Blood Stone

by Michael Lister

  Frank looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Which is it?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’d like to get Ernestine Campbell’s take on it, but . . . it could be both. It could be that he’s smart enough, knows enough, to pretend to be something other than what he really is in the letter. Or it could be like the Dear Boss letter or Saucy Jack postcard versus the From Hell letter.”

  “The what?” Erin asked.

  “Letters supposedly sent from Jack the Ripper,” I said. “Very different in tone and content. The Dear Boss letter and Saucy Jack postcard are most likely fakes—someone pretending to be the ripper, but the From Hell letter is believed by many to be from the actual killer.”

  I then told them as best I could from memory some of the key components of the three pieces of correspondence.

  Dear Boss,

  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Yours truly

  Jack the Ripper

  Dont mind me giving the trade name

  PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha

  I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish straight off. Had not got time to get ears off for police thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

  Jack the Ripper

  From hell.

  Mr Lusk,

  Sor

  I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

  signed

  Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

  I then explained to them the best I could the differences in the personality types and criminal profiles of the various writers of the two letters and postcard. Dear Boss and Saucy Jack are flamboyant, taunting, and braggadocios. They are also addressed to large agencies, unlike the From Hell letter, which is addressed to an individual—George Lusk, the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. It also does not use the flashy Jack the Ripper moniker, which was already in the public sphere when the letter was written.

  Frank pursed his lips and nodded, seeming to think about it.

  No one said anything for a moment.

  “There’s something . . .” I started. “Does the letter remind you of anything?”

  I had directed the question toward Frank, but they all responded with shrugs or shakes of their heads.

  “Like he’s trying to sound like someone,” I said. “Something about it reminds me of the Zodiac’s letters.”

  “You think it’s the fuckin’ Zodiac doin’ it?” Walt said.

  I frowned and shook my head. “No. Like maybe he copied the style of letter.”

  Bud yelled out at Miss D. “Miss D, you still got that Zodiac paperback?”

  “Lent it to Connie next door, Chief. Want me to go get it from her?”

  “Would you please?”

  Within a matter of minutes, Miss D was handing Bud a small book—not a paperback like he had thought, but a beat up St. Martin’s hardcover with a black tattered cover and dust jacket with the symbol of the Zodiac in white on it, its pages dog-eared, its spine turned at an odd angle.

  Bud handed it right back to her. “Find me his letters.”

  She turned right to them.

  “Read us one,” he said.

  She nodded. “‘This is the Zodiac speaking. I am the murderer of the taxi driver over by Washington Street plus Maple Street last night, to prove this here is a blood stained piece of his shirt. I am the same man who did in the people in the north bay area. The S.F. Police could have caught me last night if they had searched the park properly instead of holding road races with their motorcicles seeing who could make the most noise. The car drivers should have just parked their cars and sat there quietly waiting for me to come out of cover. School children make nice targets, I think I shall wipe out a school bus some morning. Just shoot out the front tire then pick off the kiddies as they come bouncing out.’”

  “I don’t know . . .” Bud said. “Does that sound the same to y’all?”

  Erin and Joe shrugged.

  Walt shook his head. “Don’t to me.”

  Frank nodded. “I can hear it. There’s something to the flatness and cadence of it. I can see why it made you think of it.”

  “Thank you, Miss D,” Bud said.

  She sat the book down on his desk and walked out.

  A moment later she walked right back in. “Chief, think you need to see this.”

  25

  We all followed Miss D out of Bud’s office and into the squad room and gathered around the old television.

  A shot of Daphne Littleton standing in front of Stone Mountain filled the screen.

  “Again, this is a WSB-TV exclusive,” she was saying. “This reporter has managed to get a copy of a letter the Stone Cold Killer sent the police this morning. It says, and I quote, ‘To the Poor Cops. This is the Stone Cold Killer. You are way behind and don’t seem to be catching up very well so I am going to give you some help—’”

  “What the hell?” Bud said. “How in the hell did she get her hands on . . .”

  Everyone but Frank and Bud looked at me.

  I shook my head. “No way. Wasn’t me. I didn’t even know anything about it until I came in a little while ago and y’all showed it to me.”

  “It wasn’t John,” Frank said.

  “Who then?” Bud said. “Someone with access to our department, damn it. Who would—”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it’s at least as likely that the killer sent it to her.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Walt said.

  Frank nodded. “I bet you’re right.”

  “‘I am as immovable as Stone Mountain,’” Daphne was reading. “‘You will see. You can’t stop me. Only I can stop me and I am not going to stop me. Just you wait. You will see with your own eyes what I will do. Behold my work and tremble.’”

  “We’ve lost all control now,” Frank said. “All control.”

  Over the next few days, as Susan and I grew more and more estranged, the investigation continued without much in the way of breakthroughs.

  We attended funerals and visitations, observed and took pictures of those in attendance.

  We searched through the credit card receipts of Stone Mountain Park.

  We fielded countless calls from coworkers and family members and landlords saying they knew who the killer was.

  We followed lead after lead into dead end after dead end.

  We took calls and read letters from psychics.

  Joe Ross continued to camp in the park, continued not to be at his tent when I stopped by to check on him, and I wondered if he were doing more fishing, hiking, and camping than working. This part of the investigation may well amount to little more than a paid vacation for him.

  We all continued to patrol and observe and stakeout.

  And I continued to find reasons to sleep in Summer’s bed.

  One afternoon while Erin and I were going through more credit card receipts from the park at a ta
ble in the department conference room, Susan showed up unexpectedly.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked. “Did something happen?”

  “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  I stood. “Yeah, sure, let’s go in—”

  “Stay in here,” Erin said. “I need a break anyway. You want a soda or coffee or anything?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Thanks. Susan?”

  She shook her head.

  After Erin left the room and closed the door behind her I said, “What’s going on?”

  “I never see you anymore,” she said. “Figured this was the best way.”

  “Best way for what?”

  “To see you. To talk to you.”

  “You just want to talk? Why don’t I come by Scarlett’s tonight or we go to dinner or something?”

  “Because you won’t and we can’t really talk there anyway. I won’t take too much of your precious investigation time, but I want to talk to you now.”

  “Okay. Do you want to sit?”

  She shook her head.

  I waited but she didn’t say anything.

  She looked, as she did most of the time these days, tired and a little frazzled. Standing there looking at her I realized again that I just wasn’t attracted to her—at least not in the way I wanted to be. I wasn’t saying she wasn’t attractive, just that I wasn’t drawn to her, that I felt no particular pull—not physically or sexually, not emotionally or mentally. And I had felt this . . . this lack of desire long before I had encountered Summer Grantham again and began to feel it for her.

  “Are you . . .” I began. “Do you . . . want to . . . what’s on your mind?”

  “Don’t rush me.”

  “I’m not.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out in a big sigh. “I feel like . . . Are you trying to get me to break up with you?”

  “What? Why would you ask that?”

  “Just answer the—I feel like you’re trying to find an off-ramp but . . . you don’t want to be the one to . . . so you want me to end it.”

  I wasn’t consciously trying to get her to end our relationship, but hearing her say it I wondered if subconsciously that wasn’t exactly what I wanted.

  “Are you happy?” I asked. “I mean with . . . our . . . with us?”

  “Not lately, no,” she said. “I never see you anymore. It’s like we don’t have a relationship. But answer my question.”

  I shook my head. “No, I haven’t been trying to get you to break up with me, but I’m not happy either. And I know we haven’t seen each other as much since I started working this case, but we didn’t see each other a whole lot before. We went from very little time together to none at all.”

  “Can’t you change that?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Somewhat, I guess, but for what? I’d work on this case less to going back to getting a few minutes with you each night while you’re fighting to stay awake?”

  “Yeah. Give us at least that.”

  “The truth is . . . long before I started working this case . . . you made a decision to help your aunt every night instead of giving us a . . . chance at a . . .”

  “What, I’m not supposed to help her?”

  “Not all night every night,” I said. “You’re enabling her. I recognize it because you do it for me.”

  “So I should just let her business fail?”

  “No,” I said, “you should let us.”

  “You’re blaming me for . . . us failing?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not. I don’t mean to.”

  “I should’ve never gotten you this job.”

  “What? You got me this job?”

  “Yeah. What? You think you got it on your own, Mr. Super Detective? You were drinking so much, you were bored and restless so I called Frank.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “Of course I got you this job. I’m an enabler, remember? Consider it a parting gift, a consolation prize. And the next time you’re feeling like you’re Sherlock Holmes, ask yourself why that never even crossed your mind . . . or why you have no idea what’s going on with Frank.”

  26

  They were so fascinating, these gullible and unsuspecting humans.

  So trusting. So careless. So clueless.

  Death was brushing up against them and they didn’t have the slightest inkling.

  Mask of sanity was still in place.

  Human suit was still on and extremely effective.

  It seemed as though everyone in the world was looking for him right now, but because of his years of discipline and training, of careful study of what the expression of human emotion and normal behavior looked like, he was passing for human, passing by right between them.

  If they only knew . . . he’d win an award.

  He had the perfect role and was playing the part to perfection.

  All the world’s a stage.

  Never a truer statement where he was concerned. Always hidden. Always on. Always in the role of a lifetime. Until he wasn’t and when he wasn’t it meant the rare individual who witnessed it was not long for this world.

  When I lift my mask and she gets to really see me . . . she’s not going to see much of anything else after that.

  Behold. What a thing of awe and wonder he was. What a thing to behold. Fitting for the final thing they would see.

  He’d been patiently bringing along the next young woman who would behold his true essence. She was almost ready, almost ripe. For now though she was still serving his purposes, but soon her usefulness would end and so too would her existence.

  He couldn’t wait for the moment of unveiling. Couldn’t wait to see the look on her face, the surprise in her wide eyes, the gasping gape of her stunned mouth. And through her the whole world would see, would behold.

  She was serving her purpose in life. She would soon serve her purpose in death.

  And she had no idea.

  The irony was . . . she thought she was using him. She was cunning and manipulative, but she was no match for him. And she didn’t even know it. She thought she was a predator, but she was just prey, just like all the rest.

  How much more self-deceived could you get—prey prancing around feeling like a predator.

  27

  It took a while—probably because, as Susan said, I wasn’t the detective I thought I was—but I finally managed to track Frank down at Grady Hospital.

  He was in a small surgical waiting room sitting by himself, his head tilted back at an awkward, uncomfortable angle, bobbing slightly as he’d doze off and jerk awake.

  I sat down beside him.

  There were only two other people in the room and they were about as far away from us as they could be and still be in the room.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked. “Did something happen? A break in the case?”

  I shook my head. “Just came to sit with you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

  His wife, Sylvia, had been ill for over a month now and so far they hadn’t found a doctor who could tell them why.

  “You got enough going on,” he said. “’Sides . . . nothin’ to tell so far. They can’t tell us a goddamn thing.”

  It was the first time I had heard him use language like that.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Test after test after test . . .” he said. “Putting her poor body through so much and for . . . nothing. Nothing. No closer to knowin’ now than we were when we first went to the first damn doctor. Sorry . . . I just . . .”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “Only thing you should be sorry for is not telling me. Not letting me help with . . . something.”

  He frowned and seemed to think but didn’t say anything.

  “And it’s not just helping . . .” I said. “Even if there’s nothing I can do . . . you should’ve told me because . . . because . . . you’re . . . the closest thing to a dad I’ve got right now.”

  He sniffle
d and blinked several times.

  “Anyway,” I said. “I know now . . . and I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’m . . . I appreciate that,” he said. “More than you’ll ever know. But . . . I need you working the case. That’s how you can help me the most right now. I can’t do what I want to on it. I need you working it and keeping me up to speed with what’s going on with it.”

  I shook my head. “I . . . You don’t have to say that,” I said. “Susan told me you just got me involved because she asked you to.”

  “What?”

  I nodded.

  “She said what?” he said.

  I told him what she had told me.

  “That’s not . . . She called me and said you had been drinking a good bit and she was worried about you, could I check on you. That was it. She didn’t ask me to find you a job or get your help on a case. I had already decided to ask for your help before she called and would have anyway if she hadn’t. In fact, I would have sooner—even before she called—if I hadn’t been dealing with this.”

  He gestured toward the hospital.

  “I don’t know why she would tell you something like that,” he said. “Maybe she really believes it, but . . . it’s not true. The truth is I need your help now more than ever. We’ve got to catch this bastard before he kills another young girl. I have to be here. I can’t . . . not be here waiting . . . even just waiting, so . . . go do that . . . thing you do. Put that mind of yours to work on this and help me find him before he kills again.”

  28

  That afternoon we got our first real break in the case.

  It was the result of careful, tedious, investigative police work.

  I was in Bud’s office talking to him about Frank when Erin walked in holding a file folder.

  Bud’s office wasn’t as 1960s looking as he was in his black slacks, white button-down, crewcut, and black horn-rimmed glasses, but it certainly didn’t appear to have ever been updated since it was built in the ’70s.