As Edward's feet stepped out of the house. A subordinate asked,
"Sir, why did you frame Jack as the killer? He wasn't even there."
Edward, already leaving the slums, slowly turned back, his forehead wrinkled. He asked,
"Are you new here?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Yeah! You, rookie, inexperienced, half-grown policemen, are asking questions as if you're heroes of this world or something. Why are new people sent into my crew?" He stood still.
Edward put his cigar in his mouth and smiled. He slowly picked out a notebook—a small one like a pocket diary.
"But still, I need to teach some things to you all." Edward lit his cigar.
"There are two reasons," Edward replied.
"Huh?" Henry shook his head in confusion.
"A sliced woman's leg and a few bullets here and there show a clear sign of struggle."
"But how does this prove that Jack is the Ripper?" Henry asked.
Edward smirked a little.
"No gun in the house! If the ripper wanted her to suffer, he would've used a knife, so why are bullet marks present there? That shows only one thing: someone interfered.
"But wouldn't that prove Jack innocent?" Henry asked while he adjusted his coat. The smell of the slums filled his nose, dirty and suffocating.
"A bullet of this same size is being used for the killing of a few top officials. I can confirm the bullets are the same: big, sharp, and expensive."
"Huh? That means Killer is the same, so Jack is also an assassin, but still, why would you give an order for Jack rather than the Ripper?"
Edward showed him the notebook. He opened it page by page, a notebook filled with names.
"These are the victims of this serial killer. Every time my instincts screamed that the killer needed attention, but I refused to do so. Instead, I redirected his credit."
Henry's eyes widened, filled with nothing but admiration.
Meanwhile,
I was being suffocated; someone was holding my head and drowning me in water. I felt frightened, unable to move, as if someone had tied my every limb; bubbles flew from my mouth.
I, with a jerk, immediately sat on a soft grassy bottom on which I had been sleeping.
"Another nightmare," I murmured.
I slept in a stable; the moon, slightly visible, showed its beauty, and the light came straight on my face. Suddenly, a memory came. I pulled out the card from my coat.
"What even is this? "I thought.
A bluish-silver card with a fool embedded in it. I slightly rotated it, and I saw something.
"The sides…? Why are they so sharp?" I rubbed my eyes.
A blade was hidden between two layers of card, so sharp that it might cut bones.
"Can it be that?" Grassy air filled my chest. But I realized something.
"The card was used for cutting the throat."
I took the blade out, and I remembered what I saw on Mother's neck.
The cut was very precise, like a surgeon did it, and the blade of this kind is also used only by surgeons.
The dots connected, but the motive was still unclear. Why would a surgeon do it? Questions filled my mind, but there were no answers.
"I need to investigate it by going to different hospitals about a sick individual who could do it."
"But first, I need to find a new identity, as I can't have someone sleep in their stable again and again."
Slowly and steadily, dawn came, and I was in search of a new decoy job. I've compiled a list of what works I've found.
A janitor in a hospital, an accountant in someone's shop. A beggar.
I reached the hospital; it was one of the small ones, as I can be an easy target in big ones.
I walked into the hospital, and everything seemed fine at first. However, I was soon approached by a nurse. She smiled weirdly as if she wanted to eat me.
"Sir, do you want help?"
"Yes, can I talk to the main doctor?" I spoke but stuttered.
"Ok, sir, but please make the talk quick, as the doctor is busy with a surgery."
The doctor came outside from a dark room. Black apron stained with blood, rotting, I coughed from the smell.
From the look of the doctor, he seemed to be quite experienced from the sight of his clothes.
But why is he working in such a small hospital? If he were so experienced, the thoughts passed through my head.
As he approached me, I analysed him, the way he walked, the way he breathed, in slight hope that I would find the Ripper. But this was not him.
The doctor came towards me. He put a hand beneath his chin and, shrinking his eyes, he asked.
"Why are you here, mister? You are not the one I was expecting."
I stuttered, but I still asked.
"Can I get a job, please?"
The doctor had a surgical blade; he was cleaning it continuously.
"A job?" The doctor seemed serious.
"Yes." I smiled as he finally understood.
Through the mask of the surgeons. The doctor's eyes were visible, with dark circles all over them, still, though he politely replied.
"There is no job, mister."
I frowned, but still, I decided to move. I came out of the hospital with nothing but disappointment. Still, even if I got into that, I might've witnessed multiple murder scenes, as it seemed that was not a hospital; that might be an illegal organ harvesting warehouse.
The sun was setting, and I walked through it all alone.
"I failed today; I have to sleep on the streets today," I remembered how I would come back home and was always welcomed with good food, at least for me.
I started walking, but my leg gave up.
My body ached, but still, I moved forward without looking down.
I saw a few people in colorful costumes. I initially didn't grasp what was happening, but once I did, a sense of hope filled me.
"Street artists?"
There was a small group of people who performed small acts; it was a mini circus. The group included a magician performing tricks for children, a puppeteer telling stories, and a young woman whom I assumed was the manager.
I ran towards them from far away. I ran, hoping that this maybe—maybe a chance to find myself.