Bloodline

by Jill Jones

  “No, it does not. But it makes him more likely to try his hand at it than someone who never thinks about murder.”

  “Okay, okay.” Seeing the fire in her eyes, Jonathan decided he’d better back off and listen to what she had to say, if for no other reason than to calm her down.

  “I would put money on it that he’s a loner, a bully, that he frequents porn sites on the Internet and gets his jollies from cutting the tails off of cats.”

  “That’s the profile of a sexual killer?” Jonathan tried not to sound sarcastic.

  “Each case is different, of course,” Victoria said, pacing to the window and back. “But in almost every instance, the sexual killer is a young male with low self-esteem, usually the victim of some kind of abuse in a broken or dysfunctional home who blames the rest of the world for his unhappiness. Usually we find out that he has been dominated or controlled by someone during childhood, and believes himself to be a victim. Sometimes he will act out his anger by starting fires, or torturing animals or small children. Often he is attracted to pornography, although he hates women in real life.”

  “And you think this is an accurate profile of Billy Ray? What if he just wanted to copy the Ripper for notoriety?”

  Victoria came up short, her face livid. “You know it can’t be a totally accurate profile of Billy Ray. I don’t have anything to go on other than generalities. But he’s a suspect, and I intend to try to get enough information on him to see what he’s like. And when I do, I bet you’ll see he fits many of the above criteria. And yes,” she added, “he could have done it for the notoriety. To be somebody important. That’s another aspect of this type of personality.”

  “And he could not have done it at all,” Jonathan pressed. “It could be that he’s just a guy who gives you the creeps.”

  “Then where is he?”

  Victoria hadn’t been so pissed off since the day Lieutenant Grizzell had informed her family that the McLean police had come to a dead end in their investigation of her sister’s murder. They claimed to have followed up every lead, examined every clue, and had come up with nothing. It was as if the killer had vanished in thin air, they said, as if that explained their failure.

  Victoria knew better. She’d stayed in close contact with the police during the investigation, and she’d overheard rumors that Grizzell had “misplaced” certain materials vital to the case, to wit, the crime scene photos and virtually all the original notes made by the investigating team. He’d tried to recreate what he could, but if it ever became known in court that the records on the case were pieced together from memory, they wouldn’t be worth the paper they were printed on. In Victoria’s opinion, the idiot was an inept, unprofessional cop who called off the investigation to cover his butt.

  Although the case had never officially been closed, at Grizzell’s recommendation neither the local police nor the FBI had pursued it further. That alone was appalling enough, but worse had been her parents’ reaction to the decision. Her father, Lloyd Hamilton Thomas, was a powerful DC attorney and could have pulled all kinds of strings to keep the investigation alive, she believed. But her mother, Barbara Wentworth Thomas, had suffered terribly, not only from the death of her younger daughter, but also from the sensational press that followed the murder. Although Barbara was a pillar of society, she was also an extremely private person. Victoria guessed that in one respect, she was like her mother—both valued their privacy. Barbara had borne her grief in dignity within the intimate circle of their wealthy, longtime friends, but she could not bear the exposure of the media. When the police gave up, so did she.

  Fuming, Victoria had gone to her father, who had surprised her by standing by his wife’s wishes in the matter. “Victoria,” he’d said, and she could almost hear his patronizing tone of voice, “I’ve spoken at length with the Chief of Police, and with my contacts in the FBI. They are in agreement that unless some new evidence is uncovered, this killer may never be caught. I’ve been an attorney for nearly thirty years. I’ve seen a lot of things go down. Some good. Some bad. I hate this as much as you do, but the fact is, some people get away with murder.”

  Some people get away with murder.

  Over her dead body.

  That day, Victoria had moved out of her parents’ mansion and into a small apartment, and like Trey had done before her, dumped her plans for a career in law. She had another destination in mind.

  Her first stop was a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology, financed by her trust fund. After graduating, she applied to the FBI Academy, to her mother’s complete and utter horror. It simply wasn’t done by a well-bred young lady like herself.

  She didn’t give a flip about her breeding at that point. She wanted a resolution to Meghan’s death, and if the police and the FBI couldn’t or wouldn’t pursue the issue, then she would do it on her own, as soon as she learned how.

  Fascinated by the workings of the criminal mind, Victoria proved to be a talented and creative investigator. After three years in the field, she applied for and was accepted for special training as a profiler. After two more years under the mentorship of Mike Mosier in the NCAVC, she became a full-fledged member of the team that fought crime using psychology, instinct and intuition rather than relying solely on facts and figures.

  And she’d been damned good at it, so good that now at thirty-three, she was one of the most respected profilers in the business.

  But all that had not brought her one step closer to finding her sister’s killer. She had managed to access the agency’s files on the case and had examined every aspect of it. And she, like the rest, had arrived at a dead end.

  Even so, intuitively she knew they had all missed something. Killers didn’t just vanish into thin air. One day, she would have her answers. She would never give up until she learned the truth. And in the meantime, she would do everything in her power to stop other madmen from indulging their bloodlust.

  Victoria turned to Jonathan’s men. “Have you checked this morning’s flights to the States? Billy Ray may have hopped a plane. But if he didn’t, and if he’s the killer, I think we can expect more of what we got last night.”

  “We haven’t checked the airports yet,” one investigator replied, looking distressed. He shifted his glance to Jonathan. “Would you like us to do that, sir?”

  Jonathan glared at Victoria, and she knew he resented her usurping his authority. “We will conduct this search in an orderly manner,” he told them all, his voice dangerously calm. “You said we have spoken to everyone who was at the Sherlockian symposium?”

  “Everyone but these two,” his man confirmed.

  “What does the A list look like?”

  “The A list includes a fair number of symposium attendees, the group that went to the Jack the Ripper Pub last night,” he said, turning to a list made on a legal pad. “It originally included FitzSimmons, Roger Hammersmith, Janeece Fairchild, Lord and Lady Chastain, James Winston Delaney III, Chantal Dupres, Nicole St. Germaine, and…” he looked up apologetically, “yourselves.”

  “What about Billy Ray? I could have sworn I saw him outside the pub as we were entering the taxi.”

  “Could be. But nobody we’ve interviewed has mentioned seeing him there. Shall I add his name to the list?”

  “Absolutely,” Victoria interjected. “Jonathan saw him in the area, but he probably didn’t go inside.”

  “Who has been eliminated from that list?” Jonathan wanted to know.

  “Delaney and the French women, for starters,” he said, and Victoria thought she caught a glimpse of a grin straining from behind his straight face.

  “I know about them,” Jonathan said brusquely, obviously hiding his own embarrassment. “Who else?”

  “Lord and Lady Chastain vouched for one another, but that only slipped them to the B list. Ms. Fairchild placed a phone call from her room at half past eleven, which we checked out with the person she called. It was her mother, but we put her on the C list anyway.”

  Victoria laughed.
“It wasn’t Janeece. It wasn’t any of the women who were here. I guarantee it.”

  “Why do you say that?” Jonathan wanted to know.

  “Because psychotic women don’t kill like this. Men take their rage out against others, where women turn it inside. They become self-destructive. They’re likely to be alcoholic, drug addicts, or suicidal. That’s why I’m certain it wasn’t a woman.”

  “It wasn’t Roger Hammersmith either,” Jonathan said, looking at the yellow pad. Then he added dryly, “He’s over forty, over weight, and not alienated enough to fit the profile.”

  Victoria gritted her teeth at his patronizing tone. “Good call, Inspector. What list does he go on?”

  “C list him,” Jonathan instructed. “And ourselves as well. Technically, neither of us has a provable alibi.”

  “Inspector…” one of the men groaned.

  “Do it. We have a protocol for a reason.” Then he turned and began to pace. “Obviously the killer did return to the hotel, even if he wasn’t a guest. He came back to deliver his little present to Ms. Thomas’s door. That happened sometime before nine o’clock, since the bellhop who brought my note to Victoria around nine said he noticed the box sitting in the hallway at that time. I suspect it was dropped off much earlier, probably before dawn. Not many people are stirring that early in the morning, so there would be less chance of being seen. But surely somebody, the night clerk or a housekeeper maybe, might have noticed a man carrying a wrapped gift at that odd hour. Ask around and see if you can learn anything.” He gave his men descriptions of both FitzSimmons and Ray, turned to go, then paused.

  “Dust Billy Ray’s rooms for prints. And…he added with an upward twist of his lips, “check this morning’s flights out of both Heathrow and Gatwick. Let’s see if Mr. Ray has flown the coop.”

  Chapter Nine

  London

  Sixteenth August 1886

  Tonight I have reclaimed by beloved Prince after nearly a full year of wretched separation. I have been frantic to find some means of reestablishing the power over him I once enjoyed, but it has been difficult, as I am no longer welcome at Windsor.

  My scheme took months to devise, months I spent in mortal pain as my desire for the Prince went unrequited. I took to the hunt to ease the pain, and during one particularly savage foray, I recalled Eddy’s fascination with blood. It was then a plan began to form in my mind that I was certain would bring him back to me.

  I practiced for months before contacting Eddy. I wanted it to be the perfect hunt. I prowled the lanes and alleys of what was to become our new hunting grounds, the slums of Whitechapel, to learn the lay of the land, the pattern of the constables, and the ways of the whores. At last I felt ready to proceed. I arranged for a message to be delivered to him, asking for a tryst. My heart pounded as I waited at the appointed site, and the pain in my loins became almost unbearable. He had withheld himself from me for almost a year. Would he come?

  I was rewarded for both my boldness and my patience. He arrived exactly at the hour I had requested, and as I joined him in his carriage, he wept with joy to see me. He swore he had been held a virtual prisoner at court and was only able to meet me this evening through an accidental set of circumstances. I scolded him for his weakness and asked if he did not love me anymore. He vowed his love for me and begged forgiveness, saying he would do anything to prove his devotion. I told him I wanted to go for a hunt and made him promise he would go with me and ask no questions.

  His driver left us at the nearest underground station, and we took the train for Whitechapel. Eddy was clearly frightened that we would enter such a cesspool and confused that it was to be our hunting grounds. I wanted him to be afraid, for only then would he be in my power. He must learn to depend upon me once again and not succumb to the demands of those who do not love him as I do.

  We reached the stinking warren and slid into the deep shadows that hide the filth and disease of the place, and waited. Eddy still did not comprehend the nature of our hunt, and his innocence filled me with eager anticipation. I had planned the deed, practiced it in theory, but had never consummated it. Tonight, it would be completed. Tonight, a whore would die.

  We did not have to wait long. A raggedy woman came out of the Ten Bells across the street, wobbling drunkenly into the dark lane, singing pathetically. “That’s our prey,” I whispered to Eddy and was rewarded by a look of shock in his eyes. I slipped my dagger from its sheath inside the head of my cane. “Watch carefully,” I instructed him. The whore led me to a darkened courtyard, where she expected me to participate in the lewd business that was her trade. Instead, I raised my knife and brought it down swiftly, driving it into her neck. The fear in her eyes in that instant when she realized what was happening hardened my passion, and when her blood spurted from the gash in her neck, my body shuddered in ecstasy. She crumpled to the ground, another heap of garbage amongst the filth.

  With shaking hands, I wiped my dagger on her skirts and turned to see if Eddy had indeed followed to watch. He stood not ten yards from me, his eyes shining in fascination as he stared at the corpse, and I knew I had won him to me forever.

  He groomed his nails and reflected on the events of the weekend. It could not have been more perfect. A stroke of luck? He did not think so. Rather the summons of destiny. He had known the call would come but had not expected that it would be accompanied by such a perfect set of circumstances.

  Nor had he expected to feel such gratification in the deed. It returned his power. A thrill shuddered through him. He would never lose his power again. Never give it up to any woman. This was but the beginning. The whore was nothing but a token, a pawn in a greater stratagem than even the master ever dreamed. He laid the nail file aside and lit an old pipe, wishing the smoke weren’t so rough-edged. But the master had smoked this very pipe, and the time had come to employ everything of which his legacy was comprised.

  The game board was already forming in his mind. He had studied the master’s words and works carefully, and now at last he understood the shape and form of his destiny, the path of his power. He looked at the map that lay open before him and slowly, with great care, drew a symbol over the face of it and considered his next move.

  Jonathan obtained Billy Ray’s address in the States from the hotel computer, but since FitzSimmons had not been registered at the hotel, there was no address on file. After checking the telephone directory and coming up with no listing, he turned to Victoria. “Surely he had to give his address when he registered for the conference.”

  “Janeece will have it,” Victoria said.

  Using Jonathan’s police credentials, they obtained the number of her room from the front desk. Janeece Fairchild answered their knock with a strained look on her face. “You just caught me in time,” she said, ushering them into her room. “Your men said we should all just go home, and I must tell you, I think that’s a capital idea.” Her voice quavered. Behind her, clothes and symposium materials were strewn on the bed, and a suitcase stood open and ready to receive them. “This is just a dreadful business. It will be the ruin of our Sherlockian society, I fear.”

  From her records, Jonathan and Victoria gleaned FitzSimmons’s address, thanked their erstwhile hostess and left.

  “Where to now?” Victoria asked.

  “FitzSimmons said that Jack the Ripper was alive and well and living in Kent.” He held out the paper with the address on it. “He gave an address in Kent. I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any.”

  “You seriously think FitzSimmons is our Ripper copycat?”

  “It seems unlikely, for the reasons you gave earlier, but…” He shrugged.

  Jonathan waited outside Victoria’s room while she changed into more comfortable clothing and shoes. He wished she weren’t so stubborn and would stay sequestered in her room until they caught the killer. He didn’t really want to take her on this quest. It could be dangerous. But he had to remind himself, this woman had graduated from the FBI Academy. As feminine as
was the veneer, underneath she was hard as nails. And he expected she’d seen as much violence as he had, maybe more. From what he could discern, crime in the U.S. seemed more prevalent and more ruthless than in the U.K. Still, he was uneasy about taking a woman on what might turn out to be a dangerous mission.

  She came out dressed in crisply pressed jeans and an over-sized green chenille sweater. On her feet she wore sneakers and thick socks. “I know this isn’t very professional, but as you said, I’m not officially on the job. Is this okay? I’m about to freeze in this damp weather.”

  This was a different Victoria than either the primly suited professional or the alluringly gowned party-goer of yesterday. And in a way, more appealing than both. More real. More approachable.

  Damn.

  Jonathan huffed out a breath. “Fine. You look fine. Do you have a raincoat? The forecast is rather dismal, I’m afraid.”

  The drive to Kent was uneventful if soggy. Seated next to him in the small car, Victoria gazed out the window at the passing scenery.

  “Everything’s so green,” she observed. “I expected to see fall colors.”

  “You’d see that in the north. Here, it’s more maritime. Cool and wet, but not all that cold.” Jonathan glanced across at her and was annoyed at the distinctly sexual sensation that came over him. He’d thought he had rid himself of those feelings earlier when she’d lashed out at him like a mad hornet. Now the sting was gone, and the disturbing feelings were back.

  “Are you from around here?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied, but not offering further information. He didn’t particularly want to go into his background. Not that he was ashamed of it, but he knew she was from a different social strata than he was. A much loftier social strata. She hadn’t told him specifics about her background, but her style and demeanor spoke volumes. She was one class act.

  “Where then?”

  Jonathan kept his eye on the road, wishing she’d give it up. But she was an investigator. If she wanted this information, she’d get it sooner or later. “Manchester,” he said at last. “My father was a steel worker, until times got bad.”