Magic Lantern

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

“Well, be careful. According to the news release, he just killed his fourth victim tonight.”

5

The streets were packed near the East End alley where the fourth Mr. Hyde murder had taken place. Annja instructed the cabdriver to get as close as he could, then paid him and walked the rest of the way.

She didn’t like being at a crime scene. Several of the digs she’d been on had been crime scenes, as well. But there wasn’t the immediacy of present-day death.

A logjam of onlookers, police and emergency teams filled the narrow street. Flashes went off from cell phones and pocket cameras. A cold breeze, shot through with patchy fog, blew in from the Thames. The blue lights of the police cars whipped across the apartment buildings and stirred the shadows.

Despite the number of people, Annja got close enough to see a middle-age woman sprawled half on the curb and half in the street between parked cars. Blood darkened the sides of the cars. Bloody handprints streaked the back windshield of one.

“She fought him.” A woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in front of Annja in a faded house robe with a grape Popsicle in one hand, talking to an older man. “’Course, didn’t do her no good. Poor thing couldn’t get away from that madman.”

Annja nudged closer. “Excuse me.”

The woman looked back at her.

“Did you see what happened?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re American?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. I recognize the accent. And yes, I did see what happened. I called in the bobbies. My name is Jane. Jane Morris.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Morris.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Something like that.”

Jane regarded her suspiciously. “I don’t see no notepad.”

“I’ve got a very good memory.”

“No camera, neither.”

Annja nodded toward the policemen as they started out into the bystanders. “Anyone who’s taken a picture is likely to have their phone or camera removed as part of an effort to collect evidence.”

The woman watched as the police officers gathered the cell phones and cameras. Of course, the law enforcement officers didn’t get them all because the crowd started dispersing. The ones who had their grisly souvenirs were intent on keeping them. They’d pop up on Facebook, blogs and Twitter within minutes if they hadn’t already.

“This is my first murder,” Jane said in a low, confiding voice.

“Could you tell me what you saw?”

The woman pointed the Popsicle at the murder victim. “I saw that poor thing fighting with a proper big bloke. He was huge. Like some kind of gorilla. Shoulders out to here.” She placed her hands about three feet apart and the Popsicle dripped on the neck of the man ahead of her.

The man cursed and shot her a nasty look. He took a step away.

“Sorry, love.” Jane licked the Popsicle momentarily dry. “She hardly had time to cry help. I was standing up there.” She pointed at a balcony on the third floor of the nearby building. “I called the police immediately.” She shook her head sadly. “But I knew it was too late.”

“The man got away?”

“Of course he did. A man who can stomp in a woman’s head like he’s stepping on a peanut? No one around him is going to stop him. We don’t carry guns like you Yanks.”

“Do you know who the woman was?”

Jane shook her head. “Looked like she was a waitress, from the way she was dressed.”

Feeling ghoulish, Annja surreptitiously took out her sat-phone and brought up her Twitter account. Keeping the phone hidden from the police, she scrolled through the news and didn’t have to go far before she found the first tweets about the dead woman.

Audrey McClintok. A twenty-seven-year-old waitress at a diner.

Annja put her phone back in the pocket of her Windbreaker. So far, none of the victims had anything in common except for being women. The ability of the man to kill and disappear was chilling.

“Well, now here’s something.” Jane sucked on her Popsicle.

Two uniformed policemen pushed through the crowd, backing people off and heading straight for them. Probably wanted to talk to Jane, since she’d reported the murder, Annja thought.

They stopped in front of Annja. The oldest of the two was grizzled, and his bleak eyes indicated he’d seen too much over the years. “Ms. Creed.”

She nodded.

“DCI Westcox would like a word with you, miss.”

“Now?” The last thing Annja wanted to do was get involved in the murder investigation.

“Yes, miss. Now.”

The two policemen had flanked her and she got the distinct impression turning down the detective chief inspector’s invitation wasn’t an option.

“This way, miss.” The older policeman waved her forward and the crowd parted once again.

Along the way, bright flashes from cell phones and cameras temporarily blinded Annja.

* * *

“DIDN’T TAKE YOU FOR A looky-loo, Ms. Creed.” DCI Alfred Westcox was a tough, no-nonsense cop. Probably ten pounds underweight, he looked as if the excess had been hammered off him. He wore a trench coat and hat, and the tie clipped to his chest lifted as the wind gusted. His cottony white hair matched his eyebrows and mustache. He wore thick glasses over his watery blue eyes.

“I’m not.” Annja respected how the chief inspector ran his business, but she wasn’t happy with the way she’d inadvertently ended up on the wrong side of him.

Westcox didn’t like her any more than he did any of the other media people gathered around for the story. In fact, she didn’t know why he’d singled her out. There were plenty of others on hand.

“Yet here you are, Ms. Creed. In the middle of my murder investigation.”

“I came out to see if I could help.”