Ripper

  Anyway, I’ll carry on with my story, because it’s important that you get to know me, get to understand my mission. This press clipping is from July 21, 1993. The headline reads: “Girl Chained Up by Mother Almost Starves to Death.” The story that follows is a string of lies; it claims that an unidentified woman died in the hospital without revealing the existence of her daughter, and that a month later the police discovered an eleven-year-old girl who had been kept locked up her whole life and . . . it says they discovered a gruesome scene. Lies! I was there and I can tell you that the place was neat and tidy, there was nothing gruesome about it. Besides it wasn’t a month later, it was only three weeks, and what happened wasn’t Mama’s fault. She had a heart attack and never regained consciousness—how could she let people know I was all on my own? I remember exactly what happened. She went out first thing like usual—she’d made breakfast for me, and she reminded me to double-lock the door, and not to open it to anyone for any reason. When she didn’t come home at the usual time, I thought she’d been held up at work, so I had a bowl of cereal and watched TV until I fell asleep. I woke up really late, and when I saw she still wasn’t back, I started to get scared, because Mama had never left me alone for this long before, and she’d never stayed out all night. I spent all day watching the clock, waiting for her to come home. I prayed and prayed, my heart cried out to her. She’d always told me never to answer the phone, but I decided that if it rang again I’d answer, because if something had happened to Mama, someone would probably call me. But no one called, and she didn’t come back that night or the following morning. The days went by—I counted them off on the calendar taped to the fridge door. Eventually the food ran out and I ended up eating the toothpaste, the soap, wet paper, anything I could put in my mouth. The last five or six days I survived on nothing but water. I was desperate—I couldn’t understand why Mama had abandoned me. I dreamed up all sorts of explanations: I thought maybe it was a trial to test my obedience and my strength; maybe Mama had been attacked by criminals or arrested by the police; maybe this was punishment for some sin I’d committed without realizing. How much longer could I last? I figured it wouldn’t be long before I died from starvation or from fear. I prayed and prayed and I called out for Mama. I cried a lot and I offered up my tears to Jesus. Back then I believed, just like Mama; now I don’t believe in any god—I’ve seen too much evil in this world for that. Later, when I was found, everyone asked me the same questions: Why didn’t you leave the apartment? Why didn’t you ask for help? The truth is, I didn’t have anyone to turn to. We had no family, no friends, we didn’t know the neighbors. I knew that in an emergency I should dial 911, but I’d never used the telephone, and the very thought of talking to a stranger was terrifying.

  Twenty-two days later, help finally arrived. I heard the banging on the front door, men’s voices shouting: “Open up, it’s the police!” That just scared me even more, because Mama had drummed it into me that the scariest people of all were the police, that never, under any circumstances, should I go near anyone in uniform. I hid in a closet I’d converted into a little den, making a nest out of clothes. They came in through the window, they smashed the glass, they invaded the apartment. . . . Then they took me to the hospital, where they treated me like a laboratory animal, performing humiliating tests on me, forcing me to dress as a boy. Nobody took pity on me. The cruelest of them all was Richard Ashton: he did experiments on me, gave me drugs, hypnotized me. He screwed with my brain and then diagnosed me as crazy. You know what electroconvulsive therapy is, Indi? It’s a terrifying thing, an unspeakable thing. It was only just that Ashton should suffer it in the flesh—that’s why he had to be executed by electrocution.

  I was sent to various children’s homes, but I couldn’t bear any of them because I was used to Mama’s love, because she had raised me by herself; I couldn’t stand to be with other children, they were dirty and messy, they stole my things. The home run by the Constantes was the worst. Back then, Michael Constante still drank, and when he was drunk, he was terrifying; there were six children in the foster home, all of them more fucked up than me, but it was me he really hated. He couldn’t stand the sight of me. If you knew the things he did to punish me. . . . His wife was just as bad. They both deserved the death penalty for their crimes, that’s what I told them. They were drugged up, but they were still conscious—they recognized me, they knew what was going to happen to them. Every one of the eight offenders had time to hear me out; I explained to every one why they had to die—except for Alan Keller, because the cyanide worked too quickly.

  You know what date it is today, Indiana? Thursday, April 5. Tomorrow is Good Friday, when Christians commemorate the death of Jesus on the cross. Back in Roman times, crucifixion was a common method of execution.

  Blake Jackson, who had not been to work for days, dropped by the drugstore to check that everything was all right. Although he trusted his employees, they still needed a boss’s supervision. In a moment of inspiration he decided to phone Angelique Larson again. He’d felt a rare affinity with her. He was not a man of romantic leanings—in fact, he had a horror of emotional entanglements—but there was no danger of that with Angelique: they were separated by about three thousand miles of varied terrain. He imagined her swaddled in furs, teaching the alphabet to Inuit children with her dogsled parked outside her igloo. He went into his study and dialed the number. The woman did not seem surprised that this supposed writer had called her twice in a few short hours.

  “I’ve been thinking about Lee Galespi . . . ,” said Blake, furious with himself that he hadn’t prepared an intelligent question.

  “It’s such a sad story. . . . I hope you can make use of it in your novel.”

  “It will be the backbone of my novel, Angelique, I can promise you that.”

  “I’m glad I could be of help.”

  “But I have to confess, I haven’t written the novel yet, I’m still at the planning stage.”

  “Really? Have you got a title?”

  “I’m thinking of calling it Ripper.”

  “Is it a crime novel?”

  “In a way. Do you like the genre?”

  “There are others I prefer, to be honest, but I’ll read your book anyway.”

  “I’ll send you a copy as soon as it comes out. Tell me, Angelique, is there anything else you remember about Galespi you think might help?”

  “Hmm . . . There is one thing—it’s a minor detail, and maybe it’s not important, but I might as well mention it. Are you recording?”

  “I’m taking notes, if that’s okay with you. So, what’s this detail?”

  “I always had my doubts about whether Marion Galespi was Lee’s mother. When she died, she was sixty-one, and the boy was only eleven, so that would have meant she had given birth at fifty—unless there was some mistake in the birth certificates.”

  “Well, anything’s possible with fertility treatment. These days in California you’ll sometimes see a fifty-year-old woman pushing triplets around in a stroller.”

  “Not up here in Alaska. Anyway, in Marion’s case it doesn’t seem likely she would have had fertility treatment—she was in poor health, and a single woman. Besides, the autopsy revealed she’d had a hysterectomy. No one bothered to check where and when she’d had the operation.”

  “Why didn’t you raise your suspicions, Angelique? They could have performed a DNA test on the boy.”

  “I didn’t say anything because of the life insurance. I thought if there was any doubt about his parentage, Lee might lose the money Marion left for him. The last time I spoke to Lee, Christmas 2006, I told him that Marion had been obese, that she suffered from diabetes, high blood pressure, and heart problems, and that sometimes such conditions can be hereditary. He assured me that he was in very good health. I casually mentioned that by the time he was born, most women Marion’s age would have been through menopause, and I asked if he knew about her hysterectomy. He knew nothing about the operation, but said he’d also
been surprised by his mother’s age.”

  “Have you got a photo of the kid?”

  “I’ve got lots, but the best one was sent to me by the Fernwoods in 2006, on the day Lee was finally allowed to cash the life insurance check. I can send it right now. What’s your e-mail?”

  “I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped me, Angelique. Do you mind if I call again if I think of anything else?”

  “Of course, Blake—it’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

  Blake Jackson hung up and called his former son-in-law and his granddaughter. By this time, Bob Martín already had a preliminary report on his desk about the Farkases, and listening to Blake, he was able to cross-reference his story with the recent discoveries. Without setting the phone down, he scribbled “Marion Galespi, Tuscaloosa city,” followed by a question mark, and passed the note to Petra Horr, who punched it into her database. Bob explained to Blake that the Farkases were also from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, had had minor run-ins with the law—possession, petty theft, DUI—and had drifted for a while, living in various states. In 1986, in Pensacola, Florida, their five-week-old daughter had died, smothered by a blanket while they were in a bar, having left her alone. They had spent a year in prison for child endangerment. They moved to Del Rio, Texas, where they lived for three years, then to Socorro, New Mexico, where they stayed until 1997. Joe managed to get occasional work as a laborer, and Sharon worked as a waitress. They kept moving west, with brief periods spent here and there, until they finally settled in Santa Barbara in 1999.

  “And listen to this, Blake: in 1984, their two-year old son disappeared under suspicious circumstances,” said the deputy chief. “The child had already been hospitalized three times—the first time at ten months, with bruises and a broken arm that the parents claimed were the result of a fall. Eight months later he was readmitted with pneumonia, having arrived at the emergency room severely malnourished and running a high fever. Police interviewed the parents, but no charges were brought against them. The third time, at two years old, the boy was admitted with a skull fracture, bruises, and broken ribs; according to the parents, he had been knocked down by a motorbike that had fled the scene. Three days after he was released from the hospital, the child vanished. The Farkases seemed devastated and swore that their son had been kidnapped. He was never found.”

  “What are you saying, Bob?” asked Blake. “Are you suggesting this kid could be Lee Galespi?”

  “If Lee Galespi is the Wolf—and if, as we believe, the Farkases were victims of the same killer—then there has to be a connection between them. Hang on a minute—Petra’s just brought me something she’s found on Marion Galespi.”

  Bob skimmed through the two pages passed to him by his assistant, then read the relevant part aloud to Blake Jackson: in 1984 Marion Galespi worked as a nurse in the pediatric unit of Tuscaloosa General Hospital. That same year she suddenly quit her job and left the city. Nothing more was heard about her until her death in Daly City in 1993, when she was listed as the mother of Lee Galespi.

  “There’s no need to look any further,” said Blake Jackson. “Marion snatched the child to save him from abusive parents. She was a single, middle-aged woman with no children, and I think that the boy became her reason for living. She moved away and brought the child up as a girl, keeping ‘her’ locked in the house so she would not be found, terrified that at any moment the authorities might take him away. I’m sure she truly loved the child.”

  “So the Wolf is the Farkases’ missing son,” said Bob.

  In the hours that followed, the deputy chief discovered that it was as difficult to track down Lee Galespi as it had been Carol Underwater. The Fernwoods, like Angelique Larson, had heard nothing from him since 2007. He had invested half the insurance money in buying a derelict house on Castro Street, which he had renovated in the space of four months and sold to a gay couple, making a profit of more than $100,000. Over the next eighteen months, he repeated this operation twice. In the last message from him, at Christmas, he announced that he was planning to try his luck in Costa Rica for a while, though there is no record of a passport ever being issued in his name. Bob’s team was able to track down a state license as contractor and surveyor dating from 2004, both still valid, but could find no work undertaken other than the house on Castro Street.

  I’m sure you agree, Indiana, your real parents aren’t the people who gave birth to you but the people who raise you. I was raised by Marion Galespi—she was my only mother. The others—Sharon and Joe Farkas—never behaved like parents to me: they were a couple of itinerant alcoholics, and it was their neglect that killed my little sister. They beat me so badly that if Marion Galespi hadn’t saved me, they would have killed me, too. I searched and searched until I found them, and then I waited. I got in touch with them last year when I had everything prepared for my mission. Then I introduced myself to them. If you could have seen how emotional they were at having their son back! They had no idea of the surprise I had in store for them.

  What sort of monster hits a baby? You’re a mother, Indiana, you know the fiercely protective love children inspire. It’s a biological impulse. Only unnatural creatures like the Farkases could mistreat their children. And speaking of children, I wanted to congratulate you on Amanda—she’s a very bright girl, and I say that with respect and admiration. Like me, she has an analytical mind. She enjoys intellectual challenges; so do I. I’m not afraid of Bob Martín and his team—like all cops, they’re incompetent. They close maybe one out of three murder cases, and even then they don’t necessarily arrest and convict the real culprit. It’s much easier to make the police look like fools than it is your daughter.

  I should point out that I really don’t fit the profile of the psychopath, as I’ve been labeled. I’m a rational, sophisticated, educated individual. I read, I study, I keep myself informed. I spent many years planning this mission, and when it’s completed, I’ll go back to living a normal life, far away from here. To tell the truth, the mission should have ended in February with the execution of Rachel Rosen, the last offender on my list, but you complicated my plans and forced me to eliminate Alan Keller. It was a last-minute decision; I wasn’t able to prepare things with the same attention to detail as I did in the other cases. Ideally your lover would have died in San Francisco at precisely the appointed hour. If you want to know why he had to die, the answer is that you’re to blame: he died because you took him back. For months I had to listen to you talking about Keller and then about Miller. Your confidences and stories of emotional entanglements turned my stomach, but I memorized them because I knew they would be useful. You’re the sort of slut who can’t live without a man: hardly had you dumped Keller than you rushed into the arms of Ryan Miller. You disappoint me, Indiana. You disgust me.

  It was the soldier who was supposed to die so that you would be free, but he survived because you dumped him without so much as an explanation. You could have told him the truth. Why didn’t you tell him you were pregnant by Keller? What was your plan? A termination? You knew Keller never wanted children. Or did you think you could convince Miller that the kid was his? I didn’t think you’d have been able to tell him that—then I realized that it wouldn’t have put him off; he would have happily taken responsibility for another man’s child, it’s part of his hero complex. I had a lot of fun reading Celeste Roko’s astral chart for him.

  Knowing you, Indiana, I think you’d decided to be a single mother, like your father advised. Only two people knew your secret, your father and me, and neither of us could have predicted Keller’s reaction. When he asked you to marry him in the Café Rossini, he knew nothing about the pregnancy—you’d only just found out yourself. Two days later, when you told him, he started sobbing at the very thought of being a father, something he’d thought would never happen. It was like a miracle. He convinced you to accept his ring. What a truly grotesque scene that must have been!

  I never intended to induce a miscarriage, Indiana—that was an accident
. Just one little dose of ketamine to keep you calm, to get you to come here with me, it wouldn’t have done any harm, but then I had to keep you drugged for days on end, and that’s probably what triggered it. You gave me a terrible scare. On Monday when I came, I found you lying in a pool of blood and almost passed out—I never could stand the sight of blood. I feared the worst, that you’d somehow managed to kill yourself, but then I remembered you were pregnant. For a woman of your age, the chance of miscarrying is between 10 and 20 percent; it’s a natural process that rarely requires medical intervention. I did worry about the fever—we managed to sort that out with antibiotics. I took good care of you, Indi. You have to understand I couldn’t let you bleed to death: I have other plans for you.

  Studying the photo of Lee Galespi that Angelique Larson had sent her grandfather, Amanda felt nauseous. There was a metallic taste in her mouth—the taste of blood. She was convinced she knew the face, but she couldn’t quite place it. Having shuffled through various possibilities, she gave up and asked her grandfather, who said he thought it looked a bit like that woman with cancer who gave them Save-the-Tuna. On the spur of the moment they headed down to the Café Rossini, since they knew that Carol Underwater spent hours there reading, killing time between her hospital appointments or waiting for Indiana.

  Danny D’Angelo, theatrical as ever, greeted them with an effusive display of affection; he had not forgotten that when he was ill it had been Blake Jackson who had taken him in and looked after him. He sobbed as they talked about the awful turn events had taken. He couldn’t believe that Indiana had simply disappeared; she had to have been abducted by aliens, there was no other explanation. . . . Amanda interrupted, setting the photo down in front of him.

  “Do you know who this is, Danny?”

  “Looks to me like Miss Thing—that Carol woman, you know, Indiana’s friend, when she was younger.”

  “But this is a man,” said Blake.