Chapter 6 – The Letter
Two days after the second murder, fear began to spread beyond Whitechapel.
The newspapers printed new headlines every morning, each more alarming than the last. People who had never set foot in the East End now spoke about the killings over breakfast tables and inside crowded trains.
London was beginning to pay attention.
Thomas Hale arrived early at the London Herald office, hoping to gather more information before the next edition went to print.
The newsroom was unusually tense.
Reporters whispered to each other while printers rushed fresh papers across the room.
Thomas walked toward Editor Mercer's desk.
"Morning, sir," he said.
Mercer didn't look up immediately. He was staring at a sheet of paper lying on his desk.
"Close the door," Mercer muttered.
Thomas did as he was told.
"What's happened?"
Mercer finally lifted the paper and handed it to him.
"This arrived an hour ago."
Thomas unfolded it carefully.
The handwriting was messy and uneven, as if written quickly.
He began reading:
Dear Boss,
I keep hearing the police have caught me, but they won't fix me just yet.
I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track.
I like my work and I want to start again soon.
The next job I do I shall clip the lady's ears off and send them to the police just for fun.
Yours truly,
Jack the Ripper
Thomas slowly lowered the letter.
The room suddenly felt colder.
"Where did this come from?" he asked.
Mercer leaned back in his chair.
"It was sent to a news agency first. They forwarded it to us and the police."
Thomas read the signature again.
Jack the Ripper.
"So the killer named himself," Thomas said quietly.
Mercer nodded.
"That's what worries me."
Thomas placed the letter back on the desk.
"You think it's real?"
"I don't know," Mercer replied. "It could be a prank. But if it's genuine…"
He paused.
"…then we're dealing with a killer who enjoys attention."
Thomas walked to the window and stared down at the busy London street.
A killer who writes letters.
A killer who signs his name.
This was something entirely new.
"Have the police seen it?" Thomas asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
Mercer shrugged.
"They're not convinced it's authentic. But they're worried enough to investigate."
Thomas turned back toward him.
"If the killer really sent this…"
Mercer finished the thought.
"…then he plans to kill again."
Silence filled the room.
Thomas looked down at the letter one more time.
The words were arrogant.
Playful.
Almost proud.
This was not the writing of a man who feared being caught.
It was the writing of someone who believed he was smarter than everyone else.
Mercer spoke again.
"Hale."
"Yes?"
"I want you in Whitechapel tonight."
Thomas nodded.
"I was planning to go anyway."
"Good," Mercer said.
"Because if this letter is real, London has just been introduced to a new kind of criminal."
Thomas folded the letter carefully.
"A killer who wants the world to know his name."
Mercer exhaled slowly.
"And now the whole city does."
Thomas looked once more at the signature written across the page.
Jack the Ripper.
The name would soon appear in every newspaper in London.
And somewhere in the dark streets of Whitechapel, the man who wrote it was probably smiling.