Shadow Man (37 page)

And so he took many keepsakes. He took these pieces of whores and
sealed them up, preserving them. He decreed that they be passed down,
from generation to generation, as a reminder of what he had begun.
I told you I would provide proof of my claims, Agent Barrett. I am a
man of my word. I am passing on to you one of the sacred keepsakes. The
preserved uterus of Annie Chapman.

Awe-inspiring, is it not? Run your tests. When you do, I think you
will find it harder to sleep at night. For you will know that a descendant
of the Shadow Man is out and about.

“Is what he’s saying true, Gene? Is that a human uterus in that jar?”

He smiles. Another cryptic smile. “We’ll address that. Finish reading the letter.”

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225

The Shadow Man. While there is only one original, you have known
many pretenders, haven’t you, Special Agent Barrett? Those who live in
the shadows, kill in them. My ancestor was born in the shadows. His was
a heritage of darkness.

He loved the shadows, and the shadows . . . well, they loved him
back. He was their purest child.

But I digress.

I have included another CD for you. I have been continuing the mis-
sion of my ancestor. I’ve cleansed the earth of another whore, lanced an-
other boil.

“Damn,” I say.

Enjoy it. I am quite proud of my work.

That is all for now, Agent Barrett. Rest assured, I will be in touch.
Perhaps in a more personal fashion. One week. Tick tock, tick tock.
From Hell,

Jack Jr.

I put the letter down, and look at Gene. “Spill it.”

He rubs his hands together. “After reading that, the jar was the first addressed, of course. I ran some basic tests, and that’s how I found it.”

“What?”

He pauses for effect. “There’s no human tissue in that jar, Smoky. If I had to guess, I would say that it’s bovine.”

Shock strikes me speechless for a moment, and then: “Holy shit!”

He grins. “Yes. Our boy thinks he has something passed on by Jack the Ripper. But he doesn’t. He has a piece of preserved cow flesh. He has an entire belief system built up that he doesn’t know is a lie.”

My mind is reeling. “It’s all bullshit. Bullshit somebody spoon-fed him. He’s no descendant of the Ripper. He’s—”

“Just another killer,” Callie says, completing the thought. She wiggles her eyebrows. “Not bad, huh? No physical evidence to identify our boys. But it’s certainly a defining characteristic.”

“Great, great work. Can you tag all of this and put together a report?”

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“Certainly. I’ll have it done this evening.”

“Great. Wow.” I turn to Callie. “We need to go share this with the rest of the team.” We begin to head out the door.

“Ah—Agent Barrett?”

I turn around and see Gene holding it in a gloved hand. Oh shit.

In the excitement, I’d forgotten about it for a moment. The CD. My elation fades.

It was time to go watch another murder.

37

W
E’RE BACK IN
the office.

“I have good news and bad news,” I say.

“What’s the good news?” Alan asks.

I relate the substance of the letter, ending with what Gene had found in the jar. Leo’s and Alan’s eyes widen. James gets an unfocused look. I can almost hear the thoughts spinning in his head.

“So,” he says, “someone has indoctrinated him in this. Either they think it’s true, or they wanted him to think it’s true.”

“Maybe he created the fantasy,” Leo says. “Why does it have to involve another person?”

“Because the level of delusion he’d have to operate at for that to be the case would preclude his level of organization and competence. Think about it.”

Callie nods. “I agree, honey-love. To create that belief system and then forget he created it . . . I don’t think he’d be very functional. He’d be far too delusional.”

I chew on this. “It’s a big break,” I say. “Another link. Now we aren’t just looking for him, we’re also looking for who worked to build this belief in him.” I turn to Alan. “Call Dr. Child now. Get this over to him. Call him at home if he’s not in. Tell him I need to see him tomorrow morning. This is one time a profile could really be helpful.”

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“Got it.”

“He’s starting to screw up,” I say. “There’s this, and him letting it slip that he’s following me.”

Alan looks up, alarmed. “What?”

“It’s in the letter. I went to a shooting range when we got back from San Francisco. He told me that he saw me go there. Which is a bad move on his part.”

“You need to be very, very careful, honey-love.”

I smile. “Don’t worry, Callie. I’m going to be calling an old friend on this one. Ex–Secret Service. I’m going to have him follow me.”

She nods. “He’ll shadow you, and by doing that, he’ll be able to spot anyone else following you.”

“Yep. My friend is very good. He’ll also be able to find any tracking devices or bugs on my car. I’ll have him sweep the house as well. I’ll keep them there if he finds any. We’ll know where the bugs are—but he won’t know we know.”

“Have you noticed that you are using ‘he,’ and not ‘they’?” James asks me.

I look at him, surprised. I hadn’t noticed. “I guess it’s because, more and more, I’m convinced that there is a primary ‘he.’ There is a Jack Jr. The other is incidental. I can feel it. Look at Ronnie Barnes. Jack used him up and threw him away. He said it in his letter—he’s looking for other killers to foster.”

“That begs the question about perp number two from Annie’s apartment,” James says. “Is he still alive? Or dead like Barnes?”

“No way to be sure . . . but I think he’s still alive.”

“I agree,” Alan says. “Think about it. He started something with Annie, something he’s been planning for a while. He’s not going to want to have to shift gears in the middle of it to train another killing buddy.”

I look at all of them. “We’re catching up.”

James is staring at me. “Enough back-patting,” he says. “What’s the bad news?”

I hold up the CD. “He sent us this as well. He killed someone else.”

The office goes quiet. Leo stands up, holding out his hand for the CD. “Let’s get it over with.”

I give it to him. “Go ahead.”

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His laptop is already on. He puts the CD in. Moments later, the video starts.

It begins with a title screen, white letters on a black background:
This
death sponsored by http://www.darkhairedslut.com.

“Note that down,” I say to Leo.

A bound and struggling woman appears. She’s naked and tied to a bed, just as Annie was. I estimate her age to be just under twenty-five. She’s very natural-looking. By that I mean she doesn’t have any breast enhancements—unless she had them enlarged to a B cup, which is doubtful. She still has the flawless body of the young, not yet marred by the rigors of carrying a child. Her hair is long, thick, and dark. Another brunette; he prefers them. Her eyes express everything she is feeling. Panic, terror, despair, all cranked up to an unbearable level. Jack Jr. appears in camera view, dressed in the same costume he wore when he killed Annie. He waves to the camera, and again, I get the sense that he is smiling. The smile is all for us; he loves that he is committing this crime on tape, essentially in front of us, without giving away a clue to his identity. He steps outside the lens. A moment later the music begins. Loud, almost deafening.
I wish they all could be California giiirls . . .
He moves over to the woman, cocking his head this way and that as he stares down at her. Then he holds up his weapon. Not a knife this time. A bat. He begins to dance and caper, waving the bat, putting his evil to the rhythm of the song. He makes a few false swings, just to terrify her further. Her eyes are bulging out, her face is turning red as she tries to scream through her gag.

And now, like it did in the video of Annie, the montage begins. All of it is done with an unhesitating brutality. There’s nothing clinical or workmanlike about it—when he prepares to swing the bat, he raises it back and above his head, and when he brings it down, he puts his entire body into it. He’s not just breaking bones; I can imagine them shattering into powder. Each time she passes out, he stops and slaps her face until she wakes up. He wants her to be there with him, to be aware of what is happening to her. To feel every minute.

He puts the bat down and climbs astride her. The rape begins. It’s brutal, designed for maximum motion. He wants to grind those
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broken bones, wants his fucking her to be the worst pain she’s ever felt. Again, each time she passes out, he wakes her up. It must have been like waking up to a nightmare, over and over again, I think. The rape finishes, and out comes the scalpel. He shows it to her. Grips her chin and makes her look at it, understand it. Her eyes follow the blade, fix on it as it moves down to her belly. I watch her start to go mad as he begins to dissect her, still alive. I look over at Leo. He is green, his face filled with horror. But he holds it together. He’s toughened up now, become someone he can’t unbecome.

When the woman is dead and eviscerated, Jack Jr. stands up. He stares down at her for a long, long time. She looks like someone made her swallow a bomb and then blew her up from the inside out. He looks at the camera, giving us a thumbs-up. At that, the video ends.

“You think you’re so funny,” I murmur to myself, enraged. “Keep smiling, fucker.”

It feels as impotent as it sounds.

Of course, part of me knows he never
really
smiles. There aren’t any smiles in him.

Everyone else is silent, trying to process the images we just saw. Compartmentalizing.

Dealing with it.

“Check out that Web site address, Leo. Let’s find out who this woman was.”

“I’m on it,” he says, quiet. He pauses. “How . . . how could anyone do that?” It’s a real question. His eyes bore into me, and they plead for an answer. I think for a moment before responding, choosing my words.

“They can do it because they love it. It’s their sex act, and their need for it is greater, more demanding, than any junkie’s need could ever be. There are all kinds of reasons they become that way. But the bottom line is that they love what they do. Passionately.” I look at James.

“What’s that phrase you came up with for them?”

“Sexual carnivores.”

“Right.”

Leo shivers. “It’s not what I imagined. All of this.”

“I know, believe me. This idea is perpetrated that it’s exciting hunting serial killers or baby rapers or other monsters. It’s not exciting. It’s consuming. You don’t wake up and go, ‘Boy oh boy, I can’t wait to
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catch that guy.’ You wake up and look in the mirror and try not to feel guilty because you haven’t caught him yet. Try not to think about the fact that he could be killing someone else because you haven’t caught him yet.” I lean back, shaking my head. “It’s not about excitement. It’s about feeling responsible when people die.”

He looks at me for a moment longer, then does what he’s learned to do in the face of horror: He turns to his computer and goes to work. A minute later, he has what I need. “I have an address for the owner of
darkhairedslut.com
. It’s an apartment in Woodland Hills.”

“Do you have a name?”

“No, sorry. It’s registered to a business. Probably a sole proprietorship.”

“Alan. Call LAPD for that area. Tell them to check it out. If it turns out that she’s there, I want them to close off the scene and let us know. No one in or out.”

“Got it.”

“It wasn’t obvious on this video,” James says. “At least not to me.”