Blood Legacy

Introduction

Like many, many others, I have always had a fascination with Jack the Ripper. Not only Jack the Ripper, but other serial killers whose identities are never discovered. Blood Legacy is the product of that interest—a novella that introduces and brings together some of the most infamous serial killers of all time, beginning with the Ripper himself and the legacy he began.

Blood Legacy weaves together a fictional account of the lives of these killers, revealing who they were and why they killed. While the story is fiction, many of the events are based on historical fact. I don’t claim to have solved these cases, but I do believe my theory is as valid as many of the other theories that circulate regarding these killers.

Blood legacy is a story I’ve wanted to tell for some time. Lots of research went into the project before I even began writing. The story evolved drastically over the course of the writing process, always for the better, and I couldn’t be more proud of the end result.

This novella could not have been completed without the countless hours of fact checking, editing, and continuity checks by my wife Marcee and my mother-in-law Pat Stuart. I also owe thanks to Jeffery Kubassek, who read the original manuscript without knowing anything about the story, providing me with a reader’s take on the book.

Blood Legacy is a story I quite enjoy. I hope you enjoy it too.

One

New York City, 1958

The wasteland stretched endlessly before him. Piles of rotting corpses and skeletal remains littered a landscape sodden with blood.

"Michael . . ." came a voice whispered on the wind.

The piles of death began to move. Rotting corpses rose, just a few of them at first, and then in numbers too great to count. Writhing, rotting corpses on a mission.

Michael tried to run away from them, but he found the same endless sea of corpses everywhere he turned.

"Michael . . ."

He recognized the voice now . . . someone he knew. A rasping voice full of pain, yet still distinctly female . . . the voice of someone he’d once loved.

A hand emerged from the blood-soaked earth and latched on to his ankle. A bony hand covered with shreds of mottled, decaying flesh.

Michael tried to free himself. A second hand broke through and closed around his other ankle, then he was drawn beneath the bloody mire.

All around him dead things moved, converging on him as he went deeper into the ground. He heard their plaintive groans and his name whispered over and over . . .

He woke up suddenly, his heart racing and sweat rolling down the sides of his face. Relief came when he realized he’d only been having a nightmare. It wasn’t his first, and now they were coming more frequently, and with increasing vividness.

It was nearly noon. His head felt as if someone had caved it in with a sledgehammer. It took some effort to get out of bed, and even more to make his way through the chaos he called home.

His apartment was small—a combination living room and office, tiny bathroom, and a kitchenette with an ancient stove and refrigerator. His décor of choice—empty whiskey bottles and overflowing ashtrays—were everywhere. In the kitchen, dirty dishes dominated the sink and half-empty cartons of take-out food covered the small table and meager counter space.

Michael Bauman was a writer, and not a very good one. He made a living at it when he tried, but that didn’t happen often these days. Nowadays his time was spent drinking whiskey and chasing women who spent what little money he had left after buying his whiskey.

The phone rang. Michael wanted no part of it, at least until he found something to jump start his day. The whiskey bottles were all bone dry. He found half a pack of cigarettes and rummaged around until he found a book of matches. The rush of nicotine provided an ephemeral surge of relief.

The phone stopped ringing, which he was grateful for. The telephone brought nothing but bad news these days, mostly from Michael’s publisher. They’d given him an advance and he still owed them a manuscript. They were threatening to take back the money if he didn’t deliver the manuscript, but since he hadn’t written so much as a word in six months, and the money was long gone, he could not offer them either one.

Michael found a whiskey bottle with half an inch of booze in it and poured the precious remains down his throat. The burn of the alcohol was soothing. The pleasure of it wouldn’t last long, but it was a start.

The phone rang again. Michael stumbled into the living room, found the cord, and followed it to where the phone was buried under a pile of dirty laundry that had taken up residence there.

Yeah, Michael grumbled into the receiver.

It’s about fucking time, Marty Kozak’s deep voice boomed. I thought I was going to have to send somebody over to kick down your door. How the hell are we going to make any money if you don’t answer the phone?

I was working, Michael said.

Spare me, okay. We both know you haven’t done a goddamned thing in months, but guess what, this is your lucky day.

Do tell, Michael said, not really interested in what his agent had to say.

You’re going to England, my friend, to see some eighty-year-old guy by the name of Cecil Bainbridge. He’s in a loony bin and he requested you specifically. God knows why, but he says he’s got the story of a lifetime, and you’re the only one he’ll tell it to.

I’m not going, Michael said without thinking about it.

The hell you aren’t. You owe your publisher fifteen thousand dollars. Do you have that money?

Let me break open my piggy bank, Michael said.

That’s what I thought. Pack your bags, be at the airport by five-thirty. Your plane leaves at six. The ticket’s paid for. The publisher even sprung for first class. Come on, Michael, do something right for a change.

What the hell, Michael said. I got nothing else going on.

That’s good, Marty said. You’ll get this story, the publisher will be off your back, we’ll make some money.

It’s good to see your optimism, Michael said.

That’s me, Mister Optimistic. I’ve been banking on you for years now. Show me what you can do.

I’m not making any promises, Michael said, then he hung up.

He briefly wondered about the old man and why he had requested him. It wasn’t as if Michael’s work put him on the bestseller list. He didn’t let the mystery bother him for more than a minute, then he set his sights on finding something that would set him in the right frame of mind for the journey ahead of him.

* * *

Michael went through two cocktails and conned the flight attendant into a third, then he closed his eyes and settled in, intending to sleep away as much of the flight as he could. He drifted fast, thinking of the pretty blonde flight attendant . . .

". . . a no-good bum, Michael. You waste