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Ella would have laughed, but down near the cruiser, she saw the familiar trappings of a very famous crime scene. A crime scene she’d obsessed over to the most minute detail – and very recently too.
There was a rope dangling from the tree. Everything was nearly identical, from the type of tree to the markings on the rope. Ella jumped in front of her partner and put her hand on her shoulder.
“Ripley, stop.”
“What?”
“You might not want to go down there. Why don’t you wait in the car?”
“Why would I do that?”
Ella turned back to the scene, the tree bark illuminated by the cruiser’s still-flashing lights. This wasn’t just any old crime scene re-creation; it was one from Ripley’s nightmares.
“Because I can see what this is a mile away. Once you see the rope, you will too.”
Ripley moved past her partner to get a closer look. Her eyes clearly weren’t as crisp as Ella’s. She got around twenty feet closer before stopping in her tracks.
Ella didn’t know what to say.
“Oh, wow,” was all Ripley said.
This wasn’t a historical murder from yesteryear. It was one of Tobias Campbell’s scenes, re-created down to a tee. Around seventeen years ago, Tobias Campbell took young women out into the fields, hung ropes around their necks and told them something that made them kill themselves. Tobias later claimed that the women had a free choice to run or follow his instructions. None of them ran. No one ever found out what he said to make them commit the act, a fact that plagued Ripley to this day.
“Are you okay?”
Ripley stood and took in the view. Ella moved next to her. Under other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant experience.
“I haven’t seen this for a while,” said Ripley.
A sinister thought popped into Ella’s mind, one she wouldn’t dare to speak aloud: was this definitely a copycat?
“Strange, isn’t it?” Ella asked.
“It’s like I’m back there again. Seventeen years ago. The sky looks the same. The lake is in the same place. The tree is identical. An Old World Sycamore. I… can’t believe it.”
“Do you want to go back?”
Ella had never seen Ripley so stunned before. This visual alone had stripped away that cold exterior and left her somber and disoriented.
“No. I want to see it. One last time.”
“I’ll follow your lead,” Ella said.
Ripley began walking down the hill towards the cruiser. Ella stayed a few feet behind, letting her take the whole thing at her own pace. She gradually picked up steam, and within thirty seconds they were next to the waiting chief. Ella looked at the ominous swaying rope, now victimless, but it didn’t make the image any less disturbing. It was hanging about fifteen feet off the ground.
“Thanks for coming, ladies. We got a weird one,” Cromwell said.
“Young girl. Twenties. Hanged by the neck. Strangled, not decapitated. If we look closely, we should see the marks on the tree where he placed the ladder. The victim would have been missing her shoes.”
Cromwell stared at Ripley, wide-eyed. “Who told you?”
“History told me,” Ripley said. “Our killer is imitating a famous murder, and one I happen to be familiar with. A bit too familiar with. Do we have the victim’s name?”
“Clara Provost: 25 years old. I know her. She’s a local singer. My wife watched her perform at the inn last night.”
“Clara?” Ella asked. “Ripley, Tobias didn’t kill anyone by that name did he?”
Ripley looked off into the distance then shook her head. “No. Not even close.”
