Lara inhaled deeply on a cigarette before throwing it to the ground and crushing it below her stiletto heel. She saw a young man approaching. Young and handsome. Wearing an expensive suit. Lara stepped out and flashed the man her naughtiest smile. The man in the expensive suit simply looked at her in disgust as he passed by.
As Lara ducked back into the alley, she was once again aware of footsteps. This time, they seemed to be coming from behind. Surprised, Lara turned. She was even more surprised to discover a top hat and dark, old-fashioned overcoat moving towards her. The outfit seemed out of place. Like something from the 1800's. Puzzling over this, Lara was seized with shock as a hand darted out at her. She tried to scream, but the hand quickly took a firm grasp over her mouth. She felt herself being spun backwards. Her back was pressed against the man's chest. The last thing Lara saw was a long, sharp knife. Then she felt it being pulled across her neck...
> > > > > >
"It seems right up your alley, doc," said Jesse, throwing the flyer down on the table in front of him. Jesse Travis was a young man with a pleasant face but a meager physique. His head was covered in a mass of untidy blonde hair. Certainly, this young man could be identified as a typical Californian, but no one would guess by looking at him that he was one of the nation's most skilled surgeons, a varitable prodigy.
The centerpoint of the flyer was a dark figure in a long, black overcoat, a foreboding top hat seemingly floating on the top of his head and a blood-stained knife at his side. Blood red lettering proclaimed: "Saucy Jack is back at the Los Angeles Museum of Science and History."
Lt. Steve Sloan, a muscular man with dark hair hanging down to his broad shoulders, pushed the flyer away.
"Don't encourage him, Jesse."
"It's a traveling exhibit," explained Jesse. "It's stopping in L.A. for about a week. An exhibition on Victorian Era crime."
"If dad wants Victorian Era crime," said Steve, "he can stick to reading his Sherlock Holmes collection."
"I've already read them all," said Dr. Mark Sloan, Chief of Internal Medicine for Community General Hospital. The three were sipping lemonades at the beach house Mark owned with Steve, his son.
"You know I love you, dad," said Steve, "but your fascination with violence scares me sometimes."
"I am not fascinated with violence," said Mark, stroking his thick, snow white mustache.
"Then explain your amateur interest in every crime committed in L.A. for the past nine years!" insisted Steve. "It's bad enough you have to stick your nose into every murder I investigate. You have a career to think about without looking into murders committed a hundred years ago."
Mark smiled. He knew his son was speaking a little bit more harshly than he really meant. Steve in fact enjoyed having his father aid in his investigations, and he respected his astute insight.
"We are pretty busy at the hospital, Jesse," Mark agreed.
"We can't work all the time," said the young surgeon. "I just thought you could use a break. Considering your interest in crime and investigation, I thought we could all go and see the exhibit. Give us something to do for relaxation."
Mark picked up the flyer and studied it. At the bottom of the promo were the words: "Exhibit directed by Prof. Katherine Jasmine."
> > > > > >
"Professor Katherine Jasmine," repeated Dr. Allan Jefferson, the head curator of the Los Angeles Museum of Science and History. Jefferson was a tall man with a neatly trimmed goatee and neatly combed red hair. In fact, everything about the curator was neat, from his strictly business suit and tie down to the military shine on his shoes. He strode across his office with a distinctive air of authority.
"The exhibit has been a wonderful success, bringing in a huge profit at every stop," replied Dr. Henry Thompson, a meek little man who exuded not even the slightest air of authority as he squirmed in front of his superior.
"Did you take into account the character of this Professor Katherine Jasmine when you invited her here?"
"Well, sir..."
"There are rumors of mental unhealthiness. The woman has devoted her entire life to the study of criminals."
"I have met Prof. Jasmine before," said Thompson. "I can assure you..."
"There are rumors that she is unstable," Jefferson interrupted rudely. "Unhinged. Even that she shows signs of hysteria and dare I say even an inclination towards the sociopathic." He stopped his march and looked his subordinate in the eye. "Did you hear about what happened during one of her earlier exhibitions?"
"Yes, I did, sir," started Thompson, "but..."
"It was an exhibition on modern American serial killers," Jefferson interrupted again. "Every town the exhibit stopped in, a murder was committed. Prof. Jasmine was a chief suspect."
"According to the tabloids," said Thompson. Before Jefferson could
interrupt again, Thompson rose and returned his icy gaze. "The killings were found to be the work of a psychopath who was stalking Prof. Jasmine. Prof. Katherine Jasmine is a brilliant scholar. I will vouch for that personally. I give you my guarantee that all of the rumors about her are false."
"They'd better be," said Jefferson. "If anything goes wrong during this exhibit, I'm holding you personally responsible."
> > > > > >
Prof. Katherine Jasmine was a woman about in her late 30's, with long, frizzy red hair and a thick pair of glasses. She presided over the exposition wing of the Los Angeles Museum of Science and History with pride and dignity, taking questions from and shaking hands with several excited museum patrons.
A few feet away stood Dr. Mark Sloan, looking with fascination at the section of the special exhibit dedicated to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The exhibit offered a small illustration of Sir Arthur's life, from creating the fictional character of Sherlock Holmes to being consulted by the police and various lawyers to offer his theories on real-life crime. Mark was reminded that Sir Arthur started his career as Dr. Doyle, a man in the same line of work as he was. Here was a man Mark could relate to.
"Dad," called Steve Sloan, "over here!"
Mark walked over to join Steve and Jesse. They were staring at the focal point of the entire exhibit. A plaque giving a summary of the section highlighted the tale of a string of murders involving several prostitutes in East London in 1888. Each young woman died at the hands of a madman known only as Jack the Ripper. The wall was lined with police sketches, newspaper articles, and even photographs of men Scotland Yard had considered suspects in the killings. Copies of the letters police and newspaper reporters had received from a man claiming to be the murderer were displayed as well. Mark couldn't help but shudder as he skimmed through them.
Standing in front of it all was a mannequin cleverly disguised in a dark overcoat and top hat, the collar skillfully shading were a face should have been. This was to represent the figure of the unknown killer that had terrorized Whitechapel so many years ago.
A tall, well dressed man standing nearby tripped, a pen dropping from his hands and rolling across the floor. Prof. Katherine Jasmine bent to pick it up, and then she turned and handed it back to the man.
"I'm sorry," said the man. "I'm not usually this clumsy." Placing
the pen in his suit pocket, he removed his pair of expensive leather gloves and extended his hand. "You must be Prof. Jasmine."
"I am," admitted the woman.
"You're Governor Heath Erco," said Mark, walking over casually.
"I am," admitted the governor. "And you're Dr. Mark Sloan. Now we're all properly introduced."
"You've heard of me?" said Mark.
"America's number one crime-solving doctor?" said Gov. Erco. "The way I understand it, our police forces would all be lost without you."
"I don't know about that," said Mark modestly. Then, moving closer to the governor, "At least, don't tell that to my son."
"What brings you here, governor?" said Steve, stepping forward, almost as if on cue. "You're up for re-election soon, aren't you?"
"That's true," said the governor. "I'm just trying to show how involved I am with this state. I've been touring California, taking in the sights, making all the stops..."
"Including a murder exhibition?"
"It certainly is qualifying as a tourist trap, don't you think?" said Erco, motioning at the crowd gathered across the exposition wing. "I'm supposed to stop in and make a cameo for the new Terminator movie tomorrow. But this is much more interesting. Did you know they never really found out who Jack the Ripper was?"
"Their methods were a little lacking then," said Steve. "Police investigation is much more effective these days. A modern-day Jack the Ripper could never hope to get so far without being detected."
"I wonder if that's really so," said Erco. He turned back to Mark. "I was planning on being a doctor myself once." "Really? Is that so?"
"Really," said Erco. "I was one of those lost souls who kept
switching his major in college. A little medicine. A little law. A little acting. It took me years to go into politics." He sighed. "Oh, well. It was nice to meet all of you." Then he shook hands with everyone once again and strolled off to another part of the exhibit.
A short man with a thick beard approached Katherine and extended his hand.
"Prof. Jasmine?" he said. "I'm Theodore Scott."
"Should I know you?" asked Katherine.
"Of course," said Mark, looking at Scott. "You're Teddy Scott, the
true crime novelist."
"And you're Mark Sloan," said Scott. "The crime solving doc. It's an
honor to meet you."
"I have to admit," said Mark, "I'm a big fan of your books."
"It's always an honor to meet a fan," said Scott, shaking hands with the doctor.
"So what brings you here?" asked Mark. "Working on another book?"
"Actually, yes," said Scott. "A cold case file, so this should be
something new for me. In fact, a case that's over 100 years cold. I'm working on the Ripper killings."
"You think you could tell us who Jack the Ripper really was, then?" asked Steve, his voice interested yet dead calm, as usual.
"I don't know exactly who yet," said Scott. "But I've come up with a new angle, and that's all that's necessary to start work on a crime novel. A new angle to research."
"And what is that?" asked Steve.
"The why," responded Scott. "Just think about it. After all these years, I just might end up the man who uncovers the truth behind the Ripper murders. In a sense, justice can finally be done."
"I don't know if it matters if justice was ever done," said Mark meaningfully. "I think all that matters is that the Ripper can no longer hurt anyone."
> > > > > >
For Officer Kevin Jay, the morning started off like any other. He was simply making his usual rounds when he got out of his squad car and walked to a nearby trash reciptical to deposit his empty coffee cup. When he spotted the puddle of dried blood on the concrete nearby, a sudden feeling in his gut urged him to check out the opening of the alley way. Stepping into the alley, Jay believed he saw a human hand sticking out from a dark corner. Taking out his small flashlight and shining it in that corner, Jay felt an overpowering urge to vomit. He covered his mouth, desperate to keep everything in, and took a step towards the body. Or at least what was left of it...
> > > > > >
Steve Sloan had no trouble getting into the staff lounge at Community General Hospital. Once there, he poured himself a glass of strong coffee and, taking a huge swallow of it, sat down, his face displaying obvious repulsion and confusion.
"Tough case, lieutenant?" asked Dr. Amanda Bentley. Amanda was a mutual friend of both Steve and his father. A strong, attractive African- American woman, Amanda was chief pathologist of Community General and an adjunct county medical examiner.
"A corpse was found stuffed in the corner of an alleyway this morning," explained Steve. "A young woman. She had been dead for at least two days."
Jesse took a deep, horrified breath.
"How was she killed?" asked the young doctor.
"It's hard to say now," said Steve. "There was a lot of blood. Everywhere. I don't even want to talk about it."
Everyone looked over at Amanda.
"Don't worry about me," said Amanda. "My job is gruesome. Whatever happened, I can take it."
"I just don't think I can," said Steve. "I've never seen anything quite like this before. Her throat was sliced open. She'd been cut open in many other places as well." He turned frightened eyes to Jesse and his father, who had been sitting in the lounge sipping a cup of hot tea. "It looks just like one of those Ripper killings."
> > > > > >
A few hours later, Amanda re-entered the lounge holding a file of papers.
"The autopsy results are just what you thought they would be, Steve," said Amanda, handing the file to the lieutenant. "Kidney, lungs, heart, etc. They've all been removed." She looked at Mark. "They've all been removed with what I would call surgical accuracy."
"Just like in the Ripper killings," said Mark.
"Find anything else interesting?" asked Steve.
"Nothing, really," said Amanda. "She was killed when her throat was sliced open. An extremely long and sharp knife was used."
"A machete, maybe?"
"Or a carving knife. Or a long scalpel," replied Amanda. "It's hard
to say exactly what. It's hard to determine much else. Looking at the condition of the internal organs usually tell a lot about the victims, but..." "But it's kind of hard when the internal organs aren't there," finished Steve. "Well, we know that she was a smoker. We found a half-empty pack of Major Horses in her purse, and the other half in ashes scattered across the alley." "Who was she?" asked Mark. "Lara Marie Sampson," replied Steve. "She had a criminal record, mainly for prostitution." "A hooker," said Amanda. "Just like in the Jack the Ripper case," said Steve. "Did you find anything else at the scene?" Mark asked his son.
"Not a whole lot," said Steve reluctantly. "There was still cash in
her purse. Doesn't look like she was robbed. Not that she had much to steal. Besides that, it was all cosmetics in her purse. Of course, she was lying in garbage. She was found in an alley, after all."
"But nothing in particular stuck out?" said Mark.
"Just a flyer like Jesse gave us," said Steve. "For the crime exhibit at the museum." He paused suddenly, a look of perplexity making its way across his face. "Now that I think of it, there was something else in her purse. The book of matches she used to light her cigarettes. It was from the café' at the museum."
> > > > > >
The killer stood beneath his top hat, peering through the dark of the Californian night. He could see his breath as he blew through the cold, night air. Not the fog of 1888 London, but it would have to do. Still amusing himself by blowing steam, he crept along the brick walls by the rear entrance of an L.A. bar. Reaching for the pocket of his long overcoat, he felt the handle of his weapon of choice.
Venturing down another back road, the killer peered out of the darkness towards the light of a street lamp. Standing just beside the lamp post was a woman with long, curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was dressed in a brightly colored halter top and hot pants, and she was wearing as much make-up as any circus clown, making her instantly recognizable as a woman of the streets. Instantly recognizable as another victim for Jack the Ripper.
The killer approached her slowly. The woman turned, startled, but with undeniable interest. The killer beckoned her soothingly. The blonde joined him in the alley way. Obviously, she hadn't grasped the significance of what had happened to her colleague.
Leading her as far as he could into the dark alleyway, the killer grabbed the woman by the shoulders and pinned her firmly against a brick wall. She tried to scream, but the killer placed a firm hand against her mouth. He slammed her head against the brick, just hard enough so she would feel pain. Then he brought out the knife.
Blood splattered against the leather apron the killer had hung on the outside of his overcoat. He wiped his gloves and knife against the apron. Then he lifted it to admire the color.
> > > > > >
The police sergeant looked with indignance and curiosity at the elderly doctor who was scrutinizing the crime scene.
"Maybe he can see something we can't," explained Steve. As always, he was a little embarrassed. He wasn't embarrassed of his father's deductive skills. He wasn't even jealous of his father's ability to spot clues he couldn't. He just felt awkward explaining why his father should always be welcomed at crime scenes.
Mark tried not to look too long at the body. Even with the huge amount of violence he had been exposed to, both at the hospital and as an unofficial police consultant, nothing prepared him for the stomach-churning scene of what a madman 100 years ago had called a "ripping."
"Rebecca Down," said Steve. "Another hooker." The sergeant circled an area of the brick wall with his fingertip.
"Looks like our boy has a sick sense of humor," said the sergeant.
Mark looked up to the point where Steve and the sergeant were directing their attention. Written out in blood were the sprawling letters, "From Hell."
"Hey, look at this," said Steve, gesturing down at something next to the body. "Have all the photographs been taken over here yet?" The sergeant nodded gravely. Steve bent over and lifted a thin ink pen. The pen bore the engraving: "LAMOSAH - Los Angeles Museum of Science and History."
> > > > > >
Steve stumbled into BBQ Bob's hoping for some relaxation. A lot of other cops counted on second jobs for relaxation. Being part owner of a failing restaurant might not have counted, but compared to the action and violence of police work, Steve definitely considered it restful. Usually. Today, he walked to the front counter, looked at the white board proclaiming the day's special, and stared, mortified. "Jesse!" Steve cried to his partner. "What is this?" "That?" asked Jesse. "That's our special of the day. It's a barbecue sandwich with plenty of sauce and a side order of old fashioned French fries served in rolled up newspaper like..." "I don't care what it is!" declared Steve. "What I'd like to know is what are you thinking? 'The Saucy Jack'?" "The murders are in all of the papers and tabloids," explained Jesse. "Doubled with the exhibit, it's great publicity. I just thought..." Steve just hung his head and shook it in exasperation.
Followed by his father, Steve sat down in a booth next to Amanda, who was already waiting for them. "How's the investigation coming?" "There's not a whole lot we can do," admitted Steve. "We're taking out all of the files on the victims. We need to try and track down the girls' pimps, see if they know anything. Other than that, we need to use crimestoppers and organizations like that. See if we can get any sort of eye witness to come forward." "No suspects yet?" asked Amanda "We know the kind of man we're looking for," replied Steve.
"And that is...?"
"A psycho," replied the detective. "A man who thinks he's Jack the
Ripper, surviving for over 100 years. Or someone who idolizes old serial killers. Someone with a bizarre fascination for murder. Whoever he is..."
"Or she is," insisted Mark.
"Huh?"
"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," explained Mark. "When asked his opinion of the Jack the Ripper murders back in 1888, he proposed the theory that the Ripper was actually a woman. He said that way it was easier for the murderer to get close to her victims without making them uncomfortable."
"It's funny you should mention that, dad," said Steve. "Remember that pen we found by Rebbecca Down's body? We found fingerprints on them. Guess who they belong to?"
"I'm stumped," Amanda proclaimed, after a brief moment of silence.
"As am I," Mark admitted.
"Prof. Katherine Jasmine," said Steve slowly. "The director of the exhibit. I plan on questioning her about it tomorrow. You gonna come too, dad?"
"I will," said Mark. "But first things first. Let's eat. I can't think on an empty stomach." He raised his head and shouted, "I'll take the special of the day, Jesse."
"One Saucy Jack comin' right up, doc," said Jesse. As he headed back to the kitchen, he was interrupted by the sound of someone struggling with the door to the diner. It finally opened with the jangle of a bell, and a young woman in a dirty and skimpy outfit entered BBQ Bob's and collapsed to the floor, taking all the diners aghast. Jesse ran up to her and noticed the bruises and blood on her clothes. Then the girl slowly lifted a blood- stained hand from the side of her neck.
"Suddenly, I'm not so hungry," Mark muttered.
> > > > > >
Jesse straightened up from his position above the bruised and scraped young woman. She was actually very beautiful, with silky maple brown hair and flirtatious green eyes. Jesse admired her, even though her "outfit" suggested a profession no one would be proud of.
Pushing through the privacy curtain, Jesse stood next to Steve Sloan,
"What's the diagnosis?" asked Steve.
"Looks like she's been beaten," replied Jesse. "Must have been one heck of a struggle. She's lucky to have made it out alive. It looks like a really sharp object was pressed against her neck."
"I'm willing to bet that really sharp object was a knife," said Steve. He didn't really have to say anything. Jesse already had his suspicions about what had happened to the young girl.
Steve and Jesse pushed through to the other side of the curtain.
"This is Lt. Steve Sloan," said Jesse. "He's with the LAPD."
"I'd like to ask you a few questions, Miss...?"
"Nunya," said the girl.
"Nunya what?" asked Steve.
"Nunya Business." Steve just rolled his eyes.
"Look, ma'am," he said. "And I use the term 'ma'am' loosely. I need to know what happened to you. It may figure into a major homicide investigation."
"It doesn't," the woman replied simply.
"Look, I..."
"If you really need to know," said the woman, "I was walking through an alley. I tripped on a tin garbage can and must have scraped my neck on the rim. Can I rest now?" Steve looked over at Jesse, who just shrugged his shoulders.
"O.K.," said Steve. "But if you decide to change your story..."
"Don't worry, detective," said the woman coldly. "I won't."
> > > > > >
Steve was anxious as he walked alongside his father and Jesse in the hallway of Community General.
"She looks like she was supposed to be our Ripper's next victim," said Steve.
"Did you question her about it?" asked Mark.
"I tried," said Steve. "But she denies it, and I can't think of a way to prove she's lying."
"So, what are we going to do now?" asked Jesse.
"I think we're going to have to just let her go," replied Mark.
"I can't let that happen," said Steve. "The Ripper tried to kill her once. He may try again. We can't afford to lose the most important eye witness we may have so far. I'm putting her under police protection."
"Can you just do that?" asked Jesse. "She doesn't seem like she would be too happy to be placed in police HQ."
"We could try our place," offered Mark.
"That will look great," groaned Steve. "A respectable policeman and doctor bringing an L.A. hooker into their home." "I'll take her," said Jesse, perhaps a bit too excitedly. "A friend of mine is letting me house-sit for him while he's on business in the Midwest this week. There's a lot of space there. And I've got some time off. I could watch her for you." Mark and Steve both looked at Jesse. The young doctor could be a bit brash at times, but he was someone they both trusted. If he said he would keep their witness safe, she'd be safe. "O.K.," said Steve finally. "If it's all right with her." As Jesse walked away, Mark commented, "In the meantime, there's one more woman we can talk to."
> > > > > >
Prof. Katherine Jasmine shifted her nervous gaze between the two Sloans. "Recognize this?" asked Steve, holding the LAMOSAH pen out in front of him. Katherine reached out to take the pen from him, but Steve pulled it back. "It's a complimentary museum pen," said Katherine. "They're given out for free at the museum entrance. Anyone who has come through those museum doors could have one." "And you've taken one?" asked Mark. Katherine, in answer, reached into her suit jacket and brought out a similar pen. "This one has your fingerprints on it," said Steve, referring to the pen he was holding. "It was found at the scene of a homicide. How do you explain that?" "I can't," said Katherine. "But I can swear to you that this pen is the only one I have ever taken." She referred to the pen she was holding. She then placed it back in her pocket.
"You can swear every swear in the book," said Steve. "That still
doesn't mean you're telling the truth. Can you tell me anything about the Psycho Sweetheart murders?"
"The psycho what?" asked Mark.
"The Psycho Sweetheart murders," replied Steve. "Psycho Sweethearts was the twisted title Prof. Jasmine came up with for her exhibition on modern day American murderers a couple of years ago. Every town the exhibit stopped in, someone died a gruesome death."
"I remember it well," said Katherine. "Every super market tabloid pointed to me as the killer. I still haven't been able to loose the bad rep."
"I've seen all of the files on the murders," said Steve. "It seems odd to me. When you're in a town, weird murders happen. First, with the Psycho Sweethearts, and now with Old England Crime."
"If you've seen all of the files," said Katherine coldly, "then you are aware the Psycho Sweetheart murderer was finally caught. I gave the police several letters that were sent to me. They were the most twisted love letters I'd ever received. Apparently, I had a stalker who thought mutilating innocent people would impress me. The police caught him when he tried to attack me, and I'd thank you to not remind me of that time again."
"Do you mind if I ask you one more question?" said Mark politely.
"Go right ahead," replied Katherine.
"Why did you decide to bring the exhibit here?" asked Mark. "I mean, there are plenty of other museums in Los Angeles..."
"Dr. Henry Thompson," replied Katherine. "The assistant curator of the museum. We met before at another one of my exhibits. He personally invited me to bring my exhibit here."
"Thank you," said Mark. "I think we've heard enough."
> > > > > >
As Mark and Steve walked back through the museum, a short man in an unkempt beard caught Mark's eye.
"Teddy Scott?" he said, walking towards the man. "I'm Dr. Mark Sloan. We met here the other day."
"Of course," said Scott, once again shaking Mark's hand. "What can I do for you?"
"I was just a bit surprised to see you here," said Mark, "again."
"It's good research for my novel," said Scott. "Tragedy, these modern imitations. I think I might just change course and start writing about the L.A. Ripper instead of the Whitechapel one."
"You know, it just occurred to me that you might be considered a suspect in all of this," said Mark.
"Me?" Scott chortled. "Me, the L.A. Ripper?"
"Why not?" said Mark. "The killer is someone who obviously studied the original Jack the Ripper's methods very closely. And someone with a deep fascination for gruesome murders. That certainly sounds like you."
"Do you have any evidence to support this theory?" asked Scott.
"No," said Mark. "But I do think there's enough evidence to assume the killer is someone who viewed this exhibit."
"Then I'm no more a suspect than you are," said Scott. "You viewed this exhibit with me. And you have a well documented fascination with murder. And..." Scott paused for dramatic effect. "They used to think the Ripper was a doctor."
As Scott walked away, gears began to turn in Mark Sloan's brain. An idea was forming in the back of his head. What was it?
> > > > > >
The young girl looked around herself in amazement after Jesse allowed her entrance to one of his friend's many guest rooms. She looked at the ocean view, the bright wallpaper, the king-size bed, and then exclaimed, "This is the first time I've been in a room like this without getting paid for it." Jesse blushed a bit as the girl plopped down on the soft mattress.
"Well, if there's anything else you need, don't hesitate to ask," said Jesse cordially.
"You've done enough already," said the girl. "Thanks, Dr. Travis."
"Just call me Jesse," insisted the doctor. He walked backwards to keep his eyes on the beautiful brunette and collided with the door. Blushing even redder and grabbing the doorknob, Jesse asked, "So, when are you going to tell me your real name?"
"Maybe later," was all the girl would say.
> > > > > >
"What can I do for you, Dr. Sloan?" asked Henry Thompson, after proper introductions were made.
"I'm assisting the police in a homicide investigation," replied Mark. "How much do you know about Jack the Ripper?"
"He was a really scary guy that carried around a really big knife 100
years ago," replied Thompson. "Why?"
"The police have evidence that someone in this museum is responsible for two murders. Two murders made to look like they were committed by Jack the Ripper."
"And I'm a suspect," said the little man incredulously.
"I suppose I'm a suspect as well, then," said Allan Jefferson, entering from his adjoining office.
"Technically, everyone who has visited this museum is," said Mark.
"Don't waste your breath, doctor," said Jefferson. "The director of the exhibit is the woman you're looking for. I agree with Rudyard Kipling."
"What do you mean?" asked Mark.
"'The female of the species is always deadlier'," quoted Jefferson. "I had premonitions about inviting Prof. Jasmine here in the first place."
"And I...," started Thompson.
"Oh, shut up, fool!" barked Jefferson.
"The last time murders were committed involving one of Prof. Jasmine's
exhibits," said Mark, "a series of letters was involved. Has this museum been receiving any sort of letters?"
"As a matter of fact, we have," answered Thompson. "Mostly protest letters."
"Mainly from some sort of minister," said Jefferson. "A Pastor Timothy Caudwell. We can show you the letters if you think there absolutely necessary."
"They may very well be," replied Mark.
> > > > > >
Dr. Mark Sloan drove past a burger joint, coffee shop, and poster of Governor Heath Erco's smiling face before arriving at the Three Hills Christian Church of Los Angeles. Pastor Timothy Caudwell, a respectable man in his forties with a thick gray beard, met Mark as he was coming out of the church from his morning worship service.
"Can I help you?" asked the pastor.
Mark introduced himself and shook hands with Caudwell.
"I'm here to talk about the Old England Crime exhibit at the museum."
"Bah!" said Caudwell, his face twisting in disgust.
"I understand you wrote some nasty letters," said Mark.
"I certainly did," said Caudwell. "The exhibit can do nothing but glorify violence and encourage impressionable innocents to pursue the same sort of lifestyle as those being portrayed in the exhibition. And I told the museum so!"
"Two prostitutes have been murdered," said Mark. "Visitors of the exhibit are being implicated."
"I didn't visit the exhibit," said Caudwell. "I protested it."
"It occurred to me someone might commit these gruesome murders just to make those responsible for the exhibit look bad."
"You think I would butcher two innocent women to shut down a museum exhibit I was protesting?" said Caudwell, obviously offended.
"That depends on your opinion of what innocent is," said Mark. "There was some theory that Jack the Ripper was a preacher trying to purge Whitechapel of evil by murdering prostitutes."
"Let me show you something, Dr. Sloan," said Caudwell. He led Mark into the church and handed him a large photo album.
"These are pictures from a recent church outreach program," explained
Caudwell. "We specifically targeted women of the street. We provided them with any kind of service we could. Clothes, food, first aid. Anything to try to show them to an alternative lifestyle."
"I'm sorry if I offended you, pastor," said Mark. "You're a good man."
> > > > > >
"My name is Mary," said Jesse's houseguest, who was now wearing one of his old, baggy sweatshirts and a pair of jeans about a size too long for her. The outfit was much more respectable than the one she had been wearing when they first met. "Mary Anne Phillips. I'm a hooker. What more can I say?"
"I'm not here to judge," said Jesse. In fact, he had almost forgotten she was a prostitute. He had almost forgotten why he was sheltering her.
"I wanted to be a doctor," explained Mary. "In fact, that's why I'm doing this. I know it sounds hard to believe, but this is just a way to get through medical school."
"But there must be a better way...," started Jesse.
"I know," said Mary. "I could have my pick of any fast food joint to waitress in. But this pays better, even if it is slightly less legal." She smiled at him. There was something unusually sweet about her smile. Jesse felt a strange emotion in the pit of his stomach. Could he be falling in love with a prostitute?
> > > > > >
The killer stood in his dark corner, watching, waiting. He had a specific target in mind tonight. Making sure there was no one to spot him, he slunk across the street and headed down the next alley way. He would check every street corner in California if that's what it took.
His practices had been relatively successful. Except for the last one. The last one had escaped him. But he would learn from his mistakes. This time, his victim could not be allowed to walk.
His heart skipped a beat when he spotted her. The girl wasn't quite as pretty as he remembered, but apparently still in business. He brought the knife out early as he stepped toward her.
The girl was nervous. Understandable, considering all the publicity the newspapers had been giving the killer.
The girl looked over her shoulder. Startled, she ran for her life. The killer didn't even bother to look both ways. Cars swerved to a stop as he raced after his target.
The girl stopped and panted for breath. When she realized she was still being pursued, she began to race again. But she was in poor health, and it was hard for her to catch her breath. She was neck to neck with her killer. In desperation, she flung herself around a corner. Only to come face to face with a dead end.
Then, as the killer raised his face above his collar, she knew who he was.
> > > > > >
Mary Phillips woke up screaming.
"What's wrong?" asked Jesse, barging into the guest room. Mary rose from the bed, still wearing Jesse's sweat suit. Tears streamed down her face.
"I had a nightmare. An awful nightmare. About..." She began to choke on her tears.
"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Jesse soothingly.
"I think I'd better," said Mary, fighting back tears. "On the night you found me, I was attacked. This man... I don't know who he was. I thought he was just another client. But he was dressed strange. He was wearing this suit and coat like in movies I had seen. Movies about England in the last century. He even had this top hat. There was this apron, and it was all covered in blood. He grabbed me and put this knife against my neck. I remember seeing this fierce grin behind his beard. He had this ugly, menacing beard. And those eyes! I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth, so..." She took a deep breath. "I bit his hand. Hard. He grabbed me and we fought. I managed to run. I ran out into the open, and I didn't see him follow. But I still didn't stop running. Not until I made it into your restaurant."
Mary burst into tears again. Jesse put his arms around her and kissed her.
"It's all going to be O.K. now."
> > > > > >
Mark, Steve, and Amanda listened intently as Jesse recounted Mary's story to them. Mary was sleeping peacefully above them. Jesse had assured her that her nightmares would soon be ended.
"She said the killer had a beard," said Mark.
"That's how an eyewitness described the original Jack the Ripper as well," said Amanda.
"Dr. Allan Jefferson has a beard," said Steve. "And so does Teddy Scott."
"And so does Pastor Timothy Caudwell," added Mark.
"Who?" everyone else asked.
"Never mind," said Mark. "You know, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once said that a clever man has no use for a beard but to conceal his features."
"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Jesse.
"I'm not sure," said Mark, "yet."
A harsh tone sounded, and Steve reached for his cellular phone.
After he hung up, he announced, "They've found another hooker. There's been another ripping."
> > > > > >
Mark and Steve looked down at the woman's body.
"Her name was Regina Stevens," said Steve. "We've been trying to prove she's in this business for years."
"I don't think that will be necessary now," said Mark.
Steve's eyes caught something as he scanned the alley floor.
"An envelope," he cried. His expression became worried as he picked it up and studied it. "It's addressed to you, dad." He handed it to his father, careful not to leave fingerprints. With equal care, his father opened the envelope and read, "Dear Boss, It looks like Saucy Jack is indeed back. Ripping tarts is just as much fun today as it was in 1888. Catch me if you can. Yours, Jack."
Mark's face turned red with anger. The killer thought he was playing games. As a doctor, Mark knew better than to think of death as a game. He would do anything to make sure this killer lost.
"Who discovered the body?" asked Steve.
"You'll never believe it," said the sergeant.
> > > > > >
Governor Heath Erco stepped forward, his hands buried in the pockets of his brown leather jacket. Instead of shaking hands, he merely acknowledged the Sloans with a slight inclination of his head.
"This is terrible," said the governor. "To think that in my streets..."
"Excuse me, governor," said Steve, "but do you think you could tell us how you came to discover her?"
"Simple, really," said Erco. "I left my hotel for some fresh air. I was walking when I found this woman just lying here, soaked in her own blood. I won't allow this. Not in my state. Men like this must be caught. I'll see to it that this 'Ripper' is put behind bars. Detective, if there's anything I can do to help..."
"Thank you, governor," said Steve. "That will be all for now, sir."
> > > > > >
Amanda carried another file of papers to Mark and Steve. "Death caused by a slit throat," said Amanda. "And all the organs surgically removed, as with the other two girls." "It's not going to be long before the FBI makes itself involved with this," groaned Steve. "Considering it's a serial killer we're after." Mark frowned, knowing the animosity that existed between the LAPD and the FBI. "Anything else you can tell us about this girl, Amanda?" asked Mark. "There's one thing," said Amanda. "It looks to me like Regina Stevens was pregnant."
> > > > > >
Mark tried sleeping, but sleep just wasn't coming. All the details of the murders seemed so blurred. Yet, there were certain clues that stood out in Mark's mind. He just couldn't seem to put them together.
Mark turned on the TV to try and take his mind off the case. Instantly, the screen was filled with images of Heath Erco. His ad campaign for re-election was now in full force.
Then it hit him. Mark felt almost as if he had received a physical blow to the head. In excitement, he began making phone calls. He knew exactly how he could do a little research.
> > > > > >
"Hello," said Heath Erco, picking up the phone about an hour later.
"What can I do for you, Dr. Sloan?"
"Sorry to disturb you, governor," said Mark. "It's about Regina Stevens, the girl whose body you found."
"Yes," said Erco. "I believe I already told you I'd be willing to help any way I can."
"I know that," said Mark. "In all the excitement, I forgot that Regina had been a patient at the hospital recently. We were tidying up the room recently, and we found something she must have left. It's a package. Addressed to you. I thought you might want to take a look at it."
"All right, doctor. I'll be over in about an hour."
> > > > > >
Mark extended his hand to the governor as he came through his front door. The governor again declined and just inclined his head.
"Just let me say again what an honor it is for me to have the governor of the state of California in my house," said Mark. "Your package is on the kitchen counter."
Erco walked over and lifted a large manila envelope with his name roughly scribbled on the cover.
"Have you looked in this envelope by any chance, doctor?"
"I might have," Mark said simply, smiling mischievously. There was a boyish twinkle in his eyes.
"That's very unfortunate," said Erco, revealing a long, sharp knife. "I don't think Jack the Ripper ever had to kill a man."
"You don't have to, either," said Mark.
"I'm afraid I do have to," said Erco. "I can't take the risk of you having looked in that envelope."
"It would jeopardize your re-election," said Mark. "That's why you had to kill Regina Stevens. You had an affair with her. In fact, she was pregnant with your child. And she was black-mailing you with it."
"How did you figure it all out?" asked Gov. Erco.
"It was our conversation when we first met at the exhibit," explained Mark. "They used to believe Jack the Ripper was a surgeon. That's because he removed organs from the body so cleanly."
"But I'm not a surgeon," said Erco. "You're the surgeon."
"But you were going to be one," said Mark. "You told me yourself that
you studied medicine in college. But it's what you said after that really gave you away. You said you also studied to become an actor. This being California, I assumed you meant a movie actor. But I did a little research. You were a stage actor, several times involved with community theater. You were even in a period piece or two. And they let you keep pieces of your costume. Including the false beard you wore while you were committing the murders. That way, if there were any eyewitnesses, they still would not recognize your famous face.
"Then there was the pen. I remembered you dropping your pen while at the museum exhibit, and I remember Katherine Jasmine picking it up for you. That's why her fingerprints were found on the pen at the scene of the murder of Rebecca Down.
"And finally," he said, "there's your hand. If you put that knife down for just a second, I'd be happy as a doctor to tend to that bite." Erco looked at his hand. "You got that bite from Mary Phillips when you attacked her and she got away. Now, what I can't figure out is why you killed the other girls. Regina I could see, but did you not know who was black-mailing you?"
"I was beginning to think you were really clever," said Erco. "But you're missing the best part. I was worried that if I only killed Regina, the police would look hard for a motive. Even if they never suspected me, the information they uncovered would ruin my re-election campaign."
"But then you saw a flyer," said Mark. "An advertisement for the Old England Crime exhibition. And then a frightening idea came to you."
"Exactly," said Erco. "I could kill Regina and several of her colleagues the way Jack the Ripper did. It would all look like the work of a madman."
"But you are a madman," insisted Mark indignantly. "You'd have to be to cut those girls open like that."
"Nothing new for a medical student," said Erco. "Or for anyone who watches surgery on television. Or for you, Dr. Sloan, of all people. I don't get queasy easily. The only scary thing was to take a life. But I took care of that right away. Just with a simple cutting of the throat."
"You killed all those innocent girls," said Mark.
"They weren't innocent," said Erco. "They were hookers. The scum of society. As a doctor, you should think about all the kinds of diseases they carry. No one should mourn the death of a few cheap hookers."
"You have no right to judge!" cried Mark, his indignance growing.
"Their deaths don't matter," insisted Erco once again.
"What about the death of a highly respected doctor?" asked Mark. Erco raised the knife.
"Sorry, doctor," said the governor. "Nothing personal. This is all politics."
"Freeze!" cried Steve. He burst through the kitchen door, gun raised. Erco let his weapon drop.
"I expected you home a little sooner," said Mark, taking several deep breaths and feeling his own pulse.
"You'll never prove any of this," spat the governor of California.
"Then I'd love to see you explain why you tried to kill me over an empty manila envelope," said Mark, his grin more impish than ever.
> > > > > >
The governor's conviction, despite his high standing, was easily won. In his house was found a false beard and costume that Mary Phillips positively identified. The blood stained leather apron was found as well. Also helping the case was Mary's testimony, and Mary's dental records, which matched the tooth imprints in the governor's hand.
Mary kissed Jesse as she prepared to leave her safe house.
"Thanks for everything," she said.
"What's next?" asked Jesse.
"I'm getting out of here," said Mary. "Far from California. I'm going to try to find a job that's somewhat more honorable. And that really shouldn't be too hard."
"But do you really have to go so far?" asked Jesse sadly. "I mean, I was just getting to know you, and... And I love you, Mary. Stay with me."
Mary just laughed.
"Jesse, it would never work out. You're a doctor. I'm a hooker. You're sweet. And, well, I'm a hooker."
Mary Phillips kissed Jesse Travis one more time, smiled at him, and then disappeared from his life forever.
THE END