Page 20 of Secrets in the Dark
Looking up at him, Della said, “And he laid her right down on the ground, ripped up her dress and very quickly did his slashing before disappearing down the alley and out...out into the nightlife.”
“Judging by the marks on the ground and the crime scene photos, I think that’s exactly the way it went down. He’s timing his every move, but then at the time of the original Ripper killings, the killer knew his timing, too—he killed a few women in the brief time between patrols on the streets.”
“He knew his timing,” Della agreed.
“And no cameras back here. Still,” Mason said, “he had to leave the alley.”
“Area surveillance,” Edmund said. As Della had done, he looked around the alley. “All right, the forensic team picked up every cigarette butt and they bagged the trash and bottles. They’ll pull DNA in the hopes that somewhere along the line, we’ll be able to do some comparisons. Then again...it’s a popular bar and there will be dozens upon dozens of prints and even more DNA and... Anyway, let’s get back, meet up with our Jeanne Lapierre and François Bisset. Both should be at our headquarters soon if they’re not there now.”
“Let me grab a few photos of my own,” Della said. “And then, yes, we’ll be far more useful back at headquarters.” She was quiet a minute. “We can’t stop what happened here now.”
“They’re collecting all the surveillance now for us?” Mason asked Edmund.
“Yes, our people are on it,” Edmund murmured.
They had all seen the crime scene photos. They’d all had them in their email and had studied them already on their phones or tablets.
But Mason understood Della’s feeling. Photos taken from different angles. He believed that she was right; the killer had seized her just outside the door. He had strangled her quickly and gotten her down. The blood pools and spills suggested that he’d made the first slice as he lowered her to the ground; the second, even deeper, once he had her down.
When she finished snapping her shots, she looked at him and Edmund and they started out. But as they reached the car, they were met by a tall man, probably in his early thirties, with light brown hair, serious dark eyes and wearing a casual jacket and jeans.
“Johnstone,” Edmund said, greeting the arrival.
“Edmund,” the man said, nodding and looking at Mason and Della.
“This is your—”
“Yeah,” the man named Johnstone said. “First on the case,” he added.
Edmund turned to Mason and Della. “Detective Inspector Sean Johnstone,” he said to them by way of introduction. “Sean, Special Agents Della Hamilton and Mason Carter.”
They shook hands and the newcomer smiled grimly. “This was...too much like what we know of the past. Except that when the barman came out after last call, he knew that she wasn’t sleeping right away and called the cops. Two uniformed officers cordoned off the area, but I was here within thirty minutes of the call. The officers were good; they kept everyone out. I was here and the forensic crew were here almost immediately. Our belief—confirmed by the coroner’s preliminary report—was that she was killed within forty-five minutes of the last call, or else someone else would have headed back here for a cigarette. And no matter what the hell someone might have been drinking, they’d have noticed her where she was lying.”
“You’re with—Scotland Yard?” Della asked, and, of course, Mason knew why.
The man’s accent seemed far more American than English.
Sean Johnstone smiled. “I was born in Yorkshire, moved as a child to Chicago for my father’s work, came back for college and now, here I am. Sometimes I sound English and sometimes I sound American.”
“Got it,” Della said, smiling. “At any rate, Inspector Detective, we’re glad to meet you and we’re here to help, of course, not to—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not proprietorial,” he said. “Edmund has been on all this from the start, and I’m up to par with what’s gone on with Stephan Dante—as soon as I found that this was my case, I read everything possible in your notes and so on. I know that Dante trained whoever our killer may be now. I’m grateful to have a team on this—not that every cop in the British Isles isn’t ready to step in with assistance in any way possible.”
“We have a possible suspect,” Mason told him. “A man behaving strangely at a bar in Brixton the other night. We have an ID on him, too, and the more help we have on hours of surveillance tape will be great. While there are no cameras in the alley, there are plenty on the streets.”
“And being thoroughly collected to be ready for us at our temporary office headquarters,” Johnstone assured them.
“Then let’s do this,” Mason said. “Time for the movies.”
“We’re going to need lots of popcorn,” Della murmured. She hesitated, frowning and looking at Sean Johnstone. “I take it that there’s going to be double security around here everywhere, right?”
He nodded. “We had the streets flooded already.” He shook his head. “Thing is that the killer had to be bloody. How the hell did he walk back on the street wearing a ton of blood? The original Ripper might have been a butcher, and sure, in 1888, walking around with a bloody apron might be par for the course. But not today.”
“He was trained by the best. He has something to go over his clothing. He’s wearing gloves. He knows all the tricks except—” Mason began.
“Except?” Sean Johnstone asked.
“Everyone makes a mistake. He will make a mistake. But that’s it—we can’t wait for that to happen. We must stop him before he commits another murder—before he gets his chance to make a mistake. We can head back—”
