“You can’t see anything from here,” Cole said, looking out. “Not without some specialized equipment.”
“You have gloves?” Jack asked.
My bag was hanging in the mudroom and I was about to go get it when Chen said, “I’ve got some,” and pulled a pair out of her back pocket.
“Thanks,” Jack said, and slipped them on. Then he picked up the mail from the table and rifled through it, tossing down flyers and bills. Until he got to a small envelope. He pulled a knife from his boot and slipped the tip under the flap of the envelope, slicing it open.
“It’s got a stamp and it’s been postmarked,” Jack said. “We can pull saliva from the stamp for DNA. And he handwrote the name and address.”
Jack pulled what looked like a postcard from inside the envelope and he held it carefully by the edges.
“It looks old,” I said, my brow furrowed in thought. “Like, really old.”
It was a plain postcard, maybe four or five inches wide, with a dark red border. The card was yellowed with age and the corners rounded and bent as if someone had held on to it for a long time. There was a red seal of a lion at the top.
“The postcard looks old, but the handwriting is fresh,” Jack said. “The ink isn’t faded. And the handwriting appears to match what’s on the envelope. We can send it to the lab for testing though to make sure.”
“What does it say?” Martinez asked, looking over Jack’s shoulder. “He’s got terrible handwriting.”
Jack held it up and said, “It says, Beware, for I found the woman I want. She was unclean. My knife found its mark. I left it for you to find. I need it no more. Until next time, Jack the Ripper.”
“I feel like this is one of those times it might be helpful to have Sheldon around,” I said.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Cole said. “Why would he say he doesn’t need the knife anymore, and then say until next time?”
“Jack the Ripper left letters to the police,” Plank said, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I love this kid,” Martinez said, squeezing Plank’s shoulder. “Just when you think he can’t surprise you anymore he comes up with this stuff.”
“Or maybe he knows so much because Wachowski loves serial killer documentaries,” Chen said, waggling her eyebrows and making Cole and Martinez hoot with laughter.
“He’s right,” Jack said. “I was doing research this morning.”
“I can look them up and we can do an analysis,” Doug said. “It shouldn’t be too hard to see if there’s any similarities.”
“Good idea,” Jack said.
We moved into the office and Jack scanned the postcard into the computer so it showed up on the whiteboard.
“Work your magic,” Jack said to Doug, and Doug sat behind the computer and started typing.
It didn’t take long for accompanying images to appear next to the scanned postcard.
“Here you go,” Doug said. “He made a point of getting it as close to the original postcard as he could. Red border and an emblem at the top. Not exactly the same, but pretty close.”
“Yeah, pretty close,” Jack agreed.
“The original was sent in 1888,” Doug said. “I can increase the text so it’s easier to read, but this wasn’t OG Jack’s first contact with the police. But it is the only postcard he sent. The rest are actual letters on stationery. He sent some to the press, and others addressed to a specific policeman.”
“He uses the same language,” I said. “Beware. Then he goes on to say he found the woman he wants, which is almost identical to OG Jack.” I decided Doug’s moniker was the easiest way to keep all the Jacks straight. “He mentions the knife, but that’s where it starts to differ.”
“He left us the knife to find,” Jack said, studying both of the postcards. “Because he no longer needs it.”
“Maybe she was his only victim,” Martinez said.
“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. “When he called and talked to Betsy he was adamant that I hurry and read his letter because he had an order for things. He said timing was everything.”
“Just not with the knife,” I said. “It’s not like there’s a clue in this. It’s just a look what I did kind of thing. You think he’ll send another letter?”
“I’d almost bet on it,” Jack said. “Doug, do a reverse address lookup for 1227 Heresy Road. I think we need to pay our neighbors a visit. Maybe they’ll cooperate and let us take a look around without getting a warrant.”
Doug’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Done. Richard and Jody Burkett. Looks like they’ve lived there over twenty years. Want me to do a deeper search?”
“Not for now,” Jack said. “We won’t be long. Lock up after us.”
After a short debate, we decided to leave Chen and Plank with Doug, and the rest of us would head across the street to the neighbors’ house.
“Speaking of warrants,” I said. “You never told me about the ones you put in for this morning.”
“I was able to get a warrant for Brian Dunnegan’s finances and his home and office. We’ll be able to see exactly what he benefits now that Juliet is dead. Peter Trest is another matter.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean he’s delayed the warrant,” Jack said. “At least for now. He’s friends with the judge. They won’t be able to hold it off much longer. He’s got no alibi, and the witness saw the killer walking toward the street Trest’s studio is on. We’ll find something there. And then I’m going to tie his life up in warrants just because I’m annoyed.”
My lips twitched in a half smile as we drove past the overgrown shrubs, across a grate and down the gravel driveway to the Burkett’s home.
“It’s nice,” I said. “I guess I’ve never really taken a good look before.” Someone obviously took very good care of the lawn.
It reminded me of an English garden. There was a fountain in the center of a round driveway, and gravel paths lined by different sizes and shapes of shrubbery. There was something purple that looked like spiny troll hair that still managed to look beautiful in the wet and cold.
The house was a three-story Victorian painted olive green with a dark burgundy trim. There were turrets and a widow’s walk with a black iron fence. I eyed the windows on the top floor and then looked back across the street toward our house. I couldn’t see the house from ground level, but it was possible there was an open view from that high up.
“If it makes you feel better, I have actually met the woman who lives here,” Jack said. “She was getting her mail and I stopped to say hello. That was eight years ago.”
“You must have made an impression,” I said.
“Some people just like their privacy. Would you ever leave the house if you didn’t have to go to work?”
“Good point,” I said. “I like her already.”
We parked behind Cole’s truck, and followed him and Martinez up the stairs to the big front porch. There were two rocking chairs and a wreath on the front door, and there was a ceramic cat curled in sleep next to the rocking chair.