Chapter Text
I had this itching suspicion that I might find something at Charlie’s home. According to the SDPD files, the killer—no longer considered the Ripper, now renamed the "Tooth Fairy" (an extremely unfitting moniker derived from the strange bite marks left in the flesh)—had abducted the boy right from his own backyard. I scouted the property where Charlie was abducted, the quiet suburban street on the edge of a forest still heavy with unspoken grief, yellow police tape fluttering faintly in the breeze. Somehow, the Tooth Fairy had outsmarted a high-end security system—motion sensors, cameras, reinforced gates.
But how did he know the layout? The blind spots? It definitely wasn’t an employee of the security company; the police had conducted deep investigations in that regard, alibis ironclad according to the files. So how did he know? I circled the perimeter slowly, boots crunching on dry leaves scattered along the sidewalk, eyes scanning for any vantage point the killer might have used—any elevated spot offering a clear line of sight without detection.
"Found anything yet, son?" The voice of my dear father rang through, Harry materializing without warning at my side—translucent but solid in presence, uniform crisp as ever.
"Not yet. Any ideas? The Mathews property has high garden walls. Where could he possibly have spied on them from?" Harry looked up, gaze fixing on the crown of an old oak tree, its thick branches sprawling protectively over the fence line. It dawned on me instantly: he had observed from the trees. I climbed, bark rough and crumbly under my palms, leaves rustling as I pulled myself higher—the air cooler up here, carrying the faint scent of sap and distant barbecue from a neighbor’s yard. For some reason, this particular tree felt right; branches sturdy, positioned perfectly.
I felt like I was wandering his hunting grounds now, heart rate steady but mind sharp. At the top, I had a clear view—past the garden walls into the backyard: swing set glinting in sunlight, patio furniture, the sliding glass door leading to what must have been Charlie’s room. This was the spot. Resting against the wood for balance, I spotted something carved deep into the trunk: a symbol, intricate and deliberate—looked Chinese or Japanese, the grooves filled with dried red ink that had seeped slightly into the bark.
"Now what do we have here..." I murmured, phone out to snap photos from multiple angles. "Looks like you wanted someone to find this. But why?" A taunt? A signature? A message for me—or someone else? I climbed down carefully, mind racing. I still needed to investigate the Ripper—it was hard to divert attention to two killers at once, but it was a necessity. And so I went after the one thing connecting the Ripper’s victims: Mason Verger, the millionaire pork king.
"How are you gonna approach Verger?" Harry asked as I slid back into the car, engine humming to life. "It’s not that easy to get close to him."
"I’ve got a plan. Already made the calls. I’ll just be a journalist investigating a story for the LA Times. Verger already agreed to a meeting."
"Be careful, son. Something tells me this Verger guy might be involved more deeply in this Ripper case."
"You think he might be the Ripper, Dad?" Harry shook his head, expression grave.
"I don’t know. Do you, Dex?" Hard to tell. It was plausible at the very least—the resources, access, potential motive if victims had crossed him.
But something instinctive told me he probably wasn’t the direct hand. Still, whatever information could be extracted from Mason could be helpful. Roughly two hours later, I arrived on time for my appointment at Verger’s luxurious estate—the mansion sprawling like an opulent palace atop manicured hills, fountains bubbling in the drive, security gates gleaming under the sun. Guards patted me down thoroughly—hands professional but firm—scanning for anything dangerous to Verger, double-checking my forged papers, briefing me on time limits and rules around the eccentric millionaire: no sudden movements, no personal questions.
It was time to meet the man in question. He stood at 5 foot 9, impeccably dressed in a designer suit that screamed wealth, pouring himself a margarita at a crystal bar cart. His eyes met mine—sharp, assessing—as he extended his hand.
"You must be Jeff Lindsay, the journalist? Am I right?" Our hands met, his grip firm but clammy, and somehow, I felt disgusted from touching him—even if I didn’t know why yet. An instinctive revulsion, skin crawling faintly.
"Indeed. Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to sit down with me, Mr. Verger. I appreciate it a lot."
The flattery was to his liking, seemingly—judging from the slight upward curve of his mouth. "Oh, no worries, Mr. Lindsay. Come, sit. Can I offer you a drink?" I shook my head, following his lead to a grand fireplace—flames crackling warmly, casting flickering light on leather armchairs—and sat in the luxurious one indicated.
"No, thank you. Your assistant briefed you on the matter of my questions?"
I asked, drawing a nod from the millionaire.
"Yes, you’re investigating those Ripper murders? How does this connect to me?" He wondered, dropping a little piece of paper into his drink—lime twist, perhaps.
"Well, Mr. Verger... the Ripper’s victims—or those that we know of—have no connection to each other whatsoever. But there’s one piece of connective tissue: you. They have all been employed by you the past couple of years. And I was wondering what your thoughts and ideas might be on that discovery."
Mason rubbed his chin, intrigued by my discovery, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"My, my—all of them worked for me? I am sorry, but... I employ so many people. I could hardly tell you anything about them. But I find it fascinating: do you think the Ripper is targeting my former employees for a reason?" I shrugged my shoulders.
"You tell me. So far, it was the only piece of connection I could find between the victims." Verger took another sip from his martini, leaning back in the chair with a contemplative hum.
"It’s strange to consider the weight behind your thoughts. Because... well, my secretary just... vanished without a trace a few days ago. Do you think it might be the Ripper at work?" A woman missing? Another person connected to Verger? What was going on here? The web tightened.
"Hard to tell. Are the authorities already working on the missing person?" Verger nodded. "Indeed. We’ve already been asked by the police. But so far, she hasn’t resurfaced. I hope no ill fate has befallen her." The conversation was interrupted by the doors of the salon opening, revealing a young woman stepping in hesitantly—posture tense, voice soft.
"Oh, I’m sorry, Mason. I didn’t know you had a guest..." She looked somewhat uncomfortable—something I took note of immediately. Her posture and voice reeked of insecurities, eyes darting nervously.
"It’s no big deal, Margot. Come in. Mr. Lindsay, this is my beautiful sister Margot. Margot, this is Jeff Lindsay—he’s a journalist for the LA Times." She stepped closer upon Mason’s gesture, shaking my hand nervously—grip light, almost trembling.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lindsay. Uhm... Mason, I’d borrow Cordell for a drive if you don’t mind. I have an appointment with Dr. Lecter today..." She was clearly uncomfortable around her brother—which told me something was deeply off about the guy. Fear flickered in her eyes, subtle but unmistakable.
"Oh, not at all, sister. Just be back in time." He waved her off dismissively, but his tone was laced with a certain kind of subtle control that didn’t fly over my head. She seemed afraid of him—which meant I’d have to trail her at some point too.
"Anyway, Mr. Lindsay—as we were speaking: I’ve got nothing that could provide you with a clear answer to your questions. But how about I let Cordell fetch you a list of former employees of mine? Maybe that could be of use to you?" Actually, yes—that sounded like a good idea. Maybe some of them would turn up dead or missing, which could help solidify my theories.
"I’d appreciate that a lot, Mr. Verger. And if that’s all you can tell me right now, I’ll not waste any more of your time." Mason just smiled—almost a snarl—getting up to accompany me to the door.
"Nonsense—you didn’t waste my time, Jeff. I hope my information will help you, and law enforcement, to catch this man. And I’ll look forward to your article." We shook hands before parting—his grip lingering a fraction too long. A few minutes later, I picked up the list Mason’s assistant provided me with—a long one—and left to drive back to the hotel, mind already spinning a double investigation into the weird Chinese symbol and Verger’s employees, hoping to materialize a solid trail to either the Ripper or the so-called "Tooth Fairy."