Ethan did not hear her response, as another woman walked past them. He made every effort to obscure his visual identity from her while interrupting Annie.
“So, will you then?”
“Yes.” She replied, caught off guard by his abruptness.
Just as the woman turned the corner at the end of the street Ethan heard a clock chime. It was a quarter past five. The woman must have been Elizabeth Long, right on cue. She’d been mistaken about the time, as some of the historical records stated. It was not 5:30 a.m. when she saw Chapman, but instead, the alternate assumption, that it was 5:15. From his vantage point Ethan could see clearly in every direction. There was nobody else in sight, no hardhearted criminal lurking in the shadows of a dark alley, just softhearted Professor LaPierre thrust down the gullet of the beast, as the beast. As an integral part played, as history in the making, the time had come for him to abandon the role of understudy and take the lead, time to commit history.
Because of the varying schedules of local workers, most of the lodging’s main access halls to each room were always unlocked, most of the time merely left wide open. Number 29 Hanbury was no exception to the rule. They walked the few doors down from where they met, stopping to chat then continuing on as Annie Chapman held onto the arm of her momentary suitor.
“I see the bag you’re carryin’. Yer a doctor?” she inquired.
“Yes, I’m here for a speaking engagement at the hospital.”
“Oh! An out-of-towner! A rich doctor then, are ya?” Hoping to make her rent.
“Far from rich. I’m comfortable enough.”
“Comfortable sounds nice.” She snuggled up closer wrapping both arms around his left elbow. Without missing a step in her pace or looking up at him, Annie asked one last question. “Yer not the Whitechapel killer, are ya now?”
More surprising to Ethan than the question was his instant response.
“Heaven’s no! Why do you think I give speeches? I hate the sight of blood!”
A trigger was pulled in his psyche. A defensive trigger cocked and ready to fire away for survival purposes. A clever corner of his mind accessed to protect himself from becoming detected for his true intention. Annie Chapman laughed with relief, deciding a killer would not possess wealth and wit accompanied by purely irrational violence. A girl had to be careful nowadays. She took him at his word then laughed again, squeezing his arm a bit more tightly. It was the last time she would laugh.
In gentlemanly style he allowed her the lead into the hall access to 29 Hanbury.
“Are you staying here?” Another question, she wished he would say yes.
“God, no. I’ve a flat let to me on Bakers Row nearer the hospital.”
“Then why the stroll so far? There are ladies workin’ those streets.” Seemingly suspicious all of a sudden, her companion had a quick retort to ease her mind.
“Well, too close to the hospital, someone coming on or off shift might recognize me out at this hour in the company of a lady.” Ethan came prepared with an answer for every question. He was fucking brilliant, he thought, clever as hell.
Stepping out the rear door of the hallway into a fenced back yard, Ethan closed the door behind them. The two of them moved to the left, nearer the fence dividing them from 27 Hanbury Street. Ethan surveyed the yard. As expected, no bystanders within view. As he walked and scanned the perimeter he wound up standing in front of Annie, her back to the lodging through which they’d just passed. They stood for a moment not speaking. Annie placed her hands on his chest and moved in closer as Ethan froze, as nervous as if he were on a first date. This was the unknown factor he was trying to shake, the uncertainty of whether or not he was able to do what he must do. He had to quickly choose which of the different emotions he experienced over the past week he needed to do the job.
“The job.”
“Beg ya pardon?” Annie said, appearing confused.
Ethan zoned. He dropped the bag where he stood and lunged at the throat of his much shorter victim with both hands. She managed to get out a weak audible “no” before he cut off her air. With his leverage, he pushed her backwards to the ground as he continued to squeeze with all his strength, restricting the access of blood and oxygen to her brain. He needed her to pass out. Either Annie Chapman was stronger than she appeared or Ethan LaPierre was a weakling or doing it all wrong, but Annie was fighting back, kicking, trying hard to beat him off but his arms were too long, her legs flailing, her hands trying to pry his loose. Losing this battle, he had no other option but to win the war. Freeing his left hand, Ethan reached into his medical bag. The knife, deliberately placed atop the rags and the satchel bag was easily removed. Metamorphosis occurred as he came into his own painstaking self-awareness.
Remembering every detail of this slaughter, Ethan made no mistake in the cuts. The first was reportedly to be along her throat. He repositioned his right hand, using the butt of it to drive her lower jaw upward, forcing her to expose her neck fully to his blade. He went for the deep cut first, slicing across her throat from left to right. The sharpness of this eight-inch-long surgical steel blade was mesmerizing. It slid easily and deeply through the skin, muscle and tendons of the left side of her neck, causing an explosive rush of adrenaline drenched blood to spray, painting the fence to her left, nearly fourteen inches from the cold ground Annie laid upon.
His first cut continued, sawing as he went, the butcher taking an order for a slice of filet from a fresh side of beef. Ethan tried not to, he truly tried, but he could not stop looking into Annie’s eyes as he completed the almost full severing of her head with one cut. Any fight she had remaining left with her life. She may not have died right away. Shock may have set in prior to the last few beats of her heart, the sound of one life marching off into the past. To repeat the patterns, he’d duplicate details in the reports from Dr. George Bagster Phillips who documented every wound to precise measurements. Arriving around 6:30 a.m., he conducted a thorough examination on site before Annie was taken to the mortuary. Based on his knowledge of its facts, he’d have to make two additional incisions, both entries on the left side of her neck. With precision he plunged the blade in facing her spine then pushed it in a carving motion, pulling white tendons and red muscle up with every swipe of the blade as it hit bone, the vertebra protecting her spinal cord. Blood sprayed then oozed from the wounds. Ethan had to replicate the last incision a half inch lower just as deep, up to the spine again, according to the job description.
Annie was finished but Ethan had more to do and now he was racing the clock. He removed his blood-splattered hand from her blood-drenched chin, as well as the ornate white, red lined handkerchief that she had tied securely around her neck. Her tongue had been pinched between her teeth and appeared swollen. Ethan hopped to the left side of her body next to the fence and pulled the leather satchel and rags out quickly, stuffing half of the rags inside the bottom of it then placing it next to the bag past her feet. Lifting up her two petticoats to expose the lower half of her body, he had a much better angle for opening up her stomach, puncturing and slicing fatty tissue, gaining access to other internal organs simultaneously.
There was a specific incident in Ethan’s childhood where, in one primary school science class, he was expected to dissect a living frog, which he promptly refused to do to the poor, defenseless creature. His actions or lack thereof found him going to the Principal’s office for some discipline, disobeying an order, in so many words. He stood his ground and elected to receive punishment in a conscientious objection to killing the frog. Ethan couldn’t reject this dissection. Principals of the time would not allow it but for Ethan, it was a matter of principle. The Immutable laws of the Universe would have none of it. He was bound by history, by duty to follow through with this far greater desecration. Maybe his science teacher would pass him now.
Again, he plunged the blade into the far right side of her abdomen then began slicing a half circle down and past her vaginal region then fully around to his side o
f her hips, following every detail learned in an anatomy class he had been privy to attend at Oxford Medical College. Based upon Ethan’s autopsy practice on cadavers, he began peeling back the skin, fatty tissue and muscle from her midsection like a page in a large book, slicing through any superficial connections that he missed on the first cut and then resting it on her thorax region. From the case research, photos, reports and cadaver training, he carefully severed the intestines from the mesenteric attachments. Laying the knife at the opening edge of the incision, with his two free hands, he lifted the intestines from her body, placing the mass up on the right hand side of her chest. In doing so he lost his balance, slipping in the blood then falling back toward the fence. Quickly reaching out with his right hand to support himself against it, his hand landed where the blood from Annie’s neck had sprayed and slid off the spot, causing Ethan’s full weight and measure of a man to strike fully against the fence. Repositioning himself to the left side of his victim, determined to finish what he started, with a surgical precision and acute memory of the actions recorded, he cut out her uterus, cleanly removing it along with all the connecting appendages, slicing away the upper portion of her vagina and posterior two-thirds of her bladder. He took these parts of Annie and placed them in the leather satchel.
Then he grabbed the second pile of rags with the exception of two of them and stuffed them on top of the uterus and other internal organs before shoving it all into his medical bag along with the weapon. Ethan took the other two rags, using them to wipe off his hands, sleeves and shoes as completely as possible then threw those into the bag before closing it. He repositioned Annie’s legs exactly as she was found by resident John Davis, scheduled to occur in less than fifteen minutes. He wanted to wipe his brow of sweat but did not dare, not knowing if he had wiped his hands clean enough in this dark foreboding yard that he wouldn’t stain his face. If he were apprehended, he’d have to talk up a blue streak to explain away the red streak across his forehead. The cold air should evaporate the perspiration within minutes anyway, he thought. Ethan gently kissed Annie on the forehead, turning her head to the right, as reported, speaking to her one last time.
“It’s a far, far better place you go to, Miss Annie Chapman.” Ethan whispered a few kind words into her dead ears. Arising from her corpse, he calmly crossed to the back door then stepped through the hall, exiting out the front door onto Hanbury Street. The slightest hint of daylight rising with its gray hue bathing the horizon, as Ethan checked his pocket watch, he discovered he was right on time. 5:43 a.m.
The cadence Ethan established would be considered a hurried pace but not one as conspicuous as to draw attention to himself. The trek back to his lodging was the most dangerous because of the spoils he’d claimed during his interlude with Annie. He held the medical bag close to his chest with both hands, rolled up in his coat for safekeeping, embracing the bundle to absorb any leakage from the organs he hoped were sufficiently covered by rags wrapped within the leather satchel. He never even checked his pocket watch. No need. Time was on his side. He need only get where he was going without detection and it was prime time to make the journey, early on Saturday morning. Although foot traffic was light, he chose to take a more discreet route, back alleyways to lessen the possibility of chance encounters. Many a worker coming home from local slaughterhouses traveled with bloodstained clothes. Still, given the prior murders and subsequent uptick in foot patrols in the area, he did not want to risk suspicion and testimonials from anyone curious about his appearance who could report him to authorities. Along his path there were several times when he felt someone was approaching too closely. He would slip into a doorway or slide down a wall into the fetal position with his head tucked down trying to look like a vagrant or street vermin, one of “the untouchables”. Ethan went so far as to scratch and cough to offend those travelers, thus informing them without a word to keep their distance. He was but a few roads away from his 19th Century sanctuary, a room with a new world view.
Coming upon a chimneysweep in his travels, Ethan stared at the man all covered in ashes and soot. What a clever disguise! With the vision planted in his brain, what next came to him was a favorite moment from “Mary Poppins”. “Winds in the east, mist coming in, like somethin’ is brewin’ and bout to begin. Can’t put me finger on what lies in store, but I fear what’s to happen all happened before.” He could hear the innocence of his childhood in the words, a comforting memory.
The rising sun still hidden below the horizon shot perforations of light through morning clouds as upward rays. Legend was these upward rays indicated someone passing to Heaven, perhaps not just a silly superstition. Ethan felt vindicated by this action, best serving Annie her own slice of Heaven by removing the burden of her decaying human form, releasing her to the light and life above and beyond. Mercy. It was a mercy killing in every sense of the word, a deliverance, a kindness extended in her own best interest. Convincing himself he had done this vile thing on Annie’s behalf eased the burden he carried. What he likewise carried in the bag he clutched would get him the death penalty. There was much to consider. Ethan walked alone in half light, finding his way through his darkest thoughts.
At the corners where Old Montague, Hanbury Street and Bucks Row intersect, he slipped around where a recreational area was located, moving past it, behind the row of houses. Taking longer than usual strides, Ethan arrived at the rear entrance of his lodging. Moving quickly and quietly past the kitchen he heard voices of other occupants. Though he never glanced up to make eye contact, hoping no one would bother to note his presence, he was alerted to the contrary by one who’d taken notice of him in passing. He knew he’d been seen when he heard the man speak.
“Looks like someone had a good Friday night!” Other men laughed along.
If they only knew. Ethan never reacted or even turned around. Taking the stairs two steps at a time, he opened the door to his room, disappeared from sight. Closed and locked, he leaned back against it in relief and sheer exhaustion. Physically and mentally spent, for a fleeting moment he smiled and looked up to the heavens, well, toward the ceiling. Feeling grateful for whatever assistance he received to get him through it, he likewise felt the supreme satisfaction of a job well done on his end of the cosmic conspiracy. It happened, across the board, down to the last detail, exactly as it was written in the history books and medical records, it happened. Everything he knew, every image he studied or word he memorized was brought to bear in his endeavors to keep the timeline continuity intact and he did it! Could it be that all of this had happened before? Time would tell.
Ethan moved with heavy legs into the room. His arms aching from carrying the overweight medical bag, he placed it down on the dresser and poured himself some water. Loosening his tie and first three buttons of his shirt, he emptied his cup then sat down on the bed to remove his shoes, pausing to reflect and laugh once again.
“Perfect!” Ethan said to himself. His mind was reeling with details swirling all around the pitch perfect timing of the event, a lone witness Elizabeth Long passing them at the precise time the clock chimed. His elaborate knife work and extraction of the uterus was textbook, as if a murderer was gloating from within the professor. He had to admit the positioning of her body and head was precise, no differences from images taken at the crime scene, right down to the removal of her rings.
“Fuck!” Ethan threw himself back on the bed. “Bloody Fucking hell! The rings! The bloody fucking rings!” How could he have forgotten her rings? In the mortuary reports and subsequent police investigation, it was noted that Annie Chapman was in possession of three brass rings that were chronicled as ‘missing’ after the murder. He had forgotten to remove them from her corpse. Ethan saw them! They were on her fingers! He saw them while she struggled, fighting for her life, trying to pry his hands from her throat. In his mad rush to exit in time he neglected to repeat history and take the rings. “Fuck!” He repeated again and again, not knowing the depth of significance this tiny error wo
uld have, as there was no margin for error. What kind of ripples would be created by tossing this pebble in the river of time? It hit him as a bomb, a nuclear explosion in his brain. Having no immediate knowledge of these implications prompted him to pace. Ethan knew, even the slightest of changes was significant to the timeline of events; how significant was yet to be determined. Only time would tell the tale altered by his neglectful failure to complete the task.
Ethan wasn’t going to let himself off the hook. He began his animalistic pacing to and from the window and bed, all the while removing more and more layers of clothing until he was again stark naked. Every raw human emotion ran through his body. Coupled with cold morning air, it chilled him to the bone. Fear, rage, doubt and sadness among many other sensations arose in his psyche then subsided, only to return with a vengeance moments later. Each thought there to taunt and torture him. No one! Not Colin or Anson or the ghosts of Polly and Annie could beat him up any more than he was doing to himself. He was too smart to be that stupid, too in control to lose it over such an oversight. Gripping the edge of the desk under the window with both hands, he hung his head low, shaking it in denial. It was not the brutal murder of one sick, helpless woman committed by his own hands that ripped him apart. He’d already reconciled himself to the task. The fact that he did not fully accomplish the task tore him asunder. Mr. Meticulous. Mr. No Stone Left Unturned. According to Ethan, the self-proclaimed king of due diligence, in an ongoing fit of self-deprecation, he had to admit he’d fucked it up royally.
Then suddenly, Ethan realized he still had one chance to fix what he broke! Oh! Joy! An opportunity right under his nose, a perfect opportunity to right this wrong, to put the timeline back on track. Up until this time he had only used his physician’s façade in a limited capacity, to be an easy mark for Annie, somebody lacking street sense. Mostly it got in his way. This time it would pave the way into the morgue. It was time to use his credentials and proper attire as his part in a power play, to obtain access to the mortuary and get those fucking brass rings back.
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