Case of the Cutthroat Killer

   "Police, Police, a murder most foul has occurred!" hollers a man dressed to perfection. He just left the theatre and was taking a light stroll through one of the many dank and dirty alleyways of London, when he came upon an object sprawled out on the ground. He taps it lightly with his foot, it does not move, he bends over to examine the object. He takes a closer look, the object is a body, he shakes it again, "Sir, are you alright, sir are you..." he trails off as he rolls the body over. What he sees chills him down to his very soul, a disfigured thing lays before him, streams of warm blood spill form open wounds ranging from the nape of his neck to the center of his chest, steam rises from the open wounds, the cold night air causes it to. The neck is badly slashed; tendons are severed and stretched, sewn to the inner lining of his upper lip. His eyes are wide in terror as if he had seen his attacker and feared what was to come; they seem to be glazed already. The dead mans shirt was turning a dark maroon with the constant flow of warm blood. The man takes a closer look; holes are intricately arranged in a peculiar fashion about his chest. He grabs a hold of the wrist and checks for a pulse...nothing. "That's strange, there is no pulse, but the body is still warm, he must have died moments before I by chance stumbled upon him" he ponders in the depths of his extensive mind. "What madman could do something this vile to one of there own." then an idea pops into his head, what if the killer is still around, he needs to get help, thinks the hysterical gentleman. He looks away from the gruesome sight that once was among the living, but now a discarded corpse. Fear boils within his mind, his dinner pushes its way up his parched throat, and he almost loses it. Clasping his hands over his mouth he forces it back down his throat. Suddenly he hears footsteps behind him, the clattering of nightsticks against the cold metal of a belt buckle. He climbs to his feet and slowly turns around to face two figures, a stocky plump Irishman and a tall rather undernourished Englishman. The Irishman is built like a rock, literally he looks like a rock, his dark skin is pulled tightly over his large bones, his eyes are small and beady, and his nose as round and plump as a rubber ball, and a rough mustache extends from the tender flesh of his upper lip to his long sideburns. His hair is a dark rich red finely combed back over his slightly wrinkled forehead. His gut extends over his belt moving like ripples of flowing water. He seems to speak with a thick Irish accent, "What is thee problem sir" asks the stocky policeman. "Well son, spit it out, we haven't got all night" exclaims the tall officer. His features are kind of plain; his pale skin hangs off his face in wrinkles, large eyes that shine in the pale moonlight, large hook-like nose and small mouth. He appears to be in his early fifties, and as pale as a ghost. The gentleman points down to the ground toward the deceased, the officers walk over to the body and stop a few inches from it; they take out their flashlights and shine them on the grotesque sight that lies before them. "My God, what is this" exclaims the stocky officer pulling a kerchief from his breast pocket and covering the bottom half of his face. The man sees the terror within the officer's eyes, beads of sweat form under their brows and pours down the sides of their face. "In all my years, I have never seen something this grotesque. Who did this, was it you" asks the tall officer. The man is drenched deeply in sweat his eyes are wide and watery, a pungent smell fills his nose, possibly the odor given off from the body. "I-I-I d-d-don't know, I found him like this, I swear" whimpers the man. "Are you telling us the whole truth" ask the officers. "I am telling the truth, I found him like this, pleases believe me" cries the man. The stocky officer gives him a stern look, then asks, "What is your name, and where you an hour ago". The man tries desperately to rid his mind of the horrid sight so that he can think of his name and where he had just came from. "M-My n-n-name is Alexander Ray Charles the third, I have just recently have come form the theatre on the corner of White chapel and Winchester Abbey" announces Mr. Charles. The officers look at each other than look back at Mr. Charles and say, "We have our first suspect, McConnor take him into holding for questioning: I'll check if anyone else has seen or heard anything suspicious" announces officer Baudelaire. "Alright George, just do it quickly before the night is through" answers McConnor. He motions for Mr. Charles to put out his hands, he obeys, the officer removes a pair of cuffs from his pocket and cuffs him. He then tells him to come along back to the station, and if he tries to escape he will have no choice but to clobber him upside the head. Fear of the bludgeoning makes him follow the officer.
.  . .
The next morning a man arrives at the station asking if a Mr. Alexander Ray Charles has been found or seen. "Why yes, as a matter of fact we picked him up last night. Who may I ask are you sir" asks Constable Delacroix. "I am truly sorry for not properly introducing myself, ahem, my name is Reginald Reeves, I am Master Charles butler. I was quite concerned when I found out that he was not in his bed last night and this morning" announces Reeves. "Why was he in bed might I ask" asks Delacroix. "Well a few days ago he had an unfortunate accident; he apparently was suffering from a light concussion. When he came to he had no memory of who he was and for some odd reason he became quite hostile, we had to drug him to keep him under control. But when I went to serve him dinner, he was not in his bed, I noticed that the window was open and that the clothes that he was wearing were strewn across the floor, and his nice suit was missing. At first I thought someone may have kidnapped him, but then I remembered that he could fight off any attacker because he was once a amateur boxer" announces the butler. "He told us that he just left the theatre" exclaims McConnor. "That is peculiar" says Reeves. "Why" asks McConnor. "He was going to the theatre about two days ago, that's when he was ground passed out on the front steps by a gentleman by the name of Harrison Clark. If you want to know more, I suggest you have a talk with him, he may know something of importance. Good day officers, constable" he says as he exits the station in somewhat of a hurry. "Harrison Clark, I know him he is one of the famous actors at the Theatre De' Le' Cure" exclaims Baudelaire. "Where can we find him" asks McConnor. "We shall find him at the theatre of course" exclaims Baudelaire. The pair leave for the theatre, McConnor sneaks back in and grabs the pastry that he was beginning to eat, "McConnor it's no time for that", McConnor looks at him and say, "i didn't eat breakfast this morning, I'm hungry" he says smuggling a few more pastries into his coat pocket. Baudelaire enters and grabs a hold of his jacket and pulls him out the front door. "McConnor have you ever considered losing some weight" asks Baudelaire. "I am not fat, I am big boned, just like me da, he was a good man that he was" exclaims McConnor stuffing a pastry into his mouth. They head to the theatre to see if they can figure out anything that will help with the case.
. . .
   "Hello Harrison how are you doing" asks Baudelaire. "Ah Baudelaire my old friend, how has life been treating you theses days" asks Clark. "Same old things, investigating, going on patrols, paperwork, the usual, nothing of much excitement" answers Baudelaire. "Well, what can I help you two gentleman with" asks Clark. "We were wondering if you knew a Mr. Alexander Ray Charles" asks McConnor. "As a matter of fact yes, I met him on the steps of the theatre, he was passed out. I suppose that he tripped on a chipped step and took a sharp blow to the side of his head. He was unconscious for quite some time, so I had no choice but to get someone to help me carry him home. I called the doctor as soon as he was in his bed to come and take a look at him. Within a quarter to a half-hour the doctor arrived, he diagnosed that the concussive blow had caused him to forget who he was. To put it simply, he had a mild case of amnesia. I have seen patients with a similar case, but none like Mr. Charles" finishes Clark. "What do you mean" asks Baudelaire. "Well for some odd reason he became quite hostile" exclaims Clark. "That is what his butler told us, was anyone hurt" asks McConnor. "Almost, he went mad and tried to cut the doctors throat with a scalpel, he only gave him a slight wound, enough to possibly leave a scar" says Clark. They finish talking to Clark and leave for the station once again to tell the constable what they had learned about Mr. Charles. "So he was violent, that might explain the temper that he had" exclaims Baudelaire.
. . .
   In the morgue the cadaver was been studied, the time of death was calculated to be ten O' clock, and the case of death, lacerations of the jugular and vocal cords, to put it simply, he chocked to death on his blood. The pale skin was beginning to fade to a palish-blue hue, the eyes where completely glazed over, the lips were black, and the body was stiff as a board. "Doctor what about theses wounds in his chest" asks his assistant. "The wounds were made with a bone saw; there are fragments of bone tissue in the cavities of the chest. But I doubt that caused his death, he died off asphyxiation and massive blood loss" answers the doctor. The attendant looks the body over again, and notices something that he did not see before, the left hand is curled into a fist, "Doctor, I think he is clenching something in his hand" exclaims the attendant. The doctor walks over to the left side of the cadaver and reaches for the hand, he lifts it up and turns it over and lifts the fingers up from around the concealed object. He grasps the object and walks over to the oil lamp to properly examine it and analyze a possible link to the killer. It is a piece of clothing, preferably a torn shirt cuff, it must have been torn off during the struggle, and the killer must have forgot it happened or he would have destroyed the evidence.
. . .
"Uh huh, yes, thank you doctor, good day" exclaims Delacroix. "Well boys, we have a new piece of evidence, apparently a fragment of a shirt cuff was found crumbled up in the deceased's hand. It could possibly be connected to his assailant, we find the shirt, we find the murderer" exclaims Baudelaire. "Uh sir, I noticed something peculiar for quite some time now" exclaims McConnor. "Explain" orders Delacroix. "The man that we took in for questioning, the one that was found with the body seemed to appear to have been in a rustle, some of the seams in his jackets arms were stretched and even severed. I also noticed dark smudges on the lining of his cuffs, they appeared to be fingerprints. I did not think anything of it at first until I saw the tear" says McConnor. "Tear. What tear" asks Baudelaire and Delacroix. "a large fragment of the cuff was pulled free, the button must have fallen off when it was torn" explains McConnor. "What are you suggesting" asks Delacroix. "That we have our murderer" answers McConnor. "You are not suggesting that Mr. Charles is the murderer. You cannot be serious, you have no real evidence to prove it" exclaims Delacroix. "I am quite serious, let's head out while it is still light outside" declares McConnor. The two officers leave the station to find answers in the case of the cutthroat killer.

The warm mist stings the skin of their foreheads, the smell of smoke fills their nostrils causing McConnor to cough deeply. The warm sun is beginning to rise, though it is still quite cold, but despite the cold, the officers do not seem to notice it a bit. Silent streets stretch before them, not knowing what lies in wait for them they begin their walk. The officers walk through the mist filled streets to the Charles Mansion, to confront Mr. Charles and find out the truth.

   Twenty minutes later they arrive at the gates of the mansion and stare up at the large Victorian style house. A Spanish man stands leaning against the gate, he seems to be snoring pretty loudly. McConnor clears his throat hoping that the man would awaken and open the gate, but to no avail he continues to sleep on. Baudelaire takes out his nightstick and jabs the man with the butt of the stick in his stomach. His eyes fly open, "What in the Hell! What was that for" cries the gates man. "Oh I so sorry, come in officers, I so sorry for the delay. Please don't tell Master Charles that I was sleeping, I have a family to feed, I need the money" he says opening the latch on the gate to allow the officers passage onto the huge property. They walk up the cobble stoned path to the large oak doors that gain passage into the residence. McConnor knocks on the door and awaits an answer; he turns around and stuffs another pastry into his open mouth. Heavy footsteps are heard beyond the door, the knob turns clockwise and the door is pulled inward. Inside a man stands before them in tip top shape, groomed to perfection from head to foot. "Hello officers how may I be of service" asks Reeves. "We would like to speak to master Charles, is he in good spirits" asks the officers in unison. "I suppose he is, but let me just announce to him your arrival first. Come inside and have a seat in the den" says Reeves. "Thank you" says both officers as they are lead into the den. "I take my leave" announces Reeves as he exits the room. "It seems like he was expecting us" says Baudelaire. "What ever do you mean" asks McConnor. "Well for instance the way he hurried out of the station yesterday, like he knew something and was not telling us" explains Baudelaire. "Strange" exclaims McConnor. "What, what is it? Is it a clue?" asks Baudelaire not feeling a presence other than there own within the room. The sound of footsteps echoes down the staircase, by the sound of it there are two pairs of feet. A man in a velvet red robe enters the room and heads toward the officers; he stops in front of them and extends his hand out. Baudelaire takes it and shakes, as does McConnor. Mr. Charles takes a seat in the chair adjacent the fireplace and dives into his pocket and removes a beautifully decorated pipe, he sticks the end of it between his lips. "Let me light that for you sir" announces Reeves removing a packet of matches from his breast pocket. He flips the lid, and removes a matchstick and strikes the head along the side of the packet, the head ignites into a small reddish flame, and the smell of sulphur fills everyone's noses. Reeves touches the tobacco in the cylindrical part of the pipe with the lit match, the smell of burning tobacco begins to flood the room causing Reeves eyes to water. He then tosses the burnt match into the fireplace, as soon as the matchstick hits the fire there is a low crack. "Thank you Reeves that will be all" says Mr. Charles. "Good day to you gentleman" says Reeves as he once again exits the room. "Now, how may I be of service gentleman" asks Mr. Charles removing his pipe from the corner of his mouth and putting on a smile. "We have come to ask you a few questions sir" announces Baudelaire. "Does it by any chance have anything to do with the murder" he asks. "Well…ohm, yes it does" answers McConnor. "I told you everything I know officers, what more ids there to tell" exclaims Charles. "Maybe your butler Reeves may know something, hm…" asks Baudelaire. "By heavens no, he barely ever leaves this house, how could he possibly know anything" asks Charles who is become quite aggravated. "Mr. Charles where were you the night of the murder" asks McConnor. There is a slight pause…"I told you already, at the theatre, why?" he asks as he becomes hysterical. "Well according to Reeves he said that you were going to the theatre about two days before the murder, and that you took a blow to the head. According to the doctor you suffered a slight case of amnesia due to the blow. Do you remember that Mr. Charles" asks Baudelaire. "I never had amnesia, and if I did, I would have remembered something" shouts Charles. "Calm down Mr. Charles, there is no need to overreact", both officers begin to raise from their seats, Charles slowly cools down, he wipes sweat from his forehead as the two men drop back into their seats. "If you'll excuse me gentleman I need to go rest, I am suddenly feeling a mighty bit ill" as he climbs up off his chair and storms out of the room in a fury. The officers get up and stretch, McConnor large belly almost snaps his belt buckle when he leans backwards. "He is hiding something, I just know it" says Baudelaire. "Seems plausible, but we are not getting anywhere, unless…" McConnor cuts off before he can even finish his sentence. Both stare toward the doorway, Reeves stands there with something black clutched between his hands. "Is that what I think it is" exclaims Baudelaire. "I believe this is what you came here for if you don't mind my saying so sirs" chuckles Reeves. "Why yes, but how did you …" Reeves cuts him off before he can even finish. "know sir, I noticed that there was a large tear on the cuff of the shirt, so I put two and two together and came up with this. Pretty clever huh If I say so myself" finishes Reeves. McConnor reaches for the suit to have Baudelaire to grab it first. "I know you gentleman are busy, continue on and solve this case" says Reeves as he leaves to attend his master. The case is nearly through; evidence has been recovered; now the only thing left to do is to fit everything together. Baudelaire and McConnor leave the house to announce the murderer to Delacroix.
. . .
"A perfect match, the piece fits perfectly, gentleman we have found our killer" exclaims Baudelaire. "All right, lets hear it, who is it" asks Delacroix. "Alexander Ray Charles, we have evidence and a few accounts that link him to the murder" announces Baudelaire. "Are you absolutely sure of this" questions Delacroix. "Positive, look over the evidence for your self if you do not believe us" exclaims McConnor.
. . .
Alexander Ray Charles if tried and found guilty of first degree murder and manslaughter, his sentence: to be hanged for the murder of an innocent bystander. Finally the case of the cutthroat killer is finally brought under wrap and the streets of London are once again free of terror, but only for a few more years. Nearly two years later the killings start up again, but this time it is a mass murderer. A madman kills prostitutes in alleyways, he will later be known as one of histories infamous murderers, Jack the Ripper.


THE END