I nod in approval. "We don't know when it's coming, so you'll need to settle in for a wait."
He tips his fingers in a salute and walks back to his van without another word, Mr. Laconic. I run through things in my head. The driver would arrive to deliver the package and would be detained while we printed him. The package would be examined by Reggie, and once he gave it an all-clear, Alan and Callie and I would rush the package into the crime lab. They would search for prints on everything and use a vacuum to collect any and all trace evidence. Photographs would be taken. Only then would the contents be turned over to us. This insistence on process is one of our advantages and one of our disadvantages. Something it takes a perpetrator only minutes or hours to do can take us days to process. We are always slower. But we also find everything that the perpetrator leaves behind, down to a microscopic level. Our ability, in this day and age, to interpret even the smallest piece of evidence is truly frightening. Criminals would need to wear a spacesuit to ensure they left nothing behind for us to find. Even then, we might well figure out that they wore a spacesuit. Even the absence of evidence tells a tale. It tells us the perp has at least a passing knowledge of police and forensic procedure. It gives us insight into the methodology and psychology of the killer. Is he or she intelligent, composed, and patient, or frenzied, passionate, and insane?
Evidence or its absence tells this tale.
"Hey," Alan says, pointing. "I think that's it."
I see a package delivery van moving toward us. The van pulls up in front of the building and stops. I can see the driver, a young man with blond hair and a peach-fuzz beard, looking at all of us with more than just a little bit of worry. I don't blame him. He's probably not used to seeing a contingent of serious-faced, somewhat scary-looking people waiting for him to arrive. I walk over to his side of the van, motioning for him to roll down his window.
"FBI," I say, holding up my Bureau ID. "You have a package for this address?"
"Uh, yeah. It's in the back. What's this about?"
"The package is evidence, sir. Mister . . . ?"
"Huh? Oh, Jed. Jedediah Patterson."
"I need you to step out of the van, Mr. Patterson. That package was sent by a criminal we're pursuing."
His mouth drops open. "Really?"
"Yes. We need to fingerprint you, sir. Can you please step out of the van?"
"Fingerprint me? Why?"
I force myself to remain patient. "We're going to be looking for prints on the package. We need to know which ones are yours and not the criminal's."
Light dawns. "Oh . . . yeah, I get it."
"Can you please step out of the van?" My patience is waning. Rapidly. Perhaps he senses this, as now he opens the door and gets out.
"Thank you, Mr. Patterson. Please see Agent Washington; he'll print you."
I point to Alan as I say this and watch as Jed Patterson gives him a wary look. "Don't worry," I say, amused. "I know he's big, but he's only dangerous to the bad guys."
He licks his lips, still looking at the man-mountain. "If you say so."
He walks over to Alan, who takes him inside for fingerprinting. Now I can focus on the package. Reggie Gantz is already standing near the delivery van, carrying his equipment. He still looks bored.
"Ready to roll?" he asks.
"Go ahead," I tell him.
He moves toward the back of the van, opening the doors. We're in luck; there are only three packages back there. He finds the one we want immediately. It's addressed to me.
I watch as he starts up his laptop and powers up the mobile x-ray device. Moments later, we are looking at the contents of the package on his laptop screen.
"Looks like a bottle of something . . . and maybe a letter . . . and something else, flat and round. Could be a CD. And that's it. I need to fire up the Sniffer. Make sure that liquid isn't anything dangerous."
"Is that likely?"
"Nah. Just about all liquid explosives are unstable. The package would probably have blown up on its way here." He shrugs. "But we don't assume anything in bomb tech."
I'm glad Reggie is here, but I think he's crazy to do the job he does.
"Do it," I tell him.
He pulls out a swatch of cotton cloth and proceeds to swipe the package with it. I watch as he feeds it into the Sniffer. Once inside, the spectrometry goes to work. Within minutes, he looks up at me. "Looks all clear to me. I'd say it's safe to open."
"Thanks, Reggie."
"No problem." He yawns. I shake my head as I watch him wander back to his van with his equipment. It takes all kinds. Now I'm alone with the package. I look at it. It's not that big. Just big enough for what it holds: something the size of a jelly jar, a letter, and a CD. Probably a CD. I want to look inside. Burn to. I walk back around the front of the van. Alan is returning with Jed Patterson, whose fingertips are now black with ink. I motion to Alan.
"The package is clear," I tell him. "Let's get it to the lab."
"No shit," Callie agrees.
Everyone's chafing at the bit on this one.
Gene Sykes runs the crime lab, and when he sees us walk through the door a look of resignation settles onto his face.
"Hey, Smoky. So how long do I have for this one?"
I grin at him. "Come on, Gene. It hasn't been that long."
"Uh-huh. So we're talking yesterday, then?"
"Yep."
He sighs. "Tell me about it."
"Package delivered through a parcel service, definitely from our guy. We had a bomb tech check it out, which means that the outer part of the box got wiped. We also got prints from the delivery driver for elimination."
"Do you know what's in it?"
"The tech did an on-the-spot x-ray. Looks like the box contains a jar of some kind, a letter, and maybe a CD. Not a hundred percent sure of anything since we haven't opened the box up."
"How do you know it's from your unsub?"
"Because he told us he'd be sending it."
"That was considerate of him." He ruminates on all of this information for a moment. "You've already run one crime scene related to this unsub?"
"Yeah."
"Anything show up?"
I tell him about the prints we'd found on Annie's bed. Gene is scratching his head, thinking. Beginning to lose himself in the problem.
"I need this one really scrutinized, Gene. But I need it as fast as you can do it."
"Sure. I'm going to take it layer by layer. I'll remove the box, the contents, and address each separately. You say he's careful, so I doubt we'll get any plastic or visible prints. But sometimes they surprise us."
There are three types of prints at a crime scene: plastic prints, visible prints, and latent prints. Plastic and visible prints are our favorites. Plastic prints are created when the perpetrator leaves a print in a soft surface, like wax, putty, or soap. Visible prints are created when the perp has touched something--such as blood--and then touched another surface. Leaving, literally, a print you can see with the naked eye. The most common are latent, or invisible, prints. These are the ones you really have to look for, and the technology of getting them can be an art form at times.
Gene is an artiste. If something's there, he'll get it.
"It goes without saying, Gene, if it is a CD in there, I need the contents of it before you do anything that would damage it." Getting latent prints can involve the use of chemicals and heat. Either of these could damage the CD, making it unreadable.
He shoots me a look of injured scorn. "Please, Smoky. Who do you think you're dealing with here?"
I grin. "Sorry." I hand over two other plastic evidence bags, each containing the recent deliveries and correspondence from Jack Jr. "Check these out after. They're from the same unsub."
He scowls. "Anything else?" Sarcastic.
"You'll be getting the benefit of my assistance and expertise, honeylove," Callie says. Gene gives her a sour look. "We're on a timetable here, Gene. He's let us know that he's going to kill again."
I walk into the office and find Alan on the phone. He's talking fast. Something has him excited. He's holding Annie's case file in one hand.
"I need to confirm it, Jenny. I want to be a hundred percent sure. Right."
He taps his foot impatiently, waiting. "Really? Okay, thanks." He hangs up the phone, jumps out of the chair, and comes over to me. "Remember when I told you something was bothering me?"
"Yeah."
"It was in the inventory of things taken from her apartment." He opens the file, finds a page, and points to it. "A receipt for an exterminator service inspection of her apartment five days before she was killed."
"So?"
"So--most places like the one where she was living handle extermination for the building as a whole."
"That's not exactly conclusive. But keep going."
"Yeah, I might have dismissed it too. But I saw the actual receipt while we were there, and something about it has been nagging me ever since."
"Come on, Alan."
"Sorry--it was a notation on the receipt." He grabs a notepad from his desk and reads from it. "Did Shoe Write-up. I mean--what the fuck is that? And then the guy signed it Armouried Murrey. "
"Strange name."
"They're anagrams, aren't they?" James says.
Alan turns to look at him, surprised. "That's right. How did you--
never mind." He turns back to me, shows me the pad. "See-- Did Shoe Write-up. Change the letters around and you get: Die, Stupid Whore. "
My stomach lurches.
"Then Armouried Murrey-- mix the letters up and you get--" He shows the notepad to me again.
I am your murderer.
"The final insult," James murmurs. "He tells her that she's going to die and that he's going to do it, right to her face. And she never has a clue."
I realize I expect to feel rage at this, but it is absent. I'm becoming hardened to their games. I glance at Alan. "That's pretty impressive work."
He shrugs. "Just always had a thing for anagrams. And niggling details."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're amazing," James says. "The question is, what does it mean and how can we use it?"
"Why don't you tell me, asshole," Alan says.
The insult misses James by a wide mark. He is nodding, thinking. "I don't think he came to gloat. I think he came to scout. To make sure he knew the full layout of the place."
"Or to verify prior data," I say. "He might have been there before, and wanted to verify that nothing had changed."
"Casing the place," Alan says. "That makes sense, with these guys. They're smart, careful. Planners."
"Maybe it's their MO," I say. I feel an excitement building in me. "If we could get some kind of a jump on their next victim--anything--we might be able to catch whichever one does the recon." I turn to Leo.
"Where do we stand on your end of things?"
Leo grimaces. "No good news, I'm afraid. The IP number was not a static IP. We were able to track where the usage originated, but it was a dead end."
"How's that?"
"He used a cybercafe. Think of a coffeehouse where you can get on the Internet. Completely anonymous."
"Damn. Anything else? At all?"
"No."
"Well, everyone put your thinking caps on. Hard."
The phone rings. Alan answers it, speaks, and hangs up. "They're ready for you down in the lab," he says to me.
I take the elevator down four floors, and when I get to the lab, I find Gene chattering away at a bemused Callie.
"Careful," I say to her, "he'll talk your ear off."
Gene turns to me. "I was telling Agent Thorne about the latest advances coming out in the identification of mitochondrial DNA."
"Heady stuff," Callie says in her driest voice.
Gene scowls. "Oh, knock it off," he says. "I know you better than that, Callie. You were one of my best interns."
She grins, winks at me.
I raise my coffee in a toast. "I've always sung your praises, Gene. In that vein--what do you have for me?"
He gives Callie a last frown. She sticks her tongue out at him. He turns to me with a sigh. "No immediate physical evidence. By that, I mean no fingerprints, fibers, hair, epithelials, anything. But what is there is very, very interesting. It tells us something about the unsub that even he is unaware of."
This perks me up. "How's that?"
"In good time, Smoky. To understand it, you have to read the letter first." He passes it to me. "Go ahead."
I don't like people being cryptic. But Gene is one of the best forensic scientists in the country. Maybe in the world. And Callie is nodding at me.
"It's worth the wait, honey-love."
I turn my attention to the letter.
Greetings, Agent Barrett!
So, I'm dying to know: How did you enjoy the tale of Ronnie Barnes?
Not the brightest boy, I'm afraid, but perfect to demonstrate a point. You are wondering, I know. How many other Ronnies are out there? I'm afraid I find it far more satisfying to let you continue to wonder. I saw you walk into that shooting range when you returned from San Francisco, by the by. I have to say, I was EXCITED! It's always reward- ing when a gambit comes to such perfect fruition. Now my opponent is fully armed and operational. Something that gets my blood singing through my veins! Do you feel the same? The pounding of the heart?
That sharpening of the senses?
"He's following you, honey-love."
"Yeah. We're going to have to address that."
You look different now, Agent Barrett. More dangerous. No longer hiding those scars you were so ashamed of.
Good for you. And for me. Because now we can dispense with the kid gloves. Now we can begin to make this game truly interesting!
I've enclosed two things for you. One of them, the contents of the jar, requires some explanation for full understanding. Let us talk about Annie Chapman. Also known as Dark Annie. Does that name ring a bell for you, Agent Barrett? It should. She was my an- cestor's second victim.
Poor, poor Annie Chapman. She wasn't always a dirty whore, you know. She waited until her husband died to start spreading her slut legs for money. Most offensive. When my ancestor killed her he was lancing a boil on the skin of society.
She was the second killed, but she was the first one dear Jack took keepsakes from. He excised her uterus, the upper portion of the vagina, and the posterior two-thirds of the bladder.
Of course, many different theories have been put forth about this. And of course, all of them have been wrong. No one had the vision to under- stand my ancestor's plan. I am sharing it with you now, so listen closely: Jack knew that his bloodline, both past and future, was of an excep- tional nature. Descended from the ancient predators. The original hunters. Above the cattle of humanity. He knew that it was his duty to pass on his knowledge and his power to future generations, to explain our holy mission.
And so he took many keepsakes. He took these pieces of whores and sealed them up, preserving them. He decreed that they be passed down, from generation to generation, as a reminder of what he had begun. I told you I would provide proof of my claims, Agent Barrett. I am a man of my word. I am passing on to you one of the sacred keepsakes. The preserved uterus of Annie Chapman.
Awe-inspiring, is it not? Run your tests. When you do, I think you will find it harder to sleep at night. For you will know that a descendant of the Shadow Man is out and about.
"Is what he's saying true, Gene? Is that a human uterus in that jar?"
He smiles. Another cryptic smile. "We'll address that. Finish reading the letter."
The Shadow Man. While there is only one original, you have known many pretenders, haven't you, Special Agent Barrett? Those who live in the shadows, kill in them. My ancestor was born in the shadows. His was a heritage of darkness.
He loved the shadows, and the shadows . . . well, they loved him back. He was their purest child.
But I digre
ss.
I have included another CD for you. I have been continuing the mis- sion of my ancestor. I've cleansed the earth of another whore, lanced an- other boil.
"Damn," I say.
Enjoy it. I am quite proud of my work.
That is all for now, Agent Barrett. Rest assured, I will be in touch. Perhaps in a more personal fashion. One week. Tick tock, tick tock. From Hell,
Jack Jr.
I put the letter down, and look at Gene. "Spill it."
He rubs his hands together. "After reading that, the jar was the first addressed, of course. I ran some basic tests, and that's how I found it."
"What?"
He pauses for effect. "There's no human tissue in that jar, Smoky. If I had to guess, I would say that it's bovine."
Shock strikes me speechless for a moment, and then: "Holy shit!"
He grins. "Yes. Our boy thinks he has something passed on by Jack the Ripper. But he doesn't. He has a piece of preserved cow flesh. He has an entire belief system built up that he doesn't know is a lie."
My mind is reeling. "It's all bullshit. Bullshit somebody spoon-fed him. He's no descendant of the Ripper. He's--"
"Just another killer," Callie says, completing the thought. She wiggles her eyebrows. "Not bad, huh? No physical evidence to identify our boys. But it's certainly a defining characteristic."
"Great, great work. Can you tag all of this and put together a report?"
"Certainly. I'll have it done this evening."
"Great. Wow." I turn to Callie. "We need to go share this with the rest of the team." We begin to head out the door.
"Ah--Agent Barrett?"
I turn around and see Gene holding it in a gloved hand. Oh shit.
In the excitement, I'd forgotten about it for a moment. The CD. My elation fades.
It was time to go watch another murder.
37
WE'RE BACK IN the office.
"I have good news and bad news," I say.
"What's the good news?" Alan asks.
I relate the substance of the letter, ending with what Gene had found in the jar. Leo's and Alan's eyes widen. James gets an unfocused look. I can almost hear the thoughts spinning in his head.
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