Whitechapel

October 1st, 1888

A manilla file lay atop a glass exhibition, its contents no secret to the men surrounding it. The officers stand, analyzing the documents sullenly, surrounded by mementos of criminals encased within towering display cases. Together they stand within the darkest room of the Scotland Yard---the Black Museum. Skylights filter in what dim light passes through the impenetrable fog outside, the room adorned with display cases full of the most important evidence of their past cases. Murder weapons, photographs, and notes from only the most treacherous and heinous villains of the thirty-two boroughs of London lay suspended in as they were found. Within their glass tombs, they signify a reminder to the officers that all cases must be brought to a close.
Splayed across the glass showcasing artifacts from Dennis Nilsen, are the documents of all evidence for Jack the Ripper. The stack of papers had gotten thicker in the past month, filled with photographs, police reports, backgrounds of suspects, and a snide letter from the man who'd ripped the souls from four innocent maidens of Whitechapel. Two new faces were added to the mix---if they could even be considered such. Despite the newest arrivals being discovered on the same day, their appearances could not be further divergent.
The photograph on the left encaptures Elizabeth Stride as she lay in eternal slumber, peaceful. A man would never have assumed what a grave fate she had endured just three days ago. The image portrays her, not a mar on her pasty complexion, her flaxen hair put up into a curly updo as she lay with closed eyes.
   To the right, however, portrayed less of a woman and more of a Frankenstein. Her face, patched together like an impoverished man's trousers, quite evidently a victim of a brutal hacking.
"He's gotten more frenzied," Swanson notes, cuts through the brutal silence rather monotonously.
   Almost instantly, Warren explodes, whirling on the investigator. "Oh good dickens, Swanson! This isn't just a frenzy! This was his intent from the beginning!" Warren roars, complexion as aflame as his rust-coloured whiskers. He rips up a document from the pile, thrashing it about. "They're fucking with us! They're using these young lasses lives to play a game with us!"
"Get ahold of yourself!" Melville MacNaghten, the newest officer to the case, chimes in sternly, cerulean eyes seething in disgust. His tawny mustache curls at the tips like a withering leaf.
"Order!" Abberline interjects boomingly, voice fierce as he moves in front of Warren.
Warren instantaneously whirls around on Abberline, "Order? What order?!" He throws the page to the ground, steam nearly spouting from his ears. His voice is deafening, resonating through the room. The glass in the exhibition cases rattle softly. "There's no order to the world when criminals like this run rampant through our streets! There is no order until lasses can walk about without knives strapped to their legs like a goddam garterbelt!"
The room falls silent. Swanson  silently observes the scene, his lips curling downwards. The lines he creates on his face are far beyond his years. MacNaghten stands, scrutinizing Warren with a look of pure loathing. His expression seems locked in place, as though he was a stone carving.
"Then do. Your. Job."
Abberline speaks quietly, with precision. He glares at Warren. A glare of pure ice, more glacial than the winters of Antarctica. "You once spoke as though you were so high above Monro. You had him evicted from this case, yet you still act like a child." Warren seems smaller, withering down to but a child under the gaze of the lead detective. "You have been dismissed." Prying his gaze from Warren, he turns to the other two officers without another word.
Scoffing in awe, Warren takes a few moments to process. "Dismissed?" The words fall from his mouth, softly as a feather falling, as though he could not bear to understand the leaden weight of the word. His face was still bright like a cherry, saturated more out of sheer embarrassment than rage. He seems to stumble out of the room in a daze, brushing past the officers who had peeked their heads in the scope out the commotion.
"E'rything alright, innere?" Edmund Reid, the head of the H-division peeks in. Warren has fled down the hallway by now, but the static in the air has yet to dissipate. The H-division was put on the Jack the Ripper case, in charge of the investigations on the ground. He and his team of men had spent hundreds of hours by now, tearing through the district of Whitechapel, grappling for clues.
"Peachy," Abberline hums, motioning Reid closer with a tight smile. "Please join us, if you have the time. I would like your thoughts."
Humming, Reid joins the group, "I hope I'm not just the convenient replacement," adorning a playful smile. The intensity in the room seems to dissipate, Abberline's shoulders visibly releasing tension.
Abberline tosses him a grateful smile. Turning to address the entire group, he begins softly, "Please, if we may continue."
MacNaghten nods relief that the air of professionalism has settled into the room. Reid is attentive, eyes scanning across the officers as he waits for someone to take charge.
Swanson clears his throat, bending to pick up the page Warren had thrown to the ground. "Well, we might as well start here," he hums, scanning the paper thoughtfully. "Our current suspects consist of Thomas Cutbush, Charles Cross, Aaron Kominiski, and Montague John Druitt. Beginning with the first suspect," he flips to the next document in line. Sweeping over the page briefly before addressing the group, he glances up.  "Thomas Cutbrush has allegedly contracted a sexually-transmitted disease from a prostitute. It is alleged that he has contracted syphilis. It is suggested that there is reason to believe said disease is the cause of violent hallucinations that have led him to believe that every person he meets has the intention to poison him."
Abberline purses his lips slightly, a look of uncertainty crossing his expression. "Alleged does not sound convincing."
"Unconvincing is better than no lead," Reid replies, "If this accusation was true, it would make him a probable suspect. I will have a squad go down to validate these sources."
MacNaghten, scribbling down notes inside of a personal journal, "A possible motive he would have is revenge. His delusions could have caused the violent urges to kill the woman who gave him such a disease. The paranoia could be his guilty-conscious making him believe that the rest of the world is aware of his actions and therefore want to murder him for repentance?"
Swanson, nods,. "I can see why they put you on the case," he states, impressed. "That would give us one suspect with a possible motive. Though I am not entirely convinced that someone with such a decaying mind might have the attentiveness to disembowel women and get away with it."
Abberline seems pleased at the professionalism, "It might give reason for why the murderer keeps stealing the womens' uteruses. Perhaps he wants to specifically target what gave him the disease in the first place. Which also puts into consideration that not all of the women targeted were prostitutes."
"Most accounts made sure to note that the victims were quite promiscuous," Reid interjects, a bit abashedly. "Also, there is no probable explanation for why the murderer stole their kidneys."
Pondering this, the officers seemed stumped.
"Next suspect?"
Swanson nods, "Charles Cross is carman in Whitechapel, and the unlucky chap who stumbled upon the first body. He testifies that he was on the way to work at the time of the discovery. He has just about everyone convinced of his innocence, but he is worth a read at least."
"Place and time, but no motive," Reid sighs. "I spoke to the misfortunate lad myself. He seems convincing enough. Seemed quite distraught about seeing the poor miss like that, he did." He shakes his head, seeming to think back to the conversation he had with the unlucky fellow.
"Well, I suppose that closes that case, for the time being at least." Abberline sighs, running a hand through his hair carefully. "Any more promising suspects?"
   Swanson leafs through a few pages, skimming the writings as he goes. "Ah, yeah. Aaron Kominiski. He's a resident in Whitech---"
"Oh, that lad! He's nearly impossible to track down!" Reid exclaims. Swanson raises his brows pointedly, to which Reid offers an apologetic smile before continuing on his tangent, "I sent my men to interrogate him on the basis of a witness report. Took nearly an entire day to find the bastard. He was laying in a pile of glass and cheap wine. Passed out on the way back home from the liquor store," he tuts, thinking back on the sorry state Kominiski had been in. He made the town drunk look and smell like a handsome nobleman.
    MacNaghten perks up, elated, "The witness wishes to testify?"
   Swanson interjects before Reid has the chance to respond, giving him an assertive look. Reid raises his hands in the air jokingly, mouthing an earnest sorry, mate. Swanson snorts softly, rolling his eyes before continuing. "No, they refused to give evidence against him." MacNaghten's expression deflates. "Once the officer handling the report mentioned that Komonski could be hung for murder, they backed out. The information we received is that Kominiski has a great contempt for women, particularly prostitutes, as he has been seen bickering with whores on a consistent basis. It is alleged that he has murderous tendencies."
     "Why did they back out? How can someone 'allegedly' have homicidal tendencies?"
     "Didn't want his blood on their hands, I suppose. It happens all too often in cases like these." Abberline sighs, "It is far easier to rat on someone when unaware that the report could condemn them for death."
     "As for the homicidal tendencies," Swanson recounts with a slight grimace. "The neighbors said that he once had a dog that would bark for hours upon hours, endlessly. Then, one day he started screaming at it, and the poor mutt has not been seen since."
     "The bastard is a lousy drunk that kills dogs? What in the bloody hell are we doing standing about, twiddling our thumbs for? We gotta get that bastard!" Reid spoke with passion, eyes burning with deep hatred. He was a loving owner to five rescue mutts at his home. His wife would chastise him when he would get caught feeding the strays outside. "I augha frame him for the murder so he can repent for such a crime."
    "Do not fret about him, there is a more promising suspect." All officers turn to look at Swanson, confused by his interruption. He continues, able to recount the file without even a glance. "Montague John Druitt, son to a family of surgeons. He is currently at university to get his degree as a barber and a surgeon. Despite his coming from a respectable lineage, there have been multiple counts against him for being sexually insane, though none have been confirmed."
Abberline raises his brows, intrigued. "What has you speaking with such conviction? It's surprising for you to hold a position so tightly."
"Although there have been no witnesses, his family admits that he is crooked. They were the ones to disclose just how screwy his mind has become. They told me of how explosive he is inconsistent with his emotions and thoughts," Swanson expresses, holding documents of reports on the matter for the other officers to view. "His own family! Is that not suspicious?"
Reid chuckles, "You've condemned him without reason," an amused smile curling his lips. "A family like that thinks they're hot shit! They probably want to wipe away the smudge on their record. Montague is still in university yet he's quite old, now, yeah?" Swanson purses his lips, listening to Reid rattle on. "Such a family would be glad to imprison their son so they have a right to disown the poor bastard. Ruin's the family name when all but one can become successful."
"I suppose," Swanson concedes, pulling the files back to the folder dejectedly.
"It is possible that the family is trying to clear the blemish from their name, but it is equally as likely that the family is genuinely warning us about Montague. Nothing can be said until further investigation," Abberline avers, to which Swanson casts a thankful smile.
"The most well-rounded leads we have so far are Cross and Druitt. Investigate further on all of the suspects, but be particularly cautious towards the aforementioned," MacNaghten announces, reviewing his notes.
"Working our arses off," Reid imparts, eyes blazing with newfound passion for the case. "Time to catch the cruel bastard."
Swanson snaps reorganizes the file, sweeping all of the documents from the glass case into the folder. He orders Druitt's documents on top of the pile. "Let's go, lads."