The call came exactly at noon, as promised, as though the person calling was waiting by a clock until the exact moment that 11:59 had passed to hit the send button. Riley picked up the phone before the second ring. “Detective?” asked the voice on the other end of the call.

“Hi, how are you? Who am I speaking to?” Riley asked, even though he knew her name.

“Detective Emily Curtis, Staten Island homicide.”

“Nice talking to you, Emily.”

“I wish I could say the same, Detective.”

“Call me Riley, please.”

“All right,” she said. “I wish I could say the same, Riley.”

“Why, you don’t like talking to me?” he joked. 

“I’m sure it’ll be the highlight of my day,” she said curtly. “But I can tell you right from the start that the subject matter is going to be a little morbid.”

“It’s kind of what we do, Detective, I’m used to it.”

“I know,” she replied. “But this one might be a little. . .different than the cases you’ve handled in the past. That’s all I meant.”

“Fair enough,” Riley answered. “So my commanding officer said it was a few murders in your part of the woods. Or I guess I should say your part of the island. Standard operating procedure, right?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Emily came back. “Riley, trust me, there’s nothing standard about this case.”

Twenty four hours later he was at Starbucks, only it wasn’t to spite Pietro for the long lines that were still running out of his usual coffee shop, it was because he was meeting Detective Emily Curtis for a face to face meeting. He’d gotten the very broad strokes of the case during their phone call the day before, but as soon as she’d given him even a few of the details about what was happening in that part of New York, he knew that the rest needed to be an in-person conversation. As he ordered his quad espresso he found himself thinking of Samantha. As the barista swiped his debit card all he could see was her—her beautiful hair, and how their tangles draped over her shoulder, framing her perfect face. He really had a great time standing in line talking to her yesterday morning, and he still needed to text her about where to go tonight, but first there was business to attend to. 

Detective Curtis got there five minutes early, which immediately told Riley that she was a professional. It was one of those qualities that you either had or you didn’t. Lateness was professional cancer, and he always evaluated other cops by their punctuality. She passed his first, unofficial test with flying colors. “Riley?” she inquired.

“Detective Curtis?” Riley got to his feet and extended his hand, which she took and shook firmly. 

“While we’re on a first name basis, make sure you only call me Emily from now on. I kind of hate formality after I meet someone.”

“You got it, Emily,” he answered, happy to be on a first name only basis with her. “It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“You, too.”

“A thanks for being on time, I don’t like to waste my time.”

“I hate lateness,” she said. “Sign of bad police if you ask me.”  

“I couldn’t agree more. Are we, like, the same person?” She wasn’t quite used to Riley’s humor yet, and he could tell that she was tightly wound by how serious she was, but she cracked the slightest smile when he made the joke. 

“Well, we do look alike,” she tried to joke back. Then it was Riley’s turn to grin. Emily was pretty when she relaxed her face. She wasn’t overwhelmingly gorgeous, but she had kind blue eyes that sparkled when she bothered to raise her cheeks into something resembling a smile. 

“Do you want coffee?” Riley asked.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I had enough already this morning. Shit, I’ve had enough this month to last a lifetime. I’m trying to cut back on the caffeine.”

“Probably a good idea. I’m not there yet, but go on, tell me about this case of yours. What’s so unique about it that you dragged yourself all the way over here?”

“Ok, let me start off with a question that’s going to sound strange to you, but it’ll make sense by the time I’m done.”

“Okay. . .” Riley said reluctantly, wondering what the next words out of Emily’s mouth were going to be.

“Are you familiar with Jack the Ripper?”

She was right. It was a very strange question, but Riley nodded. Even though he hadn’t encountered any serial killers during his job in New York, he was very into serial killers and mass murderers when he was just a messed up, emo kid. He knew all about Jack the Ripper. Everyone knew the name and some general information about the case, but Riley knew more than most. 

“Yes, actually, I’m very familiar,” he said. Whitechapel, London, late nineteenth century, confirmed murderer of five English prostitutes, the so-called Canonical Victims.”

Emily looked impressed. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that. Very good.”

“I was really into all that shit when I was a kid. Like, really into it. To the point where it worried my mom a little bit.”

“You must have been a fun kid.”

“The funnest of the fun. Not dark at all. But I ended up on the side of the angels, don’t worry.”

They laughed. “So I have a working theory of these cases that no one else in the Staten Island PD seems to give much credence to.” She looked down, a little defeated as she spoke. “To tell you the truth, they all think I’m nuts.”

“In my experience, Emily, when they all think you’re nuts then you’re probably on to something. Tell me, I’ll judge your craziness for myself.”

“Okay, fair enough,” she answered. “I think the murders on Staten Island are a copycat of the Jack the Ripper Canonical Murders.”

Riley raised his eyebrow. The Canonical Victims, as they were known, were the five women who are the only accepted victims of the most famous serial killer in human history, Jack the Ripper. Their names were Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. All prostitutes, and all murdered in the most gruesome manner that women can be. There were other believed victims of the Ripper after those five, but none were confirmed with any degree of agreed upon certainly. “That’s an incredible theory, Emily. I’m sure you’ll forgive your colleagues for not buying that hook, line, and sinker. You must have evidence for a theory like that. Five our dead prostitutes, right?”

“No,” she said. “I have four. And that’s why I’m here. I know that before too long there’ll be a fifth victim, if my theory is correct. I came here because no one believes me, and I want to do everything I can to stop that from happening.”

Riley took a sip of his coffee. “Okay, you have my attention. Tell me.”

“I have four dead working girls. All around the same age as the Canonical victims and each killed in the same manner as the Ripper victims. I don’t have to give you the details of that, I’m sure you know already from your. . .interesting adolescent interests.” Riley nodded. “And they all worked a relatively small area, just like the Ripper victims.”

He listened to her but was skeptical the entire time. This just sounded like a series of murders. He wasn’t even sold that they were related yet. “Listen, Emily. . .”

“Oh Jesus, here we go again.” She sounded annoyed.

“What?” he asked.

“Every time I discuss this with another officer they start their next sentence with ‘Listen, Emily,’ or something like that. It’s the signal that the next thing they’re going to say to me is condescending.”

“I’m not going to condescend to you, I’d never do that. You have my word.”

“Okay.”

“But,” he started, careful to modulate his tone. “If I just swallow what you’re telling me, wholeheartedly, without any skepticism, then I’m not doing you any service. There’s a reason that your theory is just that, a theory. I’m listening, but I have to be critical also, so that we know that we’re on the right path. Okay?”

“Fair enough.”

“All right, then. So far what you’ve told me, theory aside, is that four prostitutes have been killed in the same area. Now what makes that the work of a serial killer? Forget the Ripper stuff for a minute; we’ll get back to that. Let’s start with the basics. What makes these murders serial in nature?”

“Well they share a M.O.”

“Which is what?”

“Same type of victim, same age, same methodology of killing, same relative geography, and the girls were killed at regular intervals from each other, indicating that it wasn’t just a series of random, angry Johns killing hookers.”

“Good. I’m sold. So, do people in your part of New York believe that these are serial killings?”

“Yes, now they do,” she said. “But even that was a fight to get them to concede. They finally had to no choice when I laid out what I just said to you, in detail.”

“Which, I assume, brings us to the Ripper theory?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, then,” Riley said. “Now sell me on that.”

“I’ll admit that it’s a harder sell, but it’s based on the details and my gut instinct, as dumb as it sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound dumb,” he said. “Sometimes that’s all we have to go on, but give me as much of the detail part as you can.”

“Well the actual methodologies, locations, and even body positions that the corpses were left in, all mirror the exact methods used by the Ripper. Organs removed, throats cut, bodies left in almost the exact positions, all it matches exactly. Plus they match in the order of the Ripper killings. Look.”

She pulled a case file out from her bag and put it on the table. First they looked around to make sure not too many people were in view, because they both knew how gruesome the pictures were going to be. “The first victim on Staten Island was Jennifer Marlow. Look.”

When Riley stared at the picture he was immediately reminded of the first recognized victim of the Ripper—Mary Ann Nichols. Nichols had been discovered on the streets of London’s East End with her throat slit from two cuts, and her stomach opened up by a series of large incisions. “Jesus,” he said.

“There’s more. Look here.” Emily took out pictures of the second victim, who was killed in a similar manner as the first victim, 27 days removed, just like in the Ripper case. And, just like the second confirmed Ripper victim, Annie Chapman, the Staten Island girl’s uterus had been removed. “Now, maybe the most compelling piece of evidence, if you’re not convinced already. . .”

“I’m ready. God these pictures are gruesome.”

“I know, I’m sorry. You asked for proof.”

“Don’t apologize. Go on.”

“The next girl who was killed. . .actually, the next girls. . .”

“Wait, plural?” Emily nodded. “Like the. . .”

“The Double Event, yes.” The Double Event, as it was known in Ripperology, was the name given to the third and fourth Ripper murders, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, who were killed on the same day in August, 1888. 

“Just like in that case,” Emily began. “The next two sex workers were killed on the same day, and their bodies were discovered not far from one another. Like Elizabeth Stride, the first victim was. . .a cleaner kill—if that’s even the right way to say it.” Elizabeth Stride, it was believed, was less mutilated than the other Ripper victims because, it was theorized, the Ripper was interrupted before he could mutilate her. “Obviously this was a planned thing. The last girl was discovered later that day, and is believed to have been killed after girl three.”

“Okay,” Riley said. “Now you really have my attention. There’s no doubt that these are Ripper copycats. But why does no one believe you?”

“It’s not so much that they don’t believe me, it’s that, I think, they just don’t care.”

“Don’t care?” Riley asked, kind of shocked. “How could the brass not care about four homicides?”

“Because,” Emily said, looking down. “These aren’t the type of women we usually like to allocate resources to.”

It was so simple that Riley had missed the obvious. These women were hookers. It was the shame of law enforcement all over the United States—probably the world—but the cold facts bore that most contemporary serial killers murdered sex workers for precisely this reason. They were looked down on by society—unattached, homeless, abandoned by their families, and engaged in a practice that most people considered immoral—which made them the perfect prey for killers looking for victims.

“Fuck,” he said. “I can’t believe this.”

“Well the good news is that I’ve basically been left alone. I’ve been pegged as the angry, feminist detective looking to solve what they call ‘the whore murders’. I’ve been told that as long as I don’t need any resources, I can just make this my thing and I’ll be left alone.”

“You’re not going to be alone,” he said, looking at her firmly. “I’m going to help you stop this fifth murder, if that’s even possible.” For the first time since their meeting began, Emily really smiled, and her face absolutely lit up. Riley could tell right away that he was the first person—the first colleague—to take what she was saying seriously, and the more she talked about the case, the more excited he was getting about it. “To really help you, though, I need to see a little more than what’s in this folder you brought.”

“Of course. My boss told me that you can have full access to everything. I think he just wants me to stop bothering him.”

“That’s a good thing, believe it or not. The fewer obstructions the better with these kinds of cases, in my experience. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Working. Always working.”

“Well I think I may have to jump on the ferry and hike my ass over to the forgotten borough.”

They agreed to meet the next day. Riley was excited. Not only was his heart going a mile a minute from the espresso coursing through his body, but he was psyched to be in a position to help a fellow officer who was trying to bring a killer to justice. Emily left Starbucks first to get back to Staten Island, but Riley stayed behind for a second. He had someone to text.

“Hey,” he wrote to Samantha. “Are you there?”

“Hey,” she wrote back. “I’m here. Been waiting to hear from you, actually, what’s up?”

“Sorry I was working a case. You remember when you said you liked Italian food?”

“Like all New Yorkers must, yes.”

“I know a place,” he told her. “You in?”

“Sure. Where?”

“You ever been to Staten Island?”