“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would.”
“I thought we were a team!”
“We are, but—”
A shrill scream echoed down Henriques Street. Evelyn and I both swung our heads around to squint through the windshield. The police officers, wearing alarmed expressions, abandoned their posts and ran toward an indefinite point inside the gates of the primary school. They disappeared from the street, all in the courtyard that used to be Dutfield’s Yard in 1888. Had they found a body? Did they catch the Ripper?
All thoughts of using the restroom evacuated my head. I put the car in drive and slammed on the gas pedal, preparing to turn onto Back Church Lane, where the Ripper would surely make his escape. But as I approached the turn, a sudden realization hit me, and I hit the brakes.
“What are you waiting for?” Evelyn demanded. “Drive! We’re going to miss him!”
“It’s a diversion,” I muttered. My mind whirled with possibilities. If I was the Ripper, what would I have done to get the police out of the way before my next scheduled kill?
“What are you talking about?” Evelyn asked, exasperated.
“The scream.” I put the car in reverse and backed out the way we had come. “Luring the cops into the primary school. It’s a diversion. The Ripper planned this, but I bet you anything he’s already on his way to Mitre Square.”
Evelyn craned her neck to get a look down Back Church Lane. The officers had yet to emerge on the other side of the primary school. “Are you positive? You’re willing to risk missing the Ripper here?”
I peeled away from Henriques Street, made a quick left turn on Whitechapel High Street, and floored it toward Mitre Square. It was a five-minute drive away, but I made it there in three. I slowed down and cruised by the square. Three police cars lined Mitre Street, outside the tall bank building and yet another primary school that bordered the small courtyard within. There was far less coverage than at the previous location, most likely because the police weren’t expecting the killer to get here for another forty-five minutes. The officers rested in their cars, chatting with their partners and occasionally doing a visual sweep of the area.
I kept driving, around to the back of Mitre Square toward Saint James’s passage, the little alleyway we had planned to spy through. Unfortunately, it was blocked off to cars by a row of evenly spaced concrete balusters, so I parked along the curve of the empty road that led to it. From here, I had a decent view down the alleyway and into the square, but I couldn’t see anything to the left or right of the narrow cut-through.
Evelyn grimaced as she shifted in her seat, trying to find a place for her long legs to go. “Wanna explain why you pulled a Taxi Driver back there?”
“Because whoever’s killing people in Whitechapel knows the original Ripper case as well—or better—than I do,” I said.
“Bloody hell, I didn’t think you’d ever admit to someone knowing more about a serial killer than you do. What’s that got to do with Henriques Street?”
“Elizabeth Stride, the third woman who was murdered in Whitechapel in 1888, was discovered with her throat cut,” I explained. “But the knife used to do it was much smaller than the one the Ripper favored. The Ripper became famous for mutilating the bodies of his victims, even carving crosses on their faces, but Stride had no other wounds. Dutfield’s Yard was a busy place back then, and there would have been a lot of people walking around in public. The Ripper normally chose secluded areas to complete his kills.”
“So you don’t think the Ripper killed Elizabeth Stride?” Evelyn clarified.
“I’m inclined to say no.” I nervously crunched the empty crisps bag and returned my gaze to the lonely street. “The third murder was entirely different from the others, even if it’s lumped in as one of the canonical five. It’s a hunch—a big one—but I’d bet our copycat killer doesn’t think Jack killed Elizabeth Stride either.”
Evelyn blotted her sweaty forehead with a paper napkin. “I had no idea I was getting a history lesson tonight.”
I lifted the camera and peered through the lens. The officers at the other end of Mitre Square hadn’t moved from their cars. I was sure they would have been alerted if the hubbub on Henriques Street culminated in another kill or if anyone caught sight of the Ripper, but they appeared calm and unworried. Saint James’s Passage remained unguarded.
“Why didn’t they station any officers here?” I muttered, more to myself than to Evelyn. “They should have covered all entry and exit points to the square.”
Evelyn leaned across my seat and peered through the window. Her breath rattled in her lungs. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe someone’s on a break? Or—”
“They’re setting him up,” I finished for her, sensing her thought before she voiced it. “They want the Ripper to think they’re lazy or incompetent. They want him to use the back alley to get in. That way they can catch him from the other side.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “So far, the Ripper’s been adamant about getting the time and place right. If he thinks he has a chance to kill in Mitre Square, he’ll do it.”
“What about a victim? There’s nobody around.”
“Except for us.”
Evelyn settled in her seat with a light thump and rested her head against the chair. Her hair stuck to her temple. When she took a long breath in, it was interrupted by a series of coughs. I patted her on the back.
“I’m all right,” she insisted, batting my hand away. “Just coming down with a cold or something. Pay attention.”
She hit the button to lock the car doors twice, even though they were already locked. I hesitated before turning away from her to keep an eye on the passage. The police officers hadn’t moved. Through the camera, I watched as one of them laughed uproariously at something
