The untimely rapping on the door seemed more like cannons firing on the brisk September Saturday morning. The previous night of investigations, which consisted of lurking in dark smoke filled ‘Gin palaces’, taverns and pubs in the Whitechapel district, drinking cheap gin and watching for suspects, had left him with a sleep deprived hangover. Another barrage of cannon fire, BOOM BOOM BOOM “All right, all right, I’m coming damn you!” Head Detective Edmund Reid shouted into the direction of the knocking. Upon opening the door, Reid instinctively threw his hand up covering his eyes to block the searing light from blinding him. “What is it?” he demanded when he realized it was a Scotland Yard Deputy.
“Sir, there’s been another one, found just this morning.” The deputy said, “You’ve been summoned to the mortuary.”
“Bloody hell” Reid mumbled when he came upon the body in the mortuary. “What are the facts?” he said in grave tone to Mr. Phillips, Metropolitan Police Department’s pathologist, who was engrossed in his work, prodding and pulling on the deceased’s viscera. “Oh hello Edmund.” Phillips replied as he looked up. He offered a bloody hand for a shake, bits of gore dripping from his hand. Reid choked back some of last night’s gin and waved his hand in denial of the shake. “Oh, right, my apologies.” The mortician wiped his hand on an already bloody apron and retrieved a notepad. “Annie Chapman, body discovered during the 6 o’clock hour this morning…” the mortician paused in thought. “It is very interesting Mr. Reid, this one is remarkably similar to a previous corpse, a Mary Ann Nichols, if you recall. I believe it is the same suspect. Her throat was cut from left to right, just so.” Phillips motioned with his hand as if he were replicating the strike. “She had been disemboweled, and her intestines had been thrown out of her abdomen over each of her shoulders.” As he spoke, he pulled on the intestines, draping them over the corpse’s shoulders re-creating the scene. “It is evident that her reproductive system has been removed, see here.” Phillips gestured, pointing to the area of the missing parts. “The murderer must have anatomical knowledge to have sliced out the reproductive organs with such accuracy.”
Last edited by Kaizen; 01-07-2013 at 09:16 AM.
Reason: added wiki link to Edmund Reid
Deputy Rigby politely waited near the door. Eyeing Reid and Mr Philips, before casting his eyes on the late Sweet Mary. She looked so peaceful now. Quiet. Tranquil.
The conversation between Reid and Mr Philips faded, Rigby half caugt glimpses of it.
Do you hear that Mary? he gave a wan smile, They make it sound like an art
On and on the minutes sailed by, but Rigby only stirred a little from his place. In his eyes, the entire scene of Mary and him seem to play in front of his eyes. There was no sound. He saw the knife he was holding. Like a beacon in the dark. Shining. Raised up and brought down. Red would sprout up and paint the black. Did she scream? It was all like a dream.
Reid and Mr Philips continued conversing, while the bloody Mary wreathed beneath them.
Reid suddenly looked at him. Reality snapped back.
"Sir?" he asked.
“Ah, Mr. Rigsby, Good morning” Reid said as he checked his pocket watch. After noting the time he shot Rigsby a discerning look while stuffing the watch back into its pocket. Reid thought highly of the man, still somewhat green, but he had sharp wits paired with a good work ethic.
“It appears the Whitechapel Murderer has struck again Mr. Rigsby.” Reid filled in the details he knew as he and the deputy approached Hanbury St and the scene of the murder. People crowded around the scene like flies buzzing over a midden heap. Four men huddled over the blood splatters; their attire distinguished them as men of stature. As Reid neared the group, he recognized three of them as Detective Inspectors Frederick Abberline, Henry Moore, and Walter Andrews from the Central office at Scotland Yard. The fourth was Mr. George Luck, a ‘concerned citizen’ who had formed a vigilance committee. “Good morning gentlemen” Reid said with no real meaning, not pleased to find the three detectives and especially not pleased to find the snoop Mr. Luck. He knew these three combined with Mr. Luck would be more of a hindrance than of any assistance. “Deputy Rigsby,” he introduced Rigsby to the three detectives.
Once the formalities were finished, which consisted of the four men telling Reid how to perform his duties, and Reid ignoring them. He dispatched a squad of men to begin the routine investigations. “If you will Mr. Rigsby, please oversee the interviews; be extremely diligent about the butchers, physicians, and the like. I’ll be at the headquarters, dealing with the procedures.” Reid nodded his farewell to his peers and made his way to Scotland Yard.
The interviews went by, but Rigsby still wrote notes more of a formality than anything else really. Reid was expecting something after all.
Mrs Long was very tearful about the whole incident, and Rigany did his best trying to soothe her. More to silence her wailing than for her welfare. She was Apparantly the last person to see....Annie Chapman alive. If only that we're true but the last person, Rigsby thought, was Jack.
As Mrs Long departed, comforted by a friend, Rigsby glanced over the scene of the murder. Hanbury Street was it?
He saw Mr Luck approach. Head of the Vigilance Committee. Rigsby Surpressed an amused grin.
They both shook hands and the interview began. And ended abruptly a few minutes later...Rigsby walked off leaving the bemused Mr Luck.
He flicked through his notepad on the way to the police station, and grinned ever so slightly as he underlined the last note. Luck's Home Address. He felt his heart start to pound slightly before tremoring hard in his body. He was excited. His hands started to tingle.
Ideas ideas ideas. There is so much choice! He loved this power! To choose, to act...to kill. This was power indeed. What shall he do with this address?
"Good Morning Sir," a constable said at the front of the station. Rigsby looked up at him. The constable flinched slightly under those eyes.
"Good Morning," Rigsby walked past him and thread his way through the offices and tedious work places to Reid's Office. His left tingled before touching the door knob. He clenched his fist and bottled down his emotions. Casually, he knocked on the door before coming in.
"Sir, I have concluded the interviews,"
Buried beneath mountains of papers, reports, and bundles of letters Reid acknowledged Rigsby, “Any leads?” he asked. Not surprised when Rigsby shook his head no, Reid returned to the never-ending flow of papers. “I’ve been going through the witness letters Mr. Rigsby, here are some worth looking into.” He handed Rigsby a small bundle bound neatly with twine. “Most I suspect are written by someone with a vendetta against the accused and attempting to manipulate the law into exacting their vengeance… However,” with a devilish smile Reid said, “I’ve passed on most of the letters claiming credit to the other detectives.” He nodded in the direction of the offices of the three detectives met earlier. “That should keep them busy for a while and out of our investigation. Of course I believe the letters all to be fraudulent,” he lowered his voice and whispered, “I’ve kept the ones that I think may have some credit to them.” Reid handed Rigsby and even smaller stack of just four or five letters. “I would like these men taken into custody for questioning.”
"And there you have it!" the gentleman said.
Rigsby glared at the man who shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the baleful eyes. He continued to glare. In truth, Rigsby's mind was elsewhere, regarding the letters....and Reid.
"If I may go?" the gentleman said, with a pitiful sense of authority.
"Of course," Rigsby waved him outside the room. He glanced over the small stack of notes and sheets of paper. Most of which were profiles of the suspects. Had he been a career opting person, he would've conducted private investigations over half the people of whom there were sufficient hints of fraud, murder, blackmail and all the other little evils humankind tends to wrap itself in. But he wasnt interested.
He looked up, and saw the bloodied corpses of all the murder victims. They stood in front of him, like in a school line.
Constable Roberts stood outside the interrogation room. The last chap left, huffing like a pig. He smirked quietly when he left but said nothing. Standing here was nothing short of a drizzle post. Two hours by, over a dozen different suspects coming in and out and....he perked his ear. He could hear talking...surely there was no one else in the room with Mr Rigsby. He looked through the little door window and saw Mr Rigsby talking, to himself? he was looking at different places in the room as if there were other people.
Roberts resumed his post, frowning at the thought of his dodgy superior. It was going to be a long day...
The door swung open, startling Roberts. Rigsby strode out, pulling his coat on, with no word said and went out into the night.
Rigsby picked up the pace, following the bloody footprints. He barely acknowledged the chilly air. Passers by, gave wide berth to the muttering man in the coat.
27 Sept. 1888
Weeks passed without incident, suspects were taken in, questioned, and released. So far the investigation efforts bore no fruit. The letters didn’t stop though. Reid was just finishing the insurmountable task when the postmaster plopped yet another bundle on his desk. With a sigh of discontentment, Reid undid the twine and began to sort the envelopes. One stack for witness letters, the other for Ripper letters. One in particular caught his eye. He opened it and began to read,
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Dont mind me giving the trade name
The letter seemed genuine. He set it aside and finished reading through the other letters, which ended in dead ends. He returned to the ‘Dear Boss’ letter ans shared it with his colleagues, including Rigsby.