Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(83)
An hour later, the fire popped, waking him. He glanced around, coming alert as if someone had snuck into this room and attacked us. Once he relaxed and fully woke up, he settled his attention on me. “What is it?”
I pushed over several articles I’d clipped out from the papers.
“Why don’t the police care?” I asked. “Why aren’t more people out combing the streets?” I held up my parchment. On it alone there were nearly thirty women, gone in the span of a few weeks. “This is absurd. At this rate, a few hundred will have vanished in a year’s time. When will it be enough for them to investigate?”
“Do you recall what happened when the lights all came on at once at the fair?” Thomas asked, all traces of tiredness now gone.
It was an odd segue, but I nodded and played along. “People wept. Some said it was magic—the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen.”
“You know why they cried? That fair is quite literally a shining achievement of both art and science. The most talented people in America have poured their blood into making it one of the most surreal places ever to be seen. The Ferris Wheel alone is one of the most incredible feats of engineering. Over twenty-one hundred passengers can ride it at once, soaring nearly three hundred feet into the sky. If something that large can be done, anything is possible. What is the Gilded Age, if not dreams dipped in gold and outlandish fantasy sprung to life?” He shook his head. “If the police admitted there were a staggering number of young women missing, it would be a stain on this place, the ultimate American Dream.
Their White City would morph into a den of sin. A reputation Chicago is desperate to mend.”
“It’s awful,” I said. “Who cares if the White City gets stained? A man—most probably Jack the Ripper—is hunting women. Why doesn’t that take precedence over some silly dream?”
“I imagine it’s similar to war—there are always casualties and sacrifices that are made. We happen to live during a time when young, independent women are seen as expendable when pitted against greed. What are a few ‘morally compromised’ women in the face of dreams?”
“Wonderful. So the greed of men can condemn innocent women and we all ought to sit quietly and not utter a word.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe it’s just men who want to keep this illusion up. This is a puritan nation, built upon strict religious notions of good and evil.
To admit the devil walked these streets would acknowledge their greatest fears.
Something that looked like the Kingdom of Heaven was actually the devil’s dominion. Imagine what that realization would do? No place would feel safe anymore. Hope would be replaced by fear. Night would descend forever. If there’s one thing man cherishes above greed, it’s hope. Without it, people would cease to dream. Without dreamers, civilizations crash. Think about the police inspector in New York. One hint that the Ripper was in his city sent him spiraling into chaos.”
I stared at the fireplace, watching flames lurch up and devour the shadows.
Light and dark, forever in conflict. Our task suddenly felt more daunting than usual. I knew confidence when holding a scalpel and demanding clues from flesh. But there were no bodies to inquire after. No physical mystery to dissect.
“What about those missing women? What of their dreams?” I asked quietly.
“This city was supposed to be their escape, too.”
Thomas was quiet a moment. “Which is all the more reason for us to fight for them now.”
I grabbed my paper, renewed in our mission. If a fight was what this murderer was after, a fight was precisely what he’d get. I’d not give up until breath left my body.
It was near midnight when I spotted a detail I’d overlooked. Miss Julia Smythe, the missing woman with a child, had last been seen leaving her job at a pharmacy jewelry counter in the Englewood section of Chicago. I rubbed at my eyes. It wasn’t much, but at least we had a goal for tomorrow—a hint of a plan.
We could inquire around that neighborhood and see if anyone saw anything out of the ordinary.
Thomas watched, his gaze questioning, as I picked up the pieces of newspaper clippings and tucked them into Nathaniel’s journals that also contained missing women.
“I’m bringing this to Uncle,” I said. “He’s the one who’s taught us about there being no coincidences in murder. If he was unsure of the Frankenstein code, then this will be a bit harder for him to ignore. Something is happening here. It’s only a matter of time before bodies turn up.”
Birds of the crow family: four figures, including a
crow, a raven and a rook
THIRTY-SIX
MURDER OF CROWS
SOUTH SIDE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
13 FEBRUARY 1889
Uncle, Thomas, and I walked into police headquarters, appearing like a murder of crows, swooping in with our black cloaks and sharp eyes. The sound of my cane reminded me of the tapping of Edgar Allan Poe’s famous raven. I hoped the Chicago police would fear us haunting them forevermore should they ignore our evidence. Someone had to hold them accountable for their lack of effort. I was thrilled Uncle was back on our side.
It hadn’t taken him long to start twisting the ends of his mustache when I’d showed him each piece of new evidence. He’d agreed: there was undoubtedly a career murderer stalking these streets. Young women didn’t simply vanish on their own. At least not in the staggering numbers of the last few weeks. Someone was preying on them.