To look within himself and try to invoke the wisdom and logic to comprehend what he did, or what he had always done, Ethan LaPierre was forever, if not always, part of this story. But how? He was perhaps one of the gentlest souls there ever was, as tenderhearted as he was level-headed and pragmatic. Even at his most angry, he would simply rationalize it then step away, lessening the momentary emotion until it passed. It was his way. He never had the slightest hint of a violent side, and was, in fact, so likeable, he never faced a confrontation in his adult life. As Ethan sought to make sense of it all, he sat on the soft down comforter on his bed, virtually naked to a world in which he now found himself deeply entrenched. His worry was not in being implicated in Polly’s death. He knew virtually every move that the police and Scotland Yard would be making in pursuit of the culprit. He knew all of the suspects they would be focusing on and clearly had the advantage if the cat and mouse game was ever presented for him to play. No, his concern, his foreboding dread was with the non-interference directive he’d breached, flipping itself around on him, the twist of the knife. He had always perceived it to mean he was tasked with an observation only without taking moral justice into his hands, harming the culprit nor saving the victims. Now the term “non-interference” meant he must do everything in his power to preserve, not disrupt the events that were recorded in the timeline of history.
“NO! I am not Jack the Ripper.” Ethan spoke emphatically, if under his breath, so not to be overheard by a passerby in the hallway. He said it to himself hoping to will away the events which had already transpired. “I am not Jack the Ripper.” He said it again. “No. I’m not Jack the Ripper. I am Dr. Ethan LaPierre of St. Leonards and Oxford University, born in 1978 to François and Anne LaPierre. I can’t be him! Jack the Ripper. No!” He’d spoken the name with utter contempt, its implication as the historical connection to pure loathing and abject terror. He was the farthest thing from terrifying. The gentle professor was, at most, tall.
Ethan changed, dressing back into his local attire. He needed to get more water and some soap from the kitchen to wash off the blood from the knife and anyplace else he might find reminders of the carnage he created in the wee small hours of the morning. Exiting his room with the pitcher in hand, he went down to the common area where he came upon several other tenants including the man who’d generously shared his coffee. Ethan avoided eye contact with anyone in the room as he slipped out the back door nearest to the privy, heading for the adjacent well pump. He felt a sudden social paranoia, a phobic sense of each pair of eyes scrutinizing him. Even though the news of the murder of Mary Ann Nichols had not yet reached the public, he felt as though his façade was tainted by an overwhelming, uncontrollably guilty look he carried in his eyes. It was mere minutes before he would return to his room, and the false sense of security it provided. He could not finish that chore fast enough for his liking then get back upstairs, away from prying eyes.
Once again behind his locked door, off came all the clothing. Ethan produced some busy work to occupy his troubled mind, devoting his hands to scrubbing everything he’d gotten blood on, including his watch. As if in an attempt to wash away his sins from the hours prior, he cleaned the surface of the case then softly buffed it with a towel in a sacred, circular motion, the way he had witnessed the watchmaker do it. Hypnotic, almost ritualistic, he slowly and gently wiped encrusted blood from deep within the crevices of its intricate embossing. Everything he did felt so meaningless, a futile act, yet the work was necessary, a requirement for him to reestablish some semblance of normalcy, no matter the century. His quantum leap in consciousness had occurred, a leap far surpassing his jump through Flicker as he realized nothing would ever be the same again. Indeed, Ethan had forever changed. For the duration of the next twelve hours he remained sequestered, refusing to leave his room.
Logical thought was temporarily suspended while he sat at the desk staring out the window at passing clouds, flashes of sunlight bursting between them. Thoughts of a sane man expecting to get caught or turn himself over to authorities for a crime committed. Had he done this unthinkable, unspeakable act in 21st Century London, by now he would have been apprehended, taken into custody considering all of the sophisticated scientific methods and equipment at the disposal of law enforcement. He would not have made it to another sunset as a free man in the year 2020. In the 19th Century things ran a bit behind the times. It was no surprise the Keystone Cops never caught Jack the Ripper. He smiled at the thought of it but didn’t know why.
Ethan was pondering his responsibility, his possible destiny. It looked like there might not have been a serial killer in the 19th Century, at least not of these women, all documented as victims of the same predator. Looks can be deceiving. Based on the available evidence there had been a general consensus reached by many experts on the subject. The same predator. The same blade. Discarding all other possibilities as cosmic conspiracy theories, only one concern remained. Call it predestination or divine planning, a philosophical dictate or historical mandate, he probably was the infamous Jack the Ripper.
“This can’t possibly be the truth of it! No! This isn’t what I’m destined for here. No! God damn it! No! This is not my fault and this is not my job!”
It was personal. His goal for this project and The Consortium’s approval of it, was contingent upon him being prepared to identify a killer, not become one. Based on his keen powers of observation, he could definitely see how it would appear that this had already been scripted more than one hundred and thirty years in the future, set up like some bad practical joke gone terribly wrong. An Oxford professor could be the greatest, most infamous uncaptured murderer in recorded history? “No!”
Ethan moved from the chair to his bed. Darkness had fallen across the window and he did not want anyone to see him in the candlelight. He held the pillow like a security blanket as he lay on his side, pondering events that may still come. He was only eight days away from meeting the next, or his next victim, Annie Chapman. He could not turn himself in nor could he get caught if, for no other reason, to be sure. The prime directive: do not interfere with the timeline. Anything Ethan did beyond what was already seared into memory over years of preparation would immediately and irrevocably change the future. The ripple effect would spread, the impact made by tossing one little pebble into the river of time would create repercussions felt far and wide, no way to stem the tide. This wasn’t a pebble. It was a boulder.
During the preceding twelve hours he remained completely aware of what was happening regarding the case. He knew all the players and their placement, meeting their marks on the stage in this grand drama unfolding. Robert Anderson, appointed Assistant Commissioner for Crime had chosen Donald Swanson to take charge of the case. Tomorrow William Nichols would identify the body of his estranged wife. Ethan had the upper hand, knowing every action taken during this investigation by those involved in law enforcement and journalism. For a killer it would be bliss. For Ethan, it was an assurance that he could maintain the historical timeline and if need be, if no killer miraculously appeared to intercede, he would have to conduct the ruthless, vicious attacks in commitment to continuity.
Were he to break protocol and return through the Flicker prematurely, it would have no bearing. Once Ethan had divulged this precarious twist of fate or historical absolution of his involvement, The Consortium brass, including Anson Van Ruden, would immediately insist upon his return to complete the task at hand, whether as a Scope or an assassin in a morbid quest to maintain those recorded events as they occurred. Even Colin would also, in his own way, admonish Ethan. “Fuck me mate. Better you than me, but you’d bloody well better get back there and figure this shit out.” He couldn’t even suggest, if necessary, sending a convicted murderer back to finish off the job as the FTC would never allow it, expecting a coldblooded killer would not have enough mental stability or discipline to wait patiently for only those victims chosen by time to lose their lives, nor would they ever trust anyone else to pe
rform the mutilations to those exact specifications corresponding precisely to the medical and police reports. He was screwed. If this were to go in the worst possible direction, there would be no reconciling his internal conflict. No way out. “No.”
No one at The Consortium, not one military strategist, not one psychologist nor any single Scope could have foreseen this scenario. No one could have envisioned this complication. Dozens of trial runs at The Valley and not one model portraying this event happening because it wasn’t within the Scope’s criteria to be involved in even the most miniscule of roles. Ethan tossed and turned in bed, bouncing around from one emotion to the next, one moment crying over Maggie then laughing at the insanity of it all. Wailing like a child over what he may need to do next. He had not eaten a thing but had no appetite. The nausea was incessant. He arose from the bed just to drink some water, but the basin was pink in color from the washing of bloodstained garments and a medical instrument he did not want to touch, let alone clean for yet another vile use. Clutching his hair in clumps, Ethan’s frustration was with himself. Nothing was going right. Pacing the room as he’d done prior to the fateful night’s event, when seeking to center his focus, this brooding did not have the same underlying intent. As he walked six steps to the window facing Bakers Row and six steps back to the foot of the bed, the man began violently whipping his left fist then pounding the right side of his chest with his fist in a blatant act of self-attrition. No. Nothing alleviated the angst he endured, not even self-inflicted pain could distract him from the pain he felt in his soul. It was an immense dilemma, an overwhelming torment taking a hold of a man who always, always held it together.
Recalling his years at Oxford, Ethan had met some wonderful men and women from the local police department. He remembered speaking with some of them who, either while serving in the military or out on the beat had no choice but to shoot and kill a person. He recalled some of their poignant remarks, never forgetting the event or the face of who they’d killed. He understood what they meant now. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Maggie laying there with her throat cut, her dead eyes staring back at his in disbelief. He remembered asking those officers how they dealt with these everlasting images, receiving a uniform response. They all said they had to simply keep reminding themselves that it was their job.
The job. That was it! Like a sledgehammer to the softest, most vulnerable part of his skull, it hit him hard. Ethan was tasked with a job. Had he not done so, had he neglected to do whatever was necessary at the required moment the implications would have been catastrophic. Truth be told, even in a dire, desperate situation such as this, the training took over. Rational thought compelled him to act in accordance with his directive, preservation of the timeline. Period. Beyond his own emotional and mental anguish, everything was going right! In that moment of clarity, Ethan’s conviction regarding what could happen became steadfast. Of course, a realization did not in any way lessen the obvious traumatic anticipation of having to go through it four more times, having to do the job for a delinquent Jack the Ripper. Well aware it wouldn’t be anything but torturous to once again stand upon the precipice, poised at the edge of reason, there to fathom the depths of depravity, Ethan made an inner pact. With a smile, he thought he could hear Colin saying a few choice words.
“If this bastard shows up to kill Annie Chapman and the lot of ‘em, for what he put you through, before you bloody leave here you should kill that little shit then hide his fucking body and that’s why the sonofabitch never got caught!” The mental manifestation of his best friend was an effort to sell a bad bill of good comedy to his own aching conscience. Ethan’s mindset was, for the moment, one of relative calm, convincing himself to believe this was another thing entirely. Centered in the eye of the storm, gauging by a peripheral swirling barrage of emotions he had been swept up by in the preceding hours, though it had subsided, turmoil would certainly resurface. No CLEAR & RESET order available, this wasn’t a reenactment. In eight days he would potentially have to obey the immutable laws of history and kill again. “No. Please. No.” In the next chapter of the saga, this next pivotal scene of the drama yet to unfold on a stage he also occupied, Annie Chapman had the spotlight and her presence would tell all.
“She’d better not be Maggie’s friend, Rose!” In jest, trying to muster up his dry wit, a lame effort made to recover some fragment of his former self, it did not seem to have the effect he hoped for, after all.
Ethan ran his hands through his hair as he drew a deep breath through his nose, expelling a heavy sigh through his mouth. His mind reeling with imagery, he never recognized this Maggie as Mary Ann Nichols until she was lying dead beneath him, carved by the blade from his bag. The all too familiar vision of Polly staring blankly into his face became excruciatingly real, identical to the postmortem photographs. It was not too far-fetched a notion to think he had already passed Annie Chapman on the streets. He could have literally run into her passing through the crowd at Ten Bells and been none the wiser. According to his research, the only historical images available of her were those of the disfigured corpse after her death. No portrait, not a single photograph of her alive and well. More’s the pity.
There is a discernable missing character once a life has left its body. That factor cannot be labeled, it merely exists. A person asleep might appear similar to a person expired on the surface but, once photographed, there are specific nuances apparent that definitively differentiate them somehow. Having memorized all of the graphic postmortem pictures of all five women he was supposed to watch getting murdered, he had been unable to recognize the first of them alive and well. So, for this purpose, these images were meaningless in real life. Yet, it became critically important that he recall every detail if he had to perform these acts alone on the world stage. After the debacle with Mary Ann Nichols and her simple façade as Maggie the barmaid, Ethan knew there was a distinct possibility he could run into any of the remaining four victims without making the connection. Prone to repeating itself in a mocking manner, history was now an adversary. Deciding to deliberately isolate himself, he would avoid contact with humanity for the remaining time he had to be there to fulfill the historical design. The man learned his lesson. If ever there was a time to write in his journal, this was it, the pencil trembling in his grasp. “Write it down.”
***
Journal Entry ˜ 31 August 1888
Assuming this is expected to be turned in along with all the other items provided for my jump, this entry may fall under the category of a written confession. In the early morning hours of this historical date I, Dr. Ethan LaPierre, in an attempt to preserve the timeline regarding the Jack the Ripper case, had no other alternative but to take the life of Mary Ann Nichols in the manner and procedure indicative of her demise for the sake of maintaining accuracy in historical record. There was an inadvertent meeting of the two of us a few days prior to her fateful destiny unfolding which I will explain further in my debriefing. I am convinced that no other person arrived before or after the recorded time of the murder, leaving me no alternative but to kill Polly Nichols in precisely the method Jack the Ripper did. This was my interpretation of non-interference. If no one else shows up in eight days less myself and Miss Chapman, maybe the simplest confession should be that I am the Ripper.
You, as the Consortium have a decision to make upon surrendering this journal to you and following debriefing to decide if I am to be convicted or commended for the acts I have done and maybe am about to do. Since my return through the Flicker is not until November 9th it could be my sole burden and responsibility to maintain what history recorded. Therefore, in eight nights I might be compelled to continue the work of Jack the Ripper by murdering Annie Chapman. Sequentially, I’ll need to take another leap of faith in my logical approach and actions should it become necessary to take yet another life for the sake of continuity. I might have to murder three more women prior to my return on the morning of the last victim’s demise. I hope you can appreci
ate my dilemma, not one of my own making, I assure you.
Remembering well the hours of Flicker Scope conferences on the matter of non-interference, the importance of never causing a ripple in the fabric of time, this was drummed into us to such a degree that it became part of our psyche. Never was this conundrum discussed. I will accept whatever judgments are passed upon my return. However, regarding the instructions I’d received, I have acted in good faith and in accordance with my comprehension of it as the Scope-apparent.
Divulging the reasons for my actions I hope allows you to empathize should the next Flicker project necessitate a Scope to intervene. Would he or she be judged in turn should the act be illegal or praised for saving the timeline of history? It is the dilemma I will unfortunately bring back to you at the end of this project. Genius is the mind that sees the way through impossibility. If my decision is likewise my crime then I am ready to face the consequences of my actions upon returning to the future. I did what I had to do and will complete my mission, come what may.
***
In Ethan’s tired eyes, the world filled with shades of gray was gone. Like a still life shot in black and white, the image was never sharper. A personal conviction to the deepest well of his core, he questioned his existence, his part in the play, yet he never questioned the necessity to do what must be done, the honorable thing to do. Assuming he’d have time to reflect after any act he might be forced to commit, he was committed to what he perceived to be a right ending to a wrongful journey. To surrender his purpose along with logic meant he could let go of everything his head was polluted with up to this point, simply follow the blueprints the great architect of history gave him to build the most haunted house of all time, riddled with ghosts.
Ethan woke the next morning with a song lingering in his head, namely “Rude” by the pop group Magic, recorded in 2014, one hundred and twenty-six years in the future. “Saturday morning jumped out of bed and put on my best suit....” Causing him to smile, it surprised him. The ambivalence had subsided with sleep, as well as the all-consuming remorse. He had not thought of music of any era since arriving in this one, his mind possessed with other matters. Yes, he’d passed by a few street vendors with a musician nearby them on a sidewalk and there were bawdy, raucous beer songs flying about Ten Bells. It was entertaining enough, but for Ethan, it was not real music, ethereal compositions that had moved him someplace deep within his soul. In that instant, Ethan longed to visit the symphony orchestra, aching for a concerto. Although not overly fond of a song still stuck in his mind, burned into his memory bank in 2014, it made him smile because he felt weight being lifted from his psyche. It made him feel lighter, as if floating on a feather in a cloud.
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