bit of it ending up on the subway car’s floor. I give him a look that clearly says that if any of it gets on my jacket, I will paint the inside of this car with his blood.
I have a full schedule today and taking public transportation only serves to make it longer. It takes me three buses to get back to Stanley’s office. At least my bike is still parked out front unmolested, with the exception of a single splatter of bird crap across the tank. I find the likely culprit sitting on a cable running overhead and consider obliterating it with my .500 magnum, but I really don’t need the attention or the unnecessary delay that would cause. I wipe the bird shit off with my sleeve, strap on my helmet, and tear across town.
I need to kill some time, so I make my way to the public library on St. Martin’s Street. If I’m going to chase Jack the fucking Ripper across the city, I need to find out as much as I can. A raised, four-sided counter arrangement surrounds a skinny, older woman wearing enormous glasses. She looks at me as if I’m probably there to use the periodicals sections as a public bathroom.
“Excuse me,” I say as I approach her fortified position. “Can you help me with something?”
“This is a library, not a soup kitchen, and I don’t have any change.”
“Judging from your glasses, you obviously have a powerful aversion to change of any kind. Where can I find information on Jack the Ripper?”
She pushes her facial windshield up onto the bridge of her nose and points. “Biographies are over there, microfilm is in that corner over there, or you can use the computers over there. If I catch you looking at pornography, I’ll call the police. If you start masturbating, I’ll pepper spray you before calling the police.”
“Do you have a sister? You remind me of my shrink’s receptionist.”
Rightly inferring the insult I just issued, she glares at me through her Magoo goggles, or magoggles, as I make my way over to the computer section. My brief humor at my magoggles reference vanishes when I find that all of the computers are in use. I quickly size up the character of the people on the terminals, choose one who looks timid and is not doing anything important, and start to loom. Despite not being very tall, I excel at looming.
Within a minute, the pale, red-haired, teenaged Opie look-alike glances up at me. “Um…did you need to use the computer?”
“Only if Middle Earth can survive without your in-depth research.”
“Actually, it’s—”
“Equally unimportant.”
A thousand responses swirl through his brain, but he keeps them to himself just as I suspected he would. He’ll walk home, playing out a dozen different fantasies of how he should have responded, most of them kicking my ass using sorcery or superpowers he does not possess in real life. It won’t surprise me if he someday lists me as one of many excuses for why he shot up a school or movie theater. I don’t have time to dwell on the fantasies of a disempowered man-child. I have to catch a vampiric Jack the Ripper.
I stab at the keyboard with my index fingers, typing Jack the Ripper into the search engine window. Only eleven million results to paw through. Super. I begin with Wikipedia then move on to biographies and fan pages. Typing in Montague John Druitt narrows down the search results drastically.
I quickly suspect that he and Vincent might have been more than friends, but I’m willing to take him at his word. What is almost certain is that Montague was probably half batshit crazy before he contracted syphilis. If his genetics leaned toward his female family line, it is no wonder he went insane. His mother died in an asylum and once attempted suicide. His maternal grandmother succeeded in her suicide, and her sister had made an attempt, as well. Montague’s oldest sister killed herself by jumping from an attic window.
I’m nearing the third hour of my cram session and the library is closing. Katherine should be
I have a full schedule today and taking public transportation only serves to make it longer. It takes me three buses to get back to Stanley’s office. At least my bike is still parked out front unmolested, with the exception of a single splatter of bird crap across the tank. I find the likely culprit sitting on a cable running overhead and consider obliterating it with my .500 magnum, but I really don’t need the attention or the unnecessary delay that would cause. I wipe the bird shit off with my sleeve, strap on my helmet, and tear across town.
I need to kill some time, so I make my way to the public library on St. Martin’s Street. If I’m going to chase Jack the fucking Ripper across the city, I need to find out as much as I can. A raised, four-sided counter arrangement surrounds a skinny, older woman wearing enormous glasses. She looks at me as if I’m probably there to use the periodicals sections as a public bathroom.
“Excuse me,” I say as I approach her fortified position. “Can you help me with something?”
“This is a library, not a soup kitchen, and I don’t have any change.”
“Judging from your glasses, you obviously have a powerful aversion to change of any kind. Where can I find information on Jack the Ripper?”
She pushes her facial windshield up onto the bridge of her nose and points. “Biographies are over there, microfilm is in that corner over there, or you can use the computers over there. If I catch you looking at pornography, I’ll call the police. If you start masturbating, I’ll pepper spray you before calling the police.”
“Do you have a sister? You remind me of my shrink’s receptionist.”
Rightly inferring the insult I just issued, she glares at me through her Magoo goggles, or magoggles, as I make my way over to the computer section. My brief humor at my magoggles reference vanishes when I find that all of the computers are in use. I quickly size up the character of the people on the terminals, choose one who looks timid and is not doing anything important, and start to loom. Despite not being very tall, I excel at looming.
Within a minute, the pale, red-haired, teenaged Opie look-alike glances up at me. “Um…did you need to use the computer?”
“Only if Middle Earth can survive without your in-depth research.”
“Actually, it’s—”
“Equally unimportant.”
A thousand responses swirl through his brain, but he keeps them to himself just as I suspected he would. He’ll walk home, playing out a dozen different fantasies of how he should have responded, most of them kicking my ass using sorcery or superpowers he does not possess in real life. It won’t surprise me if he someday lists me as one of many excuses for why he shot up a school or movie theater. I don’t have time to dwell on the fantasies of a disempowered man-child. I have to catch a vampiric Jack the Ripper.
I stab at the keyboard with my index fingers, typing Jack the Ripper into the search engine window. Only eleven million results to paw through. Super. I begin with Wikipedia then move on to biographies and fan pages. Typing in Montague John Druitt narrows down the search results drastically.
I quickly suspect that he and Vincent might have been more than friends, but I’m willing to take him at his word. What is almost certain is that Montague was probably half batshit crazy before he contracted syphilis. If his genetics leaned toward his female family line, it is no wonder he went insane. His mother died in an asylum and once attempted suicide. His maternal grandmother succeeded in her suicide, and her sister had made an attempt, as well. Montague’s oldest sister killed herself by jumping from an attic window.
I’m nearing the third hour of my cram session and the library is closing. Katherine should be
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