Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) Read Online Free PDF

truth in my story. If they were to contact him, he would inform them I was indeed who I said I was, being a good sport and a lover of intrigue. I arrived at Scotland Yard full of confidence they were naive enough to believe my concocted story. Being able to convince mortals of my numerous identities had become a finely practiced art, taking great care never to give anything away in my body language. With my head held high, I entered the tall, imposing building in the hope of speaking with Chief Inspector Donald Swanson, now leading the investigation.
    A regular policeman greeted me from behind a desk.
    “Good morning sir. What can I do for you?” he asked politely.
    “I wish for a meeting with Chief Inspector Swanson on an urgent matter.”
    “Can you please tell me what the urgency is, sir?”
    “I need to discuss the recent Whitechapel murders.”
    “Do you have information that may help the case?”
    “No, but I can be of great assistance,” I replied, sensing it was not going to be as easy as I anticipated. He may have only been a desk sergeant but he had the power to send me away post haste. He inspected me closely with mistrust and confusion, as if unsure what to do next. I presumed he’d put me in the category of the vigilantes who were running in droves, self-policing the streets of Whitechapel.
    “I will see if the Chief Inspector is free. Can I ask who wishes to speak with him?”
    “My name is Emmanuel Ortiz,” I replied, noting he had dropped the ‘sir.’
    It was as if I could read his mind. My somewhat exotic name was not befitting an English gentleman; the frown he exhibited, typical of many in this Victorian age of snobbery.
    After a long wait on a hard wooden bench, a slightly portly man, dark hair severely styled to the side, walked toward me. His curled moustache caught my attention as well as a most serious disposition.
    “Good morning, Mister Ortiz. I understand you are seeking information concerning the Whitechapel murders.” He was polite and, as I rose, shook my hand.
    “Well, yes, I would like to offer my assistance. Is there somewhere we can discuss this in private?”
    “Follow me.” He led me to a private room, its glass door proudly bearing a plaque with his name.
    Considering his stature of Chief Inspector, the unpretentious plain wood desk and one cabinet, where I assumed his files were kept, did not do his rank any justice. Scattered on the desk were papers, some of them accidentally marked by ink, a careless hand indeed.
    “Explain to me who you are and why you think you can assist in the difficult case of Jack the Ripper,” he demanded.
    I dutifully told my story in a calm and reserved manner so as not to arouse suspicion. Having become an expert in the art of convincing, I hoped my confidence was apparent.
    “We do not have the funds to pay a private investigator. I’ll wager they are more popular in America where, how shall I put it, people are more prone to gimmicks.”
    “I can assure you, good sir, that my services are being offered for free. It is an altruistic act on my part. I am not searching for monetary gain.” I did not care to respond to his view that Americans were prone to gimmicks. It was far from the truth and he had surely been ill informed. But I did need to persuade him I was a competent individual, neither a charlatan nor a misguided, eccentric crackpot.
    “Then you are aware of the most recent murders since August. Mary Anne Nichols, Catherine Eddowes, Elizabeth Stride, and Annie Chapman have been killed in the most brutal fashion. We think the previous killings in the area may be linked to the same assailant. This is a perpetrator of evil intent, the heinous nature of his crimes has left some of the younger less experienced constables in shock and unable to work for many days after.”
    “I have become accustomed to crime on my travels, particularly in areas where there is abject poverty. I can assure you, Chief Inspector, I am not easily