The Ripper's Next Victim

Alistair Thomas Hargreaves had been new to the Whitechapel Police Force in 1888, when the infamous Whitechapel murders had begun. He was young, enthusiastic and recently married to beautiful Mary Moorehead. They lived in a small flat near Whitechapel, where she stayed and kept house while he left for work each morning and arrived home each evening. It was the perfect life for a young couple just starting out. All of that would change on August 31st, 1888.
Friday dawned with a late summer mugginess hanging in the air. It was an ominous sign of what the day would bring. By early evening, London would sink into an ever-present feeling of fear that would hang over the city long after the final murder almost three months later.
Alistair had barely gotten dressed and had a sip of tea before someone was banging on the front door. Mary was alarmed as he went to answer it. It was just past 5 a.m. and early morning callers were rarely bearers of good news. Alistair rushed back into the kitchen, grabbing his coat and hat before kissing Mary on the cheek.
“No time for breakfast, my dear. There’s been a murder!” he hurried out the door into the coming dawn.
Daylight was creeping into the sky exposing the horrific scene but before Alistair and James could get close enough to take a look, they were pulled back and told to control the small crowd of curious onlookers. It wasn’t much of a job with only a few people lingering nearby looking at the body and the large volume of blood that had begun to dry on the cobbled alley. Violence and death mingled daily in the East End so it was nothing more than a curiosity to most.
Mary Ann Nichols, known as Polly to her friends and family, was found just after 3:30 a.m. on Friday, August 31st, in Buck’...

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...up of tea as the young men entered with the body.
“What have we here?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. He set his cup aside and walked over to the table.
“Not squeamish are you?” He asked and pulled the sheet off.
The smell was the first thing to reach Alistair. It was a mixture of alcohol, blood and fecal matter. He was somewhat relieved that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. James, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He turned and heaved in the corner, bringing up bits of what he had eaten a few hours before. The stench of vomit added to Alistair’s discomfort, but the doctor seemed nonchalant about James’ reaction.
“First-timers, I see.” The doctor replied casually. He had seen new and seasoned officers, as well as some doctors turn inside out at the sight and smell of a dead body. He carried on, making notes on a form and turned back toward the body.