by Paul Sating
"But why? None of this makes sense. Why would she do that?"
Marshall shrugged before answering. "Janis was sick, Angelique. You know that. Sick and apparently manipulated by her mother. Her father was killed years ago, stabbed in a prison yard fight. She was a teenager when he died and right about that time, she started acting out. Had quite a few juvie incidents right around the time her father went to jail and it seemed to get worse after he was killed. I figure, she was a kid in pain, reacting to a world she didn't understand."
"And she only had Pam there for her and the two of them never saw eye to eye," Angelique said. "That explains why Janis did half the reckless things she did with strange guys. But what—" her breath cut off her sentence as the medics finished bracing her legs and lifted her onto the stretcher. The eyes of Memphis fell on her as a line of people stood at the edge of the park, observing the proceedings. She imagined all the building's occupants around the park were now fully aware of what had happened here. When the connections were made and Memphis discovered that the grip of terror had loosened, would it rejoice? "But prison? Her father, she said—"
"Manslaughter," Marshall's lips pinched together. "Apparently Janis got bullied pretty badly in school. One day, the bullies took it too far and her father responded in kind, beat the father of one of the girls to death. Testified he did it to protect his little girl."
"That still doesn't explain why she and her mother were copying the Jack the Ripper legend."
The medics lifted the stretcher, sending a jolt through her that started at her broken ankles and moved up through her spine to the base of her skull.
"Sorry ma'am," a medic who was pretty handsome, for a male, said.
"One thing Branson found, the reason I wanted everyone to stay in Monica's office, was Jack the Ripper's real name," Marshall said. "Oliver Hehring. H-e-H-r-i-n-g."
Angelique moaned, "Damn, that's so close to Janis' last name."
"That's the kicker," Marshall said excitedly. "It is Janis' surname."
"What?" Angelique would have sat up on the stretcher if they hadn't secured her to it with three belts. The handsome-for-a-male medic placed a soft hand on her shoulder, in comfort or further restraint, Angelique couldn't tell.
Marshall nodded. "Yeah, through her father's side. She's a Hehring. Immigration in the nineteenth century allowed a lot of families to start over. That's probably what Janis' ancestors were doing. Hiding from their lineage maybe, even changing their names to break any association."
Angelique didn't want to recognize the dawning realization. "You're not telling me what I think you're telling me, are you? You're can't be."
Marshall nodded without humor or pleasure. "How about we let the pros check you out first and then we'll have that discussion?"
"I'm fine, Marshall." She reached out and grabbed his forearm. "Are you telling me Janis was related to the Jack the Ripper?"
Marshall glanced at the medics who were doing their best to pretend they weren't listening. "He was her great–grandfather, three times removed."
"Jack the Ripper! Jack–the–mother–fucking–Ripper was Janis's great–great–great–grandfather? No shit?"
Now Marshall offered a tight nod, obviously not comfortable talking about this in front of non-authorities. At least he had the good judgment to close the loop with her. "Crazy right? Seems Janis or her mother were fully bought into this belief of birthright. That it was, I don't know, destined, like they were supposed to recreate the killings."
"Sonofabitch!" The image popped into her mind with sudden clarity.
"Got something else?"
She felt like a fool not sharing the odd incident that had bothered for weeks. "Janis had a box, she kept it at her mother's house, and she got pissed when she found out Pam told me about it," Angelique admitted. "Janis was having some bad episodes, she wasn't managing her health, and Pam was supposedly worried. We were talking about everything going on in Janis' life and she shared this with me. It was full of sentimental stuff, nothing that caught my eye or seemed significant. I thought it was child's play, but according to Pam, and what I saw later from Janis, it was very important, very personal. Pam didn't give me too many details, so I thought she was just being guarded to save Janis from being humiliated when I didn't react to it. Sort of creepy to think about now after everything."
"What was in it?"
"Pictures of men," Angelique answered. "Old pictures. I'm not talking boyfriends or high school friends. I mean, it was a collection spanning decades, lifetimes. A few were incredibly old."
Marshall raised an eyebrow. "Nineteenth century–England–type of old?"
"Exactly." Angelique realized she might have seen pictures of Jack the Ripper. How many other people could say that?
Marshall whistled, pulling out a notepad and scribbling something down as they made their way closer to the parking lot. Angelique took the moment to close her eyes and focus on her breathing to ignore the sharp twinges and burning in her lower body. Her adrenaline was wearing off, and her ankles were demanding attention.
"Get me the best pain killers you've got as soon as we reach the ambulance," Angelique instructed the handsome medic.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Before we leave the parking lot."
"Of course, ma'am.
"Imagine, original pictures of Jack the Ripper?" Marshall said more as a statement than a question. "A lot of people would love to get their hands on those. Were pictures the only thing in the box?"
Angelique remembered the eerie note laid on top of the pictures. The paper stood out, not because it was the only item in the box that wasn't a picture, but the yellowed paper seemed to have been deliberately placed for prominence. "There was a note. I read it, but it didn't make much sense at the time. It only had one word written on it. Legacy. I thought it was some creepy family shit."
"Until now."
"Yeah, until now."
Marshall gestured to Angelique's ankles. "Once you get yourself seen by the docs, we'll need to get together and go over some things."
"I'll need a ride back to the paper."
"The paper?"
"Yeah," Angelique beamed, "I need to get to work. I've got a story to write."
THE END
From "Chasing the Demon"
Book 1 of the Subject: Found Series
(Available now!)
The stench of old wood and unwashed people didn't surprise Jared Strong.
Stale beer, peanuts, and people. A lot of the hole-in-the-wall type bars in this western corner of the Olympic Peninsula, his home, smelled like this. His current drinking hole of choice was no different, no better. He smothered a handful of nuts between his palm and fingers, squeezing until he heard the satisfying crack of the shells. Picking out the nuts, he tossed them into his mouth, discarding the shells on the floor. It wasn't something he would do at home, especially not when he and Maria were still together. But, in fairness, this place didn't look like anyone had loved it for at least a generation.
That observation made him wonder how much time had passed since Maria had loved him.
Maria.
Best not to think about her right now. There were other problems he needed to face first. Like the reason for the stack of papers sitting in front of him on the sticky bar top.
This was Olympia, the capital of the state. The gem, right? He laughed to himself, glancing down at the shell-covered floor underneath him. What a dump. He shook his head at how quickly his life had gone off track.
"Great place to start chasing a demon," he mumbled to the stack of papers. They didn't answer.
The drunk seated next to him sneered. "Whatch'da say?"
"Huh?" Jared asked, "Uh, nothing. Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you."
"You ain't no bother," the man said, then returned to his beer.
Jared laughed. "Let me know if that changes, will ya?" God knows I've already done that to enough people in my life.
The old man's eyes narrowed as if he
was examining Jared's soul. Awkward and uncomfortable, Jared put his attention on the papers, an idle finger tracing their edges.
The drunk squinted at him and laughed, coughing up things that came from deep within his lungs. "Whatcha lookin' at there?"
Nothing. The instinct to protect the knowledge on those pages was strong. It had to be. It was something all hunters of his kind developed early. If they didn't, they didn't stay in the game long. Jared had seen enough of them come and go in his twenty-plus years in the game. He knew what to do and how to do it. And when you hunted the things he did you learned to be careful. "These?" Jared tapped the pile of notes with his finger, looking at them instead of the drunk, "These are my life's work. Child's play to some, but to me … well, to me they're everything I have."
"Mind if I ask what they're about?"
He smiled absently. "I track wild game, I guess you could say, and these," his fingers wrapped around the stack, feeling the texture, an intimate connection, "these are some of the most important things I've spent my adult life on." There was a time when he cared enough to have the notes bound and protected. But they had come loose during all those lost days since his life was turned upside down, becoming nothing more than a frayed and fragile system of knowledge.
"Wild game, you say?" the man leaned toward him like there was an unspoken secret they shared. "Olympics or Cascades?"
Everywhere. "Olympics mostly. I love the peninsula. Spend a lot of time out there."
The drunk nodded as though satisfied. "There's worse places to be if you ask me. Used to do some hunting myself. Stopped when I couldn't get around so easily. Now? Spend most of my days in this dump, drinking away the last of my brain." The bartender scowled from his spot a few feet away, where he busied himself cleaning a few dirty glasses. The old man tipped his glass in the bar keep's direction. "Oh, come now, Jack, you know I love your fine establishment. Just making conversation with … whatcha say yer name was?"
"I didn't, but it's Jared."
"I'd shake your hand but … well, you don't want to know where it's been today, ain't that right, Jack?" The drunk laugh-coughed again. It sounded like water gurgling out from a pipe. Jared wondered how long this man had to live. Would he finish the investigation before this poor soul saw out what was left of his life? Jared wasn't betting on it. "Anyways, nice to meet you, Jared. So, you on your way out to the Olympics for the weekend?"
Jared nodded. "Something like that. I go out for a few days at a time."
"Whatcha do that for?"
What did he do it for? There was nothing to come home to now, not anymore. What was there to stop him from just staying out for a week or two, or until his supplies ran out? It was something he'd never thought about — not until now, and now it seemed so simple. He laughed, "You know, I don't have a good answer. Habit, I guess? Used to come back every few days when I was married but I don't have that obligation now. Just have a dog at home."
The drunk leaned toward his beer as if he was trying to smell it. Jared guessed it was a ploy to distract, that maybe the man had demons of his own — maybe an unfortunate ex-wife story, maybe something worse that hit too close to the heart. "Some of those habits are hard to break, my friend," he finally said when he spoke again. "Don't mind me if I'm prying too much into your life, but I'm imagining she didn't want to be waiting for you any more than she already was? Prolly supported you the best she could until she couldn't any longer? Somethin' like that?"
Something like that. Now it was Jared's turn to look away.
"Well, listen to me, going on and getting in your business," he said. "My apologies. You look like a nice young man. Life's going to throw you enough stress, don't be letting me add to it. Got to ask. Ain't deer season. Never seen a duck hunter, hell, any hunter, collect notes like you got there. Whatcha after?"
Jared's dead eyes never left his notes even as he replied, "a monster."
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Also By Paul Sating
Also in the Subject: Found Series
Book 1: Chasing the Demon
Fiction
12 Deaths of Christmas
The Plant (Free ebook)
Nonfiction
Novel Idea to Podcast: How to Sell More Books Through Podcasting
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Acknowledgments
Writing novels is never a solo journey, no matter how "solo" we authors like to think it is. It always takes a number of supportive, caring, and giving people to make a novel happen, and "RIP" was no different. Even though this is now my fourth book, I'm learning all the time, but one thing I didn't have to learn this time around was that I needed supportive people to help me make this a reality.
First, foremost, and always, is my wife, Maddie. She's a brave soul, always reading through early versions and telling me what I need to hear. Basically, she saves all my readers a ton of pain and anguish. She's a saint like that. I couldn't do any of this without her.
My daughters, Nikki and Alex, two wonderful and intelligent young women who believe in me no matter how poor my writing is. With that type of support, how can someone go wrong?
Kevin Baker, a pillar of strength! You know where I'd be if it weren't for you. And if you aren't sure, you're not reading your text messages!
I needed help understanding how police departments worked and Stefania Ewing stepped forward to make sure my homicide detective was accurate, along with providing me a few tidbits of intell I would have never known about Public Information Officers. She spent a lot of time going through Marshall's involvement and doing course corrections with me. It was truly invaluable and greatly appreciated. And a big 'thank you' to Michael Fowler for putting us together!
A lifelong friend and rabid beta reader, Brent Moody and I go way back to a small town in Central New York. Life can be strange, bringing people back together in a capacity they never imagined working together in, and it's an absolute pleasure to be able to have Brent involved in the early versions of my stories. It feels like a circle completed, two kids in a dead-end town, coming together on a story to share around the world. Pretty cool for two old Warriors, isn't it?
And to all of the female beta readers who took on this story, from those of you across the newsletter group, the audio drama writers, and to the wonderful ladies of the Olympia Writer's Group. A story like this, centered around the very ugly and too-familiar reality of violence against women, needed to be done correctly, and I wouldn't have tried this without a massive amount of female perspective and feedback, without which, this story would have never seen the light of day.
Without my Advance Readers, this book would have been filled with Paulisms, those cute spelling and grammatical mistakes that would make you question my sanity. Without them, I would never feel ready to hit the PUBLISH button, and they constantly amaze me with how thorough they are. No one has to give so much of their free time to help others like these folks do, but yet, each and every book, they come to the fore to help out in an immense way. You should see the spreadsheets they send after their Advance read! Thank you to Ann Burgess, Pam Giltner, Bill Griggs, Melinda Murphy, Eric Thomas, Brian Devine, Natalie Aked, Kevin Rowlands, Alan Rayment, and Stephanie Mikkelsen for (yet another example of) your amazing kindness!
And, of course, all the inc
redible people who support me on Patreon! Without you, the Subject: Found audio drama wouldn't have gone into a second season for this story to exist. Words fail me when I think about how supportive and giving you are. Most of you have been around for years, which still astounds me, and do so much for me. You truly, truly are the most special people in the world. Thank you for everything you do for me! To: Kevin Baker, Jon Grilz, Erica Stensrud, Revlis, Nicole Rayne, Brent Moody, Ian Troman-Mason, Alaina, Shelley Perrin, Tristan Moses, Fishbonius Sound Design, Cheyenne Bramwell, Brian Marler, Genesis Murray, Adam Burke, Cynthia Waddill, Morgan Barber, The Lift Podcast, Dohai, Idiocracy, PB Sebastian, Amanda Ward, Kevin Rowlands, Jimmy Robbins, Desdymona, Girl in Space Podcast, Matthew Eckermann, Sandy Smith, Christopher Gronlund, Alexandra, Derek Choate, Sarah McLaurin, Astrid Jef, Brad Goupil, Michael Hudson, Joe Cook, Tim Niederriter, Anthony Dallape, Jude and Keith, Kraig Greenly, Kay Kenyon, Raymond Camper, Patrick Monroe, the Tunnels Podcast, Erin Karper, Tjane262, and Ryan Beyer, you give me life!
Thank you, all, for bringing RIP to the world!
About The Author
Paul Sating is an author and audio dramatist, and self-professed coolest dad on the planet, hailing from the Pacific Northwest of the United States. At the end of his military career, he decided to reconnect with his first love (that wouldn't get him in trouble with his wife) and once again picked up the pen. Four years on, he has published numerous novels and his podcasts have garnered nearly a million downloads.
When he's not working on stories, you can find him talking to himself in his backyard working on failed landscaping projects or hiking around the gorgeous Olympic Peninsula. He is married to the patient and wonderful, Madeline, and has two daughters—thus the reason for his follicle challenges.
