Disclaimer: I don't own Ghost Hunt or Death Note.
The Whitechapel Case
Fox-Trot-9
Part 1: The Hypothesis 1
Day 1—It was ten minutes to 2:00 p.m., and Martin Davis knew he had a lot of explaining to do. In fact, he was itching to tell Noll about these murders in England for five months now, but he couldn't because of the present circumstances. Circumstances neither Noll nor Lin were aware of. So he, Noll and Lin were sitting on two sofas facing each other in the private study, the record player turned on with the "Maple Leaf Rag" on low; Luella was out doing errands, but she said she'd be back within the hour.
First was the obvious. "You're probably wondering why I changed our home phone number, right?"
"Why did you?" said Noll.
"Because someone told me to."
"Someone?"
"An anonymous person who will stay anonymous."
"Is this person credible?"
"I would not have taken his word seriously if he wasn't."
"And the reason for that?"
Now that was not so obvious. In fact, it was a tricky question to get around. "Because I'm assisting in a police investigation. You see—" but before he could explain further, the door bell rang. "That must be your mother. Don't worry, Lin, I'll get it," and he got up, walked to the door and opened it only to find a man there holding a briefcase. "Who are you?"
"Bert Grendal," he said. "Did Jacob Meiler let you know you were expecting me?"
"Yes, but not until 2:30. But do come in; make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks."
With the closing of the door, both men entered the private study where Lin and Noll were seated.
"Ah, and this strong fella must be the famous Oliver Davis," said Bert, extending his hand for a hand shake, but mistaking Lin for the one next to him.
Lin shook, anyway. "Actually, he's the one," he said, nodding in Noll's direction. "I'm Lin."
"Oh, geez, sorry about that." Then he offered to shake with Noll. "My deepest apologies, man."
The boy didn't shake or even reply. He just looked at him. Not glared at him. Looked at him. It was enough to send chills down the detective's spine. Bert was no spring chicken, either; he has stared down many of London's worst offenders in the interrogation room, but this kid was way out of his league.
"Don't mind him too much," said Martin. "Oliver's always been a little rough around the edges."
"You haven't convinced me yet," said Noll. His father looked at him. "I'm not convinced why I should join your investigation."
"Actually, it's not only my investigation. It's Scotland Yard's investigation, which still has them baffled for seven months now."
"Scotland Yard's incompetence is none of my concern."
"Watch your mouth, kid," said Bert. "You may be famous, but I will not have you put people down."
Martin sighed. "Oliver, this should concern you. You've been away from here for almost eight months, and you know nothing of the horrors that now has London in its grip. Seven months ago, a long string of unsolved murders began, of which the most recent was just four days ago. I volunteered to help investigate five months ago because of your mother. She came home one night huffing and puffing and scared, and she told me she was followed a short distance to her car after her shopping. And that night was the night of the tenth unsolved murder. I tell you I have never been so scared in my life."
"And you didn't let me know about it?"
"I didn't want to worry you."
"But what if she was murdered?"
"No. She wasn't. Don't ever think about that. You see, the police gave me temporary phone numbers that no intruder can listen into as a security measure. I wasn't even allowed to call you. I made sacrifices to safeguard your mother and this house. And I'd do the same for you."
Well, it made sense, and it struck very close to home; but something bugged him. Call it intuition, call it paranoia, but Noll felt like his father was hiding something from him. He didn't know what it was, so he went along. "All right, I'll take it."
"Good," said Bert. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't cooperate."
"And what would you do if I didn't?"
Don't push it, kid, he thought. "Nothing. Just a little more cooperation would help." Then he opened the briefcase and produced the casebook; he said to Martin, "May I?"
"Go ahead."
"Thanks. As of today, there have been twenty-three murders in and around Whitechapel, which includes the most recent one: the murder of Angela Benton. Now I won't go into too much detail, because this is your first briefing, but you must remember to leave any and all personal discretions aside. We must be objective, here. That said, the file I have is of Angela Benton,"—he placed the casebook on the coffee table for Martin, Noll and Lin to see—"age thirty-five, divorced, no children, who lived in the Carson ward of Whitechapel and worked as a candle shop worker (and was alleged to have worked in a brothel, but this is alleged and not verified at this point).
"She was last seen alive at about ten-forty in the evening by Shane Folesworth outside her residence at 4534 Flower & Dean Street. Mr. Folesworth said he saw Angela with a man he assumed to be her husband and passed by them. He commented that the man looked shabby but ruggedly handsome." Now he took out a sketch portrait of the unknown man from the casebook and placed it on the table for all of them to see. "By about twelve-ten in the morning, Clara Hartly said she heard a loud scream next door that woke her up. She called police, but before they arrived, she saw a man walking out of the apartment; the police issued a manhunt that is still going on to this day, but nothing has turned up yet. The police found Angela dead and mutilated in her bed,"—now he opened the first flap and laid out the photos on the coffee table—"but no viable physical evidence from the suspect was found except for the incision to the woman's abdomen, the removal of the heart and liver, the removal of the lower legs above the knee, as well as the cut to her throat and a broken jaw. All prints, blood, DNA and hair samples belong to the victim. So far, this case, like the twenty-two prior cases, is still under investigation.
"Well, that's the gist of it. Now whoever did this, and this is an educated guess, must have some kind of knowledge of anatomy. The suspect could be anyone from a surgeon to a butcher, but from the way it looks, it must be a butcher. The cut to the abdomen was made by a very sharp, long knife, like a butcher's knife. This murderer must also have been very strong."
"Why is that?" said Lin.
"I'll answer that," said Noll. "The cut in the abdomen is very clean, no tearing. Meaning that whoever did the cutting must have sliced through the skin and muscle very quickly in one continuous motion, which is extremely difficult to do unless you have strong hands and are experienced in doing it."
Damn, kid; you'd make one hell of a profiler, thought Bert. "You're very observant. That's good. Now there's one unusual thing about this. Do you notice the markings on the chest? The X-V-I-I?" he said, pointing to a photo of a close-up of the chest.
Noll looked at them. "These are roman numerals. Seventeen."
"Yes, but I can't really pinpoint what it means. I mean, this is the twenty-third murder, not the seventeenth. It could mean anything, from a location to God knows what."
"Maybe the murderer is just trying to cover his trail," said Lin.
"I don't think so," said Bert, "because if the murderer was trying to cover his tracks, he would have done so discreetly via poisoning, or make it seem like a natural or accidental death, or a suicide. Now I think I know what it means, but it seams trivial. I mean, the location of her home and the murder scene. Look at the numbers of her address: 4534. You take 45 and subtract 4 from 5, and you get 1; you take 34 and add 3 and 4, and you get 7. Put 1 and 7 together, and you get 17. It's logical but trivial. Oliver, what do you think?"
"You're right; it is trivial. I don't think the perpetrator of a murder as heinous as this would try to amuse anyone with a riddle. I think it has more to do with the number of victims."
"What do you mean? There's twenty-three victims. God, I don't know. Maybe this bastard's trying to screw around with us or get inside our heads."
"I think Oliver has a point, Bert," said Martin. "I've been working this case for five months, and I see a pattern going on, here. You see, a murderer who does this wants attention and will get it by leaving a pattern for others to recognize him by. Excuse me for a moment," and he got up, walked to the bookshelf to the right of the room and picked out several binders before returning with them and placing them on the coffee table. "Now I've studied all twenty-two prior cases, trying to find some pattern in the murderer's signature, and—"
Bert looked at the older man like he had swallowed a cyanide pill without dying. "Wait a minute. Are those casebooks? Did you make photocopies of all twenty-two original casebooks?"
"Yes. Is that a problem?"
"Yes, yes it is. It's not illegal per se, but... The top officials and commissioners frown on making copies of a casebook. It won't look very good in court, because it could be withdrawn from evidence for any alleged tampering or forgery."
"Those," said Martin, pointing at the photos of the dead woman, "don't look any better. I'd rather have a court recall of evidence any day, as long as the perpetrator is taken off the street. Now where was I? Ah, the murderer's signature. As you know, every murderer leaves a signature, intentional or unintentional. From studying all these cases—and this most recent one confirms my suspicions—, I see two distinct signatures. Thus, there are two murderers, one that killed seventeen victims, the other six." Then he sighed. "I hope this shows all of you the kind of challenge we are up against."
Everyone in the room was silent. Bert thought, Holy fucking Christ!
(To be continued...)
A/N: This chapter shows deductive reasoning in action, fellas. Let me know what you think.