Riptide

twenty-nine

It took her an hour to tell the story to Draper and Casey. She kept her voice even, her face expressionless.

They listened, asking few questions. Draper sat on the edge of the desk, in a sport jacket and denim pants. Casey, in uniform, occupied the desk chair in the watch commander’s office.

Jennifer stood, her body rigid, her emotions held in check. This was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she wouldn’t let it break her, and she wouldn’t let them see.

By the time she finished talking, it was four P.M., and her throat was sore. She had been speaking almost continuously since three.

“He attacked you with a knife?” Draper asked.

“After knocking me out, yes. He put the knife to my throat. Even pricked me a little-here.” She pointed to a dab of blood near her collarbone.

“And he said, ’Not yet’? Any idea why he-well, why he didn’t go through with it then and there?”

“I’d like to think he still has some small emotional connection with me.”

Casey gave her a sharp look. “Is that what you think?”

“Not really, no. I think he’s just confused and irrational. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He thinks he’s Jack the Ripper.”

“We don’t know that,” Draper said.

“It’s obvious. The four victims-their first names…”

Casey shrugged. “Those are pretty common names.”

“It’s not just the names. They’re in the correct chronological order, and there are other details that match. The Ripper’s second victim, Annie Chapman, was attacked in a fenced-in backyard, and so was Ann Powell-the woman who was lured outside when her dog went missing. Catharine Eddowes was a street person, just like the bag lady, Chatty Cathy. There may be other parallels. If you let me see the files-”

Draper shook his head. “You’re not seeing any files.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re too worked up about this as it is. You need to calm down and get some perspective.”

“I have perspective.”

“What you have are some similar names.” His fingers drummed the desk. “Very common names, as the sergeant said. If you go through enough crimes, you’ll find all sorts of apparent patterns that don’t mean anything.”

“You don’t get it. You’re not listening. He was on a Ripper site because he’s obsessed with Jack the Ripper. He wrote, Call me Jack. He quoted from the Ripper’s letters. Said he was ‘down on whores’ and wouldn’t stop killing them.”

Draper frowned. “None of the local women you mentioned was a prostitute.”

“He told me all women are whores.”

“Do you have a record of this conversation?”

“No, I was texting. My phone doesn’t store the messages. You think I’m making it up?” She could hear the thin leading edge of hysteria in her voice.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Draper soothed. “It would be useful to read the transcript, that’s all. You’re a document analyst. You know that.”

“Sorry. You’re right. It’s just-there’s not a lot of time. The intervals between the attacks have been getting shorter. Six months between Mary Ann Ellison and Ann Powell. Five months between Powell and Elizabeth Custer. Three months between Custer and Chatty Cathy. And three months have passed since then. He’s due-he’s overdue-to strike. He nearly killed me. And now he’s run off somewhere in an acute phase of his illness. He’s preparing to kill again.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Draper said. “You’re adding two plus two and getting five.”

“You mean you don’t believe me?”

“I believe you about what happened in the library. Your brother is dangerous. He has to be picked up. Whether or not he’s connected with any of these other cases remains to be seen.”

She almost argued the point, then realized it didn’t matter. The only priority was to get Richard off the street. The details would come out later.

“All right,” she said. “As long as you’re going after him.”

“Naturally we’re going after him. He held you at knifepoint. That’s enough for now.”

“He have a car?” Casey asked.

“Not unless he’s stolen one. Otherwise he walks or takes the bus.”

“Since he was at the library, it’s a safe bet he’s still local. You think he’ll stay close to home even now that he knows you’re on to him?”

“The library is as far as he’ll go, I think. Mostly he’ll stay in Venice. It’s his home turf. “

“Have you got a photo of him?”

Her hand was trembling as she removed the picture from her wallet. “This is the most recent one.”

Draper studied it, then passed it to Casey. “I’ll make copies,” Casey said, “and have them circulated at roll call. We can put out a BOLO for units in the field right now.”

“I don’t want him hurt,” she whispered. “I mean-even with everything that’s happened, and everything I suspect, I still…”

Casey understood. “I’ll tell all units that if anyone spots him, they’re to contact me immediately before taking any action. I’ll personally supervise, all right? I’ll make sure things don’t get out of hand.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Draper was staring out the window into the squad room, the neat maze of cubicles with waist-high partitions. “How much of this did you tell Sandra Price?”

The question surprised her. “None of it, really. I just said I had concerns about someone close to me.”

“Good. We don’t need any vigilantes looking for your brother.”

“She’s not a vigilante.”

“She’s not a cop, either. This is a job for law enforcement, not community activists.”

She wanted to say that maybe if they chose to work with Sandra Price instead of against her… But now was the wrong time.

“Anyone else know about this?” Casey asked.

“Well, there’s a friend of mine, Maura Lowell. She dated Richard for a while, before he started showing symptoms. She’s worried about him, too.”

“We’ll need contact information for her, as well as your brother’s address. For the time being, you shouldn’t go home. You can stay with a friend or-”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m waiting right here until you find him.”

“That could be hours. Or days.”

“Then I’ll wait hours. Or days. Casey, he’s my brother.” She nearly lost her composure as she said it.

Casey looked away too quickly, and she knew he had read the expression on her face.

“Okay, Silence,” he said, his voice low. “Okay.”