Jack the Copycat

The metallic smell assaulted Ash's senses. Every surface of the room was covered in blood. It was even hanging from the lampshade.

What was left of the victim, author Ella Morris, lay in the middle of the bed, her clothes folded on the chair in the corner.

Sam was leaning over the body, taking measurements.

"What have we got?" Ash asked.

"Ella Morris, twenty-seven-years-old killed at approximately 10 pm last night."

"We are sure it's her?"

"See here," Sam motioned her over.

"Tattoo?" Ash asked.

"Yes, and it matches the victim; it's on her author page. I can't be 100% sure until I run DNA, but I'm 99% sure."

Ash thought back to the previous day and her conversation with Ella.

Ash sat opposite Ella Morris, a world-famous author; at least, that is what the blurb on her book said. Not that Ash would have recognised her had her boss Michael not enthusiastically given a full biography.

"So, can you tell me when the letters started?"

"Two weeks after I published my book The Copycat. They started fairly innocent, maybe strange, but not violent."

"Now you are worried?"

"The last one contained part of a kidney wrapped in a leather apron."

"Your latest book dealt with Jack the Ripper?"

Ella drew the air in through her teeth. "No, the book deals with four murders that occurred last year in Manchester. The cases are unsolved but bear a remarkable resemblance to Jack the Ripper."

"You thought the perpetrator was copying The Ripper. Is that correct?" Ash asked.

"Anyone with half a brain would see the connection, except maybe the police."

"Sex workers are very high on the murder rate; not every one of them can be linked with The Ripper." Ash hoped her voice hadn't betrayed how ludicrous she thought the whole theory was.

"Not just that," Ella answered. "The manner of their death, the way they were posed. The fact is that victims three and four were killed on the same night. Did you know all the victims were the exact age of the original four women, and now I am getting letters addressed to Dear Boss."

"It is more likely that the letters are from a crazy fan than the killer," Ash answered.

"You lot are all the same. Ignore the obvious and let the killer walk away free. It happened in the first case. The police were completely corrupt and let him walk. For all I know, he is probably one of yours; it isn't like it hasn't happened before."

Ash felt herself bristle but was determined to stay calm. Since being promoted, this was her first solo case, and she needed to make a good impression. She asked a few more questions before giving Ella her business card and leaving.

Now Ella Morris was lying mutilated on her bed, and it looked like she might have a point about the letters being dangerous.

Back at the office, on a hunch, Ash found herself looking through the information on Jack the Ripper. There were similarities between the murders in the 1800s and the ones last year, but that did not mean there was a copycat.

Michael, her boss, came and put his hand on her shoulder, ever the protective presence in her life. "It isn't your fault she is dead."

"Isn't it?"

"Tell me what you have."

Ash went through the details, including the latest murder scene. Despite herself, she mentioned that there were similarities with the Mary Kelly murder. "I just don't see how it all ties in?"

"You will, I know you; give yourself time."

Ash spent the next week going through the old case notes from Manchester. The police there had no clue who had killed the women. They spoke of similarities with the Yorkshire Ripper rather than the original. Ash disagreed if she had to match this case to any in the past, it would be the original.

She interviewed all the usual suspects, starting with the husband, John, as a matter of procedure. He had an alibi and had been seen drinking at a local club. Although the barman could not be sure when John had left, it was a busy night. CCTV of the club showed him entering at nine and not leaving until 2 am. It had been him that had phoned the murder in when he returned home.

Ella's agent had no idea who would have wanted to kill her. He said she was a sweetie. Ash had reservations. Crime writers who spent all their time researching the depths of humanity for joy were a little disturbed in her mind.

The agent knew about the letters but, like Ash, had put it down to a crazy fan. He told her that Ella's first book had been an in-depth study of Jack the Ripper. It had put her on the scene, as he put it.

After a week, Ash had to concede that Ella may have been right; the police were incapable of solving the murders. That was when she received a letter.

To my favourite Detective

Do all men kill the things they do not love?

Smoke and mirrors: some people may not have been in places they say they were.

Ash took the paper and threw it in the bin; unlike Ella, she was well aware of what crazy killer had written this note, the one who had haunted her all her life.

Despite herself, she found herself thinking about the Shakespeare quote all night. Who didn't love Ella?

Some had said her husband was jealous of her success; he had worked with her as a historical researcher for her first book. When she became famous, he was left to his dusty books whilst his wife soared. It was a common enough motive for murder.

The following day, despite her better judgement, Ash found herself studying the alibi of Ella's husband again. The CCTV was clear; he was seen entering and leaving the club. On the fifth time of watching, Ash spotted something; if she did not know better, she would say that John wanted to be caught on CCTV. His smile seemed a little too large, his head a little too turned to the camera. So if he wants us to see him now, when didn't he want us to see him?

It took her the rest of the day to track down the highway camera information. There clearly on the camera at the intersection for Ella's house was her husband's car, driving to the house at 930 pm and returning to the club three hours later.

She rang the club, who confirmed a fire escape led out to the back of the building, but it was locked. She asked the barman if he would check; she heard the phone being placed on the bar and listened to the background noise of a club getting ready to open before he picked the phone up again. The lock had been broken on the door; no one had noticed it.

The next call Ash made was to uniform to arrest the ever-loving husband and bring him in for questioning.

He stood looking across the Thames. He still remembered the judge's words: Montague John, you are charged with the murder of your wife. How do you plead? He had answered not guilty. Bail had been set high, but his parents had found the money.

They had met in university and bonded over a shared love of history. He studied politics and royalty of the time. She enjoyed the more gruesome side of the past. When she wanted to research a book about Jack the Ripper, he had helped her with the background. They had worked together every evening when they got home from classes—Sat on the floor with a shared project. It had been the most incredible time of his life.

Then, the book had been released just after their wedding, and she hadn't even mentioned his contribution. In the next book she wrote, he offered to help her research, but she said she needed an American to help; only they would understand The Zodiac Killer. From that moment on, he was consigned to holding her handbag while she signed autographs. All he wanted was his wife back.

When the murders started in Manchester, he knew that she would be interested. The similarities were hard for anyone to ignore apart from the police. He knew this would be his chance to prove his worth again and offer her valuable research.

He realised quickly that it was a stupid idea. She was not more interested in him than she had been before. Instead, it got worse; she shut herself away in her study whilst she wrote another damn book without him.

That night, he had to tell her he had provided the subject for her new book. She had laughed in his face; for all her research skills, she failed to believe her husband was a serial killer. She told him he didn't have the guts to commit murder and asked him for a divorce.

The next thing he was standing over her ruined body with a kitchen knife in his hand. He thought it would be easy to pin the murder on the copycat, but that bloody female Detective had seen through him.

She wasn't clever enough to link him to Manchester, though. He laughed until he hit the water below; like his idol, most of his victims would be unsolved.