“Grab the brass rings!” Ethan chuckled at his wittiness, especially under duress. He turned from the desk, crossing to the dresser to refill his cup of water. His mind so preoccupied, he did not notice the wet spot and stepped right in it. Ethan slipped, almost falling. He caught himself by bracing the top of the saturated dresser.
“No, no, no, no, no. Fuck me. No!”
Blood. Seemingly everywhere, it had seeped down the sides of the dresser onto the floor, oozing from the internal organs he removed from Annie Chapman’s body just an hour before. It had soaked through the rags and satchel and began leaking from the corners of his medical bag. He was revisiting the carnage as he’d harvested her organs so quickly, they didn’t have the chance to bleed out before being ragged and bagged. Ethan grabbed up his physician’s attire from the floor, placing it on the bed out of harm’s way then took one of the outfits he bought to wipe up the splatters. What a mess! He turned the soaked clothes over, opened the medical bag and placed the sopping satchel of organs on top of them. Placing all of it back into the medical bag, Ethan knew he had to dispose of this and fast. He also knew exactly where to do it. Within the next twenty-four hours Ethan would discard the bloody organs he cut from a woman then proceed to make his way nonchalantly over to what was left of the same woman’s body to dispose her of the rings. He’d use his fine physician’s attire to get his foot in the door at the mortuary or in hospital, wherever he needed to go, all of this done for the greater good, for the sake of maintaining the timeline. Professor Ethan LaPierre, poster child for the Flicker Project.
Washing and wiping his hands dry before peering at his pocket watch, he didn’t want to smudge it with blood again. It was 7:16 a.m. Although he was exhausted, he still had so much to do before he could rest. This was the second time he’d have to work diligently removing both the visible blood stains on the lighter fabric of his tailored shirt and any remnants left on the darker fabrics of his coat and trousers. It all had to be clean and dry by sunset as Ethan would need to be out in public again, accomplishing what remained to be done.
For the moment, he had a grip on his emotions. Settling into a more purposeful mindset, his first order of business was to bathe in a basin of water. Residual blood notwithstanding, what he didn’t wipe off at the murder scene, it was the event itself Ethan hoped to wash away, to cleanse his soul along with his body. To be rid of the smell, the sweat, the stain on his memory, all of it to be wiped away with the stroke of a washcloth. For Ethan this was an exercise in psychological cleansing that was fast becoming regimental in this post-murder purge ritual, redemptive in nature. He wanted the Universe to know what a sacrifice it was for him, as well as his victims. Bathing revived the man, for the time being, at least. Ethan put on his contemporary period outfit and went downstairs to replenish his pitcher with fresh water, dumping its pinkish, blood-tainted contents down the outhouse hole. Returning promptly, he bought some soap from the manager and more coffee grounds for the kitchen kettle. Ethan needed to call in the reinforcements. Caffeine...and more caffeine.
For the next two hours Ethan spent his time washing out all stains he could from his physician’s outfit, placing them in position near the window to dry unwrinkled. As much use as this suit already had, it went far beyond normal wear and tear. He knew he would have to visit downtown London and have another one tailor-made, perhaps a fine suit from Savile Row, the best of the best. After all he’d been through to this point, Ethan thought he deserved some pampering, especially considering he was apparently going to wear the original down to bare threads all too fast. Sooner than that he would need to purchase another set of “local” attire since one was now a blood barrier stuffed inside his medical bag. Once his current suit had sufficiently dried, he planned to change into it and again assume the corresponding personality. Then he’d make his first attempt to access London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. It was where the most available incinerator for doctors would be, the place to dispose of Annie Chapman’s innards discreetly. Amputations and exploratory surgeries on cadavers were common practice in 19th Century medicine and, by necessity, a need for all remains to be destroyed properly so as not to create an environment ripe with disease. Confident in his newly acquired persona, Ethan knew he’d get it done.
As the long day passed into night, Ethan could hear murmuring beneath his own window as word spread on the street of the gruesome death of Annie Chapman. He gazed down upon them knowingly, watching the vendors gossiping, ladies gasping in disbelief. Feeling almost omnipotent, observing from a higher plain of existence, untouchable and undetectable, the drama continued to play out on the stage below. It could have been titled “Whitechapel” with bit actors scrambling around, making absurd assumptions and jumping to conclusions that, after all the players had taken their last curtain call, would leave the case with a starring cast of thirty-one suspects including three doctors, claims of a royal conspiracy and even one female suspect. Thirty-one suspects, minimally, for a total of eighteen murders. Truth be told, they didn’t have a clue.
During a period early in the 21st Century several authors claimed that they had definitive DNA evidence that proved who Jack the Ripper was, yet, unfortunately, they had different players in the same game, including Aaron Kosminski and Walter Sickert, another coinciding book release on the horizon. Author Patricia Cornwell who discerned Sickert to be the real Jack the Ripper stated, “The biggest challenge in very old cases is chain of evidence and contamination.” Her erudite observations came before another author, Russell Edwards, claimed the same of Kosminski. So, even though forensic science vastly improved over the centuries the fact is, just like the people gathering below Ethan’s second floor lodging, it was sheer speculation, anybody’s guess who the real killer was, but Ethan knew. He was tasked to Scope five specific women from eighteen murders committed. All had the same patterns of mutilation, leading the police to determine they were all falling victim under the same knife, same style: same killer. It left thirteen women whose attacker(s) were also never caught and punished. Still, the thrill seekers of empirical evidence in the most infamous unsolved case in history throw statements of “fact” against the wall of acceptance to see what sticks. Ethan knew the truth. He was stuck with the role.
He assumed either clothing he wrapped Annie’s uterus in was holding back the blood or cooler temperatures already caused coagulation in the medical bag. Either way, Ethan could not and did not want to hold onto it any longer. He began dressing the part once again, donning his fanciest duds. Ready but waiting for darkness, his old friend, to fall upon the town, it was after 9:00 p.m. when he left his lodging, the medical bag tucked discreetly beneath his arm. Making certain not to draw attention of the gossip brigades clambering along Bakers Row, he once again exited through the back door of the lodging and took the back alley, made a left onto Whites Row then a right onto Thomas Street until he reached Whitechapel Road. Directly across the street was London Hospital. Slip out the back, Jack.
It’s funny. Ethan, on his Flicker trial walkthroughs of Whitechapel had passed the hospital dozens of times but never had reason to go into the historical building. The street activity wasn’t much different on the outside even with over a century of time separating his visits. The same vendor stands lined Whitechapel Road on the north side, selling a variety of merchandise from fruits and vegetables to clothing, accessories and rugs. The marketplace was bustling on a Saturday evening, a chorus of voices bartering, children displaying every energetic, emotionally charged noise they could get away with before being scolded, told to hush by their mother, if they had one. Orphans running the streets were reputed to be at an epidemic level during this time. Although they were children by adult standards, they learned quickly how to survive the elements and conditions just as well as their grown up counterparts.
The face of the hospital leered over Whitechapel Road. The five tall archways leading patients and visitors into the front entranceway of one of the world’s most advanced medical educatio
n and research centers of its time, England had taken the lead, even in these darker times, as the beacon of civilization and progress. Barbaric compared to modern standards, where Ethan had come from, yet where the rest of the world was in comparison on the dusk of the 19th Century, the English character of sophistication became a driving force behind accomplishing many of the world’s advances before their global counterparts in science, medicine and social structure.
Ethan sat down on a bench to rest on the far side of the street, taking in the view. Laying the bag beside him, he suddenly felt it begin to move! Startled, he looked behind him at a vagrant mutt who obviously had no master, licking away dried and lightly seeping blood lining the outer edges of the leather. In uncharacteristic form, he stood up then kicked at his ribs to ward off the poor pup. Other than his love of horses, he had no use for animals since his youth but never would he be so cruel as to harm a helpless, hungry stray. Never before now. The dog yelped and ran away.
Ethan waited for a moment for the horse and carriage traffic to diminish in order to cross Whitechapel Road, then he entered the side door on the west wall, past the tall wrought iron fencing where the medical staff arrived at start of shift. There was always an understood aristocracy associated with British physicians and never was the case when anyone questioned their validity or status in the hierarchy of authority and importance. Ethan’s research in taking on this persona was, again, playing out to his advantage. He was greeted by several hospital staff recognizing the standard medical bag. Addressing him as doctor in passing, they went about their business. He accessed his memory of the hospital’s layout and reaffirmed his destination via the posted signs until he arrived at the incinerators. Their evening shifts had already begun, a virtual skeleton crew compared to the day shift, far thinner in attendance, leaving Ethan to enter some of the lesser trafficked halls of the non-patient wards. As expected, he located the incinerator room where the boiler was already running, indicating someone was using is to discard hospital waste material and would return soon. He needed to be exacting in his disposal, yet prudent with the time provided. Annie Chapman’s organs wrapped in rags inside his local attire, the weight of the bundle felt like a small pot roast as it was lifted and placed into an oven for dinner. He wasn’t measuring in cannibalistic terms, rather, in comparative serving portions. Ethan smiled with that thought for no reason clear to him, yet his motive for smiling next was in satisfaction, completing the task of tossing his victim’s remains into the fire, watching them transform to ash before his eyes. He could’ve tossed his bloody bag and medical instruments but he thought it would be too suspicious right now to purchase new equipment during an ongoing police investigation of the Whitechapel murders. No need to draw the spotlight. He would merely wash and dry everything, including the bag.
“Waste not. Want not.” Ethan spoke softly to himself, making sure not to alert anyone in the vicinity to his reason for being there. Without incident or interference he exited the incinerator room and began his journey back through the corridors to the original entrance point. As he crossed through one of the large reception areas he looked up, spotting a familiar face, not someone he’d been properly introduced to but rather, a character from his research. Standing at the receiving table was none other than Inspector Frederick Abberline. He was interacting with some of the staff, no doubt, now in hot pursuit of clues following the death of Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman. They never made eye contact and Abberline never even saw Ethan pass by. Once again, it made him smile knowing he was just as invisible physically as he was historically. Before exiting Ethan approached a clerical office attendee at her desk, seeking some information of his own, a clue or two about his next stop.
“Would you be ever so kind as to tell me who is on schedule at the mortuary on Old Montague Street at this hour?” Ethan spoke with confidence as Dr. Bridgeman.
“The Death House?” The young lady was startled by the handsome doctor, the mysterious stranger, someone she’d not seen before but oh, a welcome addition. He could see it in her eyes. Of course, Ethan knew it was a bold move to direct attention to where he was going, but he was growing ever assertive in his “time” advantages, knowing that historically, the two locations were linked.
The young woman dutifully opened the logbook resting on the desk beside her, nervously sifting through the calendar to find the current date and related schedule.
“Yes, Doctor. It seems Miles and Rogueford are on duty until midnight.”
“Miles and....?”
“Rogueford, sir.”
“Thank you, kindly. And what is your name, may I ask?”
“Certainly, doctor. My name is Alice.”
Ethan closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Of course it is.”
Ignoring her quizzical expression along with the blush on her cheeks, he smiled, winking at the lass as he left. He didn’t introduce himself, merely turned and walked away with the arrogance of an aristocrat, playing a part and relishing it. Ethan was toying with “time”, just testing the cosmic configurations as his stars aligned.
He continued through the lobby, out the front door, onto streets lit by gaslight, illuminating the main route to the mortuary on Old Montague Street. The constant, repetitive brainwashing techniques imposed on him by The Consortium’s military brass was tactical training he saw the value of as it kicked in automatically. Never take the same route twice. He headed west, passing his favorite establishment, the home of the best bangers and mash in the city. Giving his bank a cursory glance as he passed before turning north on Commercial Street, from there he would double back east on Old Montague Street until he came upon the mortuary. He checked his watch in transit. It was 9:58 p.m., still plenty of time to grab the brass rings.
Smirking a bit, he knew he need only arrive there and depart before shift change prior to the incoming midnight graveyard shift. The less eyes and ears on him, the better it was for his timeline reset. Approaching five steps, he’d counted them while ascending to his proper position. Catching a glimpse of two men through the lighted window, both were sitting at a table, apparently engaged in a card game. Knocking on the door, Ethan heard one of the chairs slide across the hardwood floor.
“Don’t look at me bloody cards, y’ tart.” One man chided the other as if it had happened before. Upon opening the door the man smoking a carved pipe looked at Ethan with marked disdain, obviously put out by his presence.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Asking rather abruptly, he made no effort to be pleasant or welcoming in any way.
“Dr. Arthur Bridgeman. I was directed by the hospital to assess any unclaimed and unidentified corpses for use in autopsy studies for my medical students.” Ethan knew this to be a common practice within the community, still continued in modern times with the benefit of refrigeration.
“At this hour?” The attendant was annoyed, his game interrupted for another.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I was woefully detained in hospital with a patient. I do give precedence to the living over the dead. I can’t help them anymore.” Tilting his head toward the adjacent room where bodies were stored, Ethan’s posture staunch, his demeanor spoke in a tone which was as polite but as firm as his words.
“I will need to see some identification then.” The man spoke rudely, obviously not educated enough to respect the title of the gentleman standing before him.
“Yes. Of course.” Ethan responded, reaching into his pocket for the credentials. He realized he needed to establish his credibility through authority.
“Good man. Doing your job well. We would not want any unsavory characters, curiosity seekers poking around now would we? Which would you be, sir, Miles or Rogueford? You’re both thought well of in hospital.” Ethan made a clever move to personalize their meeting. Likewise, complimenting his host was one bloody good idea that came quickly, thinking on his feet.
Barely looking at the documents in his hands, instead the man passed them back to Ethan as he rep
lied, “Yes, Dr. Bridgeman, the name’s Miles.”
“Well, Miles, the sooner I get done, the sooner you can get back to winning that game of cards.” Nodding toward Rogueford, acknowledging him, as well, he said, “A worthy opponent? So good you have each other for company, as the occupants of this building don’t seem too keen on small talk anymore.”
“Yeah, right.” Miles grinned knowingly, inviting the doctor inside the reception area. Approaching the doors to the mortuary’s main examining room, Miles paused to look at Rogueford still waiting at the card table.
“Who the hell is he? No more players allowed.” Roquefort was equally put out.
“Look at me bloody cards and it’ll be the end o’ ya!” Miles had lightheartedly threatened his workfellow as he acquired the keys to the locked door from a hook.
Opening the room, he stepped in first to light two lanterns set atop a small table near the entrance. As Miles did so, Ethan stepped in from behind him, spotting four covered corpses lying on different slabs around the autopsy table, fixed in position at the center of the room. Made of wood with drainage holes for their bodies to be washed, it likewise received any other fluids passing from the corpses. To Ethan, it looked like something from The Dark Ages. Miles placed one of the lanterns on a writing table then handed the second to his guest, leaning in toward Ethan until his face began to glow in the lamplight.
“Call me when yer done then. I’m off to win me a hand if the bloke didn’t cheat me none.”
“Right. Will do.” Ethan replied as the attendant exited, leaving the door slightly ajar so to hear the good doctor should he be called upon.
As proper procedure would have it, each body brought into the mortuary would have every last possession removed, cataloged for inventory, at times, for evidence. The written list would accompany the autopsy report, laid near the top of the table at the head of the deceased for any needed review. Ethan need only pull the covering from the face of the prone bodies to identify Annie and the corresponding manifest. Knowing that he needed to manage this time well, he began to pull back the sheets on each of the corpses one by one. The first revealed an elderly man who’d probably died from old age, disease or exposure to the elements. The smell of death reminded him of his first aromatic encounter with this era upon stepping through the Flicker, an odor both pungent and putrid. The second body was uncovered to reveal a second man. Exposing his face revealed brutal open wounds to the head. Either the victim of a mugging or some other form of attack with a sharp object, it appeared he might have suffered a painful end.
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