Imitation in Death (In Death 17)

“So was she, when somebody decided to carve her up.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “Person’s in that kind of work, they’re going to take some lumps.”

“You know, this outpouring of humanitarianism is choking me up, so let’s stick to the point

. Did you know Jacie Wooton?”

“I knew her application, her references, and her rent payment. Never set eyes on her myself. I don’t have time to make friends with the tenants. I’ve got too many.”

“Uh-huh. And if somebody falls behind on the rent, wiggles around the evict, do you pay them a little visit, try to appeal to their sense of fair play?”

He rubbed a fingertip over his mustache. “I run by the book here. Costs me plenty in court fees annually to move the deadbeats out, but that’s part of the operating expenses. That’s part of the business. I wouldn’t know this Wooton woman if she stopped in to give me a handjob. And I was home, in Bloomfield, last night with my wife and kids. I was there for breakfast this morning, and came into the city on the seven-fifteen, just like I do every day. You need more than that, you talk to my lawyers.”

“Creep,” Peabody stated out on the sidewalk.

“Oh yeah, and I’d make book he takes some of his rent in trade. Sexual favors, little party bags of illegals, stolen goods. We could squeeze him if we had nothing but time and righteousness.” She angled her head as she studied the display of naked hanging fowls so skinny death must have been a relief, and the odd groupings of webbed feet for sale. “How do you eat feet?” Eve wondered. “Do you start at the toes and work up, or at the ankle and work down? Do ducks have ankles?”

“I’ve spent many sleepless nights pondering just that.”

Though Eve slanted over a bland stare, she was glad to see her aide back in tune. “They do some of the butchering right here, don’t they? Slice and dice the merchandise in the kitchens. Sharp knives, lots of blood, a certain working knowledge of anatomy.”

“Cutting up a chicken’s got to be a lot simpler than a human.”

“I don’t know.” Considering, Eve rested her hands on her hips. “Technically, okay. There’s more mass, and it’s going to take more time, and maybe more skill than your average fowl plucker. But if you don’t see that mass as human, it wouldn’t be so different. Maybe you practice on animals, get the feel for it. Then again, maybe you’re a doctor, or a vet, who’s gone around the bend. But he had to know what he was doing. A butcher, a doctor, a talented amateur, but somebody who’s been perfecting his technique so he could pay homage to his hero.”

“His hero?”

“Jack,” Eve said as she turned away to walk back to her vehicle. “Jack the Ripper.”

“Jack the Ripper?” With her mouth dropping open, Peabody trotted to catch up. “You mean like over in London, back in . . . whenever?”

“Late 1800s. Whitechapel. Poor section of the city during the Victorian era, frequented by prostitutes. He killed between five and eight women, maybe more, all within about a one-mile radius over a period of a year.”

She got behind the wheel, flicked a glance over to find Peabody gaping at her. “What?” Eve demanded. “I can’t know stuff?”

“Yes, sir. You know great bundles of stuff, but history isn’t generally your long suit.”

Murder was, Eve thought as she pulled away from the curb. And always had been. “While other little girls were reading about fluffy as yet ungutted duckies, I was reading about Jack, and other assorted serial killers.”

“You read about . . . that sort of thing when you were a kid?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well . . .” She didn’t quite know how to put it. She was aware that Eve had been raised in the system, in foster homes and state homes. “Didn’t any of the adults in charge monitor your interests? What I mean is my parents—and they were big on not restricting our choices—would’ve brought the hammer down in that sort of area when we were kids. You know, formative years and all, nightmares, emotional scarring.”

She’d been scarred, in every possible way, long before she could read more than a few basic words. As for nightmares, Eve didn’t remember a time she hadn’t had them.

“If I was scrolling the Internet for data on the Ripper or John Wayne Gacy, I was occupied and out of trouble. Those were the essential criteria.”

“I guess. So, you always knew you wanted to be a cop.”

She’d known she wanted to be something other than a victim. Then she’d known she’d wanted to stand for the victim. That meant cop to her. “More or less. The Ripper sent notes to the police, but only after a while. He didn’t start off, like our guy. But this one wants us to know what he’s about straight off. He wants the play.”

“He wants you,” Peabody said and got a nod of acknowledgment.

“I’ve just come off a highly publicized case. Lots of screen time. Lots of buzz. And the Purity case, earlier this summer. Another hot one. He’s been watching. Now he wants some buzz of his own. Jack got plenty of it back in the day.”

“He wants you involved, and the media focused on him. The city fascinated by him.”