EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder (8 page)

He smiled disingenuously. "Only what's
needed."

"Suppose we get the money out of the way
first, Jack."

"Of course."

Jack pulled a few bills from his wallet and
stuffed them into her cleavage. Setting his bag on the ground, he
opened it to an array of surgical knives.

He practically salivated at the prospect of
carving this one up.

No sooner had Jack lifted an eight-inch
blade, fully prepared to make quick work of the whore, when he
found himself looking squarely into the barrel of a revolver held
by a burly police officer.

"Drop the knife if you know what's good for
you," he bellowed.

Jack overcame his shock quickly and took a
defensive approach. "What's the meaning of this?"

He saw two armed officers quickly
approaching, along with another man. One of the officers shined a
bull's-eye lamp on them.

"You'd best do as he says and put the knife
down," the man ordered. "I'm Detective Creighton of the New York
Police Department. You picked the wrong whore this time, Jack the
Ripper
!"

Jack glanced at the prostitute, who looked
stunned and perhaps relieved at same time. He glared at the
policemen surrounding him. He figured that, at best, he might be
able to cut the throat of one of the bastards, but likely at the
cost of his own life.

It was a chance Jack wasn't willing to take.
He dropped the knife and was quickly tackled to the ground.

He promised himself there would come another
day when his self-appointed mission could resume.

* * *

Geoffrey McLean watched as his client
entered the room in manacles and leg irons. He thought Jack looked
gaunt and weary in drab jail attire. His eyes were cold and black
like soot.

Geoffrey gulped, taking some comfort in the
guard standing nearby. Nevertheless he wanted to confer with his
client privately while addressing some very serious charges.

"Leave us," Geoffrey told the guard.

The guard frowned. "Are you sure? The mad
doctor is a dangerous man. Even to you, counselor—"

"You heard me!" Geoffrey bravely watched the
guard depart; then turned to his client across the table. "How are
you being treated?"

Jack flashed him a cynical look. "What do
you think? No one in here is treated like a human being."

"I can speak to someone about that."

"Save your breath. When do I get out of
here?"

Geoffrey used a dirty handkerchief to wipe
his brow. "I'm doing the best I can, Jack. But you've been accused
of murdering five prostitutes. Bail may be hard to come by."

Jack slammed a fist down so hard on the
table that it rattled, in the process flustering his attorney. "I'm
paying you good money, McLean, and I expect you to earn it!" He
peered at him. "I don't belong in a hell hole with these indigents,
rapists, and thieves."

Geoffrey could feel his armpits dripping
with perspiration. He made eye contact. "I have to know this,
Jack—are you guilty of the charges?"

Jack considered playing innocent, but had
second thoughts. He bared his teeth. "Is there any use denying it?
Yes, I killed them all. Whores and sluts deserve to die. They live
only to corrupt men with their indecency and harlotry."

Geoffrey could scarcely believe what he was
hearing. This was not the same Jack Barlow he knew. The callousness
with which Jack confessed was both shocking and abominable. The man
actually looked and sounded like a maniac. But was he mad?

"For heaven's sake, you're a doctor, Jack,"
he said incredulously. "You're supposed to save lives, not take
them."

"Spare me the lecture in ethics and
morality." Jack narrowed his eyes at the attorney. "You know the
meaning of neither. I did what needed to be done."

It was clear to Geoffrey that he was no
longer talking to a competent man. Yet he was still his attorney
and, therefore, bound to help him any way he could.

"Listen to me, Jack... If you plead
insanity, then—"

A vein bulged in Jack's temple. "Never! I'll
be damned if I spend the rest of my days in an asylum for
lunatics." He shot to his feet and stared contemptuously at the
attorney. "Do what you have to do to get me out of here. I'll make
it more than worth your while."

"I'll see what I can do," Geoffrey said.
"But you must know that if you're found guilty you could be sent to
the gallows."

Jack didn't flinch. "I'd rather die than
spend the rest of my life rotting away behind bars."

He watched as Geoffrey signaled the guard.
Jack sensed the lawyer could not be counted on to free him of this
miserable incarceration. He was just another person who would
betray his trust.

Much like the father he never knew.

And the mother Jack would just as soon
forget.

Just as he had those whores whose bodies
he'd dissected.

To hell with them all.

Jack had learned early in life that the only
person he could count on through thick and thin was himself.

Would that be enough this time?

The next day, Jack appeared for his
arraignment. Bail was denied.

His trial was set to begin next week.

If Jack had his way, that day would never
come.

* * *

Behind silver spectacles, the court
appointed psychiatrist, Zachary Tomlinson, observed and listened
with astonishment as the accused—Dr. Jackson Barlow—recounted the
horrors of his killing spree with utter calm, poise, and
detachment. It was up to Tomlinson to declare the doctor
certifiably insane. The psychiatrist saw no reason to doubt this,
while going through the motions of what he saw as a perfect case
study.

Barlow was the classic psychopath with child
sexual abuse a strong underlying factor. Tomlinson had read case
studies of other doctors who had gone mad and turned into killers,
often with a pathological fixation on certain people.

Or, in this instance, a certain type of
person. Prostitutes.

But he also believed that Jackson Barlow
possessed superior intelligence and was capable of expressing
himself in spite of the monster he had become.

Though the suspect remained handcuffed,
Tomlinson asked for the shackles to be removed, feeling no need to
fear a man who was obviously broken and perhaps relieved that his
identity as Jack the Ripper had been revealed. A guard was just
outside the door, if needed.

"Let's talk a bit about your mother,"
Tomlinson said as he took a cursory glance at the prisoner's file.
"I see she raised you by herself..."

"My mother was a whore," Jack said bluntly,
as much for impact as what he believed to be the hard truth. "She
spent most of her wretched life horizontally with men on top of
her."

He stared icily at the psychiatrist who
returned a look that said he pitied Jack.

He didn't want the doctor's pity. It would
be better directed towards the harlots who made men like him do
what they did.

But Jack was far more interested in Zachary
Tomlinson himself. The man was close to his age, height, and size,
and could have almost passed for Jack had their situations been
reversed.

These physical similarities did not go
unnoticed by the psychiatrist. Indeed, for but a moment, Tomlinson
could almost envision himself in a role reversal with Jackson
Barlow. The thought that, in theory, he could have been the evil
killer and Barlow given the task of deciding his mental fitness
caused a shiver to run up and down Tomlinson's spine.

Tomlinson gathered himself. "Is the hatred
you feel for your mother the reason you chose to cut up
prostitutes?"

Jack's brow furrowed. "No. I mutilated and
murdered whores because they were corrupting men with their
indecency and harlotry."

"And did you feel it was incumbent upon you
to rid society of this scourge?"

Jack was still amazed at the uncanny
resemblance between them as they went through a test of wills. It
was as if fate had intervened in this most unfortunate predicament
that Jack had gotten himself into.

He noticed that the guard only peered into
the small door window every five minutes or so. It was just enough
time to do what Jack needed to. He began manipulating his wrists to
relieve him of the handcuffs.

"In a manner of speaking," he told the
psychiatrist. "Only I'm afraid it's not quite as simple as that.
Killing whores gives me great satisfaction. However, my mother
would tell me—if she was she still alive—that society is to blame
for creating people like her."

Tomlinson raised a brow. "Do you agree?"

"How could I disagree with my own mother?"
Jack felt the handcuffs slip off beneath the table.

"I think I understand," Tomlinson said.

"I seriously doubt you do, doctor." Jack
suddenly hoisted to his feet and wrapped his arm tightly around
Tomlinson's neck, rendering him unconscious almost immediately.
Then he snapped the doctor's neck.

Jack quickly changed clothes with the
psychiatrist, completing the transformation by putting on his
glasses.

After dragging the dead doctor to the other
chair, Jack positioned him to make it look like he had fallen
asleep; and forced the handcuffs onto his wrists.

Jack sat in Tomlinson's chair and felt a bit
nervous. He sucked in a deep breath before calling for the
guard.

The guard unlocked the door and came in.
"What is it?" He glanced at Jack; then set his sights on the
prisoner, who was slumped over.

"I was questioning the prisoner, when all of
a sudden he grabbed his chest," Jack said. "I suspect he might have
had a heart attack."

The guard raced to the prisoner, and
listened for a heartbeat. "I think he's dead."

"That may not be the case," Jack told him.
"I suggest you go get help. We wouldn't want the so-called Ripper
to get off this easily if there's a chance he could be brought back
to life to stand trial—"

Jack watched with amusement as the guard
sprinted past him, leaving the door open. He followed him without
suspicion as others rushed to help the dead psychiatrist.

Posing as Zachary Tomlinson, Jack was easily
able to slip out of the jail.

By the time the authorities figured out the
real identity of the victim, it was too late.

Jack had escaped.

* * *

Jack took a hansom cab to the address he had
found amongst the personal papers of the psychiatrist. Zachary
Tomlinson lived in a brownstone on the city's Upper East Side. From
the sparse furnishings and single setting at the dining table, it
was obvious that Tomlinson was the sole occupant.

He moved briskly from room to room, taking
what he could of value. Jack found a drawer in the study containing
a bank book and a nominal amount of money. He took these, deciding
that his best bet to avoid capture and continue his self-appointed
mission was to leave the country.

That same day Jack boarded a steamship bound
for England.

# # #

THE WRONG END OF A GUN
BARREL

South Lake Union was the Seattle
neighborhood I called home, located at the south tip of its
namesake, Lake Union. Bounded by Interstate 5 on the east and
Aurora Avenue on the west, it was in the midst of an economic
redevelopment. So what else was new? Fortunately, there were still
places to escape the realities of life through booze and
broads.

I spent the last half hour at such a place
on Aloha Street called Rusty's Bar and Grill. Dark and dreary, it
was one of those retro dive bars that refused to apologize for
turning its back on the present and it also offered cheap
cocktails.

The décor was fashionably outdated and
underwhelming with garage sale variety stools and tables and framed
photographs of city landmarks. A jukebox in the corner was playing
B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone." There was a worn out pool table
nearby with two men playing in hopes of impressing a dame who
couldn't decide which one of them she wanted to take home.

I sat by my lonesome inhaling the stale odor
of cigarette smoke that was engrained in the walls. Fresh off a
bitter divorce and not looking for any company of the female
persuasion, I was content to finish off my mug of beer and call it
a night.

That was before she walked in.

A cross between Marilyn Monroe and Charlize
Theron, her alabaster complexion lit up the place. Short golden
blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face that featured full ruby
lips. Tall, with plenty of curves in a tight red dress, and
three-inch heels, she definitely caught my attention.

She wore dark shades and seemed to be
scanning the place as if searching for a reason to stay.

When she sat down at the table next to mine,
I wondered if this was my lucky day.

I didn't wait to find out.

"Buy the lady a drink?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

I smiled and slid over to her table. "What's
your pleasure?"

"Gin and tonic."

I flagged down a barmaid and ordered two
cocktails. "You're new here," I said to the gorgeous gal beside
me.

"I've been around," she said coyly.

"I think I'd remember if you had."

"That's sweet."

I've never been known for my sweetness, but
I wasn't going to complain. "By the way, I'm James."

"Hi, James." She stuck out a small hand with
long, polished nails. "Gabriella."

I shook her soft hand and didn't want to
stop there.

"Anyone ever tell you that you look
like...um, what's that good-looking actor's name?"

As far as I was concerned, any tall,
good-looking, dark-haired actor could fit the bill. "Yeah, I get
that all the time," I said.

Gabriella smiled and left it at that.

The drinks came and I stayed focused on the
object of my interest.