"Apparently, everything they wouldn't say in person. The impression I get is that your Caspar Milquetoast who wouldn't dream of speaking to a strange woman in a bar loses all inhibitions when he's tapping out messages in the night."
"Did Mrs. Blinderman tell you that?"
"Sort of. She's a little warped herself."
"You've got two matches there, you know."
"Yeah. Biggus Dickus and Passion Prince. They're first on Rodriguez's invitation list for a little chat."
"Good. I've been doing some research for you, too. Lord Tennyson was acutely aware of madness. His father, Dr. George Clayton Tennyson, was clearly manic-depressive."
I gave Charlie my how-do-you-know-that look.
"Relax," he said. "I've been to the library. You should try it sometime. Now, the poet himself was subject to great depression. He would check himself into the 1840s equivalent of a health spa. Unfortunately, these were establishments of intense quackery. He'd subject himself to hydropathy, which is a fancy word for ice-water baths and massages. All day long, freezing baths and rub-downs with wet, cold sheets, followed by meals of bread and cold water."
"Not exactly a weekend at the Fontainebleau."
"The idea was to flush out the poisons, the demons of the mind."
"Okay, what's that have to do with us?"
"Maybe nothing, but best to remember we don't have messages written by the killer. We're dealing with words written by someone who apparently influenced the killer."
"So we should learn as much as we can about that someone."
"Exactly. For what it's worth, Tennyson wrote 'Locksley Hall' after being jilted by a lover."
"Hell hath no fury like the poet scorned. What about the first message-Jack the Ripper?"
"Here, I brought something for you to read." He motioned toward his knapsack. Inside, next to a sandwich of smoked amberjack on sourdough, was an old book. A musty old book with pages that stuck together and a title by someone who never saw a movie marquee. A Detailed History and Critical Analysis of Police Investigatory Techniques During the Whitechapel Murders, August 31 to November 9, 1888.
I thumbed through the book, peeling yellow pages apart. "Somehow, I thought Jack the Ripper had a longer rampage."
"Five killings over seventy days," Charlie said. "All middle-aged prostitutes, all alcoholic, all killed within a one-quarter-square-mile area. He disemboweled them, you know. Removed the uterus from one with some medical skill. With a couple, the police missed him only by a matter of seconds."
"Mary Ann Nicholls," I said, reading from the book. "The first one. 'Warm as a toasted crumpet' when found, it says here. What about the note?"
"There were at least three, actually. Turn to where I've marked it. The first letter was written in red ink and sent to a newspaper after the second murder."
I found the page and read aloud:
"'Dear Boss,
I am down on whores and I shan't quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work, the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me and my funny little games.
Yours Truly,
Jack the Ripper'"
"Three days later," Charlie said, "a postcard was mailed from the East End. Same handwriting."
I found the page and again read aloud:
"'I was not codding, dear Boss, when I gave you the tip. You'll hear about Saucy Jack's work tomorrow. Double even this time. Number One squealed a bit; couldn't finish straight off. Had no time to get ears for police.
— Jack the Ripper"
I read silently to learn what Charlie already knew. The next morning two bodies were found. Elizabeth Stride's throat had been slashed. The other victim, Catherine Eddowes, was quite a mess. Her abdomen was slashed open, the intestines pulled out and draped over her shoulder. And her left kidney was missing.
"Two weeks after the double homicide," Charlie said, "George Lusk received a cardboard box in the mail. It contained part of a human kidney and a note."
I thumbed a few pages further:
From hell, Mr. Lusk, sir, I send you half the kidney I took from one woman, preserved it for you, tother piece I fried and ate it; was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a while longer. Catch me if you can, Mr. Lusk.
"Cocky bastard," I said. "Showed no fear at all."
"No reason to," Charlie said, giving up at last and swinging his pole onto the dock. "Why not?"
"They never caught the bloke, did they?" Charlie said, wiping off his hands and picking up his meerschaum pipe.
CHAPTER 10
"Senor Castillo," Nick Fox said in his silky politician's voice, "do you know any reason why you couldn't sit as a juror in this case?"
The small, dark man in his stiff Sunday suit shook his head from side to side.
"Sir, can you understand English?"
"Si," the man said proudly.
I waited until the jury was sworn and approached Nick Fox at the prosecution table. "Tennyson, anyone?" I whispered.
"Huh?"
"We gotta talk."
"You bet we do, slick. What the hell you doing with the Rosedahl homicide? You got no jurisdiction there."
"I have to cross the county line, like a cop in hot pursuit."
The judge was clearing his throat. "Mr. Fox, is the state ready to proceed?"
Nick Fox rose from his chair and bowed-"Ready, Your Honor"-then turned back to me. "Look, I got a double Murder One to try here. We'll talk at the lunch recess."
I nodded and started to move away.
"What's on your mind?" he called after me.
"Jack the Ripper," I said.
Judge Dixie Lee Boulton was just finishing her morning motion calendar when I strolled into the courtroom, a bulky black briefcase in one hand, a leash attached to a shaggy Angora goat in the other.
Arnie Two-Ton Tannenbaum was planted in front of the bench, thrusting a copy of Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, Second Edition, in the general direction of the bench. "Your Honor, the indictment charges my client with entering Cozzoli's Pizzeria 'unlawfully, feloniously, and burglariously.' Now, you can look high and you can look low, but there is no such word as 'burglariously.' The indictment must be quashed."
"On what ground?" the judge asked, scowling.
"Unconstitutional grammar."
"Is there any precedent for that?"
"No, and just as well," Two-Ton answered. "It would be a pity for Your Honor to be deprived the distinction of being the first to establish the rule."
I had taken a seat in the front row of the gallery, just between Marvin the Maven and Saul the Tailor. Marvin nodded hello and ignored the goat, having seen far stranger sights in Miami courtrooms. Saul petted the animal, then pulled away before he lost a chunk of the straw hat he kept in his lap.
"Seven-to-one Two-Ton loses the motion, then cops a plea," Marvin the Maven predicted.
The defendant, a skinny nineteen-year-old with bad skin, dirty hair, and bad posture, slumped in front of the judge, vacant and hopeless. No one took the Maven's bet, and five minutes later, the judge recited the Gospel of the Guilty Plea: "The court finds the defendant intelligent, of sound mind and body, and represented by competent counsel…"
It isn't easy to tell four lies in one sentence, I thought.
"He understands the nature of the charges against him and has made the plea freely and voluntarily. Three years in the state prison."
"Out in nine months," said Marvin the Maven.
"Next case," Dixie Lee Boulton announced. "South Coast Properties versus Babalu Aye Church of Santeria. Is the plaintiff ready?"
"South Coast Properties." Marvin tut-tutted, clucking his tongue. "What happened to representing honest murderers, Jake? Even a lying newspaper's better than a slumlord."