Killing Jane: An Erin Prince Thriller

by Stacy Green

  Simon Archer’s corpse had been found wearing a black dress and wig, his throat sliced so deeply his neck had been nearly severed. Melinda admitted he’d been cross-dressing for years. She had no idea he’d accidentally propositioned his estranged niece at Sid’s.

  From her hospital bed, her scarred face far from healed, Melinda Archer told how she and Simon quietly enrolled a teenage Sarah in the care of a therapist after weeks of bizarre episodes. The therapist treated her for DID and, by the time Sarah started her freshman year of college, pronounced her personalities integrated—meaning they were aware of each other and able to function with Sarah in complete control. But in the weeks leading up to Bonnie’s murder, Melinda noticed her daughter slipping into old patterns. She lost hours of time. She talked in strange voices and became more and more withdrawn. The video Bonnie recorded of her cousin a few days before her murder also worked in Sarah’s favor. At the time, Sarah claimed she still had control and allowed the personalities to speak, but in the video, she appeared to fight for control, and Jane screamed Sarah would destroy them all. In short, the girl appeared to be coming unhinged.

  The night of Bonnie’s murder, Sarah broke the lock on her bedroom window and snuck out. She walked the half-mile to the nearest Metro station and rode it to Columbia Heights. Melinda didn’t want to believe it could be true, but after Virginia Walton’s murder, she had her home security footage pulled. She saw Sarah both nights, sneaking out. Melinda had the video destroyed. She told Erin this in a deadpan tone, likely well-beyond guilt. Melinda Archer’s desperation to protect her child cost lives—and Melinda’s spirit.

  “And don’t forget the diary,” Marsh said.

  The diary, in Erin’s opinion, had to be the grand jewel of the evidence. Melinda Archer confirmed the story Jane told Erin that night. The diary was a family heirloom and semi-dirty secret. An antiquities expert declared the diary to be at least 100 years old. Erin didn’t know if its authenticity as the Ripper’s journal would ever be proven, but the aged letter tucked into the back of the diary proved that in December 1888, from her presumed death bed, Jane Blackwood took responsibility for the Ripper killings. The midwife had contracted what sounded like syphilis and blamed her husband for sleeping with the London prostitutes. She’d shipped her young son to America to live with his uncle and sent the diary, along with the letter. Historical records in London’s old Whitechapel area did confirm a Jane Blackwood’s birth in 1864, but death records had yet to be found.

  Every one of the passages found at the crime scenes were diary entries from Jane Blackwood’s leather journal—entries which also described the Ripper killings in great detail.

  Her mother claimed Sarah had been fascinated with the family history from a young age and copied the letters as a way of coping with her psychological issues. If experts declared the diary to be a legitimate record of the Ripper murders, the historical significance would be staggering.

  “But Investigator Prince’s testimony helped me make my final decision.” He looked pointedly at Erin, expecting her endorsement.

  Erin didn’t want to argue with Beckett. “You don’t understand. I don’t either. I just know what I saw. And there’s no way it wasn’t real.”

  Beckett shook his head and held up his hands. “This is the wrong decision.”

  “What if she did fake it?” Erin asked. “Then she faked it as a teenager, faked it through treatment. Faked it with everyone for years. And even if that’s true, wouldn’t she have to be extremely mentally disturbed?”

  “Plenty of people on death row are mentally disturbed,” Beckett said. “But they can still stand trial. You don’t think Sarah was in her right mind when she handed me the letter she wrote and told me the killer sent it?”

  Marsh’s mouth tightened. “The psychiatrist believes that is another symptom of her illness. And we’ve all agreed Sarah Archer is unable to stand trial.” Marsh spoke with finality. “There’s no reason to put Melinda through anything more than what she’s already experienced.”

  “And Simon looking the other way about his niece and daughter being molested remains a secret,” Beckett snapped.

  Marsh’s eyes glittered. “That has nothing to do with the decision.”

  A lie. Melinda still had connections. Marsh had political aspirations. The combinations led to a decision to commit Sarah to the continuing care program at McLean Hospital in Massachusetts. A team of psychiatrists would continue to grill and evaluate her progress. If at any time they believed the decision to be false, charges could still be brought. Erin expected as much, but she and Beckett weren’t aware of the official decision until today. Bonnie’s parents and Rylan Walton had filed suit against the District this morning, naming both Erin and Beckett as potential witnesses.

  “Let me tell you what would happen if we decided to take her to trial,” Marsh said. “After graphically detailing her sexual abuse, a defense attorney would put Sarah on the stand, and those personalities would emerge. The jury would see what Investigator Prince saw that night. More than likely, she’s found not guilty by reason of insanity. And then where do you think she goes? A psychiatric hospital. The decision we’ve made skips the waste of tax dollars and my time.”

  “What if she’s found guilty?” Beckett demanded.

  Marsh waived him off. “Wouldn’t happen.”

  Beckett stood and started for the door. “You’re making a mistake that’s going to come back to haunt you. Someday, she’ll be out.”

  “I realize you’ve worked some extremely unusual cases, Investigator,” Marsh said. “Perhaps your experience is diluting your judgment.”

  “And Melinda Archer’s deep pockets are affecting yours.” Beckett stalked out.

  Erin moved to follow, her knee burning. Her stab wounds had mostly healed, although she still endured the sting of healing nerves in her calf, and the knee Sarah knocked out of place throbbed for no reason at times. One day, she’d start the physical therapy the doctor recommended.

  “Investigator Prince.”

  She turned and regarded Marsh in silence, waiting for him to finish so she could catch up with Beckett.

  Marsh sat in his big leather chair the way a king might preside over his court. “You agree Sarah belongs in a psychiatric facility?”

  Erin hated going against her partner. He was a good man, a good cop, and a good friend. But he hadn’t witnessed it. “Yes.”

  Beckett waited for her in the expansive lobby. He jammed his hands in his pockets and said nothing as they walked into the winter cold. January had arrived with a vengeance, dropping nearly a foot of snow over the city.

  “You didn’t see her.” Erin spoke once they’d escaped to the relative warmth of the Impala. “You didn’t see the way these people crawled out of her. Like she was possessed.

  “A mental institution is her only chance to get normal again. It’s likely she’ll never be released. You know that, right?” Erin shouldn’t care about Sarah. But every time she thought about the way Sarah cried when she realized her father died at her own hands, Erin agonized over not figuring it all out sooner. If she and Beckett had gone through Virginia’s papers earlier instead of shunting them aside, then maybe Sarah wouldn’t have had to live with having killed her father.

  “Tell that to her aunt and uncle and to Rylan Walton.”

  In addition to the suit against the city, Neil and Carmen, along with Rylan, filed a wrongful death suit against Sarah and Melinda Archer. It likely wouldn’t make it to court, but their tell-all book would make more money than Simon’s estate could ever pay them.

  “At least the Malek family won’t be joining the suit,” Beckett said. “Since the bastard tricked out little girls for years.”

  Additional investigation into Malek’s computer and financial records showed Bonnie Archer wasn’t the first child he’d plucked off the streets. DNA results showed Yari Malek to be the father of Bonnie’s baby and probably other girls as well. Erin delivered the news to Will Merritt, and she could
n’t tell whether sorrow or relief fueled his tears.

  “You were right all along,” Beckett said. “I didn’t want to believe the killer was a woman—I didn’t want to fight that sort of evil again.”

  Erin took little solace from his compliment. “You were right, too. I wasn’t able to be objective with Sarah because I saw myself in her life. If I had, maybe Malek and Simon could have been saved. Even if they were scum.”

  A wry smile crept over Beckett’s face. “Fair enough. But you had no clue how many people called Sarah’s head home.”

  “So you do believe she’s a true case of dissociative identity?”

  “I don’t know,” Beckett said. “But a mental institution doesn’t seem like justice for all of the people she killed. She’ll never have to answer for those murders.”

  “What about Melinda? She should be charged with obstruction of justice at the least. And she’s partially responsible for Virginia, Yari, and Simon’s deaths. Everything she did to protect her child was wrong. If she’d done the right thing as soon as she suspected Sarah had come apart again, they might still be alive.”

  Beckett’s dark eyes shot to hers, an emotion in them she couldn’t quite place.

  “For some people, right and wrong are both shades of gray.”

  Erin laughed and started the car. “I’m pretty sure that’s a line from a movie.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Beckett turned up the heat on his side and held his hand over the vent.

  “Pretty sure it is.”

  “You should come to dinner tonight. Lucy would love to see Abby.”

  In the weeks since Brad’s death, Erin and Abby had taken Lucy Kendall’s advice and had started seeing a grief counselor. And Lucy and Beckett had slowly become a part of their lives. Abby thought Lucy was the most beautiful, fascinating creature on earth. And Lucy seemed to love her as well. Erin just liked seeing her daughter smile again.

  “We will, but it will be closer to six,” Erin said. “I’ve got a stop to make.”

  Erin hadn’t been to her brother’s grave since his headstone had been placed. Her mother wanted an ornate huge granite stone with Brad’s face carved in it. Erin argued against it, knowing it wasn’t what Brad would want. To her shock, Lisa took Erin’s side, and Calvin followed. So Brad’s black granite stone was simple and beautiful, with a short epitaph: Beloved son, brother, and uncle.

  Erin used her gloved hand to clean off the freezing snow and then stood with her shoulders rounded against the north wind.

  “I finally went to the doctor.” Her voice sounded small against the cold gusts. “I guess we’re still two peas out of the same pod. The neurologist found a tiny aneurysm. She compared it to the scans Judy Temple took of yours and said mine is a lot smaller. It’s not ready to be operated on yet, but she thinks it will be in a few months. So I’ve got to go back for checkups. And when it’s ready, I guess I’m getting some of my head shaved.”

  Erin still couldn’t grasp that she had a ticking bomb in her brain, ready to explode without warning. The diagnosis was still too fresh, too close to the loss of Brad—too unreal. And she didn’t feel any different.

  Erin laughed, the cold air making her breathless. “Guess who went with me to both appointments? Lisa. She even held my hand when the doctor told me.” Getting to know her sister wasn’t as comforting as the companionship of her twin, but Erin appreciated their time together. “I haven’t told Mom and Dad. But I will.”

  She banded her arms across her bulky down winter coat. “I miss you every fucking day, Brad. But you wouldn’t want me to sit around feeling sorry for myself, so I’m trying to move on. For Abby. That’s why I’m having the surgery. I’ve got to be there for my daughter.” Her voice cracked like a teenager’s. “And I miss the shit out of you, but I don’t want to die. Not yet.”

  The wind gusted again, dusk rolled in from the west, and Erin decided to call it a day. Besides, her friends expected her for supper.

  As she trudged through the foot of snow on the way back to the car, she thought about the different ways the mind could break and how people dealt with it. Bonnie Archer’s broke, and she punished the body she hated. Sarah’s broke, and she split into parts to cope. Brad didn’t have the chance to fix his.

  “But I do,” Erin whispered. “I guess you can heal a broken mind after all.”

  She stopped in the middle of a snowdrift. The cold cascaded into her boots, and the ice shot up her spine like nails. She heard Sarah Archer’s soft voice in her head from the day they met at the station—I finally accepted you can’t always understand a broken mind. Erin’s memory then flashed to Jane sneering down at her, ready to plunge the knife into her stomach, and replayed the feral woman’s words—You can’t heal a broken mind, Investigator.

  Erin stood still until the cold pierced her heavy coat and her legs like blocks of ice.

  What if Sarah Archer had known what she was doing all along?

  My Dear Brother,

  The end comes for me. My waking hours are fewer and fewer, and much of my time is spent in a state of madness. Visions of things which are not present, a rage I have no hope of stowing, and such pain I am ready for death.

  Before I depart this world and answer for my sins, I must leave the truth for the child I sent with you to America. I know you care for him as your own, and I pray he brings you peace over the death of your precious son. With God’s grace, this diary will find you in the capital of America. Many of the accounts are of the mundane sort, the daily activities I now long for. But within the pages is a truth I must pass on to my son.

  Dearest child, know that I sent you away for your own safety. The despicable French disease given to me by your wayward father progressed far more rapidly than I expected. Lesions, fever, loss of body weight, and fatigue I accepted. But the mental decline placed you in mortal danger. That I could not allow. And so I gave you to your uncle. I pray someday you will understand my choice.

  Know this, my son. The Great Evil is a scourge on good society. It will destroy your life and the lives of everyone around you. Beware the female wasps offering their bodies for a pittance. They spread disease and death and despair. Is it any wonder I tried to cleanse the city?

  Mary Ann Nicols. Annie Chapman. Elizabeth Stride. Catharine Eddowes. And lovely Mary Kelly, blessed with a child she happily discarded. By the blade of my father’s surgical knives, those five will spread their filth to no other man.

  I am weak, and the demon in my brain is stronger. It will not be long.

  Remember always, your mother loved you enough to give you a new life.

  After I am gone, do what you will with this truth. My only concern is that you know what I tried to do for your well-being.

  All my love,

  Your mother,

  Jane Blackwood

  —JTR

  Mina liked the hospital because their private room looked out over a great big snow-covered yard with lots of bird feeders and colorful winter birds making tracks over the snow.

  * * *

  Charlie liked the hospital in Massachusetts because their mother said it was affiliated with Harvard, and that’s where he dreamed of going to school. Maybe if Sarah had gone to college out of state like he wanted, they wouldn’t be here watching a bunch of birds fight for food in the snow.

  * * *

  Jane hated being in hospital. She hated the view, she hated the staff, and she hated all of them. But she always had, ever since Sarah split apart. Because they were weak and stupid and couldn’t take care of themselves. Jane spent their childhood fighting for them, only to have Sarah go to that fat, big-haired doctor and learn how to “integrate.” If the bitch hadn’t taught Sarah control, they wouldn’t be in this mess. Jane would have been in charge a long time ago. But she’d been labeled the fucking bad girl, the psychopath who wanted to be like Jack the Ripper. Like Jack the Ripper was a woman. That had to be the dumbest theory of all the dumb theories about the madman.

  * * *

&nbs
p; Sitting quietly in the cozy chair overlooking the picturesque winter scene, Sarah Archer commanded the voices in her head to be silent.

  And then she smiled.

  Stacy Green is the author of the Lucy Kendall thriller series and the Delta Crossroads mystery trilogy. All Good Deeds (Lucy Kendall #1) won a bronze medal for mystery and thriller at the 2015 IPPY Awards. Tin God (Delta Crossroads #1) was runner-up for best mystery/thriller at the 2013 Kindle Book Awards. Her next novel is Lovely Boys (The Katy Madison Series).

  Stacy has a love of thrillers and crime fiction, and she is always looking for the next dark and twisted novel to enjoy. She started her career in journalism before becoming a stay at home mother and rediscovering her love of writing.

  She lives in Iowa with her husband and daughter and their three spoiled fur babies.

  www.stacygreenauthor.com

  Killing Jane is an idea that’s brewed for nearly six years, one that required an enormous amount of research and many sleepless nights.

  Without Detective Robert Freeman of the Unites States Park Police, this book wouldn’t have been written. In spring of 2015, I travelled to D.C to start researching Killing Jane, and Detective Freeman graciously met with me at Dunkin Donuts (yes, seriously, and his suggestion) for two hours and discussed police procedures and politics in the District, and in the coming months, he answered numerous emails on specific crime scene details and procedures. Detective Freeman’s patience and candor enabled me to get the cop stuff right, but also much of the descriptive imagery, including the Consolidated Forensics Building and several D.C. neighborhoods. He was my eyes and ears for this book, and I am forever grateful to him, as well as his superior Sergeant Lelani Woods, for allowing me to interview him.