David Golemon: Ripper

The chief inspector, a man who had handled the Ripper case from the beginning, turned the white envelope over and looked at the wax seal that held the document secure. The image in wax of twin facing lions made Abberline close his eyes. He then opened them and quickly broke the wax seal. He pulled the single sheet of paper free and read the letter. It was brief and to the point.

Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline,

Upon reading this order you will give full cooperation to Colonel Albert Stanley of my loyal Black Watch concerning the matters taking place in Whitechapel. Cooperation I may add to the point that you will supply the colonel with any and all information related to the two cases you are involved in. His voice may be considered my voice, and the voice of Her Majesty’s government.

HRM

Victoria

After reading the words on the fine paper, the chief inspector folded the note and replaced it in the envelope. He started to place the document in his coat pocket, but the small man standing next to the colonel reached out and took the order from the inspector’s hand. He replaced the order in his own coat pocket.

“Apologies, Chief Inspector, but the letter was for your eyes only. As far as your colleagues are concerned, Her Majesty’s request for your cooperation with her armed forces was never given. You never read nor ever saw the letter. Is that clear?”

Abberline didn’t respond. He glared at the taller man before him.

“Now, the circumstances surrounding this latest victim, what can you tell me to this point?”

Abberline finally came to the conclusion that he was in a corner. The two men standing before him had been seen by him at every crime scene generated by the Ripper case since the start. They would show up, look, listen, and then vanish into the day or the night.

“Quid pro quo, Colonel — or tit for tat as they say, why don’t you tell me just what Her Majesty’s army has done here in Whitechapel? Don’t bother to deny it — I can see it in your eyes. I have been a policeman for far too long not to know. And now my suspicions have been confirmed by the queen herself. Just what is it that you have unleashed in my city?”

The colonel stood his ground and then looked from the corpse being loaded onto a rickety wagon to those of the chief inspector. His dark eyes bored into Abberline’s. “The army has nothing to do with this mess Inspector. The queen has nothing to do with it. Perhaps you can keep that in mind if you like … well, if you like living. This thing may be well over your head, both professionally and politically — now, the crime scene please. More importantly, was the poor girl … how should I put this … was she missing something that the newspaper boys will never hear about?”

Abberline heard the harshness of the last words and then made his choice — one made in the name of self-preservation. He pulled his small notebook from his pocket and then looked at the last five pages he had written.

“Mary Jane Kelly, prostitute. Her body was discovered this morning by the landlord’s assistant. Age, twenty-five years. Last seen, or I should say last heard from, at one a.m. last night. A neighbor heard the snippets of a song coming from the room at that time. Nothing after.”

“A song?” The colonel looked from Abberline to the shanty standing before him. “That doesn’t seem to fit our man’s profile at all, does it Chief Inspector?”

Abberline was in no mood to expand on his written notes. “For the first time we will have crime scene photographs of the victim.”

“Good, I expect copies to be forwarded to my office as soon as they are ready.”

Again, Abberline didn’t comment or respond to the colonel. “The woman’s clothing was folded neatly and placed on a chair next to the bed.” Abberline swallowed and then continued reading from his notes. “Her carotid artery was severed. This was the main cause of death.”

“A little less than the others, perhaps this was an isolated murder,” the small man standing next to the colonel said as if he were bored to death.

“Allow the chief inspector to continue Sergeant Meyer. I believe he has more to add.”

“Her attacker had hacked off her nose and ears, slashed her, and removed much of her face, leaving her with no features that would tell if she were a man or a woman. Her body had been sliced and split open like a melon. I believe from my viewing that some, or even all, of her organs had been removed and left upon the table top. You could never tell that the woman had been pregnant at all — that is what you are worried about, isn’t it Colonel? That is the one item that warns that this is the man you have been tracking … or is it watching?”

Only the sergeant reacted to the last bit of information and the innuendo from the inspector. He turned away and swallowed heavily as the chief inspector had done moments earlier as he realized what had been done to the whore inside her rundown flat.

Abberline lowered his small notebook and looked Stanley in the eyes. “This was not a murder, Colonel. This was a butchering. Something akin to a monstrous rage took place in that room. Violence was done to her just as the other victims. You see, I did a little investigation you didn’t know about, sir. Every one of the victims was with child, no more than three months, but pregnant nonetheless. And this fact is verifiable through their doctor.”

“Ah yes, the physician who usually treats the whores in this district for various social diseases — Doctor Jonathan Freemantle, a rather despicable sort who just happened to have a severe heart attack this very morning. Pity he cannot verify what you have learned.” The man’s eyes gave credence to the warning he had just delivered. “Thank you, Chief Inspector Abberline. Your cooperation will be reported to the very highest authority. Now please remember to send me the pictures of the crime scene, that’s a good chap.”

With those words, Abberline watched as the colonel and sergeant turned and left, looking around casually as if they were just on a morning stroll.

“I think I would have better luck finding the Ripper by following you my dear colonel, than by chasing my own tail in Whitechapel.”

Frederick George Abberline, chief inspector for the London Metropolitan Police, sat at the small table where he normally found himself at such a late hour. He had to come here to wind down and relax before heading home to a restless night’s sleep after the events of the past year. The Mary Kelly case five months before had been the last of the killings, but that didn’t stop the nightmares Abberline faced every night when he went home to his darkened flat.

The restaurant was small and owned in part by a former colleague of his from the London police force. The small eatery was kept open late for policemen changing shifts from all areas of the city. Even at 1:20 a.m. the restaurant was filled.

The area of the establishment with the most boisterous patrons was the separate barroom where men of the law hoisted pints of bitters and other liquids designed to numb the senses of a dark and lonely city that was reeling from the nightmare of their times.

Chief Inspector Abberline sat and read a report from one of his detectives regarding a recent kidnapping. Abberline shook his head and then reached for his cup of tea. He grimaced at the weakness of the drink as he placed the cup back onto the saucer. During the times of the Ripper case the inspector had become used to drinking strong coffee, of which he was trying to wean himself. Still, the weak tea did nothing for his palate. Abberline placed the report on the table and closed his eyes as he remembered the tiredness he felt for the past year’s hard work and knew long before this moment that he was no longer meant to be a police inspector. The horrors he had seen in the recent past had successfully driven his desire to help people straight from his heart. The world was mad and he knew if he didn’t leave the service he would end up just as insane as the men and women he chased.