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I leaned over to get a better look. “What is it?”
“There’s something here. It’s shoved into her throat. Hang on…”
The man crouching by the body handed Gabriel a pair of medical forceps. Carefully, Gabriel inserted them into the victim’s mouth, grimacing as the metal rattled against the teeth. He struggled with it for a second, before finally removing a small piece of paper, spattered in blood.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
Carefully, he unfolded it, and I peered over his shoulder.
It was a note, the cursive letters looping over the paper.
The King of Hearts
Tears minds apart,
Deep below the water;
From Bedlam’s den,
He lures them in,
Like lambs led to the slaughter.
For just a moment I heard the sound of a rushing river, before the noise disappeared again.
I shook sensation from my mind.
Gabriel rose, frowning. “What’s he playing at?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else.
Unnerved, I swallowed hard. “Jack the Ripper left notes, right?”
“Scribbles on a wall. Some tosh about Jews. But nothing like this.”
“And this is the first time our current Ripper has left a note?”
He was still staring at the paper. “The first one.”
“Well, if you want my input…” I stopped myself short. I needed to avoid coming off like a know-it-all, or I’d alienate him immediately. “Perhaps we can discuss this tomorrow morning. I’ll gather a few ideas during the day, and I’d be interested to know your thoughts as well.”
Gabriel nodded. “Right. I don’t suppose you have an initial assessment?”
“I’d prefer to do a bit of research first. But the note and the gruesome display indicate that the killer seems to enjoy the attention of being the next Ripper. Maybe part of his fantasy revolves around the media and the police. The tabloid headlines might increase his obsession.And if so, maybe he’d want to see us working his cases up close.”
I watched him carefully, interested if he’d get what I was implying. He stared at me for a long moment, before glancing over my shoulder, at the crowd beyond the tape. Then, he turned to the photographer—a middle-aged woman with a very expensive-looking camera.
“I want detailed pictures of the crowd,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t aim the camera straight at them. I don’t want anyone to avoid the picture.”
She nodded, pointing her camera at the blood spatter around the body. Slowly, she tilted the lens slightly higher, so that it would catch the people behind the tape. She took a few photographs, nudging the camera left and right. She knew what she was doing. And so did the detective.
I’d already committed most of their faces to memory—the two men with beer guts in cheap suits who probably had low-level positions in one of the nearby banks; the man in the white hat with track marks up his arm; the cluster of teens who’d convinced someone to serve them beer, at least one of them more interested in trying to get laid than anything else going on here. But photographs would make it easier for other cops to study the crowd after the fact.
From a far corner of the square, a man in a gray suit approached us, a serious expression on his face. “Detective Stewart.” He nodded at Gabriel. I pegged him at about fifty, his hair silvery gray. He wasn’t bad-looking, like a giant GeorgeClooney. He was at least as tall as Gabriel, and powerfully built. Standing next to them, I felt roughly the size of a young child. Was everyone in Britain a giant?
“Chief.” Gabriel nodded at him, then motioned at me. “This is Agent Liddell from the FBI. Agent, this is Detective Chief Inspector Steve Wood.”
“Oh, yes.” DCI Wood’s voice was deep, pure gravel. “Theprofiler.”
He didn’t sound thrilled either. It was becoming clear to me that the high brass had gone over everyone’s head when they’d contacted the FBI. Still, he offered me his hand, and I shook it.
