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“Oh, you have no idea. I’d better go through some of the financials now, in fact.” Diving back into my bag, I pulled out the case reports the police had sent earlier that week. I flipped through them, taking care to shield the gruesome photos from the driver.
Over the past month, three young women had been found dead in London. The killer had slashed their throats and abdomens open. And just like Jack the Ripper, he’d claimed macabre trophies: a uterus from one, a kidney and heart from another. From the third victim, he’d taken her liver.
So was this a Ripper copycat? The papers certainly thought so. The UK tabloids were already gleefully declaring “The Ripper Is Back!”
I wasn’t so sure we were dealing with the same mentality. The killer was almost certainly inspired by the Ripper, but he was killing at a much faster pace.
Staring at one of the crime scene photos, I shook my head. I’d never understood why Jack the Ripper had gotten so much attention. He was hardly the worst, in numbers or methodology. Perhaps it was the name that had inspired endless horror stories. Or the fact that the lack of resolution provided fertile ground for wild conspiracies. Whatever the reason, no one could quite let it go.
My phonebuzzed in my pocket, and I grumbled under my breath. But when I pulled it out to glance at the screen, it readUnknown Number.
Tentatively, I swiped the screen. “Hello?”
“Agent Liddell?” It was a British man with a deep voice. A faint London accent, I thought.
“Speaking.”
“I’m Detective Constable Gabriel Stewart. I’m the detective in charge of the serial killer cases.”
“Right. Hi. I’m on my way to meet you right now.” Gabriel was supposed to be my contact.
He cleared his throat. “I think you should come directly to Mitre Square instead.”
I glanced at the time. It was past midnight. “Why?”
“There’s been another murder.” He paused for a moment as a siren wailed in the background. “Mitre Square is the location of the crime scene.”
If I had any hope that the crime scene would be reasonably contained, it evaporated the moment I turned down the narrow covered alley leading to Mitre Square. Blocked by a line of police tape, a small crowd jammed one end of the passage, barring my way. One of the men seemed to be leaning against the wall, half asleep, and the entire passage smelled of piss and beer.
Pausing, I pulled out my phone to call Detective Stewart.
“Hello?” The detective answered almost immediately.
“Detective, it’s Cassandra.”
“Who?”
“Agent Cassandra Liddell.”
“Oh, right! Are you close?”
“I’m standing just outside the crime scene perimeter in Mitre Passage,” I said. “Do you want to let me inside?”
“Sure, just wait until Officer Holbrook comes over to you. Flash your badge, and he’ll let you right through.”
“Maybe I should be more discreet with all these spectators around?”
He went silent for a moment. “Good point,” he finally said. “I’ll come for you myself.”
I hung up, gripping my suitcase a little tighter and scanning the crowd. For all I knew, the killer could be lingering around here to watch the action. It was one of those weird quirks of some serial killers, returning to the scene of the crime to relive it. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, as his previous history suggested he wasn’t overtly psychotic or disorganized. But it wouldn’t hurt to memorize the faces for later. I looked at them hard for a long moment, imprinting the view in my mind. Satisfied, I relaxed and took a deep breath.
Despite the fact that half the people here were three sheets to the wind, I could sense an undercurrent of fear beneath their drunkenness. My guess was that whatever lay beyond in Mitre Square was sobering them up pretty fast.
In all honesty, it wasn’t just that I could sense their fear. I could actuallyfeelit, like a physical charge. Andright now, it was building in my system.
As always, it started with my heart. It began pounding faster and faster, each beat thundering in my ears. My fingertips prickled with what felt like a delicate electrical current. Despite the chilly night breeze, my face flushed, heat waves rolling over my body.
The first time I had described this to my friends, they’d just stared at me. I’d assumed everyone felt this way occasionally. Sometimes you’re hungry, sometimes you want to sneeze, and sometimes you feel like the emotional energy of the people around you powers your body like electricity. Right?Right?
