Free Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) by Aiden James, Michelle Wright

file after the other, slowly building a picture of possible suspects in greater detail. Most gruesome were the autopsy photographs, graphic close ups of the victims’ bodies and faces. All of the photographs showed extensive bruising, on the face in particular. This was an angry killer, his inflicted wounds told a story and built a picture of someone with a rage so deep not even Hercules could have restrained him. Marked ‘highly confidential’ each photograph reminded me of what I was dealing with; I spent the rest of the day and night in study, determined to leave no stone unturned. The following morning, unexpectedly, Roderick joined me for breakfast. I was full of adrenalin as I informed him I had the files. Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked to see the smoking gun I held in my possession
    “These words are the work of mad men!” he said as he poured over the infamous letters. “Wait a minute. Manny, these are original letters, Scotland Yard will know they are missing.”
    “Albert explained they were but a handful. There are so many they won’t miss them. It seems that murder brings the unstable out of the shadows. So, what do you think so far?”
    “What I am thinking is, someone is missing copies of their files. How long will it be before they notice they are gone and what will be the reaction when they realize they are missing their autopsy photographs?”
    “Scotland Yard is in chaos over this case. The more I read, the more I see that this investigation is a disarray of grand proportions. In the midst of their confusion they will simply see a file as mislaid and someone will be reprimanded, even suspended. The coroner would have produced more than one photograph and nothing will lead back to me, or the source. I am in the clear.”
    My trait of complacency was an affliction not diminished with time. The view that nothing can happen to me as an invincible immortal put me in the deepest troubles on far too many occasions. Yet I do not learn the lesson and continued to take risks, regardless of consequence. On the other hand, Roderick had a level head on his shoulders, his Irish sense of foreboding sharp and profound. We were at times chalk and cheese.
    “Pray to God Almighty that nothing bad happens to you for this. I don’t have a good feeling.”
    “You worry too much and you’ll see how, when I hand over Jack, they’ll forget all about the file. In the meantime, I will keep good contact with the police. They will not be at all suspicious of me.”
    For hours we labored over a grand stack of papers, meticulously studying every detail. I learned to read and write with perfection over hundreds of years and was surprised to see so many grammatical errors. This was, after all, files from Scotland Yard, supposedly England’s finest police force.
    “You are very much a proper English gentleman, the way you speak, your attire. I should imagine a detective not finding you suspicious of anything on account of your surreptitious nature,” Roderick replied with a grin.
    “I have been around longer, affording me the finer skills in adjusting to almost all surroundings. Adaptation is the key to blending in with impunity. I am also very adept at becoming an aspiring American gentleman or a European man about town if the need arose.”
    Yes, I am a chameleon, able to work on changing my style, speech, language and behavior to suit the century and ever changing with trends and times. What’s an immortal to do, remain stuck a century or two behind? I would surely stick out like a sore thumb.
    “Take a look at this,” I said, handing him a document.
    It speculated Jack may have been of foreign origin. A female witness to Annie Chapman’s last moments had seen her talking with a man and partially overheard the conversation as she was walking by in the early morning hours. Apparently, they were talking very loudly and she heard the man ask ‘will you?’ Annie had replied, ‘yes.’ The witness, Elizabeth