Melbourne - June 12, 1929
With a deep sigh, Henry Morgan closed the file that he had been going through for the previous fifteen minutes. Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated the task that he had set himself. For the past week he had been searching desperately for something that he had no proof actually existed: a first, previously unnoticed victim. The two Melbourne victims noted in the newspapers had been nearly perfect matches - as far as age, profession and cause of death had been concerned - to the second and third women killed in Whitechapel in 1888. The Jack the Ripper murders. And if there was any connection between those murders and these, he had to do whatever he could to keep things from getting even worse.
He had been there in 1888. Had been a doctor in London called in to examine several of the Ripper's later victims. No one knew what had stopped the deaths or how many of the eleven women killed over a three year period had been committed by the same man. But Henry had seen the damage with his own eyes and was terrified by the possibility of the same thing happening here. The math said that it could potentially be the same perpetrator (they'd be old, likely in their 60s, but it was possible) or it could be a copycat well versed in the original cases or there could be no connection at all.
So Henry searched for the first. It was difficult. The first Whitechapel murder had been significantly different from all the others. So different that many didn't attribute it to the same killer as the later ones. Emma Elizabeth Smith hadn't been killed in the street like the others, she hadn't been stabbed. She'd been raped by multiple assailants and foreign objects and had died a day later in hospital of a ruptured peritoneum as a result. Her death had happened nearly four full months prior to the next death and had been largely ignored by authorities when it happened.
It wasn't much to go on. Melbourne had a large itinerant and street population. Gang violence was a common thing and prostitutes were hardly thin on the ground. But he was working through them. He'd systematically pulled the files for every woman who had died in Melbourne in the six months prior to the death of Helen Baines and been going through them looking for similarities. Many had been easy to rule out: deaths from childbirth or disease, ages too young or too old, and the non-prostitutes. The rest he had been slowly whittling down by visits to families, doctors, and police.
He'd been at it for a week and still had so many files left to check through. The stack on the desk in front of him did not look any smaller than when he had started this morning, nearly eight hours previous. The project had become all consuming, he barely paused to eat or drink and his returns to the small flat he had rented for a few hours sleep were becoming fewer and farther between. He'd had little time to interact with anyone outside of Records, though he knew from half heard gossip and whispers that he was attracting a certain amount of attention from the hospital and morgue staff.
Handsome, polite, and completely focused on his task, it was really no surprise that his unofficial colleagues, especially the women, had taken notice. He ignored all of it. There would be time for being social once he'd solved his mystery.
He had considered going in search of Dr. MacMillan on his third - or was it his fourth? - day at the morgue, wanting to check in on the teenage boy that he had examined upon arrival. She had seemed intelligent with a slightly suspicious nature that could make her an excellent sounding board for his current task. But he had decided not to.
Partly because the newspaper had reported just the next day that the murderer had been caught. The boy's uncle, who'd taken on guardianship after the mother had passed away, had been ill suited - by way of shell shock - to care for the boy and his young sister. In fits of violence and war memory, he'd been beating both children irregularly for almost a year. The boy had borne the worst of it, trying valiantly to protect his sister, and had eventually paid the price for that heroism: a single hard blow to the stomach had ruptured his spleen. The uncle had been arrested, but was probably looking at a life sentence rather than hanging, and the sister had been taken in by a family friend with three similar age children.
So there had been no need for him to approach Dr. MacMillan for information. But really that was just his excuse to hide behind. The main reason he didn't approach the woman was because he knew exactly how crazy he would sound. How could he tell someone that he had been in London in 1888? How could he explain how he knew things about the cases that had never made it to the newspapers? He'd been through similar circumstances before and he had no interest in being chucked into another insane asylum. He'd find the first victim and then, maybe, he would have the proof to get someone to listen.
Glancing at the pile again, he considered starting on the next file, but the pain in his spine and the grumbling in his stomach dissuaded him. Standing, he stretched, turned out the desk lamp and headed out of the morgue. He'd take a walk, get some air and sleep, and start again in the morning.
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Melbourne - June 15, 1929
Margaret Lillian Ward. Margaret Lillian Ward.
As he walked down the Melbourne streets at top speed, Henry Morgan repeated the name to himself over and over. He'd found her! He'd found the first victim: Margaret Lillian Ward, an unmarried prostitute, had died in hospital of a rupture peritoneum slightly over three month before Helen Baines had been found with her plethora of stab wounds. She had told police about being attacked and raped by a group of three men, one of whom she'd estimated to be about 16 years old. It was a near perfect match to the 1888 Whitechapel murder.
It wouldn't be enough to convince anyone by itself, but put the pattern of the three women together and surely no one would be able to deny that as mere coincidence. And so he was headed to City Central police station to make a report to the Chief Commissioner of Police.
As he walked down the street, his mood fluctuated wildly. One moment, he was jubilant, his first victim identified, his case made. The next, doubt would set in as he reminded himself that just because he saw the pattern didn't mean that he could force anyone else to see it as well. And behind all other emotions was a steady fear. Eleven women had been killed brutally in Whitechapel; three were already dead in Melbourne. Must they anticipate another eight bodies? If they couldn't catch the guy, would he stop at eleven or would he just keep going? If he stopped killing and then disappeared without being caught, would Henry face this same killer another 41 years down the road?
As he turned the final corner, he pushed everything down, especially the fear. Right now he needed to make his case; he had to make someone believe, as he did, that Jack the Ripper or someone copying him had come to Melbourne. The earlier he could convince someone, the sooner the madman could be stopped.
He hoped.
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AN: A shorter chapter this time, but we are moving to closer to the crux of things, now that Henry has found his lead. And things will only get more interesting once Henry meets the detecting duo.
