Whitney shrugged. “Relatively accepted, no one smirked at me too visibly at the task force meeting. And you saw how intrigued they all were to meet you at the station house. They’ve had to have seen the press about us being ghost hunters, but our solve rate always has a perfectly rational explanation. Jude wouldn’t believe in a ghost if the entire population of Trinity Cemetery crawled out of their graves to say boo. But he’s a decent guy.”

“Are you still convinced that it all has to do with Jack the Ripper and someone obsessed with him?” Angela asked.

“Angela,” Whitney said, “yes, I’m convinced. There were two pre-Ripper murders—Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman—and those coincide with the Jane Does. And now, Virginia Rockford and Melody Tatum. I was there when the medical examiner gave his preliminary on Melody. I don’t think there’s a doubt that this killer intends to carry out the same streak of murders as Jack the Ripper.”

“Then Jude’s father’s library might help us.”

Angela laughed suddenly. “I just realized—you met the detective’s father. Have you two set a date yet?” she teased. “He’s impressive. His size alone must intimidate the criminals in his world from the onset of any investigation. Quick work.”

“No, no,” Whitney protested. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. If she was, she hoped that her biracial coloring was hiding the fact. “Like I said, Jude’s father is a retired cop. I think Jude often speaks with him about his cases. Anyway, I’m still reading the book, but it was written by a retired cop who was in New York when Carrie Brown, the so-called American victim of Jack the Ripper, was murdered. What’s difficult is that there are no records on the man, Jonathan Black, who this author suspected of the crimes—and of being the Ripper. The only real mention of him seems to be in that ledger. I haven’t had a chance to verify that no other records exist on such a person coming into the country, or living at Blair House, or at the House of Spiritualism. But one theory is that he became so debauched and terrifying that he scared the devil worshippers he lived with, and that they killed and interred him somewhere at the site.”

Angela was thoughtful. “If there’s more information regarding either of the properties to be found on the computer, Jake Mallory can find it,” she said. “And we can get a list at the library—they take names before allowing people to handle rare books.”

“Oh, there’s a tech at the police station Detective Crosby seems to believe in implicitly. Her name is Hannah Mills, and I get the feeling that if he asked for her to be on the task force, she had to be good.”

“I’ll have Jake get down to speak with her. If they combine their efforts, I’m sure we’ll be better off,” Angela said. She glanced out the window at the construction site.

“Jude’s father is pretty good, too, so it seems,” Whitney said.

“The more I think about it…he’s a civilian now…we’ll keep track of his findings, but we can’t really bring him on this,” Angela said.

“Andrew’s not afraid of much,” Whitney said.

“We always take any help—we just need to keep civilians safe, you know?”

“Of course.”

“And I’m sure that Jude is grateful, and that he’s also careful to see that what information he receives from his father is kept under his hat,” Angela said.

“Do you know what Jackson is thinking about the situation?” Whitney asked Angela. She hoped that her team leader would agree with the psychological assessment she had made of the killer at the task force meeting earlier. Jackson had worked with behavioral science units for years, had a firm understanding of psychology—and was extremely familiar with that of killers.

This case had become personal somehow. Maybe because she empathized too much with the victims. Maybe because she had been the first to arrive in New York; Jackson had figured that she knew Lower Manhattan well since she’d gone to NYU, and that she’d make an excellent team representative while the rest of them gathered information and equipment.

She’d never walked the streets as a hooker, she thought dryly, but she had seen a lot of pain and desperation in the streets of her native New Orleans, and she had seen how easy it could be for people to become desperate for the simplest necessities of life.

“The killer is so controlled,” she murmured, shivering suddenly. “Angela, the two Jane Does were killed like Emma Smith and Martha Tabrum—murders that are accepted not as Ripper killings but as precursors to the events, precursors that wound up in the police files of the time. Down to the one being attacked, and dying en route to the hospital—the other was pulled from the river. Assuming that we have someone trying to reenact what happened in Victorian London, he is still willing to take major chances, because the one girl was left alive, though so near death that she couldn’t really help the police. That takes nerve—I mean, killing someone that way was such an incredible risk! I’m worried this killer could go on and on, because there are other victims in the original investigations and old files as well. Today, the cops and experts who study the files seem to agree on the five nineteenth-century victims—but that’s not the point. There were so many other victims who were being investigated at the time. Then, of course, there’s the belief that he came to the States and killed Carrie Brown here. Police records say that Carrie Brown was the only woman butchered like a true Ripper victim, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t other murders—or that the Ripper did die in New York if indeed he came here.”

“That’s a lot of killing for someone to reenact,” Angela said.

Whitney nodded, frowning. “There were ‘accidents’ at the site, too, when they were setting up to film the movie. Angus Avery, the director, believes beyond a doubt that there’s something evil about the site. There’s something going on, but, of course, I don’t know what. I do think that once we’ve had a chance to explore the construction area, we’ll…well, we’ll be on to something.”

Angela rose to put her coffee cup in the sink. “No one goes there alone, Whitney.”

Whitney laughed. “Trust me! I have no wish to wander around there alone. Ugh! But I do think that we need to get some cameras going in that area.”

“I agree. Tell Will, and the two of you decide just what equipment you’re going to need and we’ll all be your grunts this evening,” Angela said.

“There is something very different in the contemporary murders,” Whitney said, looking at Angela.

“Yes, this is far more than a century later,” Angela said.

Whitney shook her head gravely. “The Ripper’s second victim was found more than a week after the first. But this man has killed two nights in a row. He’s accelerating.”

“I think we should get to the library,” Angela said.

“Let’s do it,” Whitney agreed.

“Our poor girl was already suffering from cirrhosis of the liver, but she hadn’t been drinking the night she was killed. Stomach contents were well-digested, suggesting that it had been some time since she’d eaten. I don’t believe that the murderer had to have had a medical degree, but he definitely had some knowledge of anatomy—the uterus and its appendages have been removed. The incisions have no hesitation, and are clean. There is no injury to the cervix uteri. The rectum has been avoided, while the upper portions of the vagina and two-thirds of the bladder have been taken from the body. They were not discovered on or anywhere near Melody Tatum.” He paused, looking at Jude. “To my knowledge, they have yet to be discovered anywhere.”

Jude shook his head. Dr. Fullbright had been meticulous. Officers had canvassed the entire area. The forensics team had been over the entire alley. Dumpsters had been pulled apart; not an inch had been overlooked.

He heard Fullbright’s voice drone on; it didn’t matter what he was saying. The woman on the autopsy table had been brutally butchered—that much was apparent to the most untrained eye. And Jude knew as well that everything that Fullbright found was going to be consistent with the findings on the body of the Ripper’s second victim, Annie Chapman.

The city was filled with possible suspects.

He had to narrow it down.

No matter what, it seemed to come back to the movie. He didn’t know about Melody Tatum yet, but he was sure that he would discover that she’d been promised a role in it—or that she…

Had she slept with someone involved? Plied her trade upon the actor who had an agenda?

Time! They needed more time; even with the task force relentlessly questioning people for hours, there just wasn’t enough time.

Fullbright finished the official autopsy after removing sections of tissue and drawing fluids for analysis. He stepped away from the table, stripping off his gloves and lifting his mask. He spoke to Jude, Jackson and Jenna.

“You know, Jude,” he said, “that I’m one of those armchair detectives, always trying to study the newest on the Ripper case. I swear, it was almost as if the killer had an old autopsy diagram of Annie Chapman on him when he killed and mutilated this woman.”

Jude nodded. “I want the details kept confidential; I talked to Sayer just now, and he and his people have wasted hours listening to the confessions of petty criminals and plain old nutjobs, all just trying to get their names in the paper. And it’s even harder to deal with the true mental patients who begin to think that they’re evil. Sayer had one call from a prisoner who said that his astral self committed the murders, and another who told him that Jack the Ripper had scooped him up in a spaceship and then sent him down with instructions on what to do.”

Dr. Fullbright nodded sympathetically. “My office will refer to the police spokesperson on any matter, Jude. But, I’m afraid that the public will grow into a frenzy anyway. They’ll think what they want.”

“True enough, but let’s not give them any validation,” Jude said. He looked over at Jackson Crow. The man was his own height, with straight ink-black hair that gave credence to a Native American background. He had been quiet and grave during the autopsy, respecting Jude’s position as the lead detective. Jenna Duffy, soft-spoken, her words musical with the hint of an old-world lilt, had been equally respectful, but her green eyes had been ever watchful as the autopsy had taken place.