Mattie didn’t go home. Staring at the four walls of her apartment wouldn’t hold any answers. Instead, she drove to the New Times Colonist and parked in the underground garage. Tapping the steering wheel with her fingers, a tornado of whirling emotions attempted to eradicate every reasonable, sensible theory she held. Every word she’d ever written on the Ripper case lay in a pile of scrambled thoughts. Every fact about the murders sat like a fresh crossword puzzle, taunting her. Nothing but empty squares. Clues, but no answers. She sat in the car, sifting through nine months of details in her mind. The murdered women spoke to her, but in a language she didn’t understand. Their lives had been extinguished. The women had been brutally slaughtered. The Ripper was angry at them or at himself, or haunted enough to ignore his humanity.
Mattie peered around the dimly lit parkade. The women had been eviscerated. What did he need to cut out of them? It wasn’t just their organs. The coroner reported they’d been tortured prior to their deaths. When she asked him to explain, he told her aside from the knife wounds there was bruising and chafing on their wrists and legs. Gary Phillips found enough evidence the women had been tortured while restrained in some kind of device. Evidence of belt marks, likely used to stop their fight for freedom. Yet, with all the contusions across their bodies, the only place not damaged was the vagina. There had been sexual contact, but a condom had been used.
What the hell did it all mean? She needed to talk her ideas out with someone. The thought of her dad came to the rescue, but did she want to draw him into the world he’d left behind when he’d retired?
Suddenly, a thought toppled a wall and crushed every other idea in her head. It landed with a thunderous bang. She picked up the phone and called her dad’s partner, who still worked on the Force. It took a bit of fast talking to convince him she needed the address. Within a couple minutes he called back and gave it to her, then teased her about stalking police officers.
She drove up a side street and parked a block away from the address. Running through the alley, her footsteps almost soundless on the wet, uneven pavement, she darted to the left and crossed somebody’s back lawn, appearing two houses down from Stuart’s. He owned or rented a Victoria retro home from the early 1900’s nestled amongst others near Craigdarroch Castle.
Mattie peeked around the corner of the house and then ducked back, heart pounding in her chest. A black Dodge Charger was parked in front of his place. She had to get closer. Heading back the way she’d come, she slid along the wall of Stuart’s home, stopped and listened. Through a back window cracked open an inch, it allowed her to hear a gravelly voice. An angry, gravelly voice.
“Why isn’t she here?” the voice demanded.
A dog barked next door from behind a chained link fence. The four-legged alarm had seen her and sounded the alert. The neighbor’s back door opened, and the dog’s owner called. Thankfully, he turned tail and ran for the warmth of indoors.
“Mattie is a high profile journalist,” Stuart said, sounding terse.
“We have control of the situation. She could bring it all tumbling down.”
Who the hell was this guy? Obviously, Stuart had lied to her. He knew who drove the black Charger, and she’d put money on the fact he was a cop. One who thought her articles on the Ripper could ruin their investigation. Ruin his investigation. What an A-hole.
The gravelly voice continued ranting. “You said you could control her. Do it, or else I’ll do it. Make her submit.”
Mattie curled her lip in disgust. How many of the Victoria PD got off on this BDSM shit anyway?
Stuart wasn’t backing down. “Let her do her job. I’ll take care of it. We…we have a relationship.”
The other guy snorted. “If you had the right relationship, she’d be upstairs strapped to your bed. You’d better have her wrapped around your finger. We could lose everything.” She heard heavy footsteps cross a wood floor and the front door close.
This is complete and utter bullshit. She crept to the back door and turned the knob. Cops didn’t worry about intruders since they carried weapons, remembering her mom yelling at her dad for not locking the door behind him on many occasions. Mattie slid inside, but didn’t close the door. Edging down the kitchen cabinets on her tip toes, she stepped to the center island.
Stuart peered out the front window between the metal blinds. Making doubly sure his guest had left, she held her purse high in the air and dropped it.
“Start talking or else.”
Stuart’s head twisted to look out the front window. “Get the fuck down, now.”
He said it with such venom, she stooped. Stuart watched the Dodge pull out and drive away. He dropped the blinds, the clatter making her jump.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Mattie?” he said roughly, storming across the room toward her. His hands landed with a slap on the other side of the island.
“Who is that man?”
“How much did you hear?”
She slapped her own hands on the cold marble counter. “Enough. Who is he?”
“Are you asking for a death sentence?”
She cocked her head. “I am a professional journalist, not some wet-behind-the-ears rookie. I would never put a police investigation in jeopardy. Who is that guy?”
He paused for too long, then answered. “Our staff sergeant, the one in charge of the Ripper Task Force.”
“Doesn’t have a very high opinion of me. Is he the person responsible for our fake date? What pisses me off is you’d use our friendship to manipulate me.”
Stuart closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I’m not manipulating you. It wasn’t a fake date, and you’re putting yourself in danger by being here.”
She rounded the island, straightened her shoulders and stepped into his space. “Are you supposed to rough me up over some theory that I could screw up this investigation, or screw me into submission?”
He shook his head. “Mattie, leave. Leave now.”
She placed her palm on his chest. “There’s more going on here. Why won’t you tell me what it is?”
He covered her hand with his and raised his gaze to meet hers. “I can’t.” He paused. “Jesus, I wish I’d…” His mouth seamed to a close, and he stepped away. “Get out of here,” he barked at her.
Undecided, she two-stepped closer instead of retreating. “I’m your friend, Stuart. Friends don’t betray each other. They don’t look the other way when you’re in trouble. Are you in trouble?” He’d have to physically throw her out if he wanted her to leave.
“Jesus, woman.” He looked lost, not angry. He inhaled a deep breath, brows knitted together. “You’re not my friend.”
“Fine, you’re mine, but I’m not yours. Least we’re telling the truth now.” She took a chance and gripped his hand. “Please, this isn’t the journalist talking. It’s me. I’m staying here until you spill your guts. I’ll make tea.”
“Don’t have tea,” he mumbled, and went to the fridge and pulled a bottle of beer, twisting the cap and flinging it at the wall where a metal garbage can sat. “You need to leave.” Stuart turned off all the lights except the table lamp next to the black leather couch and a pot light over the sink.
She walked over to the couch and sat, her gaze steady on his. He stared at her before shaking his head and pulled another beer from the fridge, then settled beside her.
He snapped the cap off and handed it to her. “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever have this chance again,” he paused and tipped his bottle to hers. “I lied. I wish you were more than my friend.” He swallowed a deep gulp, tension radiating from him.
“Stuart—”
He shook his head and took her mouth in a passionate kiss. A kiss almost desperate in yearning, but not for sex. More a plea.
“I don’t want to talk, Mattie. I just want to kiss you.”
If he was manipulating her, she could float in a sea of it for a long time, but this wasn’t why she came. Pulling away from him, she closed her eyes. “I want to know why you told me not to trust anyone. Especially you.”
His brow curled tight. “All I can tell you is—”
They both started when a hard knock landed on the door. Stuart jumped up and lifted one corner of the blind.
“Fuck.” He turned. “Get out of here, Mattie. Now.” He grabbed her hand and yanked her off the couch, and shoved her toward the back door.
“What the hell?”
He clamped a hand over her mouth, then kissed her forehead. “Maybe one day I can explain. Run,” he whispered fiercely.
She stepped onto the porch, but stalled.
“Get out of here.”
She swallowed thickly, debating whether to duck down and listen.
When he sensed her internal debate—his posture, his eyes, his expression turned cop cold. “You’re in danger, Mattie. Don’t be stupid.”
She ran down the steps, and kept running until she reached her car.
* * * *
For the next two weeks, she took call after call from people who thought they knew the identity of the Victoria Ripper. Neighbors, co-workers, even a husband or two were blamed by someone who felt they had to do the right thing. Each time the phone rang, Mattie hoped it was Stuart. Finally giving in, she called him, but all she got was another cop or admin assistant saying he was away from his desk.
Each day got harder. Trying to write an article when she had nothing more to report called on skills to make something old look new. Unless you knew the downtown core of Victoria like she did, it all looked the same, apart from people walking in groups of two or more. Women didn’t walk alone except the prostitutes and for once in history, they weren’t the target.
“Mattie, like to see you,” the Chief Editor said, appearing at her cubicle.
She followed Bart, a roly-poly beach ball with legs who had a bad case of little man syndrome, to his corner office. She often wondered how he’d been able to rise to his position. Wanting to earn her stripes, she and every other journalist at the paper put up with his political brown-nosing. They’d all had to change their articles from time to time to suit his tiny testicle stance. While he spoke out one side of his face about how he stood behind his staff, he’d throw them under the bus when he got a phone call from a perturbed civic official or politician. As far as she knew, free speech was still part of a Canadian’s right, but disagreeing with the rambling little ball of flab she followed, never ended well.
“Take a seat,” Bart said wearing a sugary smile on his face as he plopped down with a hefty man’s grunt in his chair.
She offered a benign smile and waited for the game of words and barely concealed insecurities that were about to unfold.
“Any new developments today?” he asked, filling the entire chair and resting his forearms on the desk, twirling a pen in his fingers.
“The police department have shared all they can and thankfully there isn’t a new body.”
He nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.” He slid a hand down his tie with one hand and hung onto the pen with the other. “I admire, as do all our subscribers, the way you’ve handled the murders with a balance of empathy and investigative reporting.”
She didn’t roll her eyes, but she could smell the shit sandwich about to be served. Start with a pleasantry. Next, he’d ease into what he really wanted to talk about, and end with a warning dipped in a sweet coating of crap. “Thank you, sir.”
He swiveled in the chair and darted a look at his computer. “You know, I have the precarious position of shielding my journalists from bureaucracy. Often, agencies don’t agree with the hard truth we report. Keeping them mollified isn’t easy.”
She nodded. Punchline, get to the punchline, she thought.
“This morning, I received a call from the sergeant of the Ripper Task Force.”
The hair stood straight up on her neck, and an angry pulse pounded in her veins. “Was he thanking us for not pointing blame at their inability to find the Ripper?”
Bart’s face reddened. “No, and I would have to agree he has some concerns.”
“I’ve never officially met him, but what are they?” Mattie settled back in her chair.
“You don’t need to meet him. That’s my job. I deal with managers and ranking police officers. I assured him all your articles are vetted by me personally because the case is high profile and the city is waiting for some good news.”
“What are his concerns?” She wanted to slap Bart’s flabby face and watch his bulging fish-like eyes, enlarged by thick Coke bottle glasses, warble around in his head.
“Because he said you may be trying to retrieve information from the Victoria police department in a fashion that no one would approve of.”
“A fashion? Which would be?”
“Your private life, of course, is none of my business, unless it impacts on the New Times Colonist with a less than glowing reputation.”
Mattie’s brain matter didn’t have to formulate much to see she’d been set-up. Stuart’s sergeant had pressed him to date her to get her compliance. A journalist’s reputation for truth, at least a serious one, had to build respect with their audience. If she lowered herself to paparazzi levels like hiding in trees and peeking in windows—or in this case—sleeping with Stuart, her reputation would be quickly forsaken.
“Of course,” she agreed, clenching her teeth. “And Sergeant Montgomery has suggested I’m fucking a cop to get information?” She could only take so much bullshit.
Bart’s brows popped, and his face turned bright red. “This newspaper thrives on trust. Trust from its readers. Trust in our journalists. Our regular surveys with our readers clearly indicate your article to be the most read of any in the newspaper. It tells me they trust you. I hope you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our reader’s faith. They come first.”
Mattie uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “What are you asking, Bart? Or are you telling me who I can or can’t have in my bed? I certainly hope not, because it’s none of your business.”
Bart’s face went another shade redder, closer to purple. He hated anyone arguing with him. His insecurities jumped out like a child screaming, ‘You don’t respect me. You must respect me’.
“No,” he said. “Your love life is not my concern, but you’re not the only journalist on staff. There are several who would gladly take over your article. Do you understand?”
“Not quite.” Aside from wanting to yank him over the desk and bitch slap him, she said, “My first thought is why you would drag me in here, threaten me with unwarranted accusations from a man you don’t know, compared to my reputation which you do know.”
“I’m just providing quality assurance. That’s my job. To make sure you report this story with truth, based on research with the agencies involved, in a professional manner.”
Fuck. The truth? Professional? Had she done anything else? God, she’d love to kick his fat little ass off the Johnson Street Bridge. She stood up, needing to get out of his sickly sweet smelling office before she killed him.
“Bart, two weeks ago, one of the cops on the task force asked me out on a date. Then I found out something interesting. He’d been ordered to do it by Sergeant Montgomery. Now, you get a phone call suggesting that I might be digging for information by screwing a cop. Can you put two and two together, or do I need to make you a coloring book with pictures?” She walked toward the door. “It sickens me to see you jumped to conclusions, putting me on the dark side of the fence. It sickens me that you think you can threaten me into submission by taking me off the Ripper case.” She gripped the door knob instead of the fat little bastard’s throat. “I report the truth. I will always report the truth and if the guilty party is someone of standing, they will be held accountable. If you want something other than the truth in this story where women are being tortured, raped, beaten and then slaughtered, tell me now.”
“Mattie.” He stood up. “Just, just calm down. I know you’re passionate about this. You’ve been working on it from the beginning, but there’s more to reporting than just the story. There are politics involved.”
“That’s your job. Keep the crooks and the politicians away from us, so we can report the truth.”
“Do not put the police in a poor light. I’ll edit it out. They’re working overtime to find the killer.”
“Some are,” she said. “But some seem to be overly concerned of what we’re going to report, before we’ve reported it. Doesn’t that cause you concern?”
He didn’t answer, instead choosing to sit down and hide behind his desk. “You have a new contact in the Vic PD for the case. His name is David Yates. Stuart Hellman will no longer be your advisor.”
She shrugged, but inside she steamed and worried why Sergeant Montgomery would do this. “I have no issue with that.”
“So, I have your agreement you will not write anything that puts a shade of doubt on the police investigation?”
“Did I not already answer that question?”
“Submit your article an hour earlier each day.”
Bastard. “Certainly.”
Five hours later, she’d added the notes from Kelly Yonders, the latest victim, to her data sheets. Double checked her entries because her emotions still had its hands around Bart’s neck, squeezing until his head popped off.
Happy that her newest entries were correct, she stared at them. Something stared back at her, but she couldn’t see it. The killer would make a mistake eventually. And eventually, it would be his downfall. She refused to believe the murders in Victoria would emulate the Whitechapel murders with the killer never being caught.
Flicking a pencil back and forth between her pointer finger and her thumb, the eraser end struck her head with each revolution. She needed a miracle. She needed evidence. She needed the damn killer to jump out in front of her and yell, “It’s me.”
The pencil sprang off the cubicle’s back wall when Mattie tossed it at the holder. With a harsh poke of her finger, the desktop on her computer monitor shrunk to a black pinhole. Too many fractured thoughts about killing her boss made it useless to focus on the case.
She needed a damn drink.