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SLASHES THROUGH NEW YORK
Yeah, that was his style. Big, bold, splashy.
Jack the Ripper, she thought, and turned to her computer to make notes.
Grandfather of the modern serial killer.
Never caught, never positively identified.
Central figure in multiple studies, stories, speculations for nearly two centuries.
Subject of fascination and revulsion. And fear.
Media hype fueled panic and interest during his spree.
Copycat expects to escape detection. Wishes to instill fear and fascination, and pit himself against police. Would have studied the prototype. Would have studied medicine, formally or informally in order to commit initial crime. Classy stationery, possible symbol of wealth or taste.
Some of the main suspects in the Ripper case had been upper-class, Eve mused. Even royalty. Above the law. Considering themselves above the law.
Other speculation had run to the Ripper being an American in London. She’d always thought that bogus, but . . . was it possible her killer was a Brit in America?
Or maybe a—what did you call it—an Anglophile? Somebody who admired things British. Had he traveled there, walked the streets of Whitechapel? Relived it? Imagined himself as the Ripper?
She started to type up a report, stopped, then put in a call to Dr. Mira’s office and wrangled an appointment.
Dr. Charlotte Mira wore one of her elegant suits, an icy blue she’d matched with a trio of long, thin gold chains. Her soft brown hair had a few sunny highlights around her pretty face. They were new, Eve noted, and wondered if that was the sort of thing she was supposed to comment on or pretend she didn’t notice.
She was never fully at ease in girl territory.
“I appreciate you making time,” Eve began.
“I wondered if you’d contact me today.” Mira gestured to one of her scoop chairs. “Everyone’s talking about your case, your particularly gruesome case.”
“The more gruesome, the more talk.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Because she imagined Eve had subsisted on coffee all day, Mira programmed her AutoChef for tea. “I don’t know how much of what I’ve heard is accurate.”
“I’m in the middle of writing my report. I know it’s early to ask you for a profile, but I don’t want to wait on this one. If I’m r
ight, he’s just getting started. Jacie Wooton wasn’t his target, not specifically. I don’t think he knew her, or she him.”
“You believe it was random.”
“Not exactly. He wanted a particular type of woman, an LC. A whore. A street prostitute in a poor area of the city. He had very specific requirements; Wooton’s dead because she met them. Nothing more or less than that. I’ll give you everything I’ve got orally, then once I’ve worked it up, I’ll send you everything in a file. But I want, I need,” she corrected, “some sense that I’m going down the right road.”
“Tell me what you know.” Mira handed her a delicate china cup, then sat and balanced her own on her knee.
She began with the victim, giving Mira a sketch of Jacie Wooton, as she had been, as she’d been found. She described the note, her fieldwork thus far, and Morris’s preliminary findings.
“Jack,” Mira murmured. “Jack the Ripper.”
Eve leaned forward. “You know about him?”
“Any criminal profiler worth her salt has studied Saucy Jack. You think we’re dealing with a copycat?”
“Do you?”
Settling back, Mira sipped her tea. “He’s certainly laid the groundwork for that conclusion. He’d be educated, egocentric. He abhors women. The fact that he chose that particular style of killing is telling. His prototype for this crime assaulted and mutilated women in different ways. He’s elected to mimic the one that attacks and removes that which makes the victim female.”
