The Los Angeles Sunday Times, October 16, 1910. Venice-of-America. A tourist from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Mrs. Thomas Mayhew, has been reported missing by her husband. Authorities fear that Mrs. Mayhew, an inexpert swimmer, may have drowned in the heavy surf off Venice Beach. As yet, her body has not been found...

 

 

The Los Angeles Examiner, March 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. Employers of Miss Mary Hatton are concerned for her welfare after her repeated failure to report for her duties at the bathing pavilion, where she worked as a towel girl in the women’s changing rooms. Miss Hatton, described by her employers as “a little thing and rather delicate,” was well liked by the ladies who frequent the pavilion....

 

The Venice Vanguard, June 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. The police of this city are inquiring into the disappearance of Mrs. Ronald Paynter, wife of a businessman who recently purchased a home on Park Avenue after relocating from Glendale. Mrs. Paynter vanished more than a month ago, but her husband at first chose to retain a private investigator in hope of locating her. These efforts having failed, he has belatedly brought the matter to the attention of police. By now the trail is believed to be quite cold....

There were no other reports. The articles ran from the beginning of 1908 to the early summer of 1911. Viewed all at once, they suggested a rash of disappearances, but spread over three and a half years, in more than one community, and involving women of varying ages, backgrounds, and social positions, they would not have suggested an epidemic at the time—especially in an era when the very concept of a serial killer was barely understood.

It was doubtful that all these women had been Edward Hare’s victims. Perhaps the unfortunate Mrs. Mayhew really had drowned in the surf, and perhaps Mrs. Paynter had run away with another man—which would explain why her husband tried to keep the matter confidential. But it was a safe bet that some of the half-dozen skeletons in the cellar had been named in these newspaper accounts.

Marianne Sorensen...Annette Thurmond...Kathleen Wright... Mary Hatton.

Names for the moldering bones in the crypt. Names that made them people, not just relics.

Names...

“You see something,” Sirk said.

She glanced up and caught him watching her reflection in the mirror.

“No, not really.”

“You’re prevaricating, Jennifer. I saw it in your face—recognition. Of what?”

“Just an idea that occurred to me. I don’t know if it means anything.”

“Why not share it with the rest of the class?”

“I’m not sure it’s worth sharing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Abberline had said nearly the same thing to her. Perhaps Sirk really was the faceless man on the Internet. She wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” She slipped the papers back into the envelope. “I appreciate your help, but this is something I need to handle on my own.”

“Oh, I hardly think that answer is satisfactory.” Sirk heaved himself out of the barber’s chair. “As Maura can attest, I never do anything out of the goodness of my heart. I believe I suffer from the same congenital malady as Dr. Seuss’s Grinch, who, as you may recall, was born with a heart two sizes too small. As with any good deed that emanates from my person, there is a quid pro quo. I’ve helped you, and now you are to help me.”

“Help you how?”

“By telling me the rest of your story, of course.” He stepped closer, and Jennifer smelled alcohol on his breath. “No more secrecy, no more evasions. You and I are partners now.”

Maura waved a hand. “Hold on, Harrison. All I ever asked you to do was talk to my friend. I wasn’t trying to midwife some kind of business arrangement.”

“And yet you have done so, without even trying. Such is your skill as a businesswoman.”

Jennifer stood her ground. “I’m not going to tell you anything more.”

“I didn’t engage my research assistants in a full day of work for a rather hefty fee merely to get nothing in return.”

Maura snorted. “You don’t pay your research assistants a hefty fee. You pay them squat.”

“How can you possibly claim to know that?”

“Because I know you. You’re a cheap bastard.”

“And you are a purveyor of dirt. That’s all real estate is, ultimately. You’ve built your life on dirt.”

“You’ve built yours on blood,” Jennifer said, while Maura stepped back, speechless for once.

Sirk wheeled in her direction. “I would be careful, Miss Silence, about leveling such an accusation. Given your family history.”

“My family is none of your business.”

“Everything related to crime in our fair metropolis is my business. Including the Devil’s Henchman.” His eyes narrowed with malicious merriment. “You know, there is one detail about that case that never made the papers. I should have mentioned it yesterday, but I was hamstrung by discretion.”

“What detail?”

“Only this. The Devil’s Henchman abused his victims. I mean to say, he used them...sexually.”

She refused to let him see any reaction. “He raped them?”

“In a manner of speaking. They were already dead, you see, so the coitus was entirely postmortem.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you deserved to know. You do have a rather pertinent interest in the case. I use the term interest in the dual sense of curiosity and of a personal stake in the outcome.”

“You’re just trying to hurt me.”

“Not at all. It’s not as if I said your father was a butchering pervert who had sex with corpses. For all I know, the dear man was altogether innocent.”

“Jesus, Harrison,” Maura mumbled, aghast.

“Is there a problem?” His eyes had not left Jennifer’s face. “I should think you would welcome any fresh data in your fearless quest for truth.”

She held his gaze. “Maybe you can tell me if the killer used the missionary position.”

“Actually, my understanding is that he took them from behind. Perhaps he preferred not to see their faces. Incidentally, Jack the Ripper throttled his victims from behind. Remarkable how many parallels one can draw between old Jack and the Devil’s Henchman, isn’t it?”

“Like you said”—her voice was even, betraying nothing—“there are only so many ways to disembowel a woman.”

“Yes, but consider. The Venice killer roamed the streets on foot—like Jack. Preyed on down-and-out females—like Jack. Eviscerated them—like Jack. Was thought to show the skills of a surgeon or a slaughterman—like Jack. Took his victims from behind—like Jack. Of course, Jack didn’t rape them, so the similarities end there.”

“And what’s the point of listing all these details?”

“Merely to suggest that you may have a more personal connection to the Ripper case than I had imagined.”

“My father was born several decades too late to have been Jack the Ripper.”

“But not too late to be descended from him.”

It required all her willpower to keep her gaze level. “That’s crazy.”

“Before yesterday, I would have thought so. Today I’m not so sure. Seeing your face right now, I’m even less sure.”

“Harrison,” Maura hissed, “you’re behaving like a total shit.”

“No, my dear, I’m behaving like a historian of crime whose sensitive proboscis is beginning to catch the scent of the biggest story he could possibly hope for. The kind of story that would crown a career.”

“There’s no story,” Jennifer said.

“My every instinct tells me otherwise. And my instincts are rarely mistaken. They have earned me a great deal of money and brought me a fair degree of fame.”

“But not enough?” she asked.

He smiled, a paper-thin smile that spoke of limitless appetites. “My child, it is never enough.”