by Ben Hopkin
He moved out from behind her. Kyra’s eyes followed the profiler as he went up to the glass and rested a hand against it. He stared into the other room, his eyes searching.
And then, without warning, Kent bolted out the door.
* * *
Kent should be pissed. Kyra had clearly gone behind his back, asking her team to do more research. But as he’d read the message on her phone, one word had stood out, as if it were bolded.
Syndactyly.
It was a condition in which the fingers and toes were either webbed or occasionally fused together. Most cases could now be fixed through surgery at an early age, but even this operation would leave scarring on the hands and feet.
There had been more details, all of them relevant, but that word had triggered a chain reaction in Kent’s mind. One that continued to slot puzzle pieces together as he moved toward the other room.
Bursting into the interrogation room, Kent marched over to Lord Rhys. Locroft seemed so surprised at Kent’s sudden appearance that for a moment he did nothing. The British police officer sat with his eyes wide while Kent extended his hand to the Baron.
“Rhys, buddy! Good to see you,” Kent gushed. “Sorry about the whole bringing you in for an interrogation thingy. That was all me.”
Social cues were a powerful motivator for most. For British royalty they were irresistible. Kent was sure that the last thing in the world Lord Rhys wanted to do was to shake the extended hand. And yet, with very little hesitation, he raised his hand up to meet Kent’s.
As usual, Lord Fancypants was wearing gloves. But instead of grasping the man’s hand, Kent grabbed a hold of the fingers of the glove and yanked. Hard.
In one swift motion, the glove was off and Lord Rhys’ hand was laid bare. The look of shock on the Baron’s face was priceless, and it only got better when Kent then grabbed the newly naked hand and pulled it toward his face for an inspection.
“Harbinger!” Locroft yelled, his yellowed mustache quivering. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Sorry, your Holiness,” Kent said to Rhys. “You’re free to go.”
“What?” the Baron sputtered. “Locroft, what the bloody hell is going on here?”
“That,” answered the Superintendent, “is a very, very good question.” He turned a hard stare on Kent. It was almost effective, as well. Ruben would probably cower under that look.
But Kent knew something Locroft didn’t.
“His Grace the Baron of Harkonnen or whatever,” Kent said, gesturing to the lordling, “couldn’t be the copycat.”
“That’s what I’m in here for?” the Baron bellowed. “I thought it was because of my… erm… companion for the evening.”
“And really, your Worshipfulness?” Kent said, turning back to Lord Rhys. “You couldn’t find a better night to pick up a hooker? And one named Mary Jane, for the love of all that’s holy?”
“Wha… You… But I…” Rhys stammered.
“I know all about the Ripper fetish. But you have to admit, that was sheer stupidity on your part.”
“Wait,” Locroft demanded. “I will need some additional explanation as to your statement on the Baron’s lack of guilt.”
“Right.” Kent lifted his chin and scratched it. “Um, yeah. It’s not him.”
“And you gleaned this information, how?”
“I’ve got people,” he answered, not really wanting to give Locroft the satisfaction. But there were other things that needed his attention right now, and some of it would involve using Scotland Yard’s resources. Nicole’s voice rang in his head, urging him to play ball.
What the hell. Why not? He might not like Locroft, maybe didn’t even trust him fully, but he could still try to get along.
“There is a rare condition called dominant hereditary syndactyly,” Kent continued. “Webbed fingers. Jack had it. His father had it. His father’s father had it. His Highness here doesn’t.”
“But… how?”
“We found the Ripper stash,” Kent said. “There were some employment records, with extensive medical workups, at least for the 19th century. They were remarkably thorough.” Not thorough enough to not employ serial killers, but hey. No one was perfect, right?
“That… I…” Locroft stuttered. There was a flash of some unidentifiable emotions that flashed over the Superintendent’s face. Turning to Lord Rhys with a crestfallen face, he gathered himself up. “My lord. I am so sorry.”
“Not at all, Locroft. Not at all.” The Baron turned to Kent. “Jack the Ripper, you say?”
Kent just stared at the man. Discovering that Rhys was not the killer had confirmed his own gut instinct. The Baron was innocent. Well, not the serial killer, anyway. But now Kent was left with another problem.
If not Rhys, who?
* * *
Nicole stared into the box sitting in her lap. At first she hadn’t been sure of what she was looking at. But with a bit more examination, she was pretty sure that the lump there in the box was some kind of dehydrated human organ. From its bean-like shape, she would guess a kidney.
Well, half a kidney.
“How… what… where did you get this?” she managed.
Nicole glanced up at Cordelia, who had most of her attention on the road, but still had an amused smile playing about her weathered lips. There were laugh lines there, Nicole could see, but there were other lines there as well. Ones that were not so easily identifiable.
As she stared, the lines blurred a bit, perhaps from the shifting light streaming into and out of the car as they passed underneath the sporadic street lamps. The fog diffused the light, making the illumination ethereal, unreal.
After a moment, during which Cordelia passed by another, slower moving car, the woman answered. “That is a long and interesting story. But we have a bit of time before we get to the park.”
As Lady Blackwater continued speaking, Nicole glanced back into the box. In addition to the kidney, there were copies of letters. She thought she recognized the handwriting. Something she had seen somewhere. Online? Maybe.
The lettering looked so familiar. The words were so badly misspelled that they were almost nonsense. Nicole was having a hard time focusing, the words blurring on the page.
To my bilovd childrin…
What the hell was this box?
Cordelia’s voice came back into focus. Nicole hadn’t realized that she hadn’t been paying attention. That wasn’t like her.
“…and that’s when my father came to me with the box,” she was saying. “Bit of a family heritage, I’m told.”
As Cordelia steered the vehicle, Nicole saw the shadows and the illumination play across the backs of the woman’s aging hands and fingers. The interplay of dark and light created the illusion of scarring there, stretching along her delicate fingers and snaking up into the backs of her hands.
Nicole shook her head, trying to focus her eyes. And her attention. What was going on? Had the fish and chips been bad? Was she suffering from food poisoning?
The feeling was oddly familiar to her, but she couldn’t seem to focus enough to sort out where she’d experienced it before. She placed a hand against her head, barely feeling the contact at all through her fuzziness.
“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” Cordelia murmured, reaching out and stroking Nicole’s cheek. “You’re not getting ill.”
How did she know what Nicole was feeling? Was it that obvious? Nicole struggled to latch onto the woman’s eyes, but ended up somewhere around her eyebrows. Thin, elegant arches that bespoke intelligence and refinement.
“What… What’s going on?” Nicole said, her words slurring in a frightening way. She was not doing well at all.
“It’s Rohypnol, dear. Roofies, I believe most of your generation would call them. Colorless. Tasteless. Odorless. Perfect for drugging someone.”
Understanding blossomed in Nicole’s mind, a slowly opening morning glory. She knew that word, knew what was happening, but somehow… It was like everything was
lined in the fluffiest wool, keeping her from being able to feel their outlines. Soft. Warm.
Why was she so tired? Oh, right. The roofies.
“Don’t fight it, dear.” Cordelia murmured. “That will just make your last conscious moments less pleasant. And I would hate that. Truly.”
In a flash of clarity, Nicole realized where she had seen that handwriting before. It was when she had been reading up on Jack the Ripper. The same harsh angles, the same terrible spelling errors.
This box was a treasure trove of Jack the Ripper evidence. But where had it all come from? Why was it here?
The information filtered in to Nicole’s sluggish brain, a wash of ice-cold realization that cut through the haze of the drugs, at least for a moment. She began to struggle against her seatbelt while grabbing at the handle on the door. She pulled and grasped, trying to open the door. A part of her brain screamed at her that it wasn’t safe, but there was another thing here in the car that was a danger as well, wasn’t there?
What was it?
Cordelia’s mouth swam into view, the lips distorted, the sound coming out warped by the drugs in her system. What was she saying?
“It’s not about you, dear,” the woman said. “It’s about your husband. You see, I can’t have him running about in London, ready to spring out on me at any moment. I really can’t.”
So Cordelia thought that kidnapping Nicole would hamstring him? Clearly she’d never met Kent. Her husband was going to kick the bitch’s ass. Of that Nicole had complete and utter confidence.
Just before Nicole passed out she actually felt a little sorry for this elegant old woman with a kidney in an old wooden box.
CHAPTER 16
Kyra watched through the window, still on an adrenaline high from the chain of events. When Kent moved, he moved with lightning speed, and heaven help the poor mortals around him who tried to keep up.
There was a huge part of Kyra that envied the profiler. There was another part that just wanted to be close by, to be illuminated… perhaps struck… by the flashes of his brilliance.
She was ten times the profiler she had been before following Kent for a day. In truth she was a new woman after today.
After watching the profiler work, Kyra’s synapses were firing so quickly it felt like a fireworks display inside her head. Rhys was not the killer. Which meant the killer was still out there. They needed to discover who it was.
Now.
She flashed on the policeman Kent had spoken to back at the car park, asking him to get the guard to pull security footage and to secure a name. It was a long shot, but it was what they had right now.
Rushing out of the room, Kyra caught sight of Mumambo Smith hovering about in the hallway. She flagged him down.
“There was a policeman who was supposed to bring in some video surveillance footage and a name,” she blurted out to the man. To his credit, he seemed to take in the information and process it instantly. It was hard to remember that just because someone looked foolish next to Kent, that didn’t mean they were incompetent.
“There’s someone who knows everything that happens here,” the Inspector said with a smile. “Well, here and everywhere else, actually. He should be able to help us out.”
“Who is it?” Kyra asked.
“Alfie Birtwhistle,” he responded, pulling out his phone.
Kyra remembered the name. The man back in the meeting this morning, who had responded to Kent with amusement instead of irritation.
After a brief conversation with the man over the phone, Smith gestured for her to follow him. “He knows who has the footage and is meeting us there.”
“Wait. We need…” she began, just as Kent exited the interrogation room.
“Kyra, we have to find the man who was bringing in--” Kent began, but Kyra cut him off.
“Got it. On our way there.”
She was gratified to see Kent’s expression, which was a delicious combination of surprised, impressed… and proud.
Kyra’s felt a glow begin inside her chest and spread out to envelop her entire body. It wasn’t the attraction she had felt earlier, but something more profound. Kent was proud of her. And she had managed to surprise him.
Shaking off the feeling, Kyra followed behind Inspector Smith. They had a job to do. And they needed to get it done, fast.
The killer was poised to strike, Kyra could feel it. It was a ticking time bomb inside her, resonating with each ticking of the second hand leading up to the explosion that was coming. The copycat was out there, mocking them.
And right now, they had no idea who it was.
* * *
Kent stared at the screen before him, his mind trying to deny the evidence with which it was faced. There, on the monitor, was an elderly woman that the policeman who had been on site confirmed was the Lady Cordelia Blackwater. The Inspector who was helping them knew her, as well. She was a great benefactor of the force, throwing charity auctions for them on a regular basis.
Noblewoman. With access. And, Kent knew, descended from Robert Mann. He couldn’t see the scarring on her hands, as the footage wasn’t clear enough, but they were there. He was sure of it.
Just as he was sure who the woman was at Lady Blackwater’s side.
“It’s Nicole,” he breathed, and heard Kyra take in a sharp inhale of breath at his side.
It was impossible. There was no way that her companion should be his newlywed bride. And yet, Kent would know that form anywhere. Even with the lack of clarity in the feed, everything about the figure on the monitor was familiar. The length of her hair. Her stance, which managed to be both somewhat masculine and at the same time completely intoxicating. The slight angling to her head.
He stared at the screen, yearning for her at the same time his blood boiled.
Nicole had been targeted. This was no accident. Lady Blackwater had discovered his involvement in the case and had decided to take his wife captive. As punishment? A preemptive strike? Kent neither knew nor cared. But he did know exactly what he wanted to do to the blue-blooded woman captured on the screen.
“That’s all the footage we have, unfortunately,” the Inspector with the strange name… Birtmissle or something weird like that… said with reluctance.
“Kent,” Kyra murmured. “It might not be her. They were seen leaving the car park. That’s where the murder is supposed to take place.”
He shook his head. “No. There will be no murder there tonight.”
“But--”
Chopping short her response with a quick gesture, Kent continued. “The game changed when I came on board. She’s taken someone that doesn’t have Mary Jane Kelly’s name, so all bets are off. This is much closer to…” he trailed off as a burst of insight coursed through him.
Kent’s mind leapt to a conclusion, one that would make little sense to anyone else, but that he knew to be right. Turning to Kyra, he locked gazes with his adoptive daughter.
“We need a car.”
Kyra’s eyes widened, and she glanced down at the bizarre little man with the odd name. “Inspector Birtwhistle, can we get your help once more?”
The man seemed to register what she was asking immediately and began shaking his head. “No, see, I don’t leave the building.”
“You don’t…?” Kyra’s voice trailed off in surprise.
“I would say, mostly, never,” the man confirmed. Then his face brightened. “But I do think I can help you out. As long as you vow not to tell anyone.”
Whoever this quirky man was, he was now Kent’s best friend. The killer had taken Nicole, and there was nothing that was going to stop him from staring her straight in the eye.
Right before he took a knife to her throat.
* * *
Kyra strode along at Kent’s side, trying to get a feel for what was going on inside the profiler’s mind. From the moment he had seen his wife on the monitor, it was like a wall had erected itself around him, blocking out anything irrelevant to his purpose.
&n
bsp; His relationship with his newlywed wife might appear odd to Kyra, but it was clear that she was everything to Kent. How Kyra had missed it before, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to see it.
She did now.
They were following along behind Birtwhistle, who had taken them outside by a circuitous route, leading them to a door, through which they could see that there was a police car parked right in front of the building. He gestured toward the vehicle, standing back as they pushed the door open to exit the building.
“The keys are inside,” the Inspector said with a grin. “Try not to muck up the paint. It’ll come out of my skin.”
Kyra gave him an appreciative smile. This was a man who knew how to get things done.
Kent stepped forward. “I’m driving.”
Kyra had never seen the profiler behind the wheel, but her instincts screamed at her that this was a bad idea. Nevertheless, she slipped into the left side, her old British instincts taking over, supplanting the American idea that the passenger seat was on the right.
“Where are we going?” she asked as she buckled up. She might be insane to let Kent drive, but she wasn’t crazy enough not to make sure she was as safe as possible.
“Battersea Park,” came the answer.
“But…” Kyra said, confused. “That location doesn’t have anything to do with Jack the Ripper.”
“Think,” was Kent’s only response.
Shit.
That trick of his was really starting to get old. But in spite of herself, Kyra began thinking the problem through.
Kent believed that Battersea Park was where they needed to go. Kyra had discovered that Kent was rarely misguided and almost never wrong. Therefore, there had to be an explanation for why they were headed out to…
“The torso murders.”
She almost smacked herself on the forehead. Of course. When they found the body at the Norman Shaw building, things had changed. The canon for the Ripper murders had changed for good in that moment, but only Kent had kept that idea in the forefront of his mind.
