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August 29th: It is a matter of public record that the other prostitutes on South Lake Avenue got pinched twice as often as Mary Durward. Some of the working girls said it was because she was a snitch, but Mary insisted that she was lucky that way.
On this night, she wore her dark hair pulled back; she had on tight jeans, a half-shirt, and too much eyeliner. As usual, she walked the perimeter of Washington Park looking for customers. It had been a lousy night for business, cool with a hint of rain. Most of the drive-ups had been giggling college boys who lost their nerve the minute she started negotiating prices. Thankfully, she still had her regulars—husbands seeking the oral sex they couldn't get at home and old men in need of handjobs and conversation. As the clock neared two AM, she decided to call it a night, her heels clicking against the pavement as she headed toward the park's darker, quieter paths.
Mary might have made it home alive if she hadn't decided to take the shortcut through the heart of Washington Park. Despite knowing about the recent murders, she wasn't worried; death was something that happened to other people. The park was eerily quiet, the usual daytime bustle replaced by a silence that amplified every rustle of leaves and distant hum of traffic. She kept to the sidewalk that wound between the artificial pond, its surface reflecting the moonlight in ghostly ripples, and the tulip garden, now just dark shapes in the night. The rhythmic click of her pumps on the concrete echoed through the stillness, masking the soft footsteps of her pursuer. The last sound she heard was the chilling whisper of a blade being unsheathed, cutting through the night's deceptive calm.
Mary's luck had run out...
###
...by the time I heard her scream, it was already too late. Ever since the third murder, I'd started patrolling the area around Lark Street: not patrolling in a superhero sense mind you, patrolling in a reporter sense. I had promised myself I wasn't going to get involved in any weirdness, that this blog would be nothing more than a haven for Fantasy Football stats and occasional anecdotes about working at a pawn shop.
But here I was again.
Like I said, by the time I heard the scream, it was too late. I went tear-assing through the park to find Mary Durward, well what was left of her anyway.
She was lying on the sidewalk; her throat had been slashed, and she had been split open from gut to groin. Police reports said that the other victims had their internal organs removed. I was too uneducated on human anatomy and too busy throwing up on myself to be sure.
The Ripper had struck again.
Well, not THAT Ripper. Not exactly, but kind of.
Don't believe my crazy theory? Neither did law enforcement, the newspapers, or my landlady, Mrs Vincenzo, but it all added up. Women, usually working girls, were being savagely, swiftly, and expertly eviscerated by someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.
Once I was done emptying out my stomach, I started running; as I ran, I dialed 911 from my smartphone. Sure, I didn't have to report the poor woman's body; someone else would find it soon enough, but it would have felt wrong to do otherwise.
No one believed me that this was somehow connected to the events of 1888, but the pieces all fit. There had been other murders, seemingly in every generation but always in a different country—England, France, Germany, Finland, and finally here. And every time, it was five murders before the killer stopped. That's twenty-five killings spread over one hundred and twenty-five years.
I was pretty sure I knew where the killer was going, so I ran eastward, losing myself in the trees and brambles. It was pitch black, but there was a trail to follow, a trail made by adventurous bicyclists and wandering college students. It led towards Washington Park's number one eyesore. Halfway down the trail, I could almost see it, so I ran faster.
My foot caught a root or a rock or something, and I fell on my face in a spectacular fashion.
The Ripper, the stuff of legends. How many books were written about those murders in Whitechapel? How many theories have been flying around as to the killer's identity? If nothing else, my hypothesis will go down in history as the most insane, but the names and dates all match up. There are even rumors of confessions hidden in anagrams, but I can't be sure about that part. The 'confessions' are in print in three different languages—and each of them was published years after the murders took place.
Except this time, maybe. If I was right and I was clever, there might not be another gruesome tell-all masquerading as a children's book again.
How long did I lay face down in the dirt trying to remember my name? It seemed like forever. When I finally sat up, I discovered that I'd landed on my iPhone and smashed it. How many is that I've wrecked now?
Good thing I work in a pawn shop.
I started running again, stumbled a few times, and reached the long-abandoned Grecian Shelter. Just in case you have no idea what one of those is, imagine a long rectangular structure with no real roof but plenty of Corinthian columns. Another term for this kind of structure is a Croquet Shelter, and they do have a very ancient Greece-like look to them.
This is especially true for the one in Washington Park, which had been left to rot since 1929. Redesigns of the grounds had left it out of sight and out of mind. Sure, every few years, there were outcries from the local community to either restore it or knock it down, but nothing ever got done.
That kind of thing happens a lot in Albany.
The structure loomed before me, its overgrown vines twisting like nature's chains around the crumbling Corinthian columns. Some of the columns leaned precariously as if a single touch could send them tumbling. Yet, what truly captured my attention was the ugly purple glow emanating from within. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with an instinctual dread as I cautiously drew closer. There was a sickly sweet odor in the air, like pork but sweeter. I did not want to be there. I didn't even want to be in the same area code, but if I was right, who else could put a stop to this?
“Auditurum cantáte!” A voice cried, “Salve regina red!”
Great. I thought. Latin. That's never a good sign.
Once I was close enough, I could see that the illumination was coming from a device that looked like something a meth head locked in a Radio Shack overnight might build. I stepped into the Grecian Shelter.
Preston Myers was visibly startled by my appearance, so I had that going for me, at least. He was pudgy and bald, and his beard was black and flecked with gray. He always went out in public wearing a suit and a tie, but as you can imagine, his suit and tie were streaked with gore. When he spoke, he didn't growl or hiss; he used exactly the same tone he used when readings for the kids at the public library. He said, "Who are you?"
"I'm Brian Foster," I replied, stepping closer despite my fear. "And I want to know who you're doing this for."
"For the Rubrum Regina of course," the knife he pulled out of his jacket was cruel and curved, "you shouldn't be here."
"Tell me about it."
"I'm going to kill you," he stalked forward, "if you're a good boy, I'll make it quick, but if you run... If I have to chase you..."
"What is the Rubrum Regina?" I stepped left, and he stepped right, like it was all some kind of murderous dance. "What makes you do this?"
“Rubrum regina mater omnium mortalium est!”
Not the answer I was hoping for. I pointed to the tangle of wires and bulbs, "And what is that?"
"The sanctum fenestram," he smiled.
"And what's it for?"
"All the better to see you with."
In a heartbeat, Preston Myers lunged at me. I feinted left but dove to the right, crashing headlong into the 'sanctum fenestram,' smashing it to pieces. The room erupted in a shower of sparks and a blinding flash of light…
###
...I’m not telling if I wrecked that crazy machine by accident or if it was all part of a brilliant plan. What I will say to you is that as soon as it broke apart, Preston Myers dropped the knife, fell to the ground, and started to convulse. He was dead in a matter of minutes. I watched him struggle for breath but didn’t lift a finger to try and save him.
The police discovered Preston Myers’ body about an hour after they found Mary Durward’s remains. The reports of his death overshadowed everything else. By the six o’clock news, the murders of five Albany hookers had been dropped in favor of tributes to and remembrances of the great author.
No mention was made of the sanctum fenestram, or the knife, or the blood all over the great author’s clothes. The official story was that he’d suffered a heart attack while taking a walk near his home.
His home is miles away from Washington Park, by the way.
Of course, you and I know different, but that and a tenfive-dollar bill will get us an espresso at Starbucks.
All I have left now are questions. Why the cover-up? Was what I did enough? Did I break the chain, or will the bodies start piling up again sometime around 2037?
If so, I doubt I’ll be around to worry about it.
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