The Razor’s Edge
By Phil Morgan
Copyright 2014 Phil Morgan
It was the end of August. That sublime period in which the days seemed to stretch and the nights were hot and heavy and dark. It was the time of year when tempers ran the highest and everyone seemed to be poised on a precipice overlooking despair. It was a dark night, but at least it wasn’t stormy.
When they found the body, one of the new Civilian Officers had lost her lunch and had to be removed from the crime scene. Granted, the victim had been mutilated horribly. Her throat had been cut and a string of bruises obscenely decorated her neck. Several slashes, including a ghastly wound, adorned the woman’s abdomen.
The Civilian Officer had taken one look at the grotesque tableau and swooned before popping her cookies. Stiletto wrinkled her button nose at the weakness of the woman and turned her attention back to the corpse.
She was an expert with blades and she could tell by the angle of the wounds and their uniformity that the attack had been made by one person, a person who was left handed. The weapon itself had been a long straight razor of some sort.
The body had been found in front of a broken-down parking deck within two blocks of Central Hospital in the early hours of the morning, that magical time between total dark and pre-dawn light. This was her territory and nobody tread upon it with evil in their heart for long. She saw to that.
Behind her, the new C.O. was retching again. The noise bothered Stiletto, not because of the sound but because of the weakness it represented. One had to be made of sterner stuff if they wanted to be on the frontlines in this city.
“Will somebody escort Ms. Chapman out of here?” asked Stiletto authoritatively. “This is a crime scene.”
A tall, dark haired officer stepped up to the right of the ashen woman and gently escorted her out of the shadow of the parking deck. Stiletto watched them go impassively. She regretted it but she had no choice but to report the new officer and recommend a different assignment.
Hopefully, the young lady’s weakness would not keep her from the duties expected of her but Stiletto could not allow her to continue to work in her jurisdiction. Too many lives depended on the nerves of steel and iron will of the city’s defenders. Ms. Chapman just proved that she was destined for less down and dirty work than was called for in the Underbelly.
The Underbelly was your typical industrial district that had seen better days, much better days. The only businesses were either bars or brothels, all other, more respectable, establishments had long since made for safer areas. The streets were filthy, the people were even worse. Pimps and whores, working stiffs and winos, all made their home in the Underbelly. And Stiletto protected them all. Except for Mrs. Mary Nichols.
Stiletto turned her attention back to the corpse in front of her. The slashed throat seemed to grin up at her knowingly, as if accusing her of being unable to protect her wards. It disturbed Stiletto to no end, that buried feeling of helplessness brought to the surface by the red-brown wound in the woman‘s dark skin. Where were you when I needed you, it accused. And, to Stiletto, it was right. She had not been there when the woman had been slain.
It did not matter that the woman had been a streetwalker or that her husband was a deadbeat who had left her and their five children to their own devices. What mattered was that Stiletto had failed to be in the right place at the right time.
Stiletto glanced at her reflection in the side mirror of a parked car. She was of average height and slight build. Her skin was dark and her eyes were bright. Her smile could light up an entire city block, but at the moment was missing in action. Her costume was all shiny black leather and polished buckles. Silver daggers adorned her hips, a bandolier of blades lay over her breast, and slender knives rose out of her high heeled boots. She was not a lady to be trifled with but she was a lady nonetheless.
Several Forensic Officers were stretching yellow tape around the crime scene and she watched them work with a feeling of unbridled rage. Her territory had its fair share of muggings and fights, robberies and scams but cold blooded mutilations were a different ballgame altogether. She could not let this stand.
The officers finished their fencing in of the crime scene and set about marking and collecting and photographing everything within the tape boundary. She nodded tersely to one of them and stalked off. There was still ample time left in the dark night for mischief to abound and this time she intended to be where she was needed.
*****
The body of Civilian Officer Ann Chapman was found at 6:03am in the courtyard of her apartment building. A few minutes later, Stiletto vaulted the five foot wall and landed gracefully on the brown grass, weapons in hand. The two members of a patrol unit were standing on either side of the corpse, their heads bowed and their posture tense.
One looked up and saw the black clad super heroine with her gleaming silver daggers and started to draw his energy pistol before arresting the motion. He nodded apologetically at her and re-holstered his weapon. She slid over to meet them, her stride heavy.
Officer Chapman’s body grimaced up at her with a horrible double smile. This time, the woman’s throat had been cut so deeply that it had nearly been severed. A blue handkerchief had been tied tightly around her neck above the wound, its monogram marking it as issued by the Civilian Officer Unit. Ann’s blue eyes glared up at Stiletto as her brunette hair joined a small puddle of blood to form a halo from Hell. Similar wounds to the ones found on Mrs. Nichols marked her belly but one further horrific step had been performed by the murderer this time. This time, the killer had removed Officer Chapman’s uterus.
Even a hardcore warrior like Stiletto was shaken by the disgusting spectacle. This is a message, she thought, a message to me. She looked up at the two officers and noted that neither was the one who had walked Officer Chapman away from the first murder scene. She vowed then and there to find that officer and wring a little truth out of him. Violently wring, she hoped.
“What is going on?” stammered one of the uniformed officers.
“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.” answered Stiletto in a harsh voice.
*****
Richard “Dictionary” Jones was being his usual incomprehensible self. Stiletto stood beside his desk patiently as he chastised some technician about his not following procedures in some obscure experiment. It rankled her to stand and listen but she did not interrupt, it would have only made things worse. Finally, he wrapped up the harangue and the technician sheepishly left the office. Then, Dictionary Jones turned to face her and leaned back in his chair.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’ve come up against something that I can’t beat with my blades. I need your brains.” she replied.
“Go on.”
“There were two murders in the Underbelly early this morning. One was a Civilian Officer under my command.” she continued while waving a pair of file folders. “There were some very disturbing aspects to the slayings. Like the murderer was sending me a message.”
“And you want my perspective on the murders, I presume.” he stated. “Give me the folders, I’ll look them over and get back to you ASAP.”
“Thanks, Jones.” she said as she handed over the folders.
He took them from her and glanced at the covers before thumbing open the first folder. Then, he paused and closed it to stare at the headings again. A confused look came over his face.
“Hmm… Nichols... Chapman…” he mused. “Those sound familiar for some reason.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I will have to think on it but I have seen those surnames together before somewhere.” he answered as his eyes glazed over.
She could tell he was going into one of his legendary trances. Dictionary Jones had a mind that was like a supercomputer on steroids with photographic memory. Any and every scrap of information that crossed his path was assimilated and catalogued for future reference.
Stiletto had worked with him before and truth be told, she had a bit of a crush on him. He had brown, tousled hair, an open, expansive face with a ready smile and engaging eyes. Sometimes, she thought, it is good to be stumped and need his help. It was a reason to spend a few minutes with him. But, right now, she had other business than indulging her romantic interests.
“Call me, if you find out anything.” she said and he nodded absently in response as she left.
*****
Beth Stride had been a tall woman when she had been alive. Now, her death put her at equal height status with most other corpses. Her body had been found in a darkened courtyard adjacent to a low rent nightclub. The club’s bouncer had been going into the abandoned space for a quick piss break and had nearly tripped over the body.
Unlike the other victims, noted Stiletto, this woman only had her throat cut. According to the bouncer, a reformed low grade super villain named Metalhand, there seemed to be a dark presence in the courtyard when he found the body. So, it was possible that the killer had been interrupted before he could finish his bloody work.
Mrs. Stride’s dark eyes stared up at Stiletto, a blue silk scarf tied around her neck. A slight tear in the scarf showed where it had possibly been cut in the attack but otherwise the murder scene provided no additional clues. She decided that talking to Metalhand would be more productive than locking eyes with an accusatory corpse.
She walked over to where a couple of Civilian Officers were interrogating the ex-villain rather ruthlessly. She listened for a minute and then signaled for the officers to leave him to her. They drifted off to survey the crime scene again and Metalhand turned to face her.
“Stiletto.” he said simply.
“Metalhand.” she replied in kind, they had a run-in or two before he had gone straight. “Want to tell me what happened here?”
“I’m sure you have already heard anything I have to say.” he answered. “But, here goes nothing. I was taking my break, was gonna take a piss and smoke a blunt and ended up tripping over a body. End of story.”
“Nothing else?” she pressed, “Nothing about a dark presence?”
His eyes became hooded and for a minute, she feared he would not cooperate. Then, his shoulders slumped and he nodded reluctantly. He lifted his eyes to face her again and she could see fear.
“There was something in here with me. You know me lady, you know I’m not easily scared.” he said.
“That’s true, you are a tough cookie.” she assured him.
“Well, I was terrified just then. Whatever you may think of me, I got over being scared of the boogeyman when I was six.” he countered, “Until tonight, that is.”
“What did you see?” she demanded, suspecting he wasn’t telling her everything.
“I saw him. His eyes, at least. There were like witch fire in the dark, glowing and unearthly. I saw his smile, he actually grinned at me. Like he was hungry, but not for me. If you know what I mean.” said Metalhand. “I saw… his blade. Then he was gone.”
“Tell me more.”
But Metalhand was done. He shook his head and had nothing more to say. She reluctantly accepted that he had told her all he would and motioned him on his way. She had no doubts that he had been a relatively innocent bystander to the murder and would be no more help to the investigation. If anything, he would do his best to forget this ever happened, she thought. If only she could as well.
*****
Kate Conway would have a closed casket funeral. She had been mutilated far beyond the other three victims. Her face cut repeatedly and she had been savagely eviscerated. Her arms had been posed above her head with a section of her intestines stretched between them. Her eyelids had been slashed and her earlobes notched. Her throat had been cut and, most horrifically, sections of her internal organs were missing. Her womb had been carved out and removed.
She had been found within one mile of Beth Stride, and like Stride she had been a lady of the evening. Official reports had her being detained briefly earlier that evening and then released around one o’clock am. An hour later, she was dead.
Like the other victims, her green eyes glared reproachfully at Stiletto. She did not know how much more of this she could take. This animal was going to pay dearly when she found him. She seethed and snarled inwardly while her outward appearance was stoic, more for the benefit of the other Civilian Officers than anything.
She caught several of them shooting her sidelong glances but did not give away anything with her reactions. They knew, she thought, they knew this spectacle was for me. And it worried them, truth be told, it worried her as well.
She cast her mind back through all her cases and encounters but nothing she had faced as of yet compared to the brutality and insanity shown by this killer. She had fought demons and supervillains and aliens and everything in-between but nothing in her past had prepared her for this. As if anything would, came the thought.
She needed to call in and speak with Jones. Her mama had raised her right but this was all just too much for Mrs. Kelly’s little girl.
*****
He had finally remembered, luckily she had called in just before he went home for the evening. What he had found scared him. He filled her in as best as he could, which was way better than anyone else could have hoped to do. Holding the phone with his shoulder he flipped through the files on his desk as he spoke.
“Mary Ann Nichols, murdered Friday, August 31, 1888. Annie Chapman, murdered September 8th, 1888. Elizabeth Stride, murdered September 30th, 1888. Catherine Eddowes a.k.a. Kate Conway, murdered September 30th, 1888.” he recited into the handset. “All unsolved.”
“I don’t understand.” came her voice from the phone.
“One hundred and nineteen years ago, a string of murders rocked the Whitechapel district of London. Upwards of eleven victims, all prostitutes, were found mutilated in similar fashion. The newspapers at the time dubbed the murderer as Jack the Ripper or Springheel Jack. It was the first prominent serial killer case.” he continued. “The case was never solved. It seems we have a copycat killer in the city.”
“Well, Ann Chapman wasn’t a prostitute, she was a Civilian Officer.” Stiletto said.
“Actually, she was formerly an exotic dancer when she was in college.” he replied, “So, technically, she would still be within the parameters of a copycat.”
“Okay, then who is the next victim?” demanded the voice.
“Mary Kelly. Find her and you might be able to stop this.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard.” she replied slowly. “You’re talking to her.”
*****
It was starting to come together for her as she hung up the phone. Some crazy with a hard-on for unsolved mysteries was gunning for her and had gotten close enough to murder one of her subordinates. That didn’t bode well for her but she was not frightened of a whacko with a knife. She was the master of blades.
She looked up from the pay phone she had just used and noticed a man standing down the abandoned block. He was right outside of the pool of light cast by a nearby streetlamp, lounging casually against a brick wall. He noticed her watching him and leaned forward slightly.
She was able to see, as he slowly stepped into the light, that he wore an old fashioned suit reminiscent of 19th century England. Sort of a deranged Sherlock Holmes, she thought. His eyes burned like twin stars locked in an eternal orbit as they focused on her and she could not help but to shiver inside. A motion of his hand revealed a pearl handled straight razor twirling insolently. He tipped his top hat to her, showed a vile grin, and capered down a nearby alleyway.
She was frozen for the merest instant but he was already a shadow by the time she burst into pursuit. She reached the alleyway inc
redibly quickly for someone in high heel boots but he was nowhere to be seen. She paused and seemed to sniff at the air, a scent of sandalwood and myrrh and rot assaulted her nose. A sinister laugh, complete with a cockney accent, mocked her from the darkness. She drew her stilettos dramatically, more for her benefit than to scare her quarry, and plunged into the darkness.
She had fought many battles before, but the nightmare run through this dark alley was the most nerve-wracking episode of her career. In the darkness, lay a predator waiting for her. A predator who had searched through her familiar haunts to find women similar to the ancient victims of Jack the Ripper, all in an effort to have a reason to murder her it seemed. If nothing else, the man was psychotic, intelligent, and murderously dangerous.
She started at every imagined movement and every scrambling sound of vermin retreating from her advance. She could see moonlight glinting feebly off her blades, which weighed heavier in her hands tonight than they ever had. She now knew what it felt like to be the hunted and not the hunter and she did not like the feeling. Not one bit.
And still the deranged laughter taunted her and cajoled her to even greater, even more reckless, flight. It pushed her emotions to the breaking point, it preyed upon her deeply buried fears. The boogeyman was after her and he was enjoying the merry chase.
She knew she should be careful, she knew that she was being led into a trap, but she could not stop the burning desire in her heart to face her tormentor with blades flashing. We will see, she thought, who the blade master in this town is. And she rounded the dark corner of the alley at full speed. She never saw the blow coming.
*****
She hurt. Her body felt like it had been hit by a steamroller and her brain pounded mercilessly inside her skull. Her limbs felt wooden and paralyzed and her stomach did flips that would make an Olympic gymnast blush with envy. There was a coppery taste in her mouth that she recognized as blood and she could smell her own fear. Even her hair hurt.