windows made her feel she was in a hothouse.
“And yet you’ve been to crime scenes,” she said.
“Oh, crime scenes don’t trouble me at all. I would rather spend two hours at a homicide scene than two minutes in a doctor’s waiting room. I suppose a psychologist could explain why. But then, you’re a psychologist, aren’t you?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to diagnose you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. There are some depths best left unplumbed. I much prefer to remain an enigma, to others and myself.”
He escorted her into his den, its curtains shut against the light. It was even hotter, and there were two more cats. The walls were crowded with framed book covers-his own, naturally-and photos from L.A.’s past.
She settled on a sofa. He offered her a drink. She declined.
“Now what can I do for you?” he asked as he lowered himself into an overstuffed armchair like a king taking his throne. A cocktail glass rested on the adjacent table, ice cubes melting in what was probably scotch.
“To begin with, you can tell me how you knew I have an interest in Jack the Ripper.”
“I could perhaps convince you that I possess psychic powers, but the truth is more mundane. I’m a regular patron of the Purloined Letter Bookshop. I was in there earlier today. As is my wont, I inquired of the proprietor if anyone had purchased one of my books. He told me he’d made a sale to a charming young lady, who also bought a slew of books on Jack the Ripper. Rather indiscreetly, he mentioned that the lady’s companion had promised to broker a meeting with me. And so I put the pieces together, much like Sherlock Holmes, whose methods were equally unremarkable once explained.”
He picked up his drink and swallowed a third of it in a noisy slurp.
“Maura tells me,” he added, “that you’re a consultant to law enforcement agencies. A sort of document examiner cum handwriting analyst cum behavioral profiler.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Still, a most interesting career path. You dissect the criminal mind. Shine a searchlight into the dark crevasses.”
She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her. “It’s a living.”
“I would imagine it’s your family background that got you interested in such matters.”
“My family?”
“Your father, I mean.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Perhaps I’m mistaken. I’d assumed your father was Aldrich Silence. Your surname is not a very common one-”
“Aldrich Silence
“Oh. It’s nothing. Never mind me.”
“What about my father, Mr. Sirk?”
“Well, I had assumed you knew… Surely you’ve been informed… But then I suppose you might not have been. He was never named as a suspect.”
Her throat was dry. “A suspect in what?”
“This is very awkward.”
“Tell me.”
He took another drink. “There was a series of murders in Venice and the surrounding area in the late 1970s. Women and girls, found mutilated, eviscerated with almost surgical skill. Four in all, as I remember. Back in the day, it was the fashion to append a nickname to a serial killer. This one was the Devil’s Henchman.”
“I’ve heard that name,” she whispered.
“It was taken from a rather undistinguished 1949 B-picture that happened to be playing at the Fox Venice Theatre, the old revival house, when the first murder occurred. The killer was believed to roam the neighborhood on foot. At least, no vehicles were ever witnessed in the vicinity of his crimes. And no one ever got a look at him. He was a faceless figure, a boogeyman haunting the night.”
Like Jack the Ripper, she thought.
“The case attracted considerable notoriety at the time. The police believed the culprit was a white male in his late twenties to mid thirties, mentally ill, with some medical training, who resided in Venice or nearby. A number of suspects were considered.”
“And my father was one of them?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.” He waved a doughy hand. “It was all very preliminary. His involvement never made the news. I know about it only because I researched the subject for a book I considered writing. But I gave it up.”
“Why?”
“Because there was no ending. The Devil’s Henchman was never apprehended, never identified. The case remains unsolved.”
“After my father died…did the killings stop?”
“Actually they had stopped some months before.”
“And there were no more, after his death?”
“No. But that could, of course, be merely a coincidence. There are a great many coincidences in life.” He peered at her over his glass. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
“It’s all right.”
“Given your line of work, I thought you would be aware… It was rather stupid of me, though. The case is decades old, and you would have no reason to know anything about it.”
“I know about it now.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself. There was never any evidence linking Aldrich Silence to the crimes. It was purely a matter of his fitting the profile. And he was far from the only one to do so. In Venice there is never any shortage of…well…”
“Lunatics?”
He flushed. “Perhaps I had better say nothing further. I fear I’ve gotten our meeting off to a most uncomfortable commencement.”
She was thinking of her mother. Had she known? She must have. If the police had come asking about Aldrich, she would have been interviewed. She was the only one who could establish an alibi. If there was an alibi. And if there wasn’t…
Her mother never said anything. Never even hinted at it, not once in all the years after Aldrich’s death.
His death. A suicide. Had the pressure of being a suspect in a murder investigation driven him into the tool shed with a gun in his hand?
Or was it guilt?
“Now tell me, Jennifer-why would a research project involving Venice’s history inspire you to study up on a man who victimized Whitechapel whores twenty years before Venice even existed?”
“I live in a very old house in Venice,” she said slowly, “one that dates back about a hundred years. I’ve found some things hidden in the house that suggest the original owner may have committed crimes. Murders. I know it sounds stupid, but the crimes might be similar to Jack the Ripper’s. And so I thought…”
“That old Jack might have resided at your address, back in the day?”
“I told you it sounds stupid.”
“On the contrary, it’s most intriguing. But what
She hesitated. “Human remains.”
“Ah. The plot thickens. Females?”
“Apparently.”
“A century old?”
“They may be.”
“Brought to light by Poseidon’s fury, I presume?”
“What?”
“The earthquake, my dear. Poseidon was the god of seismic events.”
