Chapter 2: The Recognition
A rustic chest of drawers sat at the back of a barren office that once belonged to the London Chief of Police, Jonathan Banks. In this chest was a worn bit of cloth that had the stains of tea, blood, and sweat from a whore by the name of Mary Ann (Polly) Nichols, and was the only piece of evidence the department had on the murder of the poor girl. After the coroner's office took her in for her autopsy, not that she needed one, they had stolen every other article of clothing that the girl had. However, this cloth was the only piece of her attire that the doctors would let us have. The doctors were however helpful in discovering that only a man of intelligence would have had the knowledge to accurately dismember the woman as she was. A man that the crowd had so graciously nick-named the "Leather Apron" had been the supposed killer in this crime. The office now belonged to a much younger, fresher version of Mr. Banks A man by the name of William Knight, a man who pushed his way to the top. This man I am delighted to say is none other than me.
On this day came many peddlers claiming that they had information on the Leather Apron. In disbelief, I simply told each of my guests to tell me their depiction of what they saw happen. On any given day, the department is littered with crackpot old fools with ridiculous claims. Today was no different other than the number of delusional know-nothings was more than thrice the usual amount. I quickly got bored with the numerous, repetitive, boring stories that came walking into my office in the form of town community members. Time after time I listened to their painful chronicles, each one sending me farther into dementia. I developed a severe headache by just the thought of the work to come, trying to find a place in the police files for each one of these horrible tales. However stupid the stories may be, the department requires them to be filed. I took an aspirin to overcome the headache that was surly on its way.
"Officer, you won' believe wha' I'm about to tell you, but Satan 'imself rose up from the ground and he kiwed dat woman wif his own hands." exclaimed one clearly mad woman. She was not old at all. In fact, she was glowing with the innocent beauty that forced its way to the surface of her silky skin. I myself was a bit distracted by her looks and soon realized that I was staring at the woman's bosom and paying no attention to the words that were coming out of her mouth. I quickly shook my head hoping to regain my focus on the situation at hand but it was no use, I was in a daze.
"Yes, well if we find more information, Miss, we'll be sure to let you know." This expression was widely used today. It put a touch of comfort into the hearts of the curious as well as the terrified. This woman swore up and down that she actually saw the devil to these acts to this poor girl. She simply nodded and stumbled on her way to the threshold of the building. She had the smell of whisky on her breath, and really all about her, but you wouldn't need to smell her clothes to know that she was inebriated. All you needed to do was pay attention to the way she spoke. She may have spoken in an accent that was difficult to understand in the first place but it wasn't the accent that made her words run together to form one big bit of gibberish, but her incessant drinking habits.
By the way she was dressed, any person who didn't know better might have thought she was a peasant but in fact she was a wealthy woman by the name of Robin Wilcox. She had been driven to drink by her husband who was mad as well. Her husband had been in this office many times for his obsession with prostitutes. It wasn't so much that he had sex with the whores quite frequently, that wasn't against the law, but more so that he did it right out side of public places. On more than one occasion, he was found outside of the Ten Bells Pub, a favorite of the locals of Whitechapel, having a jolly with the very victim that we now had in the morgue, which made him a prime suspect in this case. We questioned him several times but he never would open up and admit to what we wanted him to. In my opinion, her husband didn't deserve her, yet she kept running back.
"Fank you, sir! I 'ope to see you again. I mean, not that I 'ope he kiwes again." She managed to blurt out those last few words just before she tripped over the frame of the heavy, oak door. She seemed to suffer minor pain from her fall. Either that, or she was far to numb to feel it. In any case she was gone and I could finally focus on the matter at hand. She was the last in line of many, many dim-witted fellows. The headache from before was now too much to bear. I knew that now my work was to begin and I would be slaving over this desk for hours at a time. I popped three more pills in my mouth and I was on my way to a cramped hand and a sore intellect.
Not one person seemed to have a story even close to logical. I knew that no one truly knew what happened to that poor woman. The truth is, no lights were on and in the interviews with patrons living nearby the scene, no one heard so much as a whisper come from that alleyway. I hoped for the best in solving this case but inside I knew that there were no leads or clues and there was no way that it was going to surface before the next death hit the papers. Publicity was the department's mortal enemy. The papers told a number of lies to increase their business. I feel it is my duty to stop this madness before it takes off.
The mound of paperwork on my desk had to be filed before I was able to continue my investigation. Whether I thought these stories were rubbish or not, I still had to write their cockamamie tales down to be filed. I enjoyed the chase with the killer, but when I failed and he met his mark, there was much work to be done to make sense of the seemingly endless narratives from the Whitechapel community.
After about thirty minutes, the night started to weigh on me. The stories I once heard as a child put me into even more of a daze then looking at that woman's bosom. My eyes felt as though the sandman had not sprinkled sand on my lids, but instead hurled a sac at my face. I drifted my way, gingerly into a well earned slumber. My desk was not the most comfortable of beds, but I had no choice. My body was now under the weight of my eyes, which, now seemed like the strongest force on Earth.
As I slept, the sound of the creaking wood floors entered my ears and its minute vibrations made them twitch. I had an unknown visitor in my midst. Who it was eluded me, as my vision was slightly obstructed by the mound of work I had that lay in front of me. Not to mention, the slit in which very little light in the room was allowed in my eyes, was covered in crusty dragons.
The next morning I awoke with a sudden jerk to the sound of the brutal bashing at my door. The persistent beating told me that this visitor was either in a great hurry or was in a severe state of rage. Quickly, I wiped the clear drool that streamed down from the corner of my mouth. The impatient visitor continued to wreak a hammering on my door. I hurried myself along, now cleaning the drool of my mouth off of my papers that lay scattered across the oaken desk.
"Just a moment" said I as still I rushed to clear all that cluttered my desk.
"Sir" started the visitor, "The Apron, Sir, he's struck again. Come quickly, Sir. Hurry!"
Even more hurried now, I stumbled and fiddled my way to the door. As I quickly jerked it open, the familiar features of Nathaniel Witherspoon, my personal Assistant, fell upon my bloodshot eyes.
"Follow me, Sir" interjected Witherspoon. He led me out of the main office and down to a rather nice carriage.
"Is it far?" I asked him still dazed, the image of the half- silhouette figure I had seen the previous night.
"No, Sir. Not at all." he lifted his hand and raised his index finger to point at a crowd of people down the way. "Just there, Sir." He finished.
"I think I'll walk, Witherspoon, thank you." I told him as I sprinted to the crowd. I couldn't help but picture the absolute worst scenario in my head as I ran. Pushing my way through the mass of patrons was all but easy as far as effort goes. There was a define line where the body lay. Not of blood or bodily fluids, but of people. In fact, no blood lay around her mutilated body. With the blow of my whistle, the crowd quieted to a low hum, as they all spread out from the scene.
The victim's cloths lay seemingly untouched. They were however, blood-soaked, stained red from the previous night's deed. With the lift of the blouse, the evidence of the severely lacerated victim became known to all who saw. The crown now filtered down. Some, who were just not able to stomach that sight, actually vomited at the mere sight of the blood ridden corpse. Others, the very little that were, huddled around the police officers currently investigating the scene.
There were odd images flashing in my head from time to time. Images so horrid I had no choice but to shiver at the sight, much like a reflex.
"Are you okay, Sir?" Witherspoon asked. A very concerned look grew on his face.
"Fine. Thank you." I retorted. The simple fact of the matter was that I was not fine at all. These images weren't just my imagination playing tricks on me. They were as if I had actually done the butchering that now lay on the streets. I shuddered once again.
"Are you sure you're fine, Sir?" Witherspoon questioned again. This time a more worried look about him.
"Yes. Yes. Fine." I replied hastily. Once again, fine I was not.
"Feeling a bit o' guilt are we, inspector? 'Bit o' remorse?" a pale old man stepped from the crowd. His facial features seemed as though they were pulled down violently. Heavy wrinkles riddled his complexion. He looked like death himself- minus the robe and hood.
"I'm sorry I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." I replied defensively. Who was this peasant to accuse me of such hostility?
"Do you remember nothing of last night, Inspector?" he questioned again. This time the accusation a bit more fierce.
"Of course. I was filing my paperwork of horrible stories that you people" I swung my finger, pointing across the crowd "Seem to think is relevant information on the leather Apron, and I fell asl-. Wait. I don't have to explain myself to-."
"Asleep?" he interjected. "Is that what you call cold blooded murder? Is that the defense of the insane detective?"
"What is he talkin' about, Sir?" Witherspoon inquired. Did the old fool have Witherspoon on his side? No!
"I told you I haven't the slightest Idea. He is clearly a raving drunk and should be treated as such." I replied again.
"Tell yourself you're innocent all you want, William, It'll come back to haunt you." He managed to squeeze these last few words out before he was enveloped in the crowd again.
"Sir, I don't understand" Witherspoon cried," How did he know you're name?"
"Neither do I. Less than you I'd imagine, Nathaniel." I told him. I too was curious about how he knew my name. I showed my badge to nobody this day… Witherspoon referred to me only as 'SIR'…THE NEWSPAPERS! Ah at least that's one mystery solved. Still I could not explain the images that flashed before me and pulsed pain through my brain, nor could I expel it from my mind. Their disturbing sight was enough to force these questions that followed permanently into my conscious mind.
I chose to walk from the scene back to the office rather than be in under the inquisition of my assistant for the duration of the ride. I needed time to clear my head of these horrible sights.
The walk back was a nightmare. On either side of me were townsmen and women staring at me with looks of confusion and disappointment. Confused at what they had heard from the old fool, and if they should so choose to believe it, the disappointment in me then sets in.
All I wanted to do was get to my office to do my work in peace. My adrenaline started to pump through my veins. Thinking .Over thinking. Making irrational visualizations in my head. Images that played on the situation of me actually butchering these people. These images wrought on the belief that maybe I actually did. POPPYCOCK! IMPOSSIBLE! I fell asleep last night is all.
Witherspoon brought me a cup of tea to calm my nerves and bring my temper down some.
"Sir, I don't know who that man finks he is but he is surely mistaken." I saw you sleepin' in you're office last night. There's no way you could've done that"
As I responded to Witherspoon's words, my cup of tea was rattling as such to mimic an earthquake. 'Twas not an earthquake but my nerves seemed to be the culprit of my now tea splattered desk and stained trousers that seemed to be linked to my half-empty tea cup.
"How could he accuse me of that, Witherspoon? What nerve he had to accuse an upstanding man such as myself of such a thing? Who did he think he was? Did he think it was funny, publicly humiliating me like that? I want that man arrested!" I cried out in frustration and aggravation.
"Sir, you know good and well that we can't just arrest the man for sill accusations. He's done nothing wrong. Any man can freely accuse anyone of anything. As long as there is nothing to follow these accusations, no law is broken, Sir." Witherspoon consoled me.
"I know that. I just wish there were." I said slightly calming down. "I know that I have been behind on the Leather Apron case, but there is no evidence. No suspects. No reliable eyewitness accounts. No nothing. The department is threatening to close the investigation. I don't know why. He's still killing innocent women. It isn't like the case has gone cold. If word gets out that they are closing it, hell kill again. You mustn't say tell a soul. Is that understood, Witherspoon?" I asked. He nodded. The thought that Witherspoon could barely hold a secret, in this case, was comforting. I needed him to kill again. I needed more.
"You have my word, Sir. Not a peep." He reliably yet predictably followed. I could see a smug look on his face, that he was trying to hide, that told me that as soon as he matched out of mu office, the gossip would begin. He would tell every breathing body that walked the streets. A promise to me was as important as a promise to mud in his opinion.
There was no intention of closing the case. I knew that in order to catch this fiend, I had to make it seem like there was no hope in catching him. Giving him false hope.
I needed sleep. This sequence of events was just making my head spin.