His hand came close to her face and she bit down into the thick flesh of his thumb with everything she had. She tasted blood; warm and metallic; and her jaw locked in a muscle spasm she could not control, her teeth sunk deep into him. They struggled in the dimness, an almost absurd tableau of a massive man trying to shake free from a woman less than half his size who had her teeth in him and would not let go. In desperation, he wound his free hand into her long hair and forced her head downward, bending her toward the concrete. She saw the front of a Volkswagen approaching through the blur of her failing vision, its headlights pale in the daylight, and then she lost consciousness.

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Jack the Ripper terrorized Whitechapel in the fall of 1888, killing at least five prostitutes—the canonical five: Nichols, Chapman, Stride, Eddowes, and Kelly. Brutal murders with throat cuts and surgical mutilations. Police received taunting letters, including the infamous “From Hell” with a piece of kidney, but the killer was never identified. He vanished as suddenly as he appeared. One of history’s greatest mysteries. Sleep well… if you can.

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They found her on the roof. Her car was parked perfectly between the lines, the doors locked, the keys gone. It was a ghost vehicle. Inside, her textbooks sat on the

seat, waiting for a student who was never coming back. There were no signs of a fight, no broken glass, no blood on the upholstery. The car was as clean as Karen’s

reputation. Forensic technicians took the car to the lab and went over it with a magnifying glass. They found nothing. No fingerprints that didn't belong to the family. No trace of a struggle. Whatever had happened to Karen Sprinker, it hadn't happened inside that steel frame. It had happened in the few yards between her car door and the entrance

to the store.

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Her car was found parked in a rest area on the road leading up to the Santiam Pass just north of Albany, Oregon, and slightly east of the I-5. The red-and-white Rambler had no external damage, and it was locked. No blood. No sign of struggle. There were a few personal items belonging to Jan Whitney. There were no keys. In processing the Rambler, state police I.D. technicians lifted a good latent print from one of its hubcaps. With the technology available in 1968, a single latent print was worthless to detectives unless they had a suspect’s print to compare it to.

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He swung into an overgrown driveway and killed the engine beside a deserted farmhouse. Gray weathered siding, wind whistling through broken windows—no neighbours, no help for miles. Without a sound, Jerry hauled her out and started beating her. Fists hammered her face, her breasts. Blood filled her mouth, warm and metallic. She screamed anyway, knowing it probably wouldn't matter. He tore at her clothes, gasping that he wanted her naked so he could take pictures.

She fought—twisted, kicked, clawed for escape. Sunset was coming fast, and she knew if darkness fell without rescue, she'd never see morning. Her screams carried just far enough. A farm couple driving past heard them, wrenched their wheel, and pulled into the weed-choked yard. They spotted the old car, the big young man

looming over someone on the ground...

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His fetish expanded beyond footwear to encompass various forms of feminine undergarments and intimate apparel. He became fascinated with brassieres, panties, girdles, and the complex systems of garters and stockings that women used to maintain their appearance. Jerome developed an intense appreciation for the texture and feel of these soft fabrics, finding them almost as compelling as the high-heeled shoes that had initially captured his attention.

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He was breathing heavily, although it had taken so little effort to swing the length of two-by-four against her head and feel the satisfying impact when it hit. She had dropped like a stone, collapsing without a sound beyond the initial thud. He knelt beside her and checked to see if she was still breathing. He thought he detected a slight movement in her ribs. And then he placed both his hands around her neck and squeezed for a long time, feeling her life drain away beneath his fingers. Her neck was so frail; he could feel little bones inside crushing under his hands, the cartilage giving way.

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Blake rested his hand on his service revolver, weighing the morality of gunning Boone down on the courthouse steps, when he heard the news. Boone didn’t have the cash. He possessed neither valuables sufficient to pawn nor property to offer a money lender. By the end of the day, during which he had performed some truly fantastic work, Mr. Bishop began questioning whether he would ever receive payment. Consequently, the other side of the judge’s punishment fell upon Boone. He would serve a month on a chain gang, performing hard labour for the city of Victoria. His wages would be offset against the debts owed to the Adelphi Saloon and Mr. Bishop.

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