“Back up. What if hewasill?” Izzy leans back, her face thoughtful. “He could have been trying some blood magic to restore his health.”
“But why would he think that would work? I know it was over a century ago, but what you’re saying sounds medieval.”
“I suppose you do anything if you’re desperate to get better.” Izzy shrugs but won’t meet my eyes. I leave the comment hanging in the air.
“I found some articles that are probably about the victims,”I say, flipping back to my notes. “They weren’t very detailed, but the dates were helpful. I’ll need to do a bit more digging to come up with some names, though, as they were all Jane Does—”
“Jane whats?”
“That’s what an unidentified body is usually called, a Jane or John Doe.” Izzy opens her mouth, but I carry on. “I don’t actually know why, okay? That’s just what they’re called.” She doesn’t reply, so I point at the list I made earlier. “This is called the victimology—it’s what the women all had in common.”
Victims were all vulnerable females (potentially sex workers but that could just be an assumption).
All were found at secluded scenes with an element of privacy (buildings that were abandoned/being renovated).
All were “bound” (restrained?) and “bled” (exsanguinated).
“You know an unsettling amount about this stuff.” Izzy pushes the notebook away. “So the murders stopped around the time the paintings and the dead artist were discovered?”
“It looks like it.”
“So why weren’t they linked back then?”
“Could have been one of a hundred things, but I think because of the time and place, the women who were killed were probably poor or alone in the city, so they were forgotten about quickly.” I chew on my bottom lip, lost in thought. “These initial reports only mention the bare-bones details, but from what I could see on the BBK victims…these women weren’t just killed and discarded—they looked posed, like there was some kind of meaning behind it. Like they were meant to be found in those positions…”
“Like they were going to be painted?” Izzy asks softly.
“Precisely.”
Izzy shakes her head. “I knew I should’ve gone for lunch with the others instead of coming to find you,” she says, pinching the top of her nose with her forefinger and thumb. “And you think he was either born evil or had something wrong with his brain?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, but yeah, that seems most probable.”
“But a journalist or investigator would have to keep an open mind, right? Explore all avenues?”
“Of course. You should look at a case from every angle.”
“Then look into the rituals,” she urges, showing me her phone. “It says here that people who performed magic on others used hair, fingernails, teeth, or, erm, bodily fluids to cast spells.” She makes a retching face. “Grim.”
“What’s your point?”
“Isn’t casting a bad spell the same as a curse?”
“He wouldn’t have to curse the women, though, would he?” I argue, glancing around the library. I really don’t need anyone to hear us having this conversation. “Because he killed them. It would be pointless.”
“He could be cursing anyone who looks at the paintings.”
