OUT OF TIME
Chapter One
"Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wain Gacy- They far surpassed him in sheer body count but they were pikers in comparison because they were eventually caught and killed in prison... Jack the Ripper was never caught.
"That's because Jack the Ripper was a cop."
Detective Sergeant John Griffith subconsciously gripped the podium before him and awaited the reaction. The UMass-Framingham students disappointed him. No dissent, no murmers, not even a titter from a naysayer. He decided to try a different tack, a more sensational one, even though he would despise tabloid-like sensationalism of the serial killer phenomenon. John Griffith shuffled his notes then adjusted the podium's controls; The track hologram projectors just under the ceiling began to quietly whirr.
Three dimensional images in full color appeared five feet over the students as if summoned by an illusionist. They were the victims of the Mansons, the Zodiac, John Wayne Gacy, Joel Rifkin, Paulo Chaves. Each murder scene was shown, with delicacy characteristic of John Griffith, but for a few seconds.
"He was the granddaddy of all serial killers, the first international superstar of murder." The more contemporary color shots were soon replaced, with impeccable timing, by four black and white morgue photos of the Whitechapel Killer's victims; Griffith detected an inaudible shudder going through the class, as if a Poltergeist had passed through the room. "In terms of sheer savagery, cunning, and daring, he would achieve his infamous status by becoming the prototype for the modern day serial killer and its psychological protocol. Yet, how else could he have exploited the opportunities that he had without kind of advantage?"
For the first time since continuing, he looked up from his handwritten notes. The three dimensional images disappeared as from the living memories of those who knew them. The class looked back up at him like children that had just been punished for an unknown offense.
As he prepared for his peroration, Griffith began to suspect the wisdom that
had led him to accept this summer teaching post at his old alma mater. Exploiting a life-long obsession with the criminal mind, Jack the Ripper's in particular, John had earned a Bachelor's degree in the science, with a B. Lit. as his minor. Ergo, his credentials had easily qualified him, at 23, for his hometown's police department. While at the revamped academy in Saugus, he'd excelled in most of his classes, benefiting, no doubt, from the head start provided by his college education.
However, once John Griffith had donned the patrolman's uniform (about to be done away with, as they'd made their wearers perilously conspicuous), he'd realized that virtually everything he'd learned in both Dr. Steinmetz's class and Saugus was simply non-applicable in day-to-day law enforcement. He'd gradually adopted over a period of just a few months a curiously 20th century style of law enforcement, such as interrogating suspects and witnesses face to face instead of interviews via modem, a practice pioneered just before the 21st century.
Griffith's methods of doing the job were considered unorthodox, by some,
earning him the sobriquet "The Lone Ranger," another solitary lawman famed for never killing a man, a practice to which Griffith, for the most part, adhered. This was in itself unusual, considering the criminal element of the mid 21st century.
Most offenders would sooner kill a cop on sight rather than accept a speeding ticket and get sent on their way with an innocuous warning. Killing was more fun.
21st century officers were in the minority both numerically and morally. This was, unfortunately, brought about by apathetic legislation on both a state and federal level, which had struck many "useless and unenforcable" laws from the books, a measure thought by many to be vastly more cost effective than putting more officers on the streets or building new prisons to relieve the already overpopulated ones.
Throughout the law enforcement community, however, the real reason for streamlining the law books was obvious: The laws were being rewritten (i.e. gutted, if not outright expunged) because legislators, who hadn't a clue how to combat the pandemic of violent crime, enacted what were nothing more than stopgap measures. To put it simply, laws disintegrated in proportion to the decaying moral fabric of the nation. To enforce the existing laws of the 20th century would require more manpower and resources than most municipalities could provide. The new focus was, by universal consent, on violent crimes.
Considering the criminal backdrop against which he worked, it was a miracle that Griffith, with his emphasis on nonviolent resolutions, was still alive. This was, no doubt, aided by his secular and private education in the humanities, especially literature. While lacking the discipline to contribute to it, Det. Griffith was as content to read the works of Aristotle and Shakespeare as the latest issue of Law Enforcement Today, the monthly bible of most 21st century cops.
As he stood behind the "smartpod," he wondered whether he should've opted, instead, to teach English 101 this summer instead of criminology. It was a fact, though, that he was at odds with his own colleagues as much over his often elegant way of speaking and writing reports as his methods of law enforcement. If Marlborough's finest wouldn't take him seriously, perhaps Framingham's finest minds would.
"Now, I know the theory of Jack being one of my own seems farfetched. But remember what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote: Eliminate the impossible and the improbable becomes probable. A few people in the past had made similar assertions, that Jack was a Bobby, but they were immediately dismissed. However, let's consider some of the facts: Jack's fourth victim, Catherine Eddowes, went by the alias 'Mary Jane Kelly.' Five weeks later, he'd killed again, this time a girl whose real name was Mary Jane or Ann Kelly. This suggests the investigative technique of process of elimination."
A blonde in the second row nervously tittered as Griffith realized the poor choice of the word "elimination." He searched for a quick qualifier.
"...a process of elimination a la The Terminator." More titters, no doubt from fans of classic cinema. Encouraged, Griffith continued. "Here's something else to think about: Jack, at the height of the Ripper hysteria, was still able to approach women and gain their confidence long enough to do his thing. This suggests that he was someone who be trusted, such as a police officer. If he was, it would no doubt give a new twist to the word 'Peeler'." Groans from the more gastronomically challenged sprouted like mushrooms in the cavernous classroom. Meghan Neilson, the blonde coed in the second row, merely smiled at her teacher, twirling her golden ponytail with her right index finger. John Griffith's eyes brushed over her as softly as two butterfly wings and consciously turned back to his notes, even though he'd finished reading them.
"Perhaps you can help me answer some of these questions in a 1000 word
essay, due a week from today." The students' feeble moans of protest were cut short by the tone announcing the end of the school day. "C'mon," he called after them, "it's two thin pages on a word cruncher...!" By then, most of the students had escaped. "Aw, the hell with it."
Griffith imperceptibly leaned on the "smartpod" for support. In his nearly eight years of law enforcement, after countless stakeouts, raids, and arrests, his first day of educating young minds was the most nerve-wracking experience of his life. As he set about collating his sea of notes, a voice came from the back of the old hall.
"Sorry I'm late for your criminology class, Teach- I was in jail. I got a note from the warden, though." Frank Mulcahy lit a Winston, even though smoking was prohibited in all public buildings throughout the Commonwealth.
Griffith smiled without looking up. His partner was genetically incapable of entering a room without making some kind of smartass remark, which was unfortunate, at times, when the room happened to be a murder scene. There was the time he and Frank had walked into the bedroom of a murdered Marlborough hooker, who had met her demise in a way that had irresistibly recalled the Ripper to Griffith's mind. Parting the beaded curtains and seeing the browning arterial spray on the wall above the head of the four poster brass bed, Det. Mulcahy had whistled and said,
"Boy, I can just feel the lust in this room, can't you?"
Even her pimp had turned and given him a dirty look.
That was three years ago, and Frank had not only not mellowed out, he was quite possibly more difficult to deal with than ever. Still, he was good for laughs, if nothing else, and even the most foolhardy career criminals in Marlborough knew better than to cross the crazy cop with the Javelina 10 mil.
"Seriously, how'd your first day go?"
"Well, lemme put it to you this way, pardner- It wasn't exactly an MTV moment."
"I don't know what you see in this academic shit, anyway, Johnny boy. Weren't you the one who told me that the first thing you learned after college was to forget everything you'd learned?"
"Well, being around youngsters helps keep an old fart like me young. Besides, I could use the extra cash."
"Who wouldn't? But, c'mon, Johnny boy, you're only 30. You haven't got the
to feel old. You'll have to be on the job until you're, oh, 35 or so before you'll really feel that way."
"I'll be 31 in a couple of weeks."
"I also can't believe that you're devoting whole classes to discovering Jack the Ripper's identity. You don't need the NCIC to know that the mystery was solved back in the 20th century."
"If you're referring to the diary, it was proven a clever hoax four years ago, which means we're back to square one." Griffith had read in Law Enforcement Today back in '38 that a Liverpool maid had found the business itinerary of James Maybrick, the alleged author of the diary. After SEM/EDS verification, it and dug up ship passenger manifests conclusively proved that Maybrick was either in America or outside London on textile business during three of the five Ripper murders. The identity of the diary's author had yet to be discovered, of course, but it was currently held by experts that it was the work of an enterprising late 19th-early 20th century policeman or forensic pathologist, very likely one personally involved in the case. Besides, another diary written by Maybrick, in the same hand as the itinerary, had surfaced even more recently in a box of rubbish in a Liverpool tenement. It had undergone the same electron microscope test as the diary and itinerary and it had fatally conflicted with the claims in the first journal.
"Even so, I don't know why you're so obsessed with the Ripper case, Griff."
"Don't tell me that cops don't occasionally take on hobby cases."
"Sure we do, but not when the perps have been dead for over 150 years."
"There are too many unanswered questions, too many inconsistencies to be written off as due to insanity or chance. Kelly's murder, for instance, is absolutely senseless even when..."
Mulcahy straightened up from leaning against the podium. His body english always displayed something indefinable to Griffith when Jack's name came up. He still couldn't pin it down either to impatience, boredom, or even nervousness.
"Madman" Mulcahy of the Marlborough PD, spooked by a serial killer dead for well over 100 years? No, it must be impatience or boredom.
"John, it's time to log in. C'mon."
Griffith was used to being interrupted in mid sentence, especially by the edgy Mulcahy, but it still irked him mildly when he was expounding on the Ripper case.
Perhaps I was a little intense, he thought as he followed his partner through the double doors of the lecture hall.
The humid 93 degrees made Griffith instinctively hold his breath until he got into the unmarked.
Bless Frank's heart. Knowing my asthma, he even left the AC running while he went in to get me.
As Frank slid behind the wheel of his new Stiletto, Griffith reached into the vinyl briefcase and took out his Casull .454 automag. He gently placed it in his empty shoulder holster, knowing that, in this day and age, things had a tendency to go off suddenly.
"Jesus Christ, are you packing that French 75, Griff? I thought the Chief just ordered you to go back to the Javelina."
"I've never felt comfortable with the 10 mm ever since the Portuguese riots. Besides, the Chief's not the one out there with a bulls-eye on his ass."
While still patrolmen, Griffith and Mulcahy's first major call together was the Portuguese riots of 2035. An ingenious serial killer had been systematically offing Marlborough's and Hudson's Luso-American population for months. Much of the Portuguese constituency had fled back to the Azores and the mainland but enough had stayed behind to cause tens of millions of dollars in damage and send 20 Hudson and Marlborough officers and firefighters to the hospital before it was over. Patrolman Griffith was among the first to fall, taking a 9 mil slug in the femoral artery. As much as he deplored violence, even when justified, Griffith had never lost sight of the fact that his own survival was paramount and that he'd do whatever was necessary to prolong his life span. After all, there were no old age homes for ex-cops.
Fed up with fighting both this elusive psychopath (considered by journalists to be the cleverest Bay State serial killer since DeSalvo) and the panicking Portuguese, Officer Griffith then dressed while still in the recovery room and discharged himself. With Mulcahy's help, he'd eventually gotten his man, bum leg and all. When it was revealed that the man who had incited the two towns to riot was a second generation Portuguese gas attendant who'd waited on one ungrateful and belligerent countryman too many, the two towns had quickly become relatively safer in which to live. Paulo Chaves was then put to death by lethal injection after a speedy trial but his aftermath was permanent; Hudson had by 2035 been almost 75% Portuguese- It never climbed above 35% thereafter. Those who had timidly come back from the mother country had resettled in New Bedford or Fall River.
As a result of their widely publicized collar, Officers Griffith and Mulcahy were field promoted to the rank of Detective Third Grade, effective immediately. It was highly unorthodox, but, as it was a gubernatorial election year and the Commissioner was godfather to the Governor's first born son, City Hall had practically made a Hollywood blockbuster of the promotions, proclaiming that "there was always room for two more bright, young detectives to help combat the rising tide of violence, yadda, yadda, yadda (the last three words were added on by jealous cynics and other patrolmen with 20 or more years in)."
Fortunately, the pair of novice "goldies" didn't disappoint The Powers That Be and shut up all of the naysayers. Almost from their first day in plainclothes, "Frankie and Johnny" proved themselves as naturals in the municipal sleuthing business, John providing the analytical insight while Frank was content to remain a human K9, always waiting for Griffith to point him in the direction of the bad guys. The rest of the force quickly began to wonder amongst themselves which one was crazier, "Madman" Mulcahy or the suspects that he and his quiet partner dependably brought in for booking.
Yet, due to budgetary restrictions and a more relaxed general attitude from the public as regards violent crime, Griffith and Mulcahy had remained Detectives Third Grade ever after. Paulo Chaves' arrest was soon forgotten, as well as the glory that went with it. In short, City Hall had forgotten about them, the first of many factors contributory to the professional apathy that was slowly creeping into Griffith's soul like a painless cancer. Mulcahy had no more political ambitions than a bag lady and didn't seem to care about their promotional stasis. But Griffith, while he didn't entertain any dreams of wearing four stars on his epaulets, equated that with the truth that was becoming increasingly apparent with each day- They were used as political window dressing for a long-defunct and forgotten campaign.
A familiar voice dully cut into Griffith's consciousness.
"Yo, Johnny boy, I said 'You wanna get a burger before loggin' in?' Ya hear me?"
"Huh? Yeah, I-I heard. No, the heat's killed my appetite. You get something for yourself."
"You okay, John? You look like you ought to take a sick day. I think you've been putting too much time into this Jack the Ripper course."
"No, Frank, I'm just not hungry. I'm thinking..." Griffith's voice trailed off, his thoughts going with them. For the last several days, Mulcahy had been lobbying pretty hard to get his partner's mind off the Ripper case and John Griffith was beginning to wonder why. Was Frank speaking out of his own concern, or on behalf of the entire department? Either way, it didn't matter to Griffith.
(UMF, Framingham, MA, June 29, 2042)
Enjoy! Let me know what you think. My email address is Crawman2@Juno.com
Reenter the madness yet again.