“They generally don’t mix well,” I said.
Jack’s lips twitched. “So noted for future reference.”
I pressed my lips together. “Anyway,” I said, arching a brow at Jack, “After the frenzy the killer must have realized he was taking too big of a risk. It was then he dragged her behind the dumpster and gutted her. Everything he did after the initial strike to the neck was all postmortem.”
“He’s like Jack the Ripper,” Sheldon said offhandedly, licking at the salt around his glass.
Everyone got quiet and stared at him, including Henry, who’d inched his way back to refill drinks that were already full.
Sheldon looked back at each of us nervously, his eyes blinking owlishly behind the lenses of his glasses. “What?” he asked.
Jack stared at Henry until he finally got the hint and moved away. “What do you mean he’s like Jack the Ripper?”
Sheldon sat up straight and I could tell by the expression on his face he was about to go into lecture mode.
“You’ve never heard of Jack the Ripper?” Sheldon asked. “I thought he would be considered notorious in your line of work.”
“I’ve heard of Jack the Ripper,” Jack said patiently. “I want to know why our current killer is like him.”
“Oh,” Sheldon said. “That makes more sense. Jack the Ripper wreaked havoc across Whitechapel in London in 1888. He was believed to be responsible for the deaths of eleven women—all of them women of ill repute.”
“Ill repute?” Lily asked.
Sheldon blushed. “You know what I mean.” And then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Ladies of the night.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and took another fortifying drink. “He sliced their throats and eventually disemboweled them. Did you know disembowelment became a popular brand of torture in the thirteenth century, usually for reasons of treason against the king? Very messy, but effective.”
“Even the clothing played into the scenario,” Cole said.
“So he just waited for the right moment to fulfill a fantasy?” I asked.
“It makes sense in a twisted way,” Jack said. “Newcastle looks like Victorian England. The costumes are right. And he picks a victim who he considers to be a woman of ill repute. If the killer did any research at all he’d know how Jack the Ripper killed his victims.”
“Now we just have to hope he doesn’t do it again,” Lily said, shivering.
“Last night was the end of the Victorian festival,” I said. “Maybe she’s an isolated incident. We know he was dressed well. The items of clothing retrieved from the dumpster were a silk scarf and a cape. They were both good quality. Formal and meant for a night out on the town.”
“Like at the theater?” Cole asked. “Do they keep records of ticket purchases? Killer goes to see her perform, strolls out of the theater looking like all the other attendees, and then slips around to the alley while everyone goes to watch the fireworks.”
“The common theme I keep getting from this is theater,” I said. “Not just the location and costumes and that, according to Juliet’s husband, she liked being the star of her own show. But now we have the possibility that Peter Trest is Juliet’s lover. He owns the theater and has access to high-quality costumes.”
“It sounds like we need to go talk to Peter Trest,” Jack said.
Chapter Five
Jack put a call in to his secretary while we finished lunch so she could work on tracking down Peter Trest. Betsy Clement had been a sheriff’s secretary for the last forty years, and she’d managed to keep her job through good sheriffs and bad ones. She knew just about everyone, and if she didn’t know them, she probably knew something about them or their family. She kept secrets better than the Illuminati and she was nosier than a bloodhound after a scent. If you wanted something to get done, you called Betsy Clement.
“Any luck?” I asked Jack.
We gathered our coats and things and stood in the foyer, waiting for Lily to get out of the bathroom. I looked out at the gloomy weather, wishing for even a glimpse of sun, but there was nothing but gray skies and the distorted view of the world through the rain.
“Didn’t even take her five minutes to track him down,” Jack said. “He’ll meet us at his gallery office in Newcastle. You want to handle it solo or do you want company?”
Jack was always respectful to give his detectives the authority to work cases how they wanted to, but all his detectives respected Jack enough to know he had skills they might never have.
Cole sighed. “Martinez just texted. Can you and Doc handle Trest? A potential witness just came into the station. I guess the media has finally gotten hold of this and he heard it on the news. According to Martinez, the witness says he saw a guy with blood on his shirt and acting strange before the fireworks started. I’m going to call in Samson and see if we can get a sketch started so we can get it circulated. Maybe we’ll get lucky right out of the gate.”
Samson was the sketch artist, and I had no idea how he’d gotten the nickname Samson since he was only a few inches over five feet and maybe weighed a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.
“Why do they call him Samson?” Sheldon asked, hiccupping lightly. His eyes were glazed and he always looked slightly rumpled, but somehow our hour at lunch sitting in a booth was the equivalent of him looking like he’d spent a week at Mardi Gras.
“Because his name is Samson,” Cole said.
I was suddenly glad I hadn’t voiced my curiosity. “That’s kind of a letdown. I thought there’d be a great story as to why everyone called him that.”
“I think it was wishful thinking on his parents’ part,” Jack said.
Lily came out of the bathroom zipping her coat and wrapping a colorful scarf around her neck. One margarita was no match for Lily. She looked alert and vibrant and like she’d spent the last hour sipping tea.
“What’d I miss?” she asked.
“Samson isn’t a nickname,” Sheldon said. “It’s his real name.”
“That’s kind of a bummer,” Lily said. “You don’t look so good. How many margaritas did you have?”
“Just the one,” he said. “And then I think I might have accidentally drank some of yours. I got nervous after Doc pretended to kill me.”
“Understandable,” Lily said. “Don’t throw up in the car. I remember you having a much higher tolerance for alcohol.”
“I’m out of practice,” Sheldon said. “I lost the desire to drink after we went to that mortuary conference and that woman tied me to the bed and then murdered a bunch of people. Mother said I should keep a clear head where women are concerned, but I figured I was fine around you and Doc. Y’all aren’t like regular women.”
“Amen,” Jack said.
“I’ll make sure you get home,” Lily said, patting Sheldon on the back gently.
“I can’t go home on blackjack Bible study days,” he said, looking pitiful.
“It’s not over yet?” I asked, looking at the time on my phone.
“Oh, no,” Sheldon said. “It’s a tournament. It won’t be done until midnight. Mama likes to preach between rounds.”