Whitechapel

July 27th, 1889

Nearly a year had passed and the case is still open. England is still nervous, but the inactivity of Jack the Ripper has put many minds to rest for many civilians. Contrarily, detective Abberline runs his hand through his hair, distressed. His detective's cap lays on his large mahogany desk. He sighs, worn. "Not a single day off the job and yet we're still no further than we were before."
Rain pitters on the glass window pane. The wind fluctuates, strengthening and softening the sound of rain hitting the glass. The whole past week had been stormy, as if the world was trying to recover from the summer drought. Just two weeks ago, the river Thames had been two feet below its typical height.
"It seems so, detective."
Most of the officers assigned to the case gave up in March, upon discovering the detainment of Aaron Kominski, the second most promising suspect. Kominski's sanity had steadily decreased since his interment. He seems unable to answer any interrogative questions. He only feels sheer anger, solely acting upon violent tendencies. He hallucinates often.
The most promising suspect was found dead, floating in the river Thames on December thirty-first. He had been in the water for quite a while, based on the deterioration.
They had no more clues. All of the other suspects had checked out as perfectly fine men, not a murderous bone in their bodies.
"Should we give up?" Abberline mumbles, leaning into his hand.
"I don't know."
A few moments of silence fall between the two. With a regretful sigh, Abberline sits up. Picking up the folder stuffed full of official documentation pertaining to Jack the Ripper, he slides open a door on his desk. "I guess its about time we moved on."
The door to the office erupts open, a monstrous Irish man thundering inside. It is Sir Charles Warren. In his hand, he holds the mortuary photos of a woman for the duo to see.
"He struck again."