Big Tom's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Big Tom climbed the iron drainpipe behind the factory on Dorset Street. His claws scraped against metal as he pulled himself higher. The rooftops were his roads now—the places where he could see everything the detective needed to find. Up here, the killer's hunting grounds spread out like a map made of brick and smoke. He reached the roof's edge and looked down at the town square below. A stone monument stood in the center, twice as tall as a man. The carved figure wore a long coat and held something to his eyes—binoculars raised toward the horizon. The plaque called him the greatest detective who ever solved the impossible cases. Tom studied the statue's pose, the way the stone hands gripped the binoculars with purpose. This lawman had watched and waited just like Tom did now. He had tracked killers by learning their patterns and movements. The statue faced east, toward the docks where criminals once hid. Tom's tail flicked as he understood—the best hunters always positioned themselves to see what others missed. Tom memorized the statue's stance and the direction it pointed. The detective he tracked would know this monument, would have passed it a hundred times. If legendary lawmen studied their prey from high places with tools that brought distant things close, then the detective would do the same. Tom needed to think like both the hunter and the hunted now. He turned from the monument and scanned the rooftops stretching toward the east end. Three church spires rose above the houses. Four factory chimneys pumped grey smoke into the sky. Between them lay the maze of alleys where the killer moved. Tom had the high ground now, the same advantage the stone detective had earned. He would watch these streets the way the monument watched the square—patient, focused, waiting for the pattern to reveal itself. The killer would make a mistake. And when he did, Tom would lead the detective straight to him. Tom descended from the rooftops and padded back to his cat house. The evidence basket was growing, but he needed something more. He needed witnesses who could tell him when the detective walked these streets. The tabby found a wooden board near the yard and dragged it to the wall outside. He pushed and clawed until it leaned upright. Then he waited. A woman passed by and stopped to look at the board. She pinned a photograph to it—a face Tom recognized from the streets. Another woman added more pictures. Soon the board filled with images of missing women, their faces captured in shades of brown and grey. People gathered to look and talk. They mentioned streets and times. They spoke the detective's name. Tom sat in the doorway and listened to everything. This board would draw the witnesses he needed. They would tell him where the detective went and when. The monument taught him how hunters watched. The board showed him how to make others watch for him. The pieces were coming together. As evening fell, Tom followed the voices toward the workers heading home. They gathered outside a warehouse where a police van sat against the wall. The ornate metalwork on its sides caught the lamplight. Men climbed out tired and dirty, their voices carrying across the yard. Tom slipped beneath the van and pressed himself against the wheel. Above him, officers talked about their rounds and what they'd seen. One mentioned the detective by name—said he'd been asking questions at the docks again. Another said the detective always stopped at the same pub before his night patrol. Tom's ears turned to catch every word. The van was where information moved between shifts, where stories got passed from one set of boots to another. He would return here each evening to listen. The monument showed him how to watch. The board brought people to him. And this van gave him the detective's movements before they happened. Tom had built himself a network across Whitechapel—eyes, ears, and places that fed him what he needed. The detective was close now. Tom just had to wait for the right moment to bring everything together.