by Ben Hopkin
“Then why do you believe that solving the original case will bring us the Soho Slasher?” the older man asked.
Kent looked like he was so glad that Locroft had asked. “Because they are related.”
The dark skinned Smith snorted. “Obviously, he is a copy cat down to the depth of the knife marks.”
“No,” Kent said. “They are related. Like in blood relations. Genetically related.”
* * *
Even Kyra looked a little surprised by the theory. To Kent it seemed so very obvious. The Slasher knew way, way too much about the Ripper. This wasn’t just some fan of the Ripper. He knew the Ripper. Or at least intimate details of the Ripper’s life and identity. Once they found the evidence and identified the original Ripper, Joshua could follow the family tree to find the Slasher.
“How… how…” Smith sputtered.
Ah, this was nearly better than making Ruben freak out. Kent could bring even Scotland Yard to its knees.
“Once you get the forensics back on the apron that I can only assume was abandoned on a tenement stoop on Goulston Street with victims’ number two and three?”
Smith again looked to Locroft who nodded.
“You are going to find two blood donors,” Kent continued. “One this new, modern Annie’s blood and an older sample from the original Annie’s.”
While everyone looked confused and shocked, Kent looked to his watch. “Three, Two, One.”
Locroft’s phone rang right on time. Okay, Kent wasn’t all that psychic. He’d called the Yard’s lab and pretended to be Locroft’s assistant and asked when the report would be ready, but how satisfying it was to watch everyone’s amazed looks as Locroft hung up the phone.
“There are two donors. The lab says one is very old and very degraded.”
“How did you know?” Locroft asked the profiler.
Kent shrugged. He hadn’t known, known. He had simply taken a very educated guess. “So again, we need to take this case down to its bare bones.”
He turned to Kyra. “Forget the Ripper angle. Tell me about this Slasher.”
* * *
Kyra’s eyes narrowed. She normally didn’t mind being in the hot seat. But in the hot seat with Kent? That was a little much, but if she one day wanted to be the European equivalent of Harbinger, she’d better step up to the plate.
“Completely ignoring the Ripper connection, we would assume that he was a local, probably born to a prostitute. He suffered mental, physical and probably sexual abuse from his mother.”
“What else would we be thinking?” Kent prompted.
Kyra frowned. She thought she’d been on a roll and now he wanted something else?
“This wasn’t his first kill,” Locroft chimed in.
Kent nodded. “Most killers don’t come out of the gate able to slice the jugular quite so well. Usually there would be hesitation marks.”
“However we know that he is a copycat, doesn’t that change the wind up?” Smith asked.
“Like I said, we need to put aside the copycat theory for just a moment if we want to really dig into this killer’s psyche.”
Kyra nodded. “You think this guy has had practice?”
“More than likely on animals, would be my guess. Even if we factor in the copycat behavior, and my assumption that he is related to the original Ripper, the guy didn’t suddenly grow balls enough to slice a woman’s throat open. He’s had blood on his hands before this.”
Kyra pulled out her tablet and shot her team an email to start researching animal abuse cases and reports of stolen or lost pets. She should have done that two days ago when she arrived. She too was blinded by the copycat nature of the case and the fact it was related to the Ripper. She’d forgotten her profiling basics.
That was part of the “secret” to Kent’s success. It wasn’t always his radical approach to things. Many times it was because he held to the basics so stringently that nothing ever slipped through his fingers.
“I will cross reference any failed attempt at attacking prostitutes with those animal cruelty cases,” Kyra stated.
Kent glanced around the room apparently checking to see if anyone had the nerve to question him, then he brought his attention back to her. “Now let’s add back in the copycat information, but ignore the Ripper connection. What do we know about copycat killers? And someone other than Kyra, please.”
The room remained silent. Most people’s reluctance to be called out as wrong was pretty strong. No one wanted Kent to turn his particular Sauron-like stare at them. Kyra had learned long ago the best way you learn was to commit, even if you were wrong.
The rest of the room squirmed in apprehension, which was more than a little silly. These Scotland Yard detectives might not be as well versed in serialists as Kent and Kyra, but they should know this. Most probably did but wouldn’t risk being wrong.
Finally it was Locroft who spoke. “Copycat killers are usually attention seekers.”
“Yes,” Kent said, “But there is something even more basic to their nature that we need to explore. Kyra?”
Even she wasn’t sure she was correct, but she also didn’t have the fear of rejection that most of the people in this room had. “The kills leave them unfulfilled.”
Kent hit his nose with this finger. “Exactly. They are killing by someone else’s MO, which was created by a very specific set of childhood circumstances that engendered the urge to kill in the way that they did. That specific type of killing can never satisfy the copycat.”
“So they replace the gratification of an urge-based kill,” Kyra explained, “With the ego boost of their celebrity.”
“I was right then,” Locroft stated.
“If you need to think so to go to sleep at night, sure,” Kent stated. “Now, the more specific the copycat, the less he enjoys it. It satisfies none of his urges…”
Locroft’s eyes narrowed. “That would mean that conversely he would need more publicity to fulfill his needs.”
“Exactly, Kent said. “So I put two plus thirteen together to get fifteen. The murders were too good. Too close, so more than likely the killer had inside information about the Ripper and since he was getting so little satisfaction from the kills, he had to up his presence. Let everyone know he wasn’t just a copycat, but an integral part of the Ripper legend. He wants to be acknowledged in his own right.”
“So your reputation wasn’t manufactured out of thin air,” Locroft stated with a slight frown. “However the word on the street is you love your theories, but practicality not so much?”
Kyra prepared for what was about to come out of Kent’s mouth, trying to calculate his response. From her knowledge of him, he didn’t take ribbing so well. It was not a bonding experience for him.
Kent chuckled though, slowly shaking his head. “Yes, because that is how I managed to rack up the most captures of serial killers. In. The. World.”
Kyra’s watchful calculations and planning continued. Her current boss wasn’t all that fond of being schooled, either. However the older man just shrugged.
“Then show me how this helps us catch the Soho Slasher,” Locroft challenged.
“Did you not hear the part about our suspect being related to Jack? You don’t need that much hand-holding, do you?” Kent asked, rolling his eyes at Kyra. He murmured to her in an exaggerated stage whisper, “Really, it’s no wonder they lost the war.”
Kyra glanced over to see Locroft’s face reddening. Such a bizarre emotional response. Embarrassment did nothing for anyone. It only put the affected person in a place where success was farther away, more difficult to grasp.
She did feel a vague stirring of something, however. Kent’s presence was necessary for her success. He wasn’t making things easier for her.
But then, that really wasn’t his MO, now was it?
Locroft cleared his throat and shifted his stance. “Let’s assume for a moment that we do need hand-holding. Would you please answer my question? Especially considering the prom
ise you made to cooperate if we started with Jack the Ripper?”
Kent smirked, not a good sign. From Kyra’s experience, that meant he was about to humiliate someone. As restrained as Locroft had been up to this point, Kyra could see that he was reaching his boiling point.
The profiler yawned and stretched out, looking for all the world like a cat that had just consumed a bowl of cream and was getting ready for a nap. He peered up at Locroft.
“Fine, but only because I’m feeling magnanimous.” He went from stretched out to standing in one fluid movement and slinked up to the boards. He pointed from one to the other.
“I can’t believe you Poms can’t get this. The link between the past and the present is…” Kent paused oh-so-dramatically, “the Mormons.”
Locroft’s eyes goggled. “Mormons? You mean the teetotalers that wear strange underwear?”
“And the ones that believe that God came down in a forest to talk to a 14-year-old boy who then translated a gold record of the American Indians. Yes. Mormons…duh.” Kent slapped his hands on his thighs, seemingly done with the conversation.
Kent seemed determined to get expelled at any moment, so Kyra wanted to make sure she used this opportunity to the fullest. Rather than respond to Kent’s needling of Locroft, which seemed nothing more than a lose-lose to her, Kyra took the opportunity to glance around the room. She wanted to get a feel for the dynamics at play in this room.
Most seemed to be experiencing feelings similar to that of their leader. Varying degrees of shame manifesting as mild embarrassment. Multiple levels of frustration bordering on anger toward Kent. But one person’s expression caught her eye.
The man was doing his best not to laugh. Interesting. Kyra looked closer. She’d met him, hadn’t she?
“That is not an answer, Mr. Harbinger,” Locroft said, his voice creaking a bit with his growing irritation. “And I believe you know that very well.”
Kent tilted his head as you might to a slightly mentally challenged person who was asking how one might brush his teeth. Kent rose and with a wave of his hand stated, “Try looking up Ancestry.com.
And then the extremely rude and arrogant masked ranger left the room.
While everyone else seemed confused, Kyra got it. Genealogy. Find Jack the Ripper, then look through his descendants and find the present-day killer. Simple. Elegant.
But Kyra knew Kent well enough to understand that there was something he wasn’t telling Locroft. She also knew enough not to ask him.
Taking one last glance at the man still trying to contain his mirth, Kyra tried to remember the man’s name. It was something terribly British. Artie? No, Alfie. Alfie Birtwistle.
That was someone with whom she wanted to have a conversation. She filed it away, knowing the information would be there for her when she needed it. Her steel trap of a mind would make sure of it.
For now, she and Kent had the cold case of all cold cases to solve.
CHAPTER 3
Nicole bumped into the man walking in front of her. As he turned and took her in, a flicking glance that registered the London Calling tee-shirt, her sneakers and the guide book, his face soured.
The man didn’t say, “Stupid American.” There was no need.
London moved to a different rhythm than what Nicole was used to. It was strange to her that after seeing so many horrific things in her life, she could be withered by a stern look with a stiff upper lip.
The Brits had this superiority thing down. The effect was completely different than Kent’s, of course, but it could almost give the profiler a run for his money.
Almost.
Kent. A smile twitched at the corners of her lips. It might never happen again, but she had played him good and proper this time. She had wanted to go to London for her honeymoon, and she had not wanted it spoiled by Kent and his antics.
Mission accomplished.
Although there had been a couple of times already this morning that she could have used his help dealing with some of the denizens of this old, hallowed and grime-encrusted city. Kent always knew how to deal with condescension masked by civility. Rip away the mask and expose the weakness underneath.
But the city was… amazing. It pulsed with energy. And for every snooty look she got from some well-dressed businessman, she got five pleasant grins from those that were rougher around the edges. Plus an “’Allo. There’s a right proper bird” from a pair of older men, accompanied by a wink.
What was that quote? It was from Henry James. It is difficult to speak adequately, or justly, of London. It is not a pleasant place: it is not agreeable, or easy, or exempt from reproach. It is only magnificent.
Yep. That was about the size of it.
Walking down Pall Mall, Nicole had stopped for a bit in St. James’s Square, a park tucked away just off to the north of the street. It had been nice and peaceful.
She’d hated it.
Three minutes in all the greenery and she’d wanted to get back to the cramped glory of the urban landscape. That was what she was here for. Nice to know that there were places like that if the city got to be too much for her, but now she was back on the street, passing by some statues as she crossed Waterloo Place.
Trafalgar Square was right in front of her, the destination she’d been headed toward for the past half-hour. It was one of several must-see stops that she’d marked out for herself on this trip.
Soon, too soon, ranging around, walking where the wind took her would be over. In just a matter of months her body would be taken over by the baby and she’d have to get her excitement on the Discovery Channel.
Her hand went to her belly. So far nothing seemed to have changed but a little blue positive sign on a pregnancy test. She’d been lucky, no real morning sickness and her energy level felt normal.
It was going to take her belly sticking out over her belt to make it real, she supposed. Still, she was watching what she was eating and drinking. She’d given up coffee, which to be honest nearly undid her, but she’d somehow gotten through it without killing Kent.
Kent. This was their second chance? Or was it their third? Nicole had lost count of their on again-off again relationship. Now with this ring it was cemented in stone. Vows had been exchanged, and for all Kent’s failings, he wasn’t an oath-breaker.
A law-breaker, sure, but not oaths. He’d die before breaking one.
Nicole swallowed, feeling a bit remiss about kicking Kent off from their honeymoon. Not a very newlywed thing to do. But really, Kent deserved it, plus he was getting to tackle Jack the Ripper. The profiler was in seventh heaven.
As she moved toward the Square, she felt the familiar tickle of a presence behind her. It was the radius Kent always talked about. That area of awareness that women had that allowed them to sense the presence of a predator.
And it was jangling.
Glancing back, Nicole spotted a young man in skinny jeans and a vintage tee-shirt with an American flag plastered over the front. Irony, she supposed. A real hipster. Or whatever they were called over here.
But as she made eye contact, the youth averted his eyes, flicking them down and to the left. Guilt.
He was following her.
Nicole allowed her gaze to roll right past him, acting as if she’d seen nothing out of the ordinary. Peering around, she stopped suddenly, to see if the man would pass by her. No such luck.
Starting back into motion, she picked up the pace a bit… not anything too noticeable… looking for a shop in which to disappear for a moment. There, on the other side of the street, was a Caffé Neco, a nice little Italian coffee shop. Nicole ducked inside, deciding that a nice cup of something hot might be a good choice right about now.
The inside was cramped and smelled of burnt coffee beans. It was a coffee shop like any other that you might encounter anywhere else in the world. She stepped into the queue, keeping her body angled toward the entrance just enough that she could see who came through.
It was less than a minute before the you
ng man entered, queuing up two customers behind Nicole. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t very good at stalking, Nicole decided. Completely amateurish.
But that brought up a whole different laundry list of questions. Was he good enough that he just didn’t care? Was it possible that one of Kent’s and her cases had followed them out here to London? And if so, was this man looking to get to Kent through her?
The thought came to her that she should really call her husband. So strange to refer to Kent that way.
But then the reality of Kent getting involved asserted itself. Which was worse? A barely-out-of-his-teen-years stalker, or Kent making a mess of her walking tour of London? Glancing back at the young man following her, the choice was clear.
She was so absorbed in her internal conversation that when she got to the front of the line, she had no idea what to order. The bleach-blonde Asian barista with the nose ring standing behind the counter leaned in.
“Oy there, love,” she said in a strong Cockney accent. “Whatcher orderin’?”
Nicole stood dumbfounded, both from the woman’s almost unintelligible accent and the fact that she didn’t know what she wanted. Looking up at the blackboard-mimicking menu above the counter that now appeared to be several kilometers wide, she stammered out a response, doing what she could to keep from glancing in the direction of her pursuer. It wasn’t easy.
“I… I’ll have some tea. Green with a dash of ginger.” Something tasty that wouldn’t hurt the baby. Baby. That still sounded weird too. A ridiculously awesome weird.
The barista seemed to register both Nicole’s American accent and her order at the same time. The look that crossed her face wasn’t as unpleasant as the businessman she had nearly run over earlier, but it had echoes of the same sentiments. Italian coffee shop. Right. Nicole quickly changed her request.
“I mean…. Could I have a double shot of espresso? To go.” She could just dump it once she was outside. Right now Nicole didn’t want any more attention drawn to her than necessary.
The girl behind the counter broke out in a grin. “’at’s more like it.” In addition to the nose ring, there was a tongue stud in her mouth that clacked against her teeth as she spoke. She called out the order to one of the other workers and pointed at the area where Nicole could stand to wait for her drink.
