The Cutthroat

“Now we know that he doesn’t kill only for twisted pleasure,” Bell confided in Marion, whom he had been consoling with a late supper after another day of rain had forced her to take her cameras indoors. “He kills for profit, too.”

“He killed to get control of the show.”

* * *

The Cleveland field office was not thrilled to have an investigation reviewed by a detective as young as James Dashwood. That Dashwood reported directly to Chief Investigator Isaac Bell did not make the Cleveland boys love him more.

“Interesting,” Dashwood commented politely after a painstaking examination of photographs from the morgue.

“Yeah, what’s interesting?”

“Well, that you could conclude that the murderer did not carve crescent shapes on the victim’s arms.”

“Which we did.”

“On the other hand, these marks on her legs could be interpreted as crescent-shaped.”

“They could also be interpreted as stab wounds inflicted during their struggle.”

“What struggle? The coroner concluded that death was rapid, if not instantaneous, due to this wound in her throat, or this separation of vertebrae C3 and C4…”

The Cleveland chief concealed a longing to march Dashwood off a Lake Erie pier. “Is there anything else?”

“There is something odd about this theater program that Mr. Buchanan inscribed to the lady.”

“My pleasure,” John Buchanan had written over his name in the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde cast list. And under it, his signature. Both flowed in a clear, bold English round hand, decorated with beautiful hooks and dramatic flourishes.

“What about it?”

“You did a remarkable job of documenting their ‘visits’ with each other.”

“Rich folk don’t go to a lot of trouble to hide it. If the lady’s husband didn’t notice, or didn’t want to notice, who’s going to call them on it?”

“And it was genius discovering the husband’s girlfriend.”

“Thank you, sonny.”

“But what is it about this program? It’s driving me nuts— May I keep it, please?”

“You’ll have to sign a receipt.”

“My pleasure,” said Dashwood.

* * *

The Cutthroat had waited too long.

The rain had slowed everything to a maddening crawl.

It was time — long past time — to attack.

A vital murder.

A joyous slaughter.

46

Joel Wallace outdid himself with his second cable to Isaac Bell:

EMPTY COTTON SHIPS

LIVERPOOL TO NEW ORLEANS

NO PAPERS

With little hope for more than a list culled from old newspapers, and even less for a quick answer as to where the murderer had gone next twenty years ago, Bell wired the New Orleans field office:

GIRLS MURDERED AUGUST — DECEMBER 1891

A letter arrived at the railcar. The envelope was addressed to Isaac Bell, c/o the Arcade Depot, where the Jekyll & Hyde Special was parked.

The letter inside read

Dear Boss,

Mile 342. SP. Midnight.

Come alone, old boy.

At the end of the day, isn’t it just between us?

I couldn’t blame you if you don’t come alone.

Or don’t come at all.

I ask too much of bravery.

One of us is immortal, and you know it isn’t you.

“Twenty-to-one, it’s a hoax,” he told Archie Abbott.

“You going anyway?”

“Have to.”

“Alone?”

“Like the man says.”

Bell recognized the handwriting as similar to the “My funny little games” letter that Jack the Ripper wrote to the Central News Agency in 1888—which Scotland Yard had thought authentic and put up on posters in the fruitless hope someone who knew him would recognize the handwriting.

A crescent was inked under Jack the Ripper’s signature, which anyone could have picked up reading the papers. But “Dear Boss” was more intriguing, as that first letter to the Yard had also been directed to “Dear Boss.”

“What the heck is ‘Mile 342. SP’?” asked Archie Abbott.

Bell showed him a map.

“The Southern Pacific Railroad counts track miles from San Francisco. That puts Milepost 342 a hundred and twenty miles up the coast from Los Angeles, between Gaviota and El Capitan.”

The tracks hugged the Santa Barbara Channel shore.

“Middle of nowhere,” said Archie.

“Nothing but a water tank.”

“What if he pulls something?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll be mighty disappointed.”

“Why don’t I just tag along a ways back?” Abbott asked.

“He’ll be looking for you.”

Abbott knew his friend too well. Because he blamed himself for Anna’s death, Isaac Bell would go alone — rather than risk frightening him off — fight alone, and come back alone with a captive or a body — or alone in a coffin — and no force on earth could stop him.

“Twenty-to-one, it’s a hoax,” Bell repeated.

“By whom?”

“My old friend Abbington-Westlake is ‘having me on,’ as the Britons say. His forgers could imitate the Ripper’s handwriting. But they made a mistake with this word.”

“‘Immortal’?”