The Whitechapel Case
Fox-Trot-9

PG-13
Horror/Suspense/Mystery (How-Catch-'Em)
Disclaimer: I don't own Ghost Hunt or Death Note.

Part 1: The Hypothesis
Chapter 2

Day 1—The only sound came from the record player that wound down the vinyl record of the "Maple Leaf Rag" into static. Then true silence descended, leaving the four of them to brood over the consequences these monsters brought to their table. Martin's theory of two sadistic serial killers on the loose in London's streets hit everyone like a bomb blast, except maybe Noll. He had a few unanswered questions on his mind, two of them: who was the anonymous person his father was referring to? and why was his father withholding such information? Clearly, something was amiss.

Then the door bell rang.

"That must be Luella. Don't worry, Lin, I'll get it," and Martin got up, walked to the door and opened it. "You're a bit late; it's a quarter past two."

"I know; I'm sorry. I got a few errands mixed up, and I had to go back."

"That's all right," and he lead her to the private study. "Luella, I must introduce you to my new friend, Mr. Bert Gendal."

"Is he the one covering the murder of Nancy Benton?"

"Yes, and I have Oliver and Lin on it, too," he said; his wife stopped and just stared at him, as if she caught him red-handed in an illicit affair. "Now let me explain before you—"

That earned him a slap on the face. "Martin, how could you do this to me? You promised me not to drag Oliver into this mess!"

"I know, but I had to, dear; otherwise more innocent people would die."

"Damn it, don't you soften on me!"

"But please understand, Luella. I will do everything in my power," he said, holding her hands in his and squeezing, "to look after Oliver; I'll even ask Bert and Lin to look after him, if I can't."

"See to it that you do," and she cleared the private study avoiding whoever was waiting in there, but as she went up the stairs, she turned and looked at her husband. "Martin, did you tell Oliver about me and the stalker?"

"I told all of them, my dear. I can't hide any secrets, especially from him."

She nodded and went up the stairs, presumably to cry away the pains this day had brought over her. Martin saw her go, then walked morosely into the private study. The door was just half-open, but the three men sitting on the couches saw and heard enough to know how hard this string of cases were on both of them. Bert Grendal knew this first hand, married at twenty-five and divorced at twenty-eight. Any investigation, but particularly the ones dealing with murder, is a relationship-killer. No room for screwing around, no room for Mr. Softy; this line of work was for hard-nosed men and women with no qualms whatsoever of spending the rest of their lives as jaded recluses.

"Sorry about that," said Martin. "Today has been a lot for her...and me."

"We're only human, man," said Bert. "May I take these two out for a while. Just for a breather, that's all. I can tell this briefing has ruffled a few feathers."

"Do that, but don't be out for too long. Noll has a curfew: nine at night, midnight at the latest."

"Don't worry, we'll keep an eye on your boy till then."

"I know you will," and he sent them off.

"Oh, and," added Bert before leaving, "do you have a summary sheet or list of all the previous murders lying around? Just so I won't have to carry around all those casebooks."

"Uh...yes," said Martin. "Do you need it?"

"Yes, just for a little while. The rest of the investigation needs to know about this."

Martin nodded and searched around the bookshelves again, bringing out the summary sheet, which is a legal pad of two handwritten pages.

"Now don't go making too big a commotion with these findings," said Martin. "It's best to let others know on a need to know basis."

"We will; don't worry," said Bert.

Then he, Noll and Lin went into the police cruiser and drove along Langley out of the Woodside Ward of Croydon (past the brick streets of the North End and the Centrale, which is one of the largest shopping centers in London, past the old farmhouses of the Park Hill Recreation Ground, past all the other local landmarks that few tourists ever see or appreciate) before turning at Shamus Drive and entering the main quarters of London in Chancery Square, near the old High Court of Chancery of Charles Dicken's novel, Bleak House.

The place was bleak, all right, eerily like the novel. While Croydon dwelled in springtime sunshine, here it was foggy. Not as foggy as Dickens described it, but enough to bring a chill up your spine in a cloudless afternoon. Not too muddy, either; thank the clean air and street acts of Parliament for that. Things have changed since the days of Dickens, about a century-and-a-half's worth of change, for better and for worse, across the face of this settlement. But one thing has remained the same: the drinking establishments. Specifically, the Mappleworth Pub off the Luton Street near the old square, known as the Scotland Bar for its many patrons who carried the badge or the private investigator's credentials. Don't expect that many bar fights here.

That's where Bert invited Noll and Lin after they got out of the police cruiser. Cops, plain clothes and uniformed, walked in and out of that pub. Some of them stole a glance or two at Noll who had the legal pad in hand.

"How old are you, kid?" said Bert.

"Seventeen."

"That's close enough. I'll buy you late lunch. Is that fine with you?" Noll nodded yes. Then he turned to Lin. "What about you, man? You want one, too?"

"I'm fine, but thanks."

"Suit yourself."

The pub was noisy, filled with the banter of big and small talk. Past the door of the pub, the trio was greeted with a few nods of fellow cops. Once they were seated at a table for four, Bert ordered three mugs of beer and a meal for Noll. It was a grinder's sub of many strips of bacon, eggs and lettuce stuffed between two thick slabs of long toasted rye, enough to put some meat on Noll's bones if he kept eating it regularly.

Noll said, "Why are we here?"

"Just to get out of that place," said Bert. "God, your father unleashed a bombshell on us back there. I'm gonna have to talk to Jake about this."

"Who's he?"

"Jacob Meiler, my superior, the one who assigned me to this case. He'll freak when he finds out there's two of them on the loose, instead of just one. Let me see that pad."

Noll laid the legal pad on the table for Bert to see. It had two columns, side by side. The first read like this:

Killer #1:

1.(3.) October 31st, Havershim. Killed via (blank).
2.(7.) November 26th, Craton. Killed via (blank).
3.(12.) January 5th, Wexler. Killed via (blank).
4.(14.) January 16th, Anderson. Killed via (blank).
5.(18.) March 17th, O'Conner. Killed via (blank).
6.(21.) April 3rd, Feraway. Killed via (blank).

Notes:

All victims eviscerated after death with a scalpel.
All cuts are clean.
No contusions.
No sign of a struggle.
No cut to the throat.
No signs of food poisoning.
No signs of suffocation.
No other evidence of the perpetrator.
Perpetrator must have surgical and pharmaceutical knowledge.
Might be a doctor.

Bert checked over the first list twice, then furrowed his brows. Clearly, this first killer would be very hard to find. This person's method of murder was unknown. Not good. If you don't know the murder method, then you don't know the murder weapon, and you can't make any accurate guesses as to who or where that person is, let alone link that person to the crime. Of course, the press was not interested in how these murders were committed, only in how the bodies were "savagely ripped apart," as one reporter put it, after each murder. Yes, there are a lot of misconceptions when it comes to identifying and nabbing any criminal, particularly the serial killer.

Contrary to what the Guardian, or the BBC or any media organization might think or say, the best way to nab a serial killer is in the way each killed his or her victims, not in the way each mutilated them (if any mutilation took place at all). Though this is important in a murder investigation, it comes after the death of the victim, which amounts to mere icing on a cake. Think about this like baking a cake. To identify a killer, you must identify the method of killing, which is like the flour that makes up the cake. After that, you must create a reliable profile of the killer based on that method of killing related to the locations of each victim, which is like mixing the two ingredients into a dough. From this, you narrow the profile until it fits a select number of individuals that can be detained or scoped out, which is like setting up the time for that dough to become cake. Then comes the nabbing part, via interrogation after detaining the prime suspect, or sting operation and interrogation, or literally catching the killer in the act, which makes up the baking part. And after all this comes the juicy, morbid details of the killer's confession or the prosecution's evidence against the defendant in court, of which a fraction of that precious icing is released to the press. In this way, you start from the beginning and work your way to the end, like baking a cake. That's how it usually works in the real world of the detective.

Now, back to the method of murder. To a trained investigative eye, the obvious guess would be suffocation, but even death by suffocation can be detected by low oxygen levels in the blood, of which no medical reports were made. Bert frowned at this. Man, this bastard is tricky as hell.

Now he looked to the second column, which read like this:

Killer #2:

1.(1.) October 21st, Putnam. Killed via a knife to the throat.
2.(2.) October 29th, Fayllen. Killed via a knife to the throat.
3.(4.) November 10th, Adam. Killed via a knife to the throat.
4.(5.) November 16th, Holdsworth. Killed via a knife to the throat.
5.(6.) November 24th, Astley. Killed via a knife to the throat.
6.(8.) December 6th, Aeyers. Killed via a knife to the throat.
7.(9.) December 14th, Michelles. Killed via a knife to the throat.
8.(10.) December 24th, Acker. Killed via a knife to the throat.
9.(11.) January 1st, Berry. Killed via a knife to the throat.
10.(13.) January 15th, Adcock. Killed via a knife to the throat.
11.(15.) February 3rd, Moorson. Killed via a knife to the throat.
12.(16.) February 19th, Carmyne. Killed via a knife to the throat.
13.(17.) March 9th, Wedder. Killed via a knife to the throat.
14.(19.) March 28th, Anders. Killed via a knife to the throat.
15.(20.) April 1st, Mylette. Killed via a knife to the throat.
16.(22.) April 4th, Fisher. Killed via a knife to the throat.

Notes:

All Victims eviscerated, beheaded or dismembered after death with a long-sharp instrument.
All cuts are clean.
Some contusions to the face and abdomen.
One or two cuts to the throat.
No other evidence of the perpetrator.
Perpetrator must have some form of anatomical knowledge.
Might be a butcher.
Perpetrator must also be left-handed.

Again, not an easy cake-job here. At least this second murderer had the decency to showcase the method of his gruesome trade. "Jesus," said Bert; Noll looked at him. "I've got to hand it to your father. He is extremely thorough." Then he got out a pen from his coat and added one more to that dismal list, noting all his observations:

17.(23.) April 5th, Benton. Killed via a knife to the throat.

Notes:

Victim eviscerated after death.
Some contusions to the face.
One cut to the throat.
No other evidence.
Possible work of both murderers.

"The first one will be tricky," Bert continued. "The second one is a bit easier, but not much. Did you go over this?"

"I looked over it during the ride."

"Any questions?"

"Yes, but they're not about the murders, at least not directly," said Noll. "I think my father is hiding something from me."

Bert didn't see that coming. "Like what?"

"That's what I want to find out. Before you showed up, I asked my father who told him to change the home phone number without letting me know. He said this person was anonymous but credible, someone with enough authority to convince him to do it."

"And what does that have to do with this investigation?"

"I don't know, but I need to find out. I need to know every detail."

"And you think knowing the one who told your dad to change your home phone number will get us any closer to nabbing these killers?"

"I have to start somewhere."

"Then start some place that's a little more...relevant to these murders."

"I think it is relevant."

"Why don't you just call your dad about it, then?"

"Because he won't tell me."

"And how do you know that?"

"Were you there when I talked to him about it?"

"No, but I still don't know why he wouldn't tell you."

"Then you and I are on the same page," said Noll, giving the guy an all-knowing smirk. "I don't know why, and you don't know why, and that means we don't know why. So we need to find out."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Start by asking the right people the right questions. And I don't mean 'What else you got?' either."

Fucking prick, thought Bert. "Look, kid. I'm not your employee—"

A few other cops looked at the table of three, particularly at Bert and the kid talking to him. Fairly strange for a cop, let alone a detective, to converse with a minor in this drinking establishment. Unless it's a DUI, but here in a pub? Something was up.

So one of them said from a nearby table, "Hey, Bert, you interrogating that kid, or is that kid interrogating you?"

Bert looked; it was Andrew Todd.

"We're just talking about the case, Andy."

"With that kid? Geez, Old Man Jake must be scraping the bottom of the barrel."

"Actually, we got a break in the case." The pub got silent at Bert's words. "This kid here got us the break...But it's not the kind of break I was hoping for."

More silence. Then the silent crowd broke out laughing their heads off. "Geez, that's one hell of late April Fool's joke, Bert," said Andrew.

Similar comments went around the pub like wildfire.

That pushed the detective over the edge, so he got up and slammed the table with his fist. "Fuck you, Andy! You know what, fuck all of you!"

"Hey, don't go 'Fuck you' on any of us," said Andrew. "Half the cops in this bar have put in over four months in this case, and you haven't even been assigned to it for more than a day. What gives you the privilege to piss on us? Fucking prick!"

Bert was incensed at that remark. He wanted to punch Andrew in the face.

"I'll handle it," said Noll before he did anything of the sort, getting up from his seat with the legal pad and walking toward the other detective.

"Sit down, kid," said Andrew, "this has nothing to do with you."

Noll glared at him like a pit viper dead in the face. "This has more to do with me than you ever want to know," he said; then he handed him the legal pad. "Take this and make copies for everybody involved in the investigations of these women. Bert and I just found out there are two serial killers on the loose in London, so it's best not to wait around here too long. Once you're done, give it back to Jacob Meiler's office by noon tomorrow."

Almost everyone was silent, but some were still snickering like idiots.

Andrew, on the other hand, was stunned. "You're fucking me, right? Please tell me you're joking."

"Does it look like I'm joking?"

"Wait a minute," said another cop behind Andrew; it was Mickey Bronson from the West Department of MIT. "How the hell did you get this break?"

"You're a detective. You should've known that a long time ago." Noll was about to walk out of the pub when he turned to face them again, clenching his fist as he did so.

Lin stood up and said, "Noll, this is not the time or the place."

But he continued, unabated, "And I also talked to Jacob Meiler. He told me to tell all of you to stop slacking off. He wants anyone who doesn't want any part in this investigation to turn in his or her badge and gun to him at his office at six o'clock tonight; otherwise he will fire anyone he thinks doesn't give a damn about this case, should he see any of the conduct I saw today. And any back-talk to him, or me, or Bert, or Lin from now on will result in a five-day suspension. No exceptions."

Now everyone was silent, half of them with gaping mouths. Including Bert Grendal; he was flabbergasted beyond almost anything he had seen in his career. Who is this kid? he thought.

When Lin, Bert and Noll exited the pub and got into the cruiser, Bert said, "You're insane, you know that? You have balls, I'll give you that, but you freaking lied the suicide's lie, man. Those guys will have your ass when they find out that you lied to them."

"It won't be a lie if you call Jacob Meiler about it. Tell him everything we know."

"You mean, right now?"

"The sooner, the better."

"Man, you're crazy." He called the old man and filled him in on everything they knew about the two killers and the incident in the pub.

The old man on the other end of the wire thought he would have a heart attack. He was still in his office chair, taking in the information like poison as his heart began to race to infinity. Of all the bad news that came down the pipe and landed on his shoulders, the addition of two bloodthirsty monsters roaming around the streets were two more bloody feathers threatening to break the back of his weary mind.

When the phone call ended, he hung up and massaged his temples.

And before he knew it, Jacob found himself muttering words he had not said since he became an atheist after the death of his wife. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..."

(To be continued...)

A/N: I warned you about the language earlier, and this is why. Don't tell me I didn't warn you. As you can see, this is beginning to get more complex and more interesting. And it's only going to deepen. The further you read into this story, the more messed up it will be. It's gonna get better, trust me.