Prologue

He watched from a corner of the dingy room. He could see his mother lying on the bed with her legs spread far apart—a man wedged between them like he was stuck there. They were grunting, groaning, and making other strange noises.

He wanted to shut his eyes to them, but he didn’t dare. She would be very angry with him if he didn’t watch her with the man.

She had told him he had to see how Mamma put food on the table, clothes on his back, a roof—even a leaking one—over their heads.

What it meant to be a whore.

He glanced over at the pile of crumpled money on the table the man had put there.

Eyeing them on the bed again, he winced as the man squeezed his mother’s breasts so hard she cried out in pain. Just as quickly, she began to laugh almost hysterically, her legs wrapped around the man’s buttocks while he pounded into her as if in search of some hidden treasure.

“Come here, Jack!” His mother demanded, her thick yellow hair spread haphazardly across the pillow. When he resisted, she shrieked: “You heard me, boy! Come here!”

He walked slowly towards the bed. The man was still on top of her, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

They both reeked of whiskey.

Reaching out to him, his mother said: “Take Mamma’s hand, Jack. I need you—”

The man turned and laughed at him. “Yeah, boy, do what your Mamma says. Hold her hand.”

He reluctantly reached for her outstretched hand. She tightened her fingers around his small hand, nearly cutting off his circulation. He noted her hand was chapped and had brown spots on it and her nails were chipped and discolored.

She gripped his hand tighter and tighter as the man drove himself into her harder and deeper.

Finally, the man let out a thunderous wail and his mother’s hand slipped away, as though suddenly lifeless.

“Did you enjoy watching, Jack ole boy?” the man asked amusingly, rolling off Jack’s mother.

He didn’t respond.

“I’ll just bet you did at that.” He laughed. “In fact, Jack, you wouldn’t mind trying her out yourself, would you, boy?”

Jack fixed the man with hatred in his eyes. He looked between his mother’s legs that were still spread as if locked into place. There was a trickle of blood coming from inside her, spilling onto the bed.

“Don’t let that scare you none, Jack,” the man snorted. “Women, even whores, are used to that and a whole lot more . Ain’t that right, Marlene?”

“Yeah, we’re used to lots of blood,” she responded tonelessly, bringing her legs together.

He looked into his mother’s eyes. They were hazel and stared back at him with a red tint, almost devoid of expression.

“My guess, Marlene,” the man said while slipping into his trousers, “is that someday Jack here is gonna make his Mamma proud.”

This caused her to crack a weak smile. “He’s already made me proud,” she declared. “He’s my little boy. And I ain’t never gonna let him forget that. Never! Isn’t that so, Jack?”

And she snapped her head backwards and began to laugh drunkenly.

Chapter 1

July 15, 1887

Dear Detective Marboro and the rest of my would-be captors:

You will pardon me if I find it hard to suppress my laughter at the so-called leads as to my identity. I can assure you that you are as far away from that as when I claimed my first victim approximately a year ago.

Indeed can you be so certain that I am not, in fact, one of you in blue?

I should think that everyone would applaud my ridding the streets of these low life harlots of the night. But apparently even many of you have a vested interest in the survival of this decadent profession—both financially and physically.

Don’t bother trying to catch me, for I am far too clever.

Not quite ready to call it quits just yet, I’m afraid. Having too much fun watching these whores squirm and writhe as I slit their throats...and other parts of their anatomies.

Yours truly,

Jack The Ripper!

Chapter 2

New York City, July 1888

It was a hot and muggy afternoon in this burgeoning metropolis surrounded by the waters of the Hudson River. Horse-drawn carriages of one type or another negotiated streets fraught with clumps of manure, street vendors, and others trying to make their way to and fro. Men with side whiskers, walking sticks, tailored suits, and top hats conducted their business on the sidewalks and in the many shops and dining establishments lining downtown Manhattan. Women in hooded cloaks, long elegant gowns, petticoats, and stylish hats and boots browsed stores on the arms of their husbands or alone. Even the growing numbers of homeless, unemployed, and disadvantaged in New York City had reason for optimism.

It was the dawn of the modern era with the recent invention of the telephone and phonograph and significant improvements in medicine and transportation across the Atlantic. By the turn of the century there would be gas powered vehicles, mass market phones and photography, and electronically driven passenger elevators.

There was also a new wave of crime and criminals sweeping the country, with New York’s cultural diversity and distinct socioeconomic classes making it a prime location for street gangs, rapists, prostitutes, muggers, and murderers.

In Manhattan’s General Hospital, many victims of such crimes were treated and released. Others with more serious ailments faced operations and long recoveries.

Such was the case of a female mugging victim, whose attack triggered a massive heart attack. She was rushed by private carriage to the Emergency Room where the attending surgeon went to work immediately to save her life. It took several painstaking hours before that task was satisfactorily accomplished. Like an artist painting a magnificent landscape, the surgeon was flawless and competent in his execution, taking great pride in his skills with the knife.

When it was all over, the patient was moved to recovery. The surgeon fully expected her to survive the ordeal.

He then turned his attention to other weighty thoughts.

***

In the parlors, whorehouses, back streets and alleys of Manhattan’s red light district, prostitutes in slinky evening gowns and voluptuous, curvy bodies plied their trade to a steady diet of sex hungry male customers.

Outside, the smell of sulfur tainted the air and gas lamps were little more than props in the dark of the night.

He watched from the shadows as she stumbled out of the dance hall. He knew she served men drinks and her body. He’d not had her himself, but had watched her tease and flirt with others before taking them to one of the rooms upstairs.

She staggered down the street, wearing a long red gown with white trim, cut so that her straight white shoulders were exposed, as was an ample amount of cleavage. Her blonde hair was bunched atop her head in big curls. She was somewhat tall and leaner than most of the women he set his sights on. He imagined her to be in her mid-twenties, though she looked older with caked on makeup and a face that showed signs of deterioration from excessive drinking and sun exposure.

He followed her as she crossed the street and headed down another. It was darker and empty of other pedestrians. Nevertheless he eyed her with caution, relying on his senses more than his sight to guide him. There did not seem to be reason for suspicion, he told himself.

She was his for the taking.

She must have heard him, for she stopped and looked around, alarmed. He ducked into the shadows. She saw no one and continued to move more briskly than before.

He picked up his pace behind her, closing the gap with elongated steps. He was practically upon her now, his adrenaline pumping blood into his veins like morphine into an addict.

She stopped and turned abruptly, facing him. He could see fear in her eyes. “You wouldn’t be followin’ me, would ya, mista?” Her accent had an Irish tilt.

He could smell her strong perfume.

Her fear seemed to be replaced with anger as she said with asperity, placing her hands on her hips: “Cat’s caught your tongue, has it? I ain’t got all night you know—”

He studied her for a moment longer, to be sure, then said calmly: “I would like to pay for your services.”

She regarded the man curiously. He was in his mid to late twenties, she surmised. Tall and sturdy, he had a full head of jet-black hair and thick raven sideburns. His eyes, set slightly apart, were dark and ominous. His nose was long and narrow. A slight grin rested on his wide mouth, suggesting confidence and cunning.

He was wearing a Cimmerian frock coat, over a like colored waistcoat, and silver-white shirt with an onyx cravat. A gold watch hung on a chain across his dark trousers. In his hand was a black medical bag.

She recognized him from the dance hall. He had been observing her there, but had been careful to keep his distance.

She painted a smile on her face, and said cheerfully: “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“I’m saying so now.” He regarded her expressionless.

“So you are, love.” Her teeth shone at him like diamonds. “But not at the dance hall. No reason to share me money. Follow me. My place is just around the corner.”

He had a better idea. “In there—” He pointed to a narrow, dark alleyway.

She favored him with uncertainty. “You sure? It’d be much more comfortable at my place.”

“I’m sure,” he said, inclining his head for her to lead the way.

“Whatever suits your fancy, love.” She walked down the alley slowly, feeling him right at her footsteps. “A doctor, are ya now?”

“Yes.” He sensed her hesitancy.

“What type?”

“A surgeon.”

“What’s yer name, love?”

“My friends call me Jack.”

She turned around and flashed him a nervous, but soft smile. “May I call you Jack?”

“You can.” He noted a trash bin at the far end of the alleyway, between a warehouse and a clothing factory. “This is far enough,” he muttered.

She licked her lips and tried to keep her cool. “You always carry your bag around when you want to be with a lady?”

“Yes.”

“What’s in it?”

He smiled disingenuously. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She could not stop shaking. “So what is it you have in mind?”

“Nothing unusual, I can assure you.”

He pulled out a few bills and stuffed them into her cleavage, then backed her against the wall of the factory. Setting his bag on the ground, he opened it to an array of surgical knives.

Before he could remove one, he heard the voice above him shout: “If you pull that out, Jack, I’ll have to shoot you!”

He looked up squarely into the barrel of a revolver. The whore was holding it, aimed right between his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked as if she hadn’t a clue.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I should think it would be obvious by now, Jack. I’m keeping you at bay till the coppers arrive—” She kept the gun leveled at his face, as she glanced nervously down the alleyway and saw policemen rushing towards them, guns drawn. Favoring the doctor more calmly now, she said: “Afraid you picked the wrong whore this time, Jack The Ripper!”

He shot to his feet, intent upon disarming her. Instead he was gang tackled by two burly police officers who seemed to come from nowhere. Another was shining a bull’s-eye lamp on them.

A detective came up from the rear. “Good work, Sharon,” he said to the prostitute decoy, gingerly taking the gun from her trembling hands. “We couldn’t have nabbed the bloody bastard without your help!”

She took an involuntary step back as the suspect glared at her with a wickedness that chilled her very soul.

“Believe you me, it was a pleasure,” she responded. “Now maybe us working girls won’t have to keep looking over our shoulders ‘round every corner, aye!”

The officer smiled at her then narrowed his gaze at the suspect. “Get him out of here,” he ordered. “The sooner we get the mad doctor behind bars, the better—”