Jack the Ripper

Another death. The fifth prostitute killed in the past three months. Hopefully the last. Jack the Ripper, as we dubbed him, had struck again. I walked to the room were the body lay. On the bed, blood soaked the mattress. There were apparent slits with a knife across most of her body. As I examined the scene, I thought of what it must have been like in her shoes that night.



It was Friday, a usually busy day in a prostitute’s line of work. It was November 9, 1888. There had been a string of murders in the area, and Mary Jane Kelly, also known as ‘Marie Jeanette’ Kelly or ‘Ginger’, was worried. However, she had bills to pays. She was weeks behind in her rent, and business was slow. A man came up to her. He was charming, but she was on edge. There was something about him, something off.

He noticed how tensed she was, and with a reassuring smile said, “I’m not the killer, just a client.” She brought him to her apartment, as she did with most clients, and offered herself to him. It was then as she began unbuttoning her blouse, she noticed he was coming towards her. She was standing in front of the bed and facing away from him. He came behind her and strangled her with rope.

After a few choking, gasping breaths, she was dead. The man, Jack the Ripper, caught her as she fell and laid her on the bed. He began with slitting her throat, and soon followed by basically dissecting her. He did so while barely getting blood on himself, a remarkable feat indeed.



After photographing the crime scene, I thought about how she was the most gory victim and how she was lucky she was dead when he began. Her thighs were severed from the bone, and she had several slashes on he face and neck. Many organs were removed and found strewn about the scene. As I left the scene, I turned and said to her body, “Fly, and let this worlds sorrows never weigh you down again.”