Mike Resnick: The Other Teddy Roosevelts

“You go alone tonight,” said Shrank, taking a drink of his ale.

“Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I feel fine. But I been walking those damned bloody streets with you every night since he chopped Annie Chapman. It’s been raining all day, and the wind bites right through my clothes to my bones, so I’m staying here. If you spot him, give a holler and I’ll join you.”

“Stick around, Theodore,” added the bartender. “He ain’t out there. Hell, he’s probably got his throat sliced on the waterfront.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “If I can save a single life by patrolling the streets, then I have no choice but to do it.”

“That’s the coppers’ job,” insisted Shrank.

“It’s the job of every civic-minded citizen who cares about the safety of Whitechapel,” replied Roosevelt.

“That lets you out. You ain’t no citizen.”

“Enough talk,” said Roosevelt, standing at the door, hands on hips. “You’re sure you won’t come with me?”

“I can’t even keep up with you in good weather,” said Shrank.

Roosevelt shrugged. “Well, I can’t stand here talking all night.”

He turned and walked out into the fog for another fruitless night of hunting for the Ripper.

Roosevelt felt a blunt object poking his shoulder. He sat up, swinging wildly at his unseen assailant.

“Stop, Theodore!” cried a familiar voice. “It’s me — John Hughes.”

Roosevelt swung his feet to the floor. “You’re lucky I didn’t floor you again.”

“I learned my lesson the first time,” said Hughes, displaying a broom. “The handle’s two meters long.”

“All right, I’m awake,” said Roosevelt. “Why are you here?”

“Jack the Ripper has struck again.”

“What?” yelled Roosevelt, leaping to his feet.

“You heard me.”

“What time is it?” asked Roosevelt as he threw his clothes on.

“About 3:30 in the morning.”

“It’s Sunday, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Damn! I only went to bed about half an hour ago! Where did it happen?”

“In a little court off Berner Street,” said Hughes. “And this time he was interrupted.”

“By whom?”

“We’re not sure.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Come with me, and I’ll explain.”

Roosevelt finished dressing. “Let’s go.”

“There it is,” said Hughes as he and Roosevelt stared at the woman’s body. The head lay in a pool of blood. “He cut her throat and slashed her face, but there’s no other damage. He’d pulled her dress up and was just about to cut her belly open when he was interrupted.”

“What makes you think he was interrupted?” asked Roosevelt. “Why couldn’t he just have stopped for some other reason?”

“Because those two gentlemen” — Hughes pointed at a pair of locals who were speaking with two officers — ”heard the scuffle and approached from different directions. We don’t know which one startled him — for all we know, he might have heard them both — but he suddenly took flight. They saw the body, realized what had happened, and gave chase.”

“For how long?”

Hughes shrugged. “Three or four blocks, before they knew for sure they’d lost him.”

“Did they get a glimpse of him?” persisted Roosevelt. “Any kind of description at all?”

Hughes shook his head. “But one of them, Mr. Packer, alerted us, and the body was still warm and bleeding when we found it. We couldn’t have missed him by five minutes.” He paused. “We’ve got a hundred men scouring every street and alley in Whitechapel. With a little luck we may find him.”

“May I speak to the two witnesses?” asked Roosevelt.

“Certainly.”

Hughes accompanied Roosevelt as the American approached the men. “This is Mr. Roosevelt,” he announced. “Please answer his questions as freely as you would answer mine.”

Roosevelt walked up to the taller of the two men. “I only have a couple of questions for you. The first is: how old are you?”

“34,” said the man, surprised.

“And how long have you lived in Whitechapel?”

“All my life, guv.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s all you want to know?” asked the man.

“That’s all,” said Roosevelt. He turned to the smaller man. “Could you answer the same two questions, please?”

“I’m 28. Ain’t never been nowhere else.” He paused. “Well, I took the missus to the zoo oncet.”

“Thank you. I have no further questions.” He shook the smaller man’s hand, then walked back to look at the corpse again. “Have you identified her yet?”

Hughes nodded. “Elizabeth Stride. Long Liz, they called her.”

“A prostitute, of course?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time anyone saw her alive?”

“She was seen at Bricklayers Tavern just before midnight,” answered Hughes.

“With a customer?”

“Yes, but she’d already serviced him. He has an alibi for the time of the murder.”

“Which was when?”

“About 45 minutes ago.” Hughes looked off into the fog. “I wonder if he’s still out there?”

“If he is, I’m sure that — ”

He was interrupted by a woman’s scream.

“Where did that come from?” demanded Hughes.

“I don’t know, sir,” said one of the policemen. “Either straight ahead or off to the left. It’s difficult to tell.”

He turned back to Roosevelt. “What do you… Theodore!!! ”

But the American was already racing into the fog, gun in hand.

“Follow him!” shouted Hughes to his men.

“But — ”

“He’s a hunter! I trust his instincts!”

They fell into stride behind Roosevelt, who ran through the darkness until he reached Church Passage. He leaned forward in a gunfighter’s crouch and peered into the fog.

“It came from somewhere near here,” he whispered as Hughes finally caught up with him. “Where does this thing lead?” he asked, indicating the narrow passage.

“To Mitre Street.”

“Let’s go,” said Roosevelt, moving forward silently. He traversed the passage, emerged on Mitre Street, spotted a bulky object in an open yard, and quickly ran over to it.

“Damn!” muttered Hughes as he joined the American. “Another one!”

“Post a man to watch the body and make sure no one touches anything,” said Roosevelt. “The Ripper can’t be more than a minute ahead of us.”

He trotted off down Mitre Street. The police began using their whistles to identify each other, and soon the shrill noise became almost deafening. Roosevelt had gone a short distance when he heard a faint moaning coming from a recessed doorway. He approached the source warily, gun in hand.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Thank God it’s you, sir!” said a familiar voice, and as he moved closer he realized that it was Irma, the midwife. He lit a match and saw a large bruise over her left temple.

“What happened?”

“I was coming back from Elsie Bayne’s when I heard a woman scream. Then a bloke dressed all in black run down the street and bowled me over.” She was overcome by a sudden dizziness.

“Did you see his features?”

“He had crazy eyes,” said Irma. “The kind what gives you nightmares.”

“What color were they?”

“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “It’s dark.”

“How tall was he?”

“Taller than you, sir,” she replied. “Much taller. And thin. Like a skeleton, he was!”

“Was there anything, however small, that you can remember?” demanded Roosevelt. “Think hard. It’s important.”

“All I know is he wore black gloves.”