She walked back through the station with the files under her arm. Men still stared at her, but not in surprise. She noticed a few of them turn their heads as she passed them. Some offered her overly-friendly smiles and morning greetings. Jane groaned to herself. Why were men so distracted by beauty? She blamed society. Halfway through the station, somebody stopped her.

"Excuse me, miss," a thick Irish accent voiced, "You dropped this."

She turned to see an older gentleman holding one of the filed papers. Bushy mustache, derby hat in hand, and Irish accent told her this was the Chief Inspector. Jane gratefully took the paper from him. "Thank you, sir," she said. She made to leave but she felt he wouldn't let her.

"May I ask," he said, coming beside her, "What a woman like you is doing in this station?"

"I'm sorry? A woman like me?"

"A proper lady," he explained. "We usually get the tramps and the wives of these men here. Unless your husband is here?"

As she said, men were easily distracted. "I don't have a husband. If you must know, sir, I'm here because Sergeant Moss invited me."

"Invited you?" he looked towards Moss's office and then back to her. "You mean, you're the detective?"

"I am."

He snorted, "That's adorable, miss. A lady playing detective."

"I'm not playing detective, sir," she said. "Are you always this rude to women you've just met?"

He coughed over his chuckle, "I'm sorry, miss. We don't see many lady detectives where I'm from. Chief Inspector Campbell," he held out a hand, "At your service, Ms…?"

"Dawes," she shook his hand, "Jane Dawes."

"Ms. Dawes," she felt disgusted by his wandering eyes. "What sort of investigation are you here for?"

"The man who's been butchering women in the streets," she said. "Moss believes I can help, so I am."

"Is he still on about those whores?" He sighed, "I told him it was best left alone."

"You told him to ignore a murderer who is taking innocent lives?"

"Innocent? I'm sorry, Ms. Dawes, but those women were far from innocent. This madman-whoever he is-will get bored with them and stop eventually."

"But until then women should stay in their homes and live in fear for their lives?"

"They should be doing it already from what I've seen," he said. "I suggest you do the same. He might stop killing whores and might move up the ladder to pretty ladies like you."

Jane stared at him curiously. Those were harsh words; uncalled for from a gentleman. She looked him up and down. There wasn't anything unusual about him; nothing she pinpointed right away. Then again, Copycat wouldn't be unusual. "I'm sure I'll be fine on my own, sir. Thank you for your concern. Good day."

"Would you like me to escort you out?" he asked. She saw the hope in his eyes.

"No. I'm sure I can find it even with my little lady brain."

She left him standing there and walked out of the police station. She couldn't believe the nerve of men. She didn't understand their need to degrade and then impress their target. Campbell hadn't been the first to laugh at her profession. A lot of them took her as a rich girl entertaining herself. Arnold thought the same whenever she brought it to his attention. Her older brother never took her seriously and neither did their father. Whenever she visited her parents with fresh bruises, he'd tell her ladies didn't fight. Her father said she should marry a good man and then have his children. She'd become a slave. She saw these other married women who become their husband's servants. They cook and clean all day. They watch over and care for the children. They work until their hands and feet are sore. Yet, their husband still expects a hot meal at night. Her mother said it was part of being a woman.

If that was so, Jane wanted no part in it.

She came back to The Garrison, placing her hat and purse on the bar. "Harry," she said, "A whiskey, please." She drew out her cigarette case and lit it between her painted lips. Harry poured her a whiskey which she downed in one shot. She took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled. She couldn't let herself become distracted. She opened the first case file. Her name was Mary-Anne and she'd been 32-years-old.

"Is that one of them?" Harry asked.

"It is," she said, "He mutilated her sex and chest." She pulled out a crime scene photo. "He hates women."

"I'm sorry? He hates women?" Harry asked. "What kind of man hates women?"

"Well, all of them do," she said, "But this one is special. He destroys what marks them as women." She noticed several things that she didn't say out loud. "I'll have to see the medical examiner."

Harry scoffed, "They don't have one."

"What?" she looked at him, "How can they not have one? Every station has an examiner. How do they know cause of death or find any evidence?

"They usually don't care if it's hard to guess," he said. He leaned in, "The Peaky Blinders are usually doing the murdering. 9 times out of 10 they're the ones who did it. It ain't hard to figure out a bullet to the head."

"Then do you know who they took the body…" she spotted a name, "Dr. Henry Lester? He's a local doctor?"

"Aye," Harry nodded. "He's the only good one in town. They go to him if they really have to."

"Do you know where he practices?" She took another puff of her cigarette and blew it sideways.

"Down on Kensington Road," he said. "You can find him there in the afternoon. He likes to drink, so he sleeps off his hangovers." Harry paused, tapping his fingers on the bar top "Ms. Dawes, can you-can you really stop this man?"

Jane met his eyes. It wasn't a condescending or amused question. He stared with concern. "I can. Why?"

"Because, well it's my little girl, you see," he began, "She didn't choose to be like them. After the war, finding decent work was hard. She told me she'd only do it for a while until she found some work. She hasn't yet. She's out there at night with the other girls, selling themselves to the highest bidder. I worry about her, Miss. What if..." he took a breath, "What if she ends up like them?"

"She won't. She should stay indoors for the time being. This man isn't going away anytime soon." She hated saying it. Campbell was right. These women can either stick together or stay home. They needed each other now more than ever. "Tell her to stay in groups or crowded places. Tell her not to go with anyone she doesn't know; stick to her regulars. I am going to find her, but it won't be today or tomorrow. This man's clever and clean. He's not easy." The difficulty was what Jane loved the most. She then said, "Harry, there's no shame in what your daughter is doing." She touched his hand, "She's only trying to survive. A lot of women are."

He nodded, "Thank you, Ms. Dawes. I do hope you catch him. Another whiskey then?"

"Please," she said. She returned to her papers before she felt someone beside her. She could smell the strong scent of booze coming from him. It sickened her.

"Hello there lovely," the man said.

He had a trimmed mustache and dark hair. He wore an expensive suit with a bow tie, and his boots were slightly scuffed. He wasn't drunk like the others. He didn't sway or slur his words. The scent merely lingered on him. Jane shut her file from him. "Morning," she said, "Can I help you?"

"You certainly can," he smirked. "I've been looking for the prettiest flower I can find, and I think I've found it."

Jane only laughed. "Is that the best you can do?" she gave a good minute or so and then said, "Please, go throw your petty lines at someone else. I have work to do."

"What work?" he said, affronted by her rejection. He glanced at the files, "What are you doing with those?"

"I don't think it's any of your business," she said. "Are all the men in this town rude or is that how they welcome people?" she asked Harry, who stifled back a laugh.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, and I don't really care to." 'But you're going to tell me anyways.'

"I'm Arthur Shelby," he said. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"Not you," she said, "But I've heard that name thrown around a lot."

"Then you know we're not the kind of men you say 'no' to," he replied.

She then showed him a picture of Mary-Anne's corpse. It shocked him. "No, Mr. Shelby, this is a man you don't say 'no' to. I don't care what gang you're in or what your last name is. You don't scare me." She put down the picture and said, "Now, if you're done, I'm going now." She gulped her drink and slid her money over to Harry.

"Who the hell do you think you are, woman?" he yelled after her.

"Jane Dawes," she answered, going up the stairs.

'Mary-Anne Nichols, Elizabeth Eddowes, and Kelly Chapman.' Jane looked at the three photographs tacked to her wall. She lined up the crime scene photos right beneath each name and kept the files open on her desk. She linked the similarities and the differences in each case. All women had their throats cut twice, their abdomens split open and chests mutilated. One had her uterus removed, while another had a kidney and her uterus removed. He used the same knife for the incisions. There weren't any footprints or fingerprints on the bodies. He picked well-trafficked places that could destroy evidence. Copycat kills in the exact fashion as Jack the Ripper. The only tangent is the chest. She ran a hand through her hair. One thing concerned her: He was gaining confidence. Mary-Anne was his first, so her cuts are smaller and jagged. Elizabeth was his experiment with organs. Kelly is his fully-fledged motis operandi. The next woman will be the same or worse. An ignorant detective would've said they plan to catch him before he kills again. Jane wasn't ignorant. He killed them within weeks of each other. He won't slow down or wait. She won't catch him in time. She turned away from the desk and towards her window.

Night had fallen over Small Heath. The lanterns gave the road a glisten off the muddy puddles and shielded the stars above. Drunkards stumbled down the street, and girls tempted them at doorsteps. A group of men started their own fight club nearby. She preferred the roughness of this town over London's high society any day. She heard the commotion going on downstairs. If she wanted to find Copycat, she needed to be around people.

Dressing properly, she walked into the crowded pub. She saw Harry passing out drinks at the bar while other men filled the tables and stools. A few of them looked her way, but she ignored them. Getting a drink from the bar, she sat alone. Her eyes scanned over the crowd. Any one of them could be Copycat. He was an opportunist. He'd wait for the right girl to walk in and then follow her out. Unfortunately, a lot of men did just that. Despite the danger, these women needed work. They had to eat too. She picked out a scruffy man at the bar. From his shaky, grease-stained hands, he wasn't Copycat. She picked at another man nearby, who couldn't be Copycat due to openly kissing the woman in his lap. Copycat wouldn't let people see him with his victim.

"And there's our lady detective!" Arthur was drunk this time. He walked out of a private room beside the bar. Some people turned and listened to him. "She's come to save all the whores from the big bad wolf! Her! Right there! A little lady with nothing better to do!"

"Mr. Shelby," she said, "You're drunk."

He leaned against the bar, "And you're adorable. Your whole 'I'm-a-detective' game is cute, sweetheart. What are you going to do when you catch him, hm? Bat your pretty eyes and tell him-FUCK!"

Jane slammed her fist right into his jaw. She watched him clutch the bar and hold his cheek. "No, I'm going to do that! And then turn him in!" She looked about the room, "Do none of you care? Do none of you care that he's cutting women open like pigs? That he's slaughtering them? A town small like this one, surely you knew them." She turned to Arthur, "They weren't whores. They weren't tramps. They were people. They were human beings! They had people who loved them! People who cared about them! It's men like you that treat them like scum! Men like you who think their deaths are meaningless! Because they were 'only whores' to men like you. Now, I don't give a damn what any of you think of me or need your unwanted opinions! I'm here for one thing and one thing only! And I can assure you, Mr. Shelby, it's not you." She drew closer to him, "From what I hear, you Peaky Blinders run this place. People are afraid of you. People don't dare cross you. Nobody does anything illegal without your consent first. Yet, there's somebody going about killing people without your permission. There is someone in this town that isn't afraid of you. Are you telling me it doesn't bother you? A man with an ego like yours isn't bothered by that at all? That you don't care if he keeps on killing?"

"I care," a voice rang out. Everyone looked to the man at the front door. Leggy, dark-haired in a fine suit, he had sharp features and bright blue eyes. Jane looked at him and he looked back. "Come to 6 Watery Lane tomorrow morning. You and I can talk about this bothersome butcher together."

"Why? Who are you?"

"I'm Tommy Shelby."