Текст книги "Riptide"

Автор книги: Michael Prescott

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But did they shout in Richard’s voice?

fourteen

She arrived home at 9:30, after picking up a replacement bulb for her UV lamp. Her message machine was blinking; Draper had called to say that he and a pathologist would be at the house at eleven to examine the human remains. She wondered why he hadn’t tried her cell, then realized she’d set it on vibrate during her dinner with Maura and had forgotten to change it back. It must have been buzzing away in her glove compartment.

There was still an hour and a half until his arrival. She installed the bulb, switched on the UV light, and studied the flyleaf pasted to the diary’s inside front cover. The signature, if there was one, failed to fluoresce; it remained hidden under a thick coat of black ink.

There was another test she could try. Sometimes concealed ink would emit infrared light when UV light was used as an exciter source. The technique was called IR fluorescence.

She got out her digital camera and fitted the lens adapter with an infrared filter. With the camera mounted on a tripod, she took a time exposure of the flyleaf. She transferred the purple-red image to her laptop and converted it to grayscale.

Success. The technique had brought out the canceled writing.

It was a signature, neatly written in a steady hand: Edward Hare.

Since the early pages of the diary had been removed, she guessed that Hare had begun the journal with no expectation that it would contain anything incriminating. When his thoughts had turned in a criminal direction, he must have torn out the initial pages and obliterated his signature.

It was probably his real name, then. Not an alias.

And not her great-grandfather’s name. She should have felt relieved about that, but the diarist had written that he was traveling to America under an assumed name. That name might have been Graham Silence.

Silence—an appropriate name for a man keeping secrets.

She flipped through the indexes of her Ripper books but found no mention of Edward Hare. Next stop, the Internet. She typed “Jack the Ripper and Edward Hare” into a search engine. No hits.

The name “Edward Hare” alone brought up a few hundred hits, but nothing that seemed relevant.

“Jack the Ripper” on its own brought up nearly two million pages. Scrolling through the first twenty, she found a site called Ripperwalk, billed as “a comprehensive guide to Ripperology.” She searched the site for “Edward Hare” without success.

A large part of Ripperwalk was devoted to message boards. She created an account, using the screen name Jeneratrix, and started a thread titled “Possible Suspect: Edward Hare?”

Is anyone familiar with a possible suspect in the Ripper murders named Edward Hare? He lived in London during the appropriate time period and may also have spent time in the United States. I believe he was a teacher at a boys’ school. Any information would be appreciated.

She posted the message and went offline. It was a long shot, but she had nothing to lose.

Then she turned to the paper left on her windshield.

She didn’t want to deal with it. But she had to.

She spread out the note on the examination table. She’d already observed the angular writing, slanted forty degrees from the vertical. Extreme angularity was a sign of aggression.

The note was written in haste. The words were slashed into the flyer, almost spilling off the right-hand side. The characters were printed entirely in uppercase, large and narrow, irregularly spaced. The writer had been bearing down hard. Heavy pressure could indicate an antisocial personality defined by power and control issues. The period at the end of the sentence was pounded into the paper, dimpling the other side.

Speed. Emotional intensity. Anger. A demand to be heard.

The writing implement had been a ballpoint pen. Black ink. The writer hadn’t planned to jot down the note, or he would have brought his own paper. It had been an impulse, prompted by the availability of the flyer. All he’d needed was a pen, and lots of people carried pens.

The size of the letters represented a demand for attention. The varying size and spacing of the words also held meaning. The words I and my were larger than the rest, and my was widely distanced from the words on either side. Egocentrism, narcissism. I, me, mine were the center of the writer’s life. Well, that only narrowed it down to everybody in L.A.

Some graphologists believed narrow letters were indicative of a criminal personality. She didn’t necessarily endorse that view, but she did find the tall, steeply sloped characters suggestive of an agitated mind.

There was little roundness in the writing. Even letters like w and u had been rendered in crisp straight lines, harsh and angular. The lines were slashed into the paper in quick, angry strokes, like the cuts of a knife.

The choice to write the note in capital letters could suggest prudence on the writer’s part. It would be impossible to compare the note to any ordinary handwriting. A decision to disguise his identity argued for consciousness of guilt.

She pushed her chair back from the table and took in the note as a whole. It consisted of two lines:

I KNOW YOU

HAVE MY BOOK.

Although it was one statement, the first three words could be separated from the rest. I know you suggested a personal relationship. Either the writer desired to create the impression of closeness, even intimacy, or he actually was close to her. Richard was always saying he was smarter than his sister. He liked to play mind games. This might be one more.

The second line, have my book, placed a strong emphasis on possessiveness. He could have written found my book or are hiding my book, but he’d used the word have. That was his focus.

And it was my book. The diary purportedly belonged to Jack the Ripper. So what did the writer mean by the word my? Did he think he was Jack the Ripper? Or did he mean that, as a descendant of Jack the Ripper, he was entitled to the book?

Richard had inherited the family papers. The diary could be said to belong to him.

Except he didn’t know about the diary. No one did.

No one.

It was five minutes to eleven. She filed the note, closed her laptop, and put the diary back into its tin, securing the clasp. The book had survived for a long time in that container, and she was prepared to leave it there a little longer.

She almost placed the box with her other papers but hesitated. If Richard—or someone—was aware of the diary, she might be better off hiding it. After a moment’s thought she carried it into the pantry and placed it on a shelf behind a row of spray cleaners.

She was waiting on the porch when Draper arrived. He greeted her briskly, saying that the pathologist was following him in his own vehicle. She led him inside.

“I’ve never been here,” he said, looking around. “But I guess you knew that.”

“Is it everything you expected it to be?”

“I didn’t have any particular expectations. But the place suits you. It’s...reserved.”

“You should see my bedroom.” She was thinking of her collage of erotic antique postcards. Then she realized how it sounded. “Um, you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“Just that it might not be what you expect. Not that you expect anything...” This was not going well.

He rescued her with a change of subject. “I got your e-mail. You may have given us some usable leads.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“I won’t—unless the leads pan out.”

“Maybe not even then.”

“Maybe not.” He was smiling.

“So who are you looking at?” she asked.

“Certain people.”

“Now who’s being reserved?”

“Being reserved is a good thing. It’s a sign of maturity. Toddlers and criminals never hold back.”

“This is California, Roy. No one’s supposed to hold back.”

“That’s what makes the two of us so unusual.”

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that she, at least, did not hold back. Then she thought of the tin in the pantry.

She was cautious. She kept things to herself. Her years of stifled communication in the House of Silence had taught her to be wary, self-contained.

And he was the same way. Yesterday when he’d opened up about his failed relationship, it had been a rare moment, a risk.

If he could take a risk, so could she. She could ask him out. At the very least she’d prove she wasn’t quite as reserved as he thought.

“You never did tell me her name,” she said.

“Whose name?”

“The woman you were with for three years.”

“Diana.”

“Was she reserved?”

“Just the opposite. That was the problem. She and I wanted different things. She wanted...excitement. Fun.”

“You don’t like fun?”

“I like catching bad guys.”

“There’s more to life than work.”

“Is there?”

“Well, there ought to be.” She took a breath. “You know, would it be crazy if—”

The telephone rang, and the moment was lost.

“I’ll take it in the kitchen,” she said, worried that it might be Maura calling for an update on the case. “You can let the ME in.”

She answered the phone and heard a cultured baritone. “Good morning. This is Harrison Sirk.”

“Oh. Hello, Mr. Sirk.”

“Maura Lowell put me in touch with you. You’re looking into some darker aspects of the history of Venice, I understand.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m happy to be of service. Is it convenient for you to drop by my house? Say, this afternoon? If you’re free, that is.”

“I’m surprised you’re free.”

“I have nothing on schedule but my usual Roman orgy of unbridled debauchery, which I am happy to postpone if I may render a service to a lady. A different kind of service, let me add.”

She jotted down his address on the whiteboard in the kitchen, promising to be there at two.

“Excellent. I look forward to a stimulating conversation on a subject of mutual interest.”

“So you’re interested in Venice’s history, too?”

“That wasn’t the subject I had in mind.”

“What was it, then?”

“Why, Jack the Ripper, of course.”

“Maura told you that?”

“Not at all. She didn’t say a thing.”

“Then how—”

But he had already hung up.

fifteen

She was halfway down the cellar stairs when she heard Casey’s voice from below. He must have accompanied the ME. As the watch commander, he had every right to be here. Still, she felt annoyed with him, though she wasn’t sure why.

Draper stood by the crypt, flashlight in hand. Casey was next to him, while a man in civilian clothes, down on his knees, peered into the hole.

“You know Sergeant Wilkes, of course,” Draper said.

Casey tossed off a wave, but he wasn’t smiling. She had a feeling he was still angry about yesterday’s argument.

Draper added with a nod at the kneeling man, “And this is Dr. Alan Parkinson. We’re lucky to have him. It’s supposed to be his day off.”

“When the sergeant told me what he’d seen down here”—Parkinson spoke in a high, thin voice—“I had to take a look. Something like this doesn’t come along very often.”

He sounded excited, and though Jennifer understood his curiosity, she couldn’t help resenting him for it.

She looked past him, into the sepulcher. They were still there, of course—the bones of the dead. A few small skittering bugs played in the flashlight’s glow.

“You know what they say about L.A.,” Casey deadpanned. “Everybody’s got a few skeletons in the closet.”

Draper looked at him. “You’ve been waiting to use that line.”

“Well, yeah.”

Draper took out a pocket camera and snapped some photos, the flashbulb illuminating the remains.

“Are you calling in SID?” Jennifer asked him. The criminalists of the Scientific Investigation Division didn’t work as many cases in real life as they did on TV, but a multiple murder ought to ensure their participation.

“Only if this turns out to be a crime scene.”

“You mean, it might be a family burial plot or something?”

“No chance of that,” Parkinson said. “These are homicide victims. Look here.” He fingered the tip of a humerus bone. “See that angular fracture? That’s a tool mark. He cut them at the joints.”

“They were dismembered?”

“Very thoroughly.” Parkinson seemed professionally impressed. “He disarticulated the skeletons by cutting through the major tendons. Occasionally his knife slipped—hence the nicks on bone.”

“Why take them apart?”

“Presumably for more compact storage.”

“Well, you can’t argue with efficiency,” Casey quipped.

Everyone ignored him.

“Male or female?” Draper asked the pathologist.

“Oh, they were women.”

Jennifer would have guessed as much. The Ripper always killed women. Still, she was surprised Parkinson could determine their sex at a glance. She said so.

Parkinson smiled up at her. “I know something of your work, Doctor. The officers have filled me in. You read between the lines. Well, so do I.” He turned to the bone pile. “See the skulls? The brow ridges and mastoid bones would be more robust in the male. And the pelvises? Low and bowl-shaped, with a wide sciatic notch.”

“I thought you were pre-med, Silence,” Casey said disdainfully. “Shouldn’t you know this stuff?”

Jennifer glared at him. “I guess I missed that class.”

“That’s not all we can tell about these women.” Parkinson had slipped into lecture mode. “Look here. Incomplete epiphyseal fusion. The ends of the long bones are incompletely fused to the shafts. By age twenty-five, fusion would be complete.” He tapped one of the skulls. “See the teeth? Minimal wear. Another sign of youth. Judging by the gap between the pubis bones, I’d place the age of this specimen at fifteen to nineteen. A young but post-pubescent female.”

She hated the clinical detachment of his voice. Staring past him into the tomb, she thought of everything these girls had lost. Marriage, children, a life. All of that had been taken from them. They’d been cut down and left here in the dark under the stairs.

Draper was silent. She glanced at his profile, his mouth set, eyes far away. Maybe he felt what she did, bewilderment and sadness.

“You’re saying all of them were young?” Casey asked. “Maybe it was a pajama party that got out of control.”

It wasn’t like him to be this way. Draper sensed it, too. Irritated, he glanced at Casey.

“Not all of them, no,” Parkinson said. “I would say one or two of the victims had passed the age of twenty five. After that point, age becomes almost impossible to judge, at least until visible signs of old age set in.”

“How long have they been here?” Jennifer asked.

“I can’t determine the postmortem interval precisely. To do that, we would need some datable material—coins or an old newspaper, say.”

Or a diary, she thought.

“But,” he continued, “I’m willing to state that they have been in situ longer than seventy-five years.”

“And that means it’s not a crime scene,” Draper said. He saw Jennifer’s questioning look. “Are you familiar with the Safe Environmental Quality Act?”

“Should I be?”

“It’s a set of California statutes that establish the protocol for dealing with exposed human remains. Those dating back more than seventy-five years aren’t handled as police business. When that much time has passed...”

“It’s history,” she said, understanding.

Draper nodded. “That’s the cutoff point. After seventy-five years, whoever’s responsible is presumed to be past the point of prosecution. The law has no further interest in the matter.”

She wondered if the law would feel different after seeing the diary.

Casey looked dubious. “So we’re looking at a serial killer. From seventy-five years ago.”

“Or longer,” Parkinson said. “The remains could date back to the earliest days when this house was inhabited.” He looked at Jennifer. “You don’t happen to know when that was?”

“I believe the house went up in 1908.”

“A full century ago. That would be the earliest possible date.”

“You’d think a multiple murderer operating back then would get some attention,” Casey said. “I mean, Jack the Ripper sure as hell did.”

The mention of that name startled her. She had to remind herself that the Ripper was probably the only old-time serial killer who was still generally known.

“Jack the Ripper left his victims in plain view,” Draper said. “This guy was craftier. He kept them hidden.”

“Even so, this many disappearances in a small community had to send up a major red flag.”

“Not if they were widely spaced. Let’s say the victims were targeted one at a time, at irregular intervals, in different jurisdictions, with no consistent victimology or M.O. The authorities might have had no clue that the cases were connected.”

“Yeah, but serial killers don’t work that way. They don’t change their M.O.”

Draper waved off the objection. “They don’t change their signature. The M.O. can vary. Look at the Zodiac Killer. No consistent M.O. He used whatever weapon was available. The M.O. is selected opportunistically—whatever works. The signature is what they can’t control.”

Jennifer was familiar with the distinction. The modus operandi was the practical plan used by the criminal. The signature was a personal touch that served no purpose other than the satisfaction of some deep-seated urge. Binding a victim with duct tape was an M.O. Urinating on the victim was a signature.

Jack the Ripper’s signature was the postmortem mutilation of the bodies. He could have done it just as easily in this cellar as in the street.

Much more easily, in fact, with no risk of detection. And since the bodies were hidden forever, no one might know that the maniac was at large. The disappearances might be chalked up to a variety of causes. There would be none of the extra police surveillance that the notoriety of the London murders had brought.

If he really was the Ripper, Edward Hare had learned from his mistakes in England. By the time he reached Venice, he was more cunning, more sophisticated. He could kill a half dozen women and girls, and the crimes would never be fitted into any pattern.

“Well, there’s one bright spot, Silence,” Casey said. “At least your ancestor was smart.”

She bristled. “Nice and tactful. Thanks.”

“Your ancestor?” Parkinson asked.

“Her family’s owned this house forever.” Casey’s shoulder lifted in an insolent shrug. “Didn’t she mention that detail?”

“I didn’t have the chance.”

“I guess it’s not something you’d want to brag about.”

Draper stared him down. “That’s enough, Sergeant.”

Casey smirked and turned away. Jennifer hated him. She could have punched his face.

“I don’t know exactly when my great-grandfather took possession of the house,” she said. “It could have been 1908. He could have been the original owner. Or maybe not. There are family records where the information might be listed, but I—I’m having trouble tracking them down.”

“Who has those records?” Draper asked.

“My brother, Richard. At least, he’s supposed to have them. He inherited them. But he may have lost them by now.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s...not well. He has schizophrenia.”

Parkinson looked interested. “Does mental illness run in your family?”

“Jesus, Alan,” Draper said.

Jennifer met the man’s eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it does.”

There was a tense stillness in the cellar, broken when Draper said, “Well, if you do recover those records, let me know.”

“I thought the law had no interest in the matter.”

“The law may not. But I do.”

She remembered his secret habit of kissing a crucifix for luck at a crime scene. He cared, even when he didn’t have to.

“So if this isn’t a police case,” she asked, “what do we do? Call a museum, a funeral parlor...?”

“County has a forensic anthropologist on staff,” Parkinson said. “Even though it’s not technically a crime scene, it still has to be handled with due diligence. A lot of evidence can be lost if the bodies are disinterred incorrectly. Their precise positioning has to be recorded. Then the bones are bagged and labeled, and—hold on. This area appears to have been disturbed.”

He pointed at the spot where the tin box had lain. .

“You see that, Roy?” Parkinson asked. “The dirt’s been sifted.”

Draper bent down for a better look. “There are dust and cobwebs on the rest of the soil, except for that patch. Sergeant Wilkes, you didn’t disturb the scene?”

“I didn’t touch a thing,” Casey said. “And I specifically instructed her to keep her hands off.”

The edge in his voice irked her, and she responded a little too sharply. “I didn’t require any instructions from you.” The fact that she was being totally hypocritical didn’t prevent her from being pissed off.

“It almost looks as if an item was buried here, and removed.” Parkinson glanced at Jennifer. “You’re quite certain you didn’t... find anything?”

She could tell them, of course. She could reveal all. Show them the diary, let them take it from her. There would be no serious consequences. Draper had said it wasn’t a crime scene.

But she couldn’t share her secret, not yet. Not until she knew how it impacted her family—above all, Richard.

“All I found was a nest of skeletons in my cellar,” she said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Of course it is.” Draper didn’t sound quite sure.

“Well”—Parkinson started to rise—“I suppose it could just be...”

His voice trailed away as Jennifer became aware of a peculiar thrumming sound.

“Oh hell,” Parkinson added. “I hate these.”

Hate what? she thought, and then an aftershock shuddered through the cellar, rattling the walls, dislodging showers of dust from the plumbing pipes in the ceiling.

She took a step toward the staircase, but when no one else moved she forced herself to stand still and wait it out.

Slowly the wave passed, leaving the cellar intact.

“I hate them, too,” she heard herself say. It seemed strange to comment on something Parkinson had said hours ago. Except it hadn’t been hours, but only a few seconds.

“I kind of enjoy them.” That was Casey. “They’re a nice little break in the day.”

“That’s probably why the ground was disturbed,” Draper said. “Either the quake itself or an aftershock spilled fresh dirt onto that spot.”

“Yes.” Parkinson resumed rising. “That must be it.”

Casey reached out to assist him, but Draper warned him off with a shake of his head. As the pathologist rose, Jennifer saw that he’d stashed a pair of metal crutches by his side. He leaned on them as he struggled upright.

Jennifer glanced down and saw plastic leg braces extending below the pathologist’s pants legs to his shoes. When she looked up, she saw Parkinson watching her eyes.

“M.S.,” he said wryly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“That it’s not Parkinson’s. You’d think if I had to have a degenerative nerve disease, I’d at least get the one bearing my name.”

Multiple sclerosis could strike at any age, but typically the first symptoms appeared before age forty. Parkinson looked to be about forty-five. “How long have you had it?” she asked.

“Onset was two years ago. It’s progressing fast. No remissions as yet. And yes, it’s likely to get a lot worse.”

She thought of Richard, the rapid progress of his disease, and how it had destroyed his life. She thought that healthy people didn’t appreciate how lucky they were. They should give thanks every day. Every single day.

The four of them started up the stairs, climbing without hurry in deference to Parkinson’s slow gait.

She fell into step in front of Casey. Over her shoulder she murmured to him. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

His position on the lower stair served to equalize their height. His breath tickled her ear. “Who says I’m acting?”

“Look, I’m sorry if I was rude yesterday—”

“Rude? Rude’s nothing. I deal with rude all the time. That’s no biggie.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is...forget it.”

“Just tell me.”

“The problem is, you know how I feel about you. And you don’t take it seriously. You treat me like a joke.”

That stung. “I don’t mean to.”

“Exactly what did I do yesterday that was so unacceptable? I mean, besides rushing over here to check out your problem when I had a million other priorities?”

“I never asked you—”

“You didn’t have to ask. I wanted to help.”

“Now you’ve got me feeling like an asshole.”

“Turnabout is fair play, Tiny Dancer.”

“Don’t call me Tiny Dancer,” she said automatically, but her heart wasn’t in it.

They emerged from the cellar through the trapdoor. “For the time being,” Parkinson said as Draper helped him up, “the remains will have to be left where they are. Later today, or first thing tomorrow, our forensic anthropologist will disinter the specimens.”

Jennifer wished he wouldn’t call them specimens. “Is there any chance they can be identified from medical records?”

“Unfortunately, no. Hospitals sold off their old X-rays back in the seventies, for their silver content.”

“What’s the point, anyway?” Casey asked. “Like Roy said, there’s nobody to prosecute.”

“The point”—Parkinson’s tone turned frosty—“would be to give these women a proper burial.”

“Does that really matter?”

Draper answered. “It matters. When you think about it, it’s the very least they deserve.”