by Ben Hopkin
“Yes, yes it is…”
Kent locked his hands behind his back before he turned back to her. “How many hours?”
Kyra didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. They both knew. “Sixteen.”
The copycat had held to Jack the Ripper’s MO and timeline to the second.
He nodded. “That should be doable.”
And there it was. Kent had just declared that he was going to catch a killer that had eluded Scotland Yard for weeks in a matter of hours.
And guess what? Kyra believed him.
Other detectives trickled into the room. It was still early. The briefing wasn’t scheduled to start for another forty minutes.
“So are we moving out?” Kent asked.
“I thought you were here for the briefing?” a voice asked from behind them.
It was the Chief Superintendent Locroft. He was of an age befitting his rank. More salt than pepper now, Kyra imagined that Locroft was quite the looker when he was younger. Now though? After years of having the city’s more heinous crimes weighing down his shoulders? He had a perpetual frown and a decade’s long enjoyment of cigars had stained his mustache a sickly yellow.
Kent slowly turned toward the lead investigator. The profiler’s expression was unimpressed. Although he did accept Locroft’s extended hand and shook it. Something in that shake seemed to grab Kent’s attention, as he glanced down at Locroft’s hand.
“These briefings seldom reveal much,” Kent said as he withdrew his hand, a bemused expression on his face. “They usually only serve to antagonize.”
Locroft’s lips spread into a weak smile. “Well, why don’t we try to buck that trend?”
“Fine by me,” Kent stated.
Kyra groaned internally. She was hoping to get through the first hour of the co-investigation without incident.
So much for that hope.
CHAPTER 2
Kent leaned back against a desk. Travel halfway around the world and you pretty much got the same experience as you did back in the states. Although this twentieth floor penthouse was slightly better situated than most bullpens, having a grandiose view of London when it wasn’t shrouded in fog. However the interior was nearly identical to his home base.
Cheap desks. Stale pastries scattered around and the smell of day old coffee. Even in London, you couldn’t get the smell of stale dry-roasted out of the air.
The murder boards were nearly identical to those back home. All gruesome and clinical. Pictures of the dead in the less than glorious light.
Okay, maybe he could see why Nicole had decided to go shopping rather than join him. This was starting to feel a little run of the mill. However, this was Jack the Ripper. Not even Kent could ignore the case’s legacy. It was like the holy grail of law enforcement. If he could solve Jack the Ripper. Oh, he could hardly wait to see Ruben’s face.
His thoughts lingered on Nicole though. Maybe he should be out with his recently knocked-up new wife. Anyone else in his right mind would be. Except their relationship depended on “alone time” more than most. Kent knew that he was taken best in small doses.
And the pregnancy had been kept between the two of them. No one else knew. Supposedly you didn’t tell anyone until after the first trimester. That was when most “things” happened that could end the pregnancy.
Kent had resisted the urge to Google those “things.” He didn’t want to know. He had to have faith that Nicole had as strong a uterus as she did a backbone.
He couldn’t help but muse about what Ruben’s face would look like once he knew. Why? Because Ruben had bet it all on the presumption that Nicole would one day wise up and leave the rogue, damaged, lone-wolf profiler ,and finally pick the family-ready detective.
Oh, it was going to burn Ruben’s chaps that Kent and Nicole were expecting. If Ruben didn’t get that it was over after that, the guy was a lot more delusional than Kent gave him credit for.
Super Duper Detective, or whatever his rank was, Locroft, strode over to the new murder board.
“Wrong,” Kent stated focusing on the task at hand. Ah, how he liked when heads snapped in his direction. Clearly he had international appeal.
“How so?” Locroft said in a fairly even-keeled tone. He sounded a lot like Glick back home. Perhaps Locroft had experienced a couple of heart attacks too, to teach him restraint.
Kent pointed to the older case, the original Jack the Ripper case. “We solve that one,” he stated. “And the new one will be a piece of cake.”
Locroft raised his bushy white encrusted eyebrow. “You mean that we simply solve the old Jack the Ripper case in the next few days and… voila… we will catch our current killer?”
Kent shook his head as he glanced to his watch. “Nope. I’ve got to be back at the hotel room by 11pm, so we’ve got just over fourteen hours to wrap this up.”
The High Commander of Alderon ,or whatever his title was, snorted, waving Kent’s words away like they belonged to a kindergartener.
“Let us begin the actual briefing.”
Kent glanced over to Kyra, who looked a bit twitchy for someone who was worried she might be a sociopath. Kent pushed off the desk and headed to the abandoned murder board. Before Locroft could begin anew, Kent stalked in front of the board.
“The original Jack the Ripper is the key,” Kent insisted. “Humor me and go over the old case first and I swear I won’t pipe up at all during the copycat briefing.”
Locroft narrowed his eyes, clearly weighing Kent’s offer. It was a good one. Clearly Kent’s reputation had preceded him. The guy might have even talked to Glick before Kent landed.
“You probably are as familiar with the Ripper case as we are,” Locroft said before shrugging, “However if you want to rehash history, be my guest.”
* * *
Kyra’s mind was busy processing the odds that Kent was going to get them kicked out of the Scotland Yard. Normally she would not have given it a second thought, however, she needed the paycheck. Was this what other people felt as worry? She didn’t like it one bit.
She, and by she, she meant her entire company, needed to be a part of this case. She wasn’t arrogant enough, now that Kent was here, to think she was going to be the one to break the case. But to be able to say she was on the case when it was broken?
She and her team could write their own ticket. No more raised eyebrows at their upstart company. No more slammed doors in her face. No more being laughed at by her ex-Interpol colleagues.
Locroft nodded to a junior detective. The man’s dark skin contrasted nicely with his starched white shirt. She believed his name was Mumambo Smith. He strode out in front of the board, clearly not prepared for what was coming his way.
“As we are all aware, the current theory of Jack the Ripper is that he was a high society man --”
A loud raspberry sound came from Kent’s side of the room. “Dear God, are we really rehashing Hollywood’s view of the killings? How about if we focus on the actual facts?”
Smith straightened his expertly knotted tie. “There were multiple sightings of a man in a top hat near the murders.”
Kent tilted his head back. “Okay, let’s all take a deep breath and deconstruct this whole propaganda. Do any of you really believe that in the slums of Whitechapel, a guy in a huge top hat and tails could get around unseen?”
“But the reports…” Smith protested.
“Were made up,” Kent emphasized “Anonymous sources generated from the worst rag paper of all time, the Star. The entire Jack the Ripper legend was created to help sell that paper. Plus, can you imagine a guy dressed in a top hat and cape in the worst part of nineteenth century London? The guy would have been mugged and gutted himself in ten minutes… Come on, imagine a guy in a tutu walking around South Central LA, unscathed. Not going to happen.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t… er…. ‘pipe up’ during the briefing,” Locroft inserted.
“No, I said I wouldn’t pipe up during the Soho Slasher briefing,” Kent c
orrected. “We haven’t gotten to that yet.”
While it was such a romantic notion to think of a cape billowing in the fog as Jack the Ripper stalked the streets of London, Kent was right. She tried to imagine Hulk Hogan dressed as a fairy princess in Compton. Even the Hulk would be a goner before they even found their first victim.
There was a hand up in the back of the room. Another Inspector, a nervous look on his face, cleared his throat before beginning. Brave soul.
“I heard there was a theory about it being a German sailor.”
Kent let out a groan. “Are you not listening to me at all? The guy was German.”
The man in the back responded. Kyra couldn’t decide if she was impressed or just amused. He had more balls than most. But he didn’t seem to learn from painful experience.
“But he was in harbor for all of the deaths. And then--”
“A foreigner couldn’t have vanished into the night like the Ripper did. Jack lived in Whitechapel. He was a local. Period.”
Smith looked to Locroft then back to Kent. Then Smith finally continued. “The killer showed expert knife skills which made the police at the time --”
“I can’t take it anymore,” Kent blurted, standing up and stalking in front of the board. “Kyra, would you kindly correct these men’s erroneous assumptions?”
Kyra cleared her throat. This was not at all how she expected the briefing to go, but then again with Kent around, she should have expected it to go sideways, fast.
“Actually the coroner at the time wrote in his notes that there was absolutely no expertise in the wounds or subsequent gutting. He felt the murders were committed by someone without any surgical or even butchering skills.”
Again Smith looked to his boss, who didn’t exactly back him up. The most Locroft gave Smith was a non-committal shrug. Smith stammered to restart.
“There’s… there’s been a lot of speculation regarding how many victims exactly were the Ripper’s.”
Kent made a raspberry noise with his lips. “There weren’t that many murders, because he would have been caught.”
“But--” Mumambo began.
“Look,” the profiler said. “You’re thinking of him as some kind of mastermind. He was a brute. A brute that would have been snatched up in two seconds if he were operating today.”
“There’s no indication--”
Kent held up a hand to halt Smith in his tracks, sighed, and hung his head. “We are going about this all wrong.”
Locroft stepped forward. “And how exactly would you go about it?”
Kent turned to the board and started pulling down nearly every photo on it. He left only three crime scene photos. “Go back to the beginning.”
Kyra wished she had the balls to do something like that. But then again, she wasn’t the most vaunted profiler in the history of the discipline. Kent got latitude because he had earned it. How she wished she could have taken his class back in Quantico. However, he was fired on his first day for a misconceived “exercise” that got the FBI sued by three recruits and got the ACLU involved.
“We need to throw out everything we’ve read or seen about the Ripper,” Kent demanded. “I mean everything. We start this case anew with fresh eyes. Running the case as if we just got it.”
One of the DIs from the back piped up. “But what about the witnesses and forensic evidence? We won’t be able to have first hand accounts.”
* * *
He really should pay that guy, Kent thought. He had set up a nice softball for Kent to knock out of the park.
“Exactly, we need all the evidence from the original Jack the Ripper case,” Kent stated.
“Yankees,” one of the other non-high supreme commanders of Scotland Yard sneered.
Kent ignored him. He was kind of proud he came from the colonies, so no skin off his nose.
Locroft turned to Kent. “I am sure you have some kind of conspiracy theory as you Yanks always do,” the man said. “However, all of the evidence from the original case has been lost.”
Chuckling, Kent pointed to Jack’s murder board. “Seriously. The highest profile case in the history of high profile cases and you Limeys lost all the evidence? That’s the story you’re going with?”
The Grand Pooh-Bah, or whatever he was, stiffened. “It isn’t a story. We are not proud of the fact, however, the evidence is gone.”
Why did everyone feel the need to buck him? Life would be so much easier if everyone just got on board the Kent train and rode along.
“This may be above your pay grade; however, your government does have the evidence.”
Locroft crossed his arms over his chest. Finally, Kent was starting to get to the big kahuna. Good. Kent was starting to worry that he was losing his ability to rattle the powers that be.
“Then why, when the government was sued for the evidence to be declassified, they responded with ‘no?’” Kent asked, driving home his point. “Not, we don’t have it, but that it couldn’t be declassified?”
An odd expression crossed Locroft’s face. Was he lying about knowing or did he truly not know that his own government was holding out on him?
Locroft’s jaw muscles worked up and down.
“So, how about we find out where that evidence is being held?” Kent suggested in what he thought was a very kind manner.
Apparently Locroft didn’t agree. “I believe we have given you every courtesy, Special Agent Harbinger, however, I will not cross the line by accusing my government of obstructing a police investigation.”
“Well, then we wouldn’t get very far would we?” Kent stated and pulled out a phone from his pocket and dialed.
A very groggy Asian voice answered. “Paggie? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“It’s Kent.”
“Of course it is,” Jimmi answered. You could hear him roll over in his bed, the sheets making a rustling noise. “Do you know what time it is stateside?”
“Please, do I ever care when I actually am stateside?”
“Touché,” Jimmi responded.
“All right, I need to find out where the British government is hiding the old Jack the Ripper evidence.”
“Oh, just that,” Jimmi chuckled, then stopped. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”
“What do you think?” Kent responded. This really was getting tedious. Jimmi liked to believe that his time was his own. Such a fatal mistake.
“Kent, I wouldn’t even know when to start.”
“No worries,” Kent said. “I’ll try Joshua.”
He then clicked off the phone to a stuttering Jimmi.
“I can get my people on it,” Kyra offered.
Kent waved her off. This was just the opening gambit in a long game of chess. Setting the two J’s against one another was a sure fire way to get something done and done quickly.
He dialed the phone again and got the same response…. “Paggie?”
Before leaving the country, Kent had snagged Ruben’s fiancée’s phone. No need to put all of those international calls on his phone. That would have just been silly.
“No, Joshua, it’s Kent.”
Unlike Jimmi who had groaned, Joshua inhaled sharply. Kent could hear him sit up straighter in bed, bringing the phone close to his ear. “Yes, what do you need?”
Ah, if only he could clone Joshua. Jimmi was by far better versed in an IT hunt like this, but for now, Kent would take enthusiasm over talent.
“How would you like to help solve Jack the Ripper?”
“You mean the new Soho Slasher?” Joshua asked.
“No. I mean, Jack. The Jack.”
Another inhale. Kent could swear he could see the smile on Joshua’s face start to form. “Um, hell ya.”
“Okay, your first task is to find where the British government is hiding the original evidence.”
“Um…”
Kent had to give the kid credit. He didn’t dismiss the errand as impossible right off the bat.
“Well, I know the original
police station doesn’t exist any more. They must have transferred the information at some point. Plus Scotland Yard itself has moved a couple of times since then. I will try to figure out where they stored their paperwork during transition times.”
“You do that,” Kent stated as he clicked the phone off. He then turned to Locroft. “We should have at least a few possibilities within a few hours.”
The older man scowled. Despite being an ocean apart, Locroft and Glick’s expressions were nearly identical. An odd mixture of hope, relief and resentment. Kent was the proud recipient of the conflicted compliment.
He turned to Kyra. “All right, let’s run the new case then.”
* * *
Kent had been in the country for less than three hours, and in the Scotland Yard conference room for less than thirty minutes. And he was already running the show. Locroft didn’t even put up a fuss as Kent switched gears. The man had far more patience than Kyra.
She took her cue though and joined Kent at the Soho Slasher murder board.
“The first victim, just as with the Ripper, was a Mary Ann, a known prostitute and was found on Durward Street, which of course used to be called Buck’s Row.”
“The site of the first Ripper murder?” Kent asked, but Kyra knew that the profiler already knew the answer to his question. She looked to Locroft. Kent had promised silence during the Soho Slasher briefing, but apparently if the American profiler played nice, Locroft was going to let it go.
“Yes. She had two deep cuts that severed her jugular veins along with her belly slashed open.”
“Again, a nearly exact duplicate of the original Ripper MO.”
Kyra nodded. “The next two murders were exactly the same. Down to the victim’s name, the street, the wounds and the time of death.”
Kent added, “So I am assuming after murder number two, you guys figured out what was going on?”
Locroft nodded. “We staked out Henriques Street and Mitre Square. Somehow the bodies were found within our dragnet.”
“I’m not surprised. Unlike the original Ripper, who honestly was just a thug with a grudge against prostitutes, our new killer is highly intelligent and motivated by a completely different set of motives.”
