Jonathon Redding

Chapter 8

It was dark when they arrived at the regional office in San Francisco, and the smell of fresh coffee and pastries hit them like a wall. It reminded her that they were operating on one meal so far this day, and while cops of all sorts could survive on the proverbial coffee and donuts for days on end, it was not conducive to creative, critical or productive thinking.

Lisbon dropped the Berkeley files on the desk, and Van Pelt, Risgby and Cho looked up. They were all tired, that was obvious.

"Okay," she said sharply. "We need a warrant."

"I'm on it," said Van Pelt as she swiveled in her chair to face her computer. "For what and for whom?"

"Douglas Rayer. We need to check out his apartment."

Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances. Lisbon raised her hand, cutting them off.

"I know. You were already there. But you were just checking on him, not on his stuff."

"Stuff?" asked Rigsby, visibly relieved. "What kind of stuff?"

"Books," offered Cho, and Lisbon nodded. He was perceptive. "Same as Mark Mooney's, right?"

"Worse."

"Sounds like you already know," grinned Rigsby.

"Don't ask."

They all nodded. If it ever came to light that there had been an illegal search of Douglas Rayer's apartment, any and all findings would be immediately disqualified as evidence. They needed to tread softly, yet surely, here.

"Alright. The warrant's in the works," said Van Pelt as she swung around. "And I'm ready to cross check the DMV records with Jane's list, if it's done."

There was no response. Lisbon sighed. There was an unopened box of yellow HB pencils sitting in the middle of the conference table, along with a pad of paper. He hadn't noticed any of it. He was sitting at the table, staring off into space, flipping the stub of a pencil through his fingers as if it were a magic coin or a deck of cards. Thinking.

"Jane…?"

"Hm? Yes?"

"The list of names? Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes? Is it done?"

"It's done," he sang, and sent it sailing over in the form of a paper airplane. Grace snatched it out of the air, unfolded it.

"Wow," she said. "That's a... lot of names…"

He shrugged. "Taking into consideration all the variants of the names themselves, their roots, their translations into other languages, their antecedents from other languages, their meanings in both English and other languages, common misspellings—"

Lisbon leaned forward, patted his sleeve. "We get the point. Good job."

His mouth smiled. His eyes did not.

Grace sighed and began typing.

"So?" said Cho, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. "Books?"

Jane sighed now, and Lisbon realized that they were all doing a lot of sighing. He looked at Cho. "When you were at Mark Mooney's, you found books, yeh?"

"Yeah, sure," said Cho. "Not a bad selection."

"Anything…untoward?"

"Untoward?"

"Creepy," Lisbon translated.

Rigsby dropped his chin in his hand. "You mean, other than those Jack the Ripper ones?"

"Yeh," said Jane. "Other than those."

The two agents exchanged glances yet again.

"Well, like I said," said Cho. "There were a lot of decent books."

"Anything by Blake?"

"Blake?"

"Yeh," said Jane. "William Blake. Collected Works, Poems… you know, Tyger, Tyger Burning Bright? That sort of thing?"

Lisbon narrowed her eyes at him. Cho merely shrugged.

"I don't remember. But there were a few award winners."

"Yeah," said Rigsby. "Like book club stuff."

"Book club?" said Jane slowly, rolling the words over on his tongue. He leaned back in his chair. "Book club, book club…"

Cho looked at him. "Book club?"

"Oh damn," said Lisbon. "A Murder Book Club?"

"That is a common thread," said Van Pelt, over her typing. "These guys and their books."

"Not just books, Grace. Words. Names. Spelling puzzles." Jane hmphed. "They think they're clever."

"They are clever," grumbled Cho.

"Yeah. They're PhD students from Berkeley," added Rigsby.

"A Berkeley Murder Book Club?" asked Lisbon, incredulously. "Nuh-uh. I don't think so…"

"Murder by the Book," said Cho, completely deadpan.

"Don't start," she growled.

"Think about it," said Rigsby. "A post-grad thesis club, all bent on studying the motives, methods and murders of Jack the Ripper."

"And acting them out?" Van Pelt now, from her computer. "That's sick."

"But fascinating," added Jane. "That's why Mark had a hard time floating a thesis. No supervisor would approve."

"You were thinking about this from the start," said Lisbon.

"Composing," said Jane. "It's frightening the melodies that hum around inside my head."

"You should have said something."

"Meh. Composers do their best work alone."

"But it takes two to make a harmony. Otherwise it's all just melody."

He raised his brows, impressed with her logic.

"Make sure that you remember that, Mozart." Lisbon leaned back now, glancing around at her team. "Okay, so Mark Mooney was in Women's Studies. How would that play into this 'Post-Grad Thesis Murder Club'?"

"Well, said Jane, "He did have books on women in Victorian England, yeh?"

"Yeah," echoed Cho. "He did."

"Maybe there was something personal. You said his mother died? That's why he was in foster care?"

"You're thinking she didn't just 'die'?" asked Lisbon.

He looked over at Van Pelt. "Grace?"

"It's not in the file Agent Vierra gave us. But then again, most childhood records are sealed. Just a sec…" She minimized one screen, pulled up another, began to type.

"So what faculties would have an interest in a Ripper case?" asked Rigsby.

"Women's Studies," said Cho. "Psychology, Criminology—"

Lisbon gasped. "That's why we got the list from Criminology!"

From his pockets, Jane pulled out yet another list. "The names and addresses of all the post-grad criminology students currently registered at Berkeley." He slid the paper her way.

"So we've got Mooney from Women's Studies, Rayer from Psych, and now…" Lisbon counted the names. "Thirteen possibles from Criminology."

Jane shrugged, offered her a little smile. "It's a start."

"We have Mooney's phone records now," said Rigsby. "And the autodial list from his phone. We could see if there are any that match up?"

"Do it," said Lisbon. "Check for Rayer too. And any other numbers that keep coming up."

"On it," said Rigsby. He grabbed the list and pulled a laptop his way.

"Good work, people," said Lisbon quietly. "Good work."

Jane smiled at her again, and suddenly, she felt very, very proud of her team. There was the quiet hum of work for a few minutes, the sound of coffee being sipped, mice being clicked and the steady, hypnotic tap, tap, tapping of a pencil on the table. Like a metronome. Or a heartbeat. Keeping them focused, keeping them sharp. And for once, she realized, the harmonies were mutual.

"Eureka," said Van Pelt, with a little gasp. "I think I know why Mark Mooney was interested in the Ripper case…"

They all looked up.

"Says in the file that he went into foster care because his mother died. Well, his mother did die, but she was actually murdered. She was a prostitute and she was murdered. The perpetrator was never caught. The case has never been closed."

Silence descended for a moment as they all took that in.

"That was twenty years ago," said Cho quietly.

"Way to warp a kid," added Rigsby.

"And that's why men have been targeted," announced Lisbon.

They all looked at her now, expectantly. She took a deep breath.

"Statistically, crimes against women are closed far less often than those against men. The ratio is actually staggering. Mooney was testing that theory."

"Or making a point," added Grace.

"But we don't know for a fact that Mark is the killer," said Jane.

"Was, Jane," corrected Lisbon. "Was the killer."

"Have they found his body?"

"Jaane," she growled, warning.

"Well? Have they?"

She didn't answer. There seemed no point.

"Regardless," she continued with a huff. "It appears that this killer or killers," she glared at Jane, "Are trying to prove that justice moves much more swiftly for men than for women."

"It does," said Jane. "And that's why you're the boss."

She cocked her head, curious.

"Justice," he smiled. "Of all the idols, it's a winner."

"Alright then, we need to check out Douglas Rayer. See if there's been a crime against a significant woman in his life that has not been closed."

"Or mishandled," added Jane.

"Or mishandled."

"On it," said Cho.

"But I don't get something…" It was Rigsby now, looking up from his computer. "Why target men if you're hoping to prove that theory. I mean, if justice moves more swiftly for men, then you're theorizing that you will get caught. That's kind of the point, right? It's as if you're saying, you kill women, you don't get caught, but if you kill men, you do get caught. You're presuming then that you're going to get caught."

They looked at him. He cleared his throat.

"Am I missing something? I mean, it's not gonna get you anywhere, except jail. And it's certainly not get your thesis published or anything."

Jane nodded. "Mark mentioned that 'they' wanted to publish."

"That's what you do with your doctoral thesis, right?" Van Pelt now.

Lisbon sighed again, dropped her chin in her palm. "Maybe they don't think they're going to get caught."

"Some people are just cocky," said Jane. "Their presumed cleverness makes them cocky."

Lisbon smirked. "Takes one to know one."

He shrugged, smiling. It was true.

"But they practically gave us the names," sighed Cho.

"No, the names meant something only to Jane," corrected Lisbon. "None of us would have caught that."

Jane shrugged again. It was true.

Van Pelt's computer began to make odd pinging noises, and she wiggled in her chair.

"Ooh. Okay, we got some DMV names for Elizabeth Stride…"

Jane rose to his feet, crossed the floor to lean over her shoulder as names began to scroll. "Oh yeh, I liked that one. That one was good. Oh, that was a good one too…"

Grace looked at Lisbon. "We have corresponding names for seventy-four on Jane's list. Only fifteen are within a five hour radius of Berkeley."

Lisbon grimaced. "Thirteen criminology students, fifteen potential victims. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

"Hey," said Rigsby. "I got a match from Mooney's phone records. Looks like he was in contact with a J.R. Piper. Number 6 on the Criminology list."

"J.R. Piper…" muttered Jane. He glanced around the room, spied the box on the table and his eyes lit up. "Ooh, pencils!"

Lisbon shook her head. "Grace, make that two warrants—"

Suddenly, there was a knock at the glass door of the conference room. Mira Vierra popped her head inside.

"Um, excuse me, but we've just got a call…"

Teresa Lisbon waved her in. Wayne Rigsby smiled brightly. Mira Vierra looked away. Grace Van Pelt suddenly felt very bad.

"There's been a murder that might fit your pattern." She looked down at a file in her hand. "A used car salesman in Weston Ranch, Stockton. His body was found behind a local gym. Throat slashed twice, but no mutilation. It might not be related, but the brass wants you informed."

"Damn," growled Lisbon. "That means they've upped their game…"

"And the next victim will be tonight," added Cho.

"Tonight?" asked Vierra. "What, what are you saying?"

"His name?" asked Jane. "What was victim's name?"

"Um…" she glanced at her file. "Walker Libby."

Jane sighed.

Grace's dark eyes were large. She turned them up to Jane. "You are so psychic, it's not even funny…"

"He's psychic?" asked Vierra out loud.

"Yeah," said Rigsby.

"No," said Cho.

Lisbon moved over, grabbed the list that Jane had written, all the combinations of names based on Elizabeth Stride that he could possibly imagine. As Grace had said, there were many. Only one was circled. In pencil.

Walker Libby.

She stared at him.

"It was my favourite," he said, rather sadly. "It flowed."

Vierra furrowed her brow. "So what does that mean? Do you want this or not?"

"Yes," said Lisbon. "We want it. And if these perpetrators act according to type, there will be another murder tonight. Grace, have you generated a list for the next vic? What was her name?"

"Catherine Eddowes," muttered Van Pelt, and she turned back to her screen. She had already entered Jane's list for possibilities, had been waiting for the cross check to be completed. "Wow," she said. "There are a hundred and twenty-five matches… But looks like only six within a five hour radius of Berkeley…"

"Print it." Lisbon turned to Vierra. "Okay, I want six squad cars at six residences immediately. Twenty-four hour protection until I say so, got it?" The young woman nodded, moved over to Van Pelt's side, cell phone in hand. "Rigsby, go with Vierra. Check out this Walker Libby in Stockton. See if he had any ties to Berkeley or if he was just the lucky name."

"Absolutely," said Rigsby, straightening and smiling like a schoolboy.

Vierra smiled as well, but as Van Pelt noticed, it was not nearly as bright.

"Jane, did you circle any of the names for Catherine Eddowes?"

He moaned.

"Grace, let me see that sheet."

Grace did. One name was circled. Lisbon turned to him.

"Is this what you think?"

He moaned again.

"Jane, I'm not asking you to predict the next victim. Just tell me if this name is your favourite."

"Ye-es," he said, slowly and rather seriously. "Edward Casey, Casey being the diminutive form of Catherine. But that's not saying—"

"-and I'm not inferring. You, Cho and I will head there first, that's all. There will already squad cars guarding each of the others."

"Actually," said Jane. "I'm rather tired. I'd like to go back to the hotel if it's all the same to you."

There was suddenly silence in the conference room as they all stopped and stared at him.

"You're…tired?" asked Lisbon.

He made a face, waved a hand around his ear. "All the ringing," he groaned. "It's getting me down. Giving me a headache. And I think I feel a chill."

She stared at him. "You think you feel a chill…"

"What?" He shrugged his shoulders. "See? Can't hear you. Ringing."

"We're gonna…um, leave now…" said Rigsby, and he sidled to the door. Vierra cast a bewildered glance at the agents, then the consultant before following him out. Van Pelt steeled her jaw and turned back to her computer, wishing she could somehow turn back time, even just a little.

Lisbon took a menacing step forward. "Jane, so help me, when we drop you off at the hotel, you will go up to your room and not leave it until I get back, do you understand?"

"I understand." He nodded, most solemnly. "I do."

"You swear that you're just going to rest."

"Scout's Honour."

She narrowed her large eyes once again. "You were never a boy scout."

"It's the principle of the thing. Like a handshake. Or Christmas."

She studied him. He yawned. Stretched. Rubbed his vested belly. Smiled sleepily.

"Alright," she said finally. "But if you go anywhere—"

"I won't. Bad things happen to me in San Francisco."

Fifteen minutes later, they were dropping him off on the street in front of the Super 8 motel. It was nearly three in the morning, and the sky was very dark, but the street lamps and neon signs lit the night as if noon. As he trundled out of the SUV, she rolled down her window.

"Straight to your room, got it?"

He smiled again, yawned, stretched.

"Go."

Backpedaled once, twice, threw a little wave.

"Now!"

Disappeared through the doors of the lobby to the Super 8.

The SUV pulled away from the curb and it was quiet for several moments in the front seat.

Cho slid a glance her way from the driver's seat.

"Do you really think he's going to his room?"

"Not for a minute," she growled, and the SUV roared off into the night.

End of Chapter 8