Jonathon Redding
Chapter 5
She stared at him.
"Jack the Ripper?"
Jane nodded. "Jack the Ripper."
Lisbon stared at him a moment longer, then sat back in her chair, shaking her head and smirking. "Uh-No."
"Uh-Yeh." He tapped the sheet. "It's right there. Polly Nichols. Nicholas Polley. Annie Chapman. Chapman Aniston. Right there. In HB pencil."
Lisbon was still shaking her head. "Coincidence."
"There is no such thing as coincidence, Lisbon." Jane leaned forward now, fingers dancing in front of her as he spoke. "Polly Nichols died of two slashes to the throat. Her abdomen had been slashed open but no organs removed. Ten days later, Annie Chapman, again two slashes to the throat. Her intestines—"
"Let me guess – removed."
"And placed upon her shoulder. Her uterus was removed. Couldn't take that from Chapman Aniston, now could we? And while the testicles may be the equivalent organs, they're not nearly so dramatic as a uterus. So he takes his appendix instead."
Rigsby, who had been eating a noon-time breakfast, spit out his toast.
"I hate Rippers," said Cho.
"No Jane," said Lisbon adamantly. "This makes no sense."
"It makes complete sense."
"Alright, when you say it, it makes some sense, but it's, it's, it's such a stretch."
"You are bound by your conventionality, Lisbon. Let it go. It's surprising the freedom you'll find lurking out here."
Van Pelt cocked her head. "But why men?"
Jane looked at her.
"I mean, if you're trying to recreate the Ripper murders, why target men? The Ripper targeted women. Why change something so fundamental?"
"That's a very good question, Grace…" and Jane turned to look at Lisbon. He had a theory, she could tell.
"Well…" she prodded. "Go on, Inspector. Don't leave us in the dark."
He made a face. "Really, Lisbon? Here? I haven't even had a cup of tea…"
She leaned forward. "I'm. Going. To. Shoot. You." Every syllable loud and pronounced.
"You only have a Glock. The Kimber is all steel. It's the one all the SWATS use." He cocked his head like a puppy. "Please, Lisbon. There's too much ringing here. Can we go to the office? The real office around the corner? They probably have a kitchenette like we did, they probably have tea bags and a little blue cup…Maybe some carpet to muffle the sound?"
"Then you'll tell me what you're thinking?"
"Every single thing. And then some."
She glanced at her team. They were sharp and eager and hanging on her every word. She had never worked with better.
"Alright, let's go. We'll walk."
They all rose to their feet and the waitress was suddenly there, dropping the bill on the table in front.
Lisbon sighed. "Charge it to room 603."
"And no tip." Jane turned to the waitress. "You are a careless, thoughtless and unimaginative woman, and your idol is comf—"
Lisbon grabbed his arm and yanked him away, suddenly very grateful that more people didn't carry guns.
"""""""""""""""""""""
The CBI Field Office was located in the Office of the Attorney General, San Francisco, and was relatively modern compared to their HQ back home. There were glass and steel partitions, modern terrazzo floors and cool coloured walls that brought to mind impressions of big sky and water. Large framed photographs in black and white chronicled the history of the city, some dating back to before the quake, and the smiling faces of various political figures adorned the walls. The staff had been helpful, efficient and polite, a welcome change from Det. Sergeant Nelson and his stale donuts, and they found themselves a comfortable conference room to set up shop.
Grace was busy setting up her computers, Cho and Rigsby pinning up images from the two crime scenes and Jane – well, Jane was leaning back in a chair, eyes closed, feet up on the table, enjoying what was his first cup of tea in 24 hours. He had been crestfallen that there were no little blue cups, but he had settled on a sunny yellow one instead, resting it on his vested belly. Against his grey suit, it looked like a patch of sunshine. In fact, to Lisbon, he looked very much like a cat in the sun.
"Okay, Sherlock," she growled, only half pretending to be annoyed. "Anytime you're ready…"
"Hmm?"
"You have a theory?"
"Hush. I'm working on turning the ringing into a symphony…"
"You're full of bunk."
He smiled, eyes still closed.
"Grace, Cho, can you fill in the blanks while Mozart over there is composing?"
Cho turned around, shrugged. "All I know is what I've read, and most of that from fiction books."
Grace nodded. "And that's the problem. There is so much myth, speculation and supposition surrounding that case that it's almost impossible to separate fact from fiction."
She made some clicks on her laptop and the screen split into five. "These are what are called the 'Canonical Five', the women Jane gave us on the list. Mary Anne "Polly" Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly, but the Whitechapel district in London was a hotbed of crime and prostitution back then. There were many, many murdered women, some of whom were never investigated or even named."
"This case was investigated by Scotland Yard, right? frowned Lisbon. "There's bound to be original police records."
Van Pelt nodded. "I can try to contact New Scotland Yard, see what they can send over…"
Jane made a little needling sound but did not open his eyes. Lisbon ground her teeth.
"Do we need to separate fact from fiction?" Rigsby now, holding up a push pin. "I mean, I doubt if this killer has any access to the original files, right? All he has is what he's read, what's on the Net, just like anyone else…"
"Good point," said Lisbon. "But if this killer is trying to keep the details as similar as possible, then the more accurate information we have, the better."
"But again," asked Grace. "Why men?"
"Jane?" Lisbon looked at him.
"Hush. It's a crescendo…"
She sighed. "I guess we'll get to that in a minute. Other than the names –"
"And the mutilations," added Rigsby as he stuck another grisly photo to the board.
"And the mutilations, are there other similarities?"
"Um, let's see…Nick Polley was killed exactly 10 days before Chapman Aniston…" Van Pelt's fingers flew over the keys. "And Polly Nichols was killed exactly 10 days before Annie Chapman. I wonder how this will tie in with Elizabeth Stride…"
"The next victim?" asked Lisbon and she leaned forward, watching as Grace did her thing. Honestly, the young woman was remarkable on the computer, having almost a sixth sense about how to find information with the click of a mouse. "And how in the world do you change that name into a man's, and then find him somewhere within a 500 mile radius?"
"I could find him," said Jane finally. He still hadn't budged, the little yellow teacup balanced on his tummy.
"I thought you were composing," she smirked.
"Meh. I ran into an atonal patch. Threw off my musical groove." He pulled his legs off the table, set the cup down. "If you gave me a bunch of names, I could tell you who the next victim would be."
"Just from the names?"
"Ah. Let me think. Yeh."
"And how would we get that list?"
"I don't know." He made a face. "You're the cops. I'm the consultant. Do your jobs, then consult me. Simple."
The conference room fell into silence.
Rigsby folded his arms across his chest. "So both of these vics have had their last names used as the first, and their first names used as their last, right?"
Cho nodded. "Nick Polley, Polly Nichols. Chapman Aniston, Annie Chapman."
"What's the next name? Elizabeth Stride?"
"Stride is not a common first name for a man," grumbled Cho.
"Neither is Kimball," grinned Rigsby.
"Neither is Chapman," grinned Jane. "But there are 30 million people in this state, most of them with insanely bad taste. Couldn't even name a dog to save their lives."
Grace swung around from the screens. "We could run a DMV cross check, using only the state of California and all the variants of 'Elizabeth' that Jane could think of…"
Lisbon threw a glance at the consultant. He shrugged. "Sure. But I would need a new pencil…"
Lisbon sighed. "This could take a long time."
"Well," said Grace, staring at the screen. "Looks like we may have that. Elizabeth Stride was killed a month after Chapman."
"And Eddowes was killed the very same night as Stride," added Jane.
Lisbon turned to him. "And how do you know all this? Is it all just rattling around in that 'memory palace' of yours?"
He stared at her, blinking. "How do I know about serial killers? Are you really asking me that?"
She lowered her eyes. "No. How do you know so much about this serial killer?"
He shrugged again. "Old 'Leather Apron' was essentially the father of the modern-day serial killer. Oh, the phenomenon has always been around – we humans are a zoological oddity that way - but he was the first one to become a household name, go down in history, become a Victorian celebrity as it were. They all crave that kind of attention now. Goes straight to their sense of self-worth, ego and pride. Serial killers are, by nature, narcissistic."
"Hmm…" she said, nodding. "Their idol is self."
He cocked his head at her. "Exactly, Lisbon. Well done."
She smiled to herself, pleased.
"Actually, everyone's idol is self, when you come right down to it. Even Shoe-Queen."
"Oh? How so?"
"The shoes were a status symbol, so really, the shoes only serve the status. And status is a reflection of position in society, which is a reflection of self-worth, which is at its core, simply self." He crossed his arms and leaned back. "We're a pathetic species, all things considered. The dolphins should be ruling the earth."
They all grinned at that.
"Besides," he continued. "With Mooney out of the picture, that might throw off the timing a bit. They might want to stop and reconsider, or they might want to speed things up, get down and dirty just that much quicker."
"They," said Lisbon, sitting forward. "You mentioned that last night."
"After you pulled me out of the water?"
"Yes, then. What do you mean, 'they'?"
"I don't know. That's what Mooney said. 'They'. They did it. They were going to publish. Someone else was totally game. I'm not sure what to do with that yet."
"Maybe he's schizophrenic," said Cho. "Hearing voices."
"Or maybe it is a group of killers," Rigsby now. "Maybe one vic each, like a club."
"Or maybe a mentorship of some kind," added Van Pelt. "If we are looking at a Berkeley connection…"
"Those are all good possibilities," said Lisbon. "Rayer – argh, Mooney admitted to being under a doctor's care for anxiety disorder. Maybe it's schizophrenia and he didn't want to say. Maybe he was the pupil under a creepy teacher. Maybe it's a new frat house, dabbling in the dark side. Either way, we need to check into him, where he lived, who he hung out with, if he was indeed a student there…"
Jane was silent now, a fact which did not escape Lisbon. She wondered if he was just thinking, or if the noise in his head was simply getting louder. It wasn't all caused by the gunshot, she knew this full well, and she wondered how much he could take before he shattered.
For some reason, it broke her heart.
There was a rap on the glass door and a young woman entered. She was small, with large dark eyes and long dark hair pulled off her Latina face. She was holding a slim manila folder.
"Agent Lisbon? Here's that file on Mark Mooney you requested. It's not much, I'm afraid."
"Squeaky clean," remarked Rigsby brightly.
"Yes. Quite." And the woman smiled at him.
Rigsby smiled back.
Grace Van Pelt ground her teeth.
"Agent Mira Vierra." The woman held out her hand to Lisbon and they shook, but her eyes lingered on Wayne Rigsby. "If you need any help, let me know."
Lisbon smiled. "I will, thanks."
"Yeah," said Rigsby. "We will."
"Oh, oh," sang Jane. "I need something."
The young woman turned to him. "Yes?"
"A new pencil. HB, if you please. Not too hard, not too soft. It's a good pencil."
"Yes, sir."
"And make sure it's yellow. I don't like the other colours. Not for pencils."
She smiled at him.
"And I'll need some paper."
"Lined or unlined, sir?"
"Surprise me." But he smiled at her, approvingly.
"Anyway," she turned as she headed for the door. "There's coffee, tea and juice in the kitchen, and snacks in the fridge. Help yourselves. I'll check in later, with that pencil and paper…"
"Not to long, mind. I need to make a list."
"Yes, sir."
And she closed the door behind her.
"I like this place," said Jane happily.
"Me too," sighed Rigsby.
Grace shot him a dark glance and turned back to her computer.
"Right…" Lisbon flipped open the folder, green eyes flicking down as she read. "Okay, Mark Mooney was raised in a foster family. Mom died when he was eight, no dad in the picture. Worked to put himself through college—"
"Where?" asked Jane.
"Beg pardon?"
"Where did he work?"
She glanced down at the folder in her hands, smirked. "Well, it wasn't the Alameda Super Mega-Mart."
"Damn," he grumbled.
She smirked some more. "And I hate to burst your 'he's-too-stupid-to-be-a-post-grad student' bubble, but…"
"Damn," he grumbled again, thought for a moment. "Women's Studies?"
"Damn," she grumbled.
He brightened. "The Berkeley connection is exquisite."
She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? There's only Rayer... I mean, Mooney…"
He held up a finger. "No, there's Mooney. Mark Mooney. By the way, have they found his body yet?"
"No."
"Wonderful. Then there's Rayer, the real Rayer…" he nodded at Cho and Rigsby, "And And we have Nick Polley, the EMP trucker picking up a load from the docks. The freighter was bringing books, yeh? Text books?"
She sighed yet again. "Yeah."
"Going where?"
She tossed Mooney's file down on the conference table, picked up another, one in the process of being assembled by Nelson's crew. "Freighter named Oolong, carrying geology texts en route to…" Her voice faded off. She frowned, set her jaw.
Rigsby whistled. Cho grinned. Van Pelt shook her head.
"En route to where exactly, Lisbon?" Jane was waiting, brows raised, eyes dancing.
She sighed.
"I'm sorry, Lisbon. I'm just not hearing you..."
"Berkeley."
"Ah." He sat back. "Honestly, never tire of that. Must be a quirk."
She resisted the urge to crumple up the report and throw it at his head. "Okay, so you are postulating that we have a serial killer or killers operating out of Berkeley. Chalk up one for Jane's team. We still have to go back to Grace's question, why? Why keep so many details the same, and yet play fast and loose with so many others? It still doesn't make sense."
All eyes in the conference room looked to him.
He shrugged. "That… is a mystery."
"You're full of bunk."
They were all quiet for a long moment. Finally, Jane released a breath.
"Then we should go, yeh?"
"Go?"
"To Berkeley."
"Yeah, we should probably go to Berkeley."
He slurped back the last of his tea, smacked his lips happily and rose to his feet. Lisbon did the same, minus the tea and the smacking.
"Grace, I hate to say it but…"
"I'll stay," she said, a little too quickly.
"No, no, I'll stay," said Rigsby. "Grace always has to stay behind. It's good for her to get some more experience, you know, in the field."
"No, it's alright," said the young woman, her voice firm, dark eyes fixed on him like steel. "I'd like to do some more digging into the original case, see what I can turn up. It's what I do best."
"I don't care who comes along," grumbled Cho. "As long as I don't have to be alone in the Bay area with Jane and a guy who thinks he's Jack the Ripper."
Jane nodded seriously. "Bad things, Cho."
"You got that straight."
"Rigsby," snapped Lisbon. "Heel."
The big man rose to his feet, dejected, and the four of them left the conference room, a victorious Van Pelt working away at the computer.
End of Chapter 5