eavesdrop on some of the finest law-enforcement officers—other than Mr. Wallace’s Krewe of Hunters, of course. They say a killer often returns to the scene of a crime, reveling in the reaction. Or some types of killers. My ill luck was to be murdered by an attorney. No need for him to stick around and watch the blood dry! Sorry, I digress. I’m afraid I saw no one acting in any way salacious. No one who appeared anything other than horrified and grim.” He hesitated, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen Bram yet this morning. He and some of the others might have been about. I’ll certainly speak to them, and so should you. My dear, what is your name?” he asked Stacey.
“Special Agent Stacey Hanson,” she told him.
“A pretty thing, aren’t you? Do forgive me, but you are quite lovely.”
“Thank you. And I’m...sorry about your...loss,” she sputtered somewhat awkwardly.
“Time brings about forgiveness,” the ghost told her. “And a new passion—that others do not suffer so. Keenan! What a lucky man. Such a charming partner.”
“Yes, well, we don’t always need charm—” Keenan began.
“And sometimes we do,” Key said sagely.
“All right, thank you,” Keenan said, ready to move on. Competent crime-scene investigators were working the area. Until the autopsy was done, it seemed the most efficient use of their time would be reviewing the case files.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Stacey told the ghost.
Keenan gritted his teeth. Saying nothing more, he started walking to his car.
She followed, hurrying after him.
“Who is Bram?” she asked.
“My great-grandfather,” he said curtly.
“Does he work around here?”
“You could say so.”
“Oh? What does he do?”
He paused and stared at her. “He investigates. He joined the FBI in 1920, and moved out to Chicago to work with Eliot Ness.”
“And he’s still—”
“He’s dead. He’s just...he still investigates, okay? But I didn’t see him anywhere. May we get in the car and drive, please?”
She hopped into the passenger’s seat. They drove in silence for a minute.
Then she blurted out, “Do we have a problem here? Or rather, do you have a problem with me?”
Surprised, he glanced quickly her way.
“I don’t have a problem with you.”
“Then?”
He shook his head. “You’re...inexperienced. And this case...”
She turned to him. “Don’t think I don’t know what we’re up against, or that I can’t follow orders, or that I don’t know my way around a crime. Don’t ever underestimate me. Field Director Jackson Crow personally assigned me to this case, so I’d appreciate it if you’d quit treating me like an unwanted puppy tagging along!” She might be half his size, but she was fierce.
Her vehemence almost made him smile. She was hardly a shy, wilting flower. She had balls. And maybe there would be times ahead when it would help to have a drop-dead stunning, kick-ass new partner.
“Well?” she demanded.
He smiled.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised.
Two
“After the second murder, they started calling the killer the Yankee Ripper,” Stacey said quietly. “Named by the press, I imagine. There have been no notes to the media, though. I think Ripperologists believe only one note received was from the real killer back then. This killer didn’t name himself, but he could be trying to reenact the past.”
“There’s always someone out there who wants to be bigger and badder,” Keenan told her absently, poring over the notes on his desk. The Krewe had handled a similar case in New York City years ago. “There’s a difference with this victim, compared to the last two. The condition of the bodies troubles me, though.”
“Because the organs have completely disappeared?” Stacey suggested. “I know the Victorian Ripper removed organs...but he liked to drape the intestines around the body. He didn’t just...make all the organs disappear.” She winced, looking at Keenan. “Do you think it could be cannibalism?”
He shrugged. “I’m reading the notes from both detectives and both medical examiners on the other victims. No clues were found. Certainly, none of the obvious clues—fibers, hairs, fingerprints, saliva. He’s wearing gloves, taking precautions.”
“He dumps his victims in public places, wanting them to be found and seen,” Stacey said.
She looked at Keenan again. His head was bent, attention on the text he was reading. He replied when she spoke, but she was certain that he wasn’t really paying attention to anything that she said.
“He wants us to compare him to the Ripper, but he’s killing for another reason,” she suggested.
He gave her his full attention at last. “Did you dream that?” he asked. She thought there was skepticism in his voice.
“I’m being mocked by the man