Jack picked up his pace behind her, closing the gap with a sense of desperation. Blood pumped through his veins like morphine in an addict.
The whore stopped and turned abruptly, facing him. He could sense her apprehension. "Are you following me, mister?"
The pungency of her strong perfume infiltrated Jack's nostrils.
Her fear seemed to be replaced with anger as the whore planted her hands on ample hips. "Cat got your tongue? Come on then, we ain't got all night you know—"
She regarded him curiously, surmising the man was in his mid twenties. Tall and sturdy, he had a full head of jet-black hair and thick black sideburns. He wore a dark frock coat and a gold watch hung from a chain at the waist of his dark trousers. He was holding what appeared to be a black medical bag.
She recognized him from the dance hall. He had been observing her there, but was careful to keep his distance.
"How much?" he asked.
She painted a smile on her face. "Well now, why didn't you just say what was on your mind?"
"I'm saying it now," he said.
"So you are, love." She didn't question why he preferred not to get his jollies at the dance hall. It was better for her this way in not having to split what she brought in with the management, especially since this one looked like he had more money than her typical customers did. "Twenty," she said.
"Twenty it is."
She showed her teeth. "Follow me. I've got a place just around the corner."
Jack had a better idea. "No, in there—" He pointed to a narrow, dark alley.
"Are you sure? It'd be more comfy at my place."
"I'm sure," he told her.
"Whatever suits your fancy." She walked down the alley slowly, sensing him right behind her. "So you're a doctor then?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"A surgeon."
"What's your name, love?"
"Most people call me Jack."
She turned around. "Then so will I, Jack."
He noticed a trash bin at the far end of the alley, between a warehouse and a clothing factory. "This is far enough."
"You always carry your bag when you want to be with a lady?" she asked.
"Yes."
A flirtatious grin played on her lips. "I can only imagine what you've got in there."
He smiled disingenuously. "Only what's needed."
"Suppose we get the money out of the way first, Jack."
"Of course."
Jack pulled a few bills from his wallet and stuffed them into her cleavage. Setting his bag on the ground, he opened it to an array of surgical knives.
He practically salivated at the prospect of carving this one up.
No sooner had Jack lifted an eight-inch blade, fully prepared to make quick work of the whore, when he found himself looking squarely into the barrel of a revolver held by a burly police officer.
"Drop the knife if you know what's good for you," he bellowed.
Jack overcame his shock quickly and took a defensive approach. "What's the meaning of this?"
He saw two armed officers quickly approaching, along with another man. One of the officers shined a bull's-eye lamp on them.
"You'd best do as he says and put the knife down," the man ordered. "I'm Detective Creighton of the New York Police Department. You picked the wrong whore this time, Jack the Ripper!"
Jack glanced at the prostitute, who looked stunned and perhaps relieved at same time. He glared at the policemen surrounding him. He figured that, at best, he might be able to cut the throat of one of the bastards, but likely at the cost of his own life.
It was a chance Jack wasn't willing to take. He dropped the knife and was quickly tackled to the ground.
He promised himself there would come another day when his self-appointed mission could resume.
* * *
Geoffrey McLean watched as his client entered the room in manacles and leg irons. He thought Jack looked gaunt and weary in drab jail attire. His eyes were cold and black like soot.
Geoffrey gulped, taking some comfort in the guard standing nearby. Nevertheless he wanted to confer with his client privately while addressing some very serious charges.
"Leave us," Geoffrey told the guard.
The guard frowned. "Are you sure? The mad doctor is a dangerous man. Even to you, counselor—"
"You heard me!" Geoffrey bravely watched the guard depart; then turned to his client across the table. "How are you being treated?"
Jack flashed him a cynical look. "What do you think? No one in here is treated like a human being."
"I can speak to someone about that."
"Save your breath. When do I get out of here?"
Geoffrey used a dirty handkerchief to wipe his brow. "I'm doing the best I can, Jack. But you've been accused of murdering five prostitutes. Bail may be hard to come by."
Jack slammed a fist down so hard on the table that it rattled, in the process flustering his attorney. "I'm paying you good money, McLean, and I expect you to earn it!" He peered at him. "I don't belong in a hell hole with these indigents, rapists, and thieves."
Geoffrey could feel his armpits dripping with perspiration. He made eye contact. "I have to know this, Jack—are you guilty of the charges?"
Jack considered playing innocent, but had second thoughts. He bared his teeth. "Is there any use denying it? Yes, I killed them all. Whores and sluts deserve to die. They live only to corrupt men with their indecency and harlotry."
Geoffrey could scarcely believe what he was hearing. This was not the same Jack Barlow he knew. The callousness with which Jack confessed was both shocking and abominable. The man actually looked and sounded like a maniac. But was he mad?
"For heaven's sake, you're a doctor, Jack," he said incredulously. "You're supposed to save lives, not take them."
"Spare me the lecture in ethics and morality." Jack narrowed his eyes at the attorney. "You know the meaning of neither. I did what needed to be done."
It was clear to Geoffrey that he was no longer talking to a competent man. Yet he was still his attorney and, therefore, bound to help him any way he could.
"Listen to me, Jack... If you plead insanity, then—"
A vein bulged in Jack's temple. "Never! I'll be damned if I spend the rest of my days in an asylum for lunatics." He shot to his feet and stared contemptuously at the attorney. "Do what you have to do to get me out of here. I'll make it more than worth your while."
"I'll see what I can do," Geoffrey said. "But you must know that if you're found guilty you could be sent to the gallows."
Jack didn't flinch. "I'd rather die than spend the rest of my life rotting away behind bars."
He watched as Geoffrey signaled the guard. Jack sensed the lawyer could not be counted on to free him of this miserable incarceration. He was just another person who would betray his trust.
Much like the father he never knew.
And the mother Jack would just as soon forget.
Just as he had those whores whose bodies he'd dissected.
To hell with them all.
Jack had learned early in life that the only person he could count on through thick and thin was himself.
Would that be enough this time?
The next day, Jack appeared for his arraignment. Bail was denied.
His trial was set to begin next week.
If Jack had his way, that day would never come.
* * *
Behind silver spectacles, the court appointed psychiatrist, Zachary Tomlinson, observed and listened with astonishment as the accused—Dr. Jackson Barlow—recounted the horrors of his killing spree with utter calm, poise, and detachment. It was up to Tomlinson to declare the doctor certifiably insane. The psychiatrist saw no reason to doubt this, while going through the motions of what he saw as a perfect case study.
Barlow was the classic psychopath with child sexual abuse a strong underlying factor. Tomlinson had read case studies of other doctors who had gone mad and tu
rned into killers, often with a pathological fixation on certain people.
Or, in this instance, a certain type of person. Prostitutes.
But he also believed that Jackson Barlow possessed superior intelligence and was capable of expressing himself in spite of the monster he had become.
Though the suspect remained handcuffed, Tomlinson asked for the shackles to be removed, feeling no need to fear a man who was obviously broken and perhaps relieved that his identity as Jack the Ripper had been revealed. A guard was just outside the door, if needed.
"Let's talk a bit about your mother," Tomlinson said as he took a cursory glance at the prisoner's file. "I see she raised you by herself..."
"My mother was a whore," Jack said bluntly, as much for impact as what he believed to be the hard truth. "She spent most of her wretched life horizontally with men on top of her."
He stared icily at the psychiatrist who returned a look that said he pitied Jack.
He didn't want the doctor's pity. It would be better directed towards the harlots who made men like him do what they did.
But Jack was far more interested in Zachary Tomlinson himself. The man was close to his age, height, and size, and could have almost passed for Jack had their situations been reversed.
These physical similarities did not go unnoticed by the psychiatrist. Indeed, for but a moment, Tomlinson could almost envision himself in a role reversal with Jackson Barlow. The thought that, in theory, he could have been the evil killer and Barlow given the task of deciding his mental fitness caused a shiver to run up and down Tomlinson's spine.
Tomlinson gathered himself. "Is the hatred you feel for your mother the reason you chose to cut up prostitutes?"
Jack's brow furrowed. "No. I mutilated and murdered whores because they were corrupting men with their indecency and harlotry."
"And did you feel it was incumbent upon you to rid society of this scourge?"
Jack was still amazed at the uncanny resemblance between them as they went through a test of wills. It was as if fate had intervened in this most unfortunate predicament that Jack had gotten himself into.
He noticed that the guard only peered into the small door window every five minutes or so. It was just enough time to do what Jack needed to. He began manipulating his wrists to relieve him of the handcuffs.
"In a manner of speaking," he told the psychiatrist. "Only I'm afraid it's not quite as simple as that. Killing whores gives me great satisfaction. However, my mother would tell me—if she was she still alive—that society is to blame for creating people like her."
Tomlinson raised a brow. "Do you agree?"
"How could I disagree with my own mother?" Jack felt the handcuffs slip off beneath the table.
"I think I understand," Tomlinson said.
"I seriously doubt you do, doctor." Jack suddenly hoisted to his feet and wrapped his arm tightly around Tomlinson's neck, rendering him unconscious almost immediately. Then he snapped the doctor's neck.
Jack quickly changed clothes with the psychiatrist, completing the transformation by putting on his glasses.
After dragging the dead doctor to the other chair, Jack positioned him to make it look like he had fallen asleep; and forced the handcuffs onto his wrists.
Jack sat in Tomlinson's chair and felt a bit nervous. He sucked in a deep breath before calling for the guard.
The guard unlocked the door and came in. "What is it?" He glanced at Jack; then set his sights on the prisoner, who was slumped over.
"I was questioning the prisoner, when all of a sudden he grabbed his chest," Jack said. "I suspect he might have had a heart attack."
The guard raced to the prisoner, and listened for a heartbeat. "I think he's dead."
"That may not be the case," Jack told him. "I suggest you go get help. We wouldn't want the so-called Ripper to get off this easily if there's a chance he could be brought back to life to stand trial—"
Jack watched with amusement as the guard sprinted past him, leaving the door open. He followed him without suspicion as others rushed to help the dead psychiatrist.
Posing as Zachary Tomlinson, Jack was easily able to slip out of the jail.
By the time the authorities figured out the real identity of the victim, it was too late.
Jack had escaped.
* * *
Jack took a hansom cab to the address he had found amongst the personal papers of the psychiatrist. Zachary Tomlinson lived in a brownstone on the city's Upper East Side. From the sparse furnishings and single setting at the dining table, it was obvious that Tomlinson was the sole occupant.
He moved briskly from room to room, taking what he could of value. Jack found a drawer in the study containing a bank book and a nominal amount of money. He took these, deciding that his best bet to avoid capture and continue his self-appointed mission was to leave the country.
That same day Jack boarded a steamship bound for England.
# # #
THE WRONG END OF A GUN BARREL
South Lake Union was the Seattle neighborhood I called home, located at the south tip of its namesake, Lake Union. Bounded by Interstate 5 on the east and Aurora Avenue on the west, it was in the midst of an economic redevelopment. So what else was new? Fortunately, there were still places to escape the realities of life through booze and broads.
I spent the last half hour at such a place on Aloha Street called Rusty's Bar and Grill. Dark and dreary, it was one of those retro dive bars that refused to apologize for turning its back on the present and it also offered cheap cocktails.
The décor was fashionably outdated and underwhelming with garage sale variety stools and tables and framed photographs of city landmarks. A jukebox in the corner was playing B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone." There was a worn out pool table nearby with two men playing in hopes of impressing a dame who couldn't decide which one of them she wanted to take home.
I sat by my lonesome inhaling the stale odor of cigarette smoke that was engrained in the walls. Fresh off a bitter divorce and not looking for any company of the female persuasion, I was content to finish off my mug of beer and call it a night.
That was before she walked in.
A cross between Marilyn Monroe and Charlize Theron, her alabaster complexion lit up the place. Short golden blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face that featured full ruby lips. Tall, with plenty of curves in a tight red dress, and three-inch heels, she definitely caught my attention.
She wore dark shades and seemed to be scanning the place as if searching for a reason to stay.
When she sat down at the table next to mine, I wondered if this was my lucky day.
I didn't wait to find out.
"Buy the lady a drink?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Sure, why not?"
I smiled and slid over to her table. "What's your pleasure?"
"Gin and tonic."
I flagged down a barmaid and ordered two cocktails. "You're new here," I said to the gorgeous gal beside me.
"I've been around," she said coyly.
"I think I'd remember if you had."
"That's sweet."
I've never been known for my sweetness, but I wasn't going to complain. "By the way, I'm James."
"Hi, James." She stuck out a small hand with long, polished nails. "Gabriella."
I shook her soft hand and didn't want to stop there.
"Anyone ever tell you that you look like...um, what's that good-looking actor's name?"
As far as I was concerned, any tall, good-looking, dark-haired actor could fit the bill. "Yeah, I get that all the time," I said.
Gabriella smiled and left it at that.
The drinks came and I stayed focused on the object of my interest.
"Why don't you tell me something about yourself," I suggested.
She removed her glasses, revealing eyes that were sexy pools of ocean blue. "What do you want to know?"
Everything came to mind, but something told me that might take more time than she had.
So I cut to the chase.
"How about how you ended up here with me?"
She laughed. "Don't sell yourself short."
"I never do."
"Good." She sipped her drink, her lips lingering on the rim of the glass for a moment. "I'm married."
"Where's your husband?"
"Does it matter?"
I wasn't necessarily looking to step into another man's shoes, but wasn't against it either. "No, not in my book."
She looked relieved. Or maybe a bit nervous. I couldn't be sure.
"He's home right now, probably wondering where I am," she said.
"Too bad for him."
"He's not very nice when he's angry."
"So why make him angry?"
"Why not?" She widened those big baby blues. "Sometimes a girl just wants to have fun."
I grinned. "So does a guy."
Gabriella licked the gin off her lips. "You probably have a wife and kids at home."
"Not quite," I said. "She's an ex and has full custody of the kids. So I'm on my own."
She gave me a dazzling smile. "Doesn't have to be that way."
"Oh...?"
"Maybe we can have fun together?"
"Maybe we can."
The smile left her pretty face. "This isn't a good place to talk."
The conversation seemed to be working fine for me up to that point. "You have a better place in mind?"
"Meet me tomorrow night."
I wondered if I could wait that long. "When and where?"
"Denny Park at seven—near the play area."
"I'll be there."
She smiled again. "See you then."
Gabriella put on her shades, then got up and left.
I wanted to follow her, but decided not to. I went home by myself to an apartment I rented on North Yale Street. It was a studio and a big step down from the house my ex walked away with in the divorce settlement.
But at least I had a roof over my head and a bed to climb into. I would've preferred to do so with Gabriella, but that would have to wait for another day. I put my head on the pillow and counted down the minutes till I could see her again.
* * *
Denny Park was Seattle's oldest park and a cornerstone of South Lake Union. Once a cemetery, it has undergone extensive renovations over the years and given people a place to hang out and hope muggers looked the other way.
EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder Page 6
