Fog curled over the damp cobbles in the narrow thoroughfare. The first touch of morning was only a grey hope in the near future through the thick mist. A woman lay unconscious on the ground, her bonnet torn, one boot missing and thrown to the side, blood at her temple but none at her neck, not yet.
A man kneeled over her, looking at her face and breathing hard. He was not monstrous, hideous, or looked evil per se. But he had a strange air to him. He was slightly above average height, wore a dark coat, and had gloved hands. His right hand held a curved surgical blade, with a slightly worn, but polished handle and a glistening blade. His breathing was erratic, and his pulse elevated.
He raised the knife and was just about to slash the poor woman's throat when a calm voice sounded through the fog.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The man froze and slowly turned around. Through the fog stepped a young man, almost a boy, aged 14, dressed plainly. He had an umbrella resting against his shoulder and stopped a few paces in front of the man and the unconscious woman.
"Who-- Who are you?" the man asked.
"The one who has changed the outcome of your story."
"..."
"You were never meant to be a surgeon, Jack."
Jack straightened to his full height. He neither fled nor charged. He lowered his knife slightly, just slightly, to listen. Mycroft tapped the umbrella on the ground and leaned on it slightly.
"You were trained just enough to dream of precision… but never to earn it. You watched surgeons work. You held their tools and learned to dream. But no one ever trusted you to become one, did they? Because you didn't have a surgeon's discipline or his ambition."
Jack didn't speak. All his muscles were tense in anticipation, and Mycroft studied him and then carried on.
"Let's begin where you began, with Mary Ann Nichols. Buck's Row, your first victim, the one who opened the floodgates. After the Inspector finally allowed me to accompany him and have a look at the corpse, I noticed a few things. Things the police didn't notice. The wound was deep. You cut through the poor cyprian's windpipe. Seeing the cut, I knew the knife had to be Sharp. But not only sharp, it had to have been marvellously sharp and efficient. A medical tool, like a scalpel, made the most sense, but the wound was too wide for that.
Another thing I noticed was that, according to the Inspector, there was not a lot of blood. The description from the people I asked, and from what the reports said, was that there was not nearly enough blood. The human body carries approximately five quarts of blood. Given the stature of Nichols, I'd say a bit less. The wound would have drained her — arterial spray, pooling, spatter. At Buck's Row, there had to have been less than one pint. This told me that she died somewhere else and that you moved her.
Your first kill wasn't planned, was it? Given what the doctor told me of her temperature and the onset of rigour, and add the amount of blood she must have lost, and how long that must have taken... You killed her at tea time. Now, that, Mr. Kearney... is a grievous crime."
Jack froze in shock at hearing his last name. However, before he could do anything, Mycroft continued.
"Your knife — a Lancet No. 4, curved, with surgical patterns, discontinued in '81. Issued only in hospital inventories. It was stolen, wasn't it?"
"...what are you talking about?"
"It was stolen by your wife from your effects during her last week alive."
"..."
"She was the first. Not in the record books, of course — but undeniably, she was. She tried to pawn your only symbol of what you once wanted to be. She stole the last tether that was keeping you and the dream you had long given up together. The last piece that held your sanity together. The way she suppressed you, bullied you, and spoke to you. She was the one who held all the power in your relationship. She told you what to do, when to do it, just like your mother before her, isn't that right? Physical and psychological abuse go a long way to haunt someone. You feared them... you feared your mother, a woman of the crescent moon. And you projected that fear onto all of Venus's vassals. But you can't approach a woman in broad daylight; you need to do it at night. The police thought it was logical, since you would be caught during the day, but that's not it."
"..."
"I admit it took me a few minutes to piece it all together. Jack. A common, disposable and anonymous name. Quite clever too to choose to go by this."
"I didn't choose it," Jack said.
"No. But it fit, didn't it? For the first time, it was the perfect name to go by. Because Jack is no one, and at the same time, Jack can be everyman. You used your own name to mock the police, to be the smartest in all of London. Just once, to be something. And yet, the myth of 'Jack' you hoped to create left clues behind."
"I didn't," Jack protested.
"You did. The slipknot in Chapman's skirts was taught in only one place: the Baycroft tannery infirmary, where you worked. The laceration depth in Eddowes is exact but tentative. Fitting for a man used to observing surgery… but not performing it. The footprint at Mitre Square has a half-worn orthotic sole, and the right foot is dragging. Just like the one you favoured after your fall in... and I'm hazarding a guess here... '69?"
"Shut up!"
The woman on the ground stirred slightly. Neither Mycroft nor Jack Kearney looked at her, though, and only focused on one another. Jack was breathing hard. He started walking towards Mycroft and stopped just in front of him. Kearney was taller than Mycroft and looked down at him. His breathing grew shallower, his heart rate accelerated, and his blood pressure shot through the roof. He lifted his hand up and held the knife at Mycroft's throat. His eyes were large as he stared into Mycroft's. But what he saw was not what he wanted, not what he needed.
"Well?"
"W-what, well?" Kearney asked.
"What are you waiting for? Do it."
"Don't tell me... what to do..."
"You cannot bring yourself to do it, can you? I am no helpless lady, after all. It's why you needed to have them unconscious to do it."
"Y-you d-don't k-kn-know me!"
"I know the stutter."
Kneary flinched.
"The one you developed after your mother constantly beat you in front of the other boys. You couldn't speak for a year, and after that, only with a terrible stutter. But then you found a cure. It vanished, didn't it? Right after your first kill."
Kearney's breathing accelerated further.
"You thought that was your cure. You thought it would get better, that you had won, that you had defeated it. But it came back. You couldn't order tea without choking. How sad."
Jack's mouth opened. He started to speak and stuttered. Just once, but Mycroft interrupted and pressed on.
"Don't bother, you can't do it. Because you're not in control. You never were. The killings weren't your instrument. They were your crutch. You are your stutter's slave."
Jack's hand trembled. His lip twitched as he tried to speak again, but nothing coherent came out of his mouth.
"I—I—I—"
"Close your mouth. You're embarrassing yourself."
The stutter locked in and took over. His hand dropped the blade to the cobbles with a clink. He staggered back, pressing both hands to his head, shaking. Then he fell to his knees and started sobbing.
Footsteps could be heard as Abberline and a few constables rushed in. They had their weapons drawn and aimed forward. Abberline looked around, confused as to what had just taken place, seeing the grown man on the ground, sobbing like an infant girl.
"What happened? What did you do to him?"
"I didn't move from my spot. Only used my mouth."
"And what did you say?" Abberline asked.
"The truth. Jack the Ripper remembered who he truly was."
"Get that man cuffed, Constable. And send the doc to check on the woman. And you," the Inspector turned to Mycroft. "You and I will have a talk."
.
~~THE TIMES~~
Saturday, November 9th, 1888
LONDON
APPREHENSION OF THE WHITECHAPEL MURDERER
A Grim Chapter Closes at Last – Arrest of the Man Known as "Jack the Ripper"
It is with a mix of solemn relief and astonishment that we report the arrest of the man believed to be responsible for the series of brutal and senseless murders that have plagued the Whitechapel district in recent months.
In the early hours of Friday morning, following what authorities describe as "a precise and quietly conducted investigation," a man named Jack Albrecht Kearney was apprehended while attempting what is now believed to have been his fifth murder. Sources indicate that Kearney, who was formerly employed as a hospital porter and more recently as a medical assistant at a local tannery infirmary, was taken into custody without incident. Witnesses reported that he collapsed into incoherent rambling moments after being confronted. The arrest took place in a narrow courtyard behind Whitechapel Road, not far from the sites of his previous crimes.
Investigators now allege that he possessed a profound and calculated understanding of anatomy, despite lacking formal surgical credentials. This detail is said to explain the unusual precision with which the victims were mutilated.
The series of murders began in late August with the slaying of Mary Ann Nichols and continued through the following months, escalating in violence and ritualistic cruelty. The crimes had terrorised the East End and baffled investigators, particularly due to the lack of motive and the killer's uncanny ability to vanish without a trace.
The investigation took a crucial turn not just through traditional police work, but also thanks to the contributions of a well-known Inspector Abberline and a secret source. This 'secret source' is believed to have provided Scotland Yard with a comprehensive psychological and forensic profile of the killer, which ultimately led to the identification of Mr. Kearney and the discovery of key evidence at his lodgings.
Authorities have confirmed that the suspect has confessed, although the details of his confession have not been disclosed at this time. Sources indicate that he kept the surgical blade used in all the killings—a curved instrument traced back to hospital stock—as a grisly token.
There has been no formal comment from Scotland Yard at the time of publication. However, Inspector Frederick Abberline, who has led the investigation with unwavering resolve, was seen departing the Yard yesterday evening, looking visibly exhausted.
Public response to the news has been intense, with many expressing both elation and horror, relief that the killer is no longer at large, and dread at the emerging revelations about his identity and apparent motives.
While Kearney may now be behind bars, it is likely that the legend of "Jack the Ripper," a name first coined in a now-infamous letter sent to the Central News Agency, will not soon fade from the public consciousness. The crimes and the eerie calm with which they were committed have left an indelible mark on the psyche of the city.
Further developments are expected in the coming days as inquiries continue and formal charges are filed.
___________________________
Well, here we are. First case solved. I'm not sure how it reads at the end. I think I'm too close to be able to tell objectively. If there were discrepancies, please let me know. If this wasn't good, I might have to rethink the future cases I have planned.