It was 1888, technology was fast developing but people were living in poverty. Medical science had stopped and weaponry developed. In London a detective was laying on the ground his suite painted red from the blood gushing out of his wounded arms and chest. To his right a tall man was struggling to get to his feet while leaning onto the wall to keep himself standing. With every step he took the man winced but it didn’t stop him from getting closer to the detective. When the man passed through a patch of light, there was a metallic glint from the scalpel in his right hand. While the man known as The East London Killer slowly advancing the detective pulled out a folded photo of a victim from his pocket. With trembling hands the detective managed to pry open the blood stained photograph. He looked at it and thought back to the day he first saw the body.
* * * * * *
It was three days ago. A women with an ashen face tumbled through the door of the police station. She started shouting about a murder as she crumpled to the ground in tears. It took the police ten minutes to calm her down, and when she was, she started to explain what happened
‘I was at home looking after my little sister while our parents were at work and …… and..’ she began to shake tears slowly rolling down her face. But she quickly stropped and continued.
‘And I heard a gut-wrenching scream from the alleyway just below our house. So I went to see what was wrong and I saw the body of a dead woman who was strangled by her own intestine.’ She finished sobbing. After hearing her story the detective asked for the location of the body.
‘It…..it was in Brick Lane’ she replayed in between sobs.
When the detective arrived to Brick Lane the site that greeted him was more horrific than he had imagined. The woman’s mangled body was in the middle of the alleyway. The stomach of the victim was cut open and her insides ripped out and wrapped around her neck covered in half dried blood. On closer inspection of the area the detective found a golden watch with the London Medical School crest on it. A scalpel and a syringe making an X in the middle of a shield
* * * * * *
The detective was brought back to the present by the clattering of old rusty bins knocked over by the killer crumpling to the ground. As he hit the ground the scalpel flew out of his hand lending next to the detectives head. The East London Killer tried to rise to his feet, but in realising that his legs couldn’t support him he started crawling, slowly inching towards the weapon which would help him to end the life of the detective. The detective knowing the inevitable pulled out the pocket watch he found next to the body. He opened it as if he wanted to look at the time, but he looked at the inside of the lid. Even tho his vision was fuse he could tell that the year 1878 was written on the inside.
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The day after the body was found in Brick Lane the detective went to the London Medical School to follow up on his only lead; the pocket watch. When he arrived a man wearing a red suit and tie and a matching red pants greeted him. The man introduced himself as George Chapman the caretaker of the school.
‘I need to look at the 1878 year book photos’ explained the detective.
‘Right this way sir’ replied the man dressed in red.
They entered the medical school through the great wooden doors. Once inside they headed towards the store room to get the photo album. After a short walk down the main corridor they arrived in front of the red tinted cherry wood door of the store room. The care taker pulled out a key chain with at least two dozen keys on it. The caretaker closely examined each key and picked out a large bronze one and opened the door. Inside was a bunch of rusty old filing cabinets gathering dust. The caretaker opened one of them and pulled out a large leather bind book with the date 1878 inscribed in gold numbers, and handed it to the detective. The detective opened the book and slowly flipped through the pages closely examining every face, looking for any one that might be the killer. Towards the middle of the book one photograph coat his eye. The photo was tinted a rusty red and showed a kind but tiered looking man. The care taker seeing his interest said.
‘That’s me, but I had to discontinue my studies because my mother couldn’t continue paying for the studies. After my father died she had to do all kinds of jobs to provide me and my brother a child hood.’ He explained.
‘She started suffering from all the work so I ......’ his voice skidding to a halt and he started to pace towards the exit, and when he looked back he had blood shot eyes.
* * * * * *
A jolt of pain in the detective’s right hand drought him back to reality. The detective was dyeing he has lost too much blood, and the closer the detective came to death the closer the East London Killer seemed to be as well. But he wasn’t sad, he stayed true to his duties until the very end, and at last he figured out the identity of the mysterious killer, and as a last effort to unveil the identity of the killer. He started to spell out the killers name in his own blood. G. E. O. R. G. But he couldn’t continue, his life was slipping away with every drop of blood lost.
At the same time the killer reached the scalpel and as a final effort to finish what he started he stud up. But as his knees gave away causing him to collapse to the ground falling forward onto the scalpel. The same instrument that claimed so many lives ended up claiming his own as well.