we could be looking at. It's definitely possible. But I'm not sold. Not yet. Still, you've got me thinking. I'll take this back to the office and look into it."

  Angelique jumped when Janis slapped the desk. "This is nuts!"

  Marshall cocked his head quickly. "Maybe. Like I said, I'm not completely sold."

  "Tell him about the names," Monica urged in a whisper that carried across the room.

  "Are the names relevant?" Marshall asked.

  "The Canonical Five," Branson interrupted.

  And here comes the crazy, Angelique thought. But what could she do if the conductor was determined to crash the train?

  "Five victims of the same killer," Branson said. "Five women mutilated by that killer. Ringing a bell?"

  "It's creepily similar, but that's not enough for me. Not right now."

  Branson crossed his arms, leaning back dangerously in the chair. "Can you guess the surnames of the first three victims?"

  Marshall's eyes widened as the connections finalized. The aspects that were difficult to believe, Marshall seemed to find reasonable. "Jesus Christ. Don't tell me."

  Branson nodded in victory. "Yes. Same last names. Murdered in the same order." He extended his hand, counting off the names with each finger, "Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, and Elizabeth Stride. Nineteenth century London. All within a short time of each other. Fast-forward to modern day Memphis, Tennessee."

  Marshall's reply came as a harsh whisper, stained with revelation. "Lacy Nichols, Margaret Chapman, and—"

  Angelique swallowed back the sudden panic of buying into understanding Branson's theory. "Shelley Stride."

  Whether she wanted to recognize it or not, everything lined up. Angelique was so overwhelmed with the intensity of it all that she almost missed Janis grinding her teeth.

  33

  Putting the name to something made it very real.

  In the bigger picture, at least for now, it didn't matter to Angelique whether or not Branson's theory was correct. The facts were much more frightening than his traipse through history, tying what happened a few generations and an ocean away to what was happening in Memphis. A living nightmare, there was something especially jarring about putting names to history and to the city's next possible victim. The attachment, the identification, that came with naming a thing, was the key step in the creation of a bond. What had Monica said after the Chapman murder? To not get too close to the victims? Maybe it was a wise thing after all?

  "Fuck," Marshall groaned, using a rare expletive. "This theory of yours, it's good. But, the names? You said there were five?"

  "Well, it's possible he murdered more than five women," Branson replied, he flipped to a page in his notebook, turning it toward Marshall. "See, he was linked with a lot—"

  Marshall held up a hand, stopping him. "Not important right now. I need to focus my staff's energy. You might be onto something legitimate."

  Angelique noticed Janis's knee aggressively bouncing underneath the table. She felt for her friend. This story was her chance to get back to working in the media, the opportunity to regain some of the respect and trust lost during the debacle at the television station after she went public with accusations of sexual harassment. As tough as the assignment might be, this piece would legitimize Janis again, even as the story's momentum had allowed it to outgrow her now. Too much death and devastation revolved around the situation for one person to handle. And that wouldn't ever sit well with Janis. Witnessed a hundred times over, Angelique knew Janis didn't like to lose control. Angelique wished she could help Janis see the involvement of so many people not as a personal attack or a reflection of her competency, but as evidence of the immensity of the story.

  Risking another glance at her agitated friend, Angelique knew Janis w
ouldn't see it like that.

  "Marshall, this is ridiculous," Janis threw her hands up. "Unless I'm completely mistaken, Jack the Ripper was never found, never identified. Wasn't he supposedly some Irish immigrant, a dockworker who just had a thing for hating women? He targeted prostitutes. This doesn't match up."

  Branson was shaking his head before Janis finished her sentence. "Prostitutes weren't the only women who were killed."

  "But they weren't necessarily linked with the Ripper, right?"

  "No, but the authorities back then lacked the technology we have today," Branson answered. "He could have been involved in every Whitechapel murder for all we know. Or he could've only killed one of those women and had a bunch a copycat shit going on."

  Why were they spending so much time on a figure from history when Memphis had a serial killer roaming its streets under a cloak of anonymity, seemingly unstoppable? Marshall had his theory now, begrudgingly thanks to Branson, so nothing more could come of standing around, talking about historical events. But everyone in the office seemed to want to draw out every morsel of the Ripper angle instead of getting to work on the actionable information they had.

  "None of that changes the fact that this could be just a coincidence," Marshall tapped his finger against his lips again. "Honestly, I don't give a rat's ass if Jack the Ripper was a real person or not. I'm going to have my officers check out what you're saying, and if you're right, you might have given us the kick this case needs. I've got to get back down to the station. The names of the last two victims; what were they?"

  Janis stared down at the table, shaking her head. "I can't believe this."

  "Can we do that somewhere else?" Branson grimaced.

  Angelique shook her head. She didn't buy into hating the good ol' boy's club as much as Janis did, but there were times when it was incredibly frustrating to be a woman. This was one of them, when men did the shit Branson was now doing, trying to keep information close–hold to maintain the power of positional influence. On one hand it almost didn't matter whether or not Marshall entertained him because it was the audacity of being so comfortable as to proposition another man in the presence of three women which irked Angelique.