Jack The Ripper
A blood stained hand reached for a newspaper that sat on a stand. VIOLENT MURDER OF PROSTITUTE MARY NICHOLS it read. The man pulled the hood of his cloak down put the newspaper back and walked away, his disturbing giggle echoing through the alleyway.
The detectives at Scotland yard were simply baffled. They had seen plenty of crimes but this was the most violent and perfect crime yet. The forensics who studied the prostitute's body had woken up screaming in terror for days afterwards.
Her throat had been slit twice, and there was a jagged, bleeding slash through her abdomen, from which she lost pints of blood that soaked through her hair and congealed in the puddle she was lying in.
"But, old chap, how do we catch some one who has committed a perfect crime?" these were the words on everyone's lips.
By the time the first murder had sunk in, a second prostitute was murdered. Her name was Annie Chapman.
A scream pierced the air. It was an unholy scream, full of terror, the type of scream that makes your blood curdle and grown men cry for their mothers.
Like Mary, Annie Chapman's throat had been slit twice with a similar knife. Her stomach had been violently and jaggedly slashed open, majority of her blood and intestines spilled on the pavement. At a closer glance, part of the prostitute's uterus had been cut and savagely ripped from her stomach.
"My God!" exclaimed the doctor. He had been practicing medicine for over two decades and had never seen anything like this. His assistant was silent next to him, scrubbing his hands free of blood.
The doctor looked at his pocket watch and turned to his assistant.
"You may go now. I have to go home early today- my wife is rather worried."
His assistant nodded as the doctor picked up his leather case and closed the door. When the doctor was gone, his assistant pulled a bloody scalpel from his coat and stepped into the drizzly London rain.
They found the next victim, Elizabeth Stride, with the blood from the wounds in her neck still flowing out of the slashes. She had no other wounds, as jack was probably been interrupted by the Hungarian man who found Elizabeth with her fresh blood still flowing freely.
The man in the long, hooded cloak carefully placed the scapel in his pocket. The police officers' shouts floated to his hiding place in the building around the corner. He didn't like being interrupted. He wanted more. He held the scapel tightly in his hand, his eyes crazed. Not enough. He needed to kill again.
Two hours later the body of another prostitute was found. The officers at Scotland Yard were terribly scared- and all prostitutes too for that matter.