Gasbag! No, her exact words..."son of a gasbag, you fool Detective" as I questioned Eliza Cooper, the woman who fought with the victim. I suppose I should be insulted, but for some reason it was rather amusing.
I'm trying to help these women of ill repute; fallen women who, through no fault of their own, in many cases, have no other choice to survive and may have children to support. Left destitute and easy prey for men to treat them in foul ways for their own lust or greed.
This butcher isn't making my job any easier; ripping open and taking organs of women unable to defend themselves from a madman bent on some satanic quest or need to brutally destroy their flesh.
I got little more out of Eliza and since I was now Det. Gasbag, it was clear I needed to move on like the foul smell I was accused of and let the wind disperse me. Walking the streets of Whitechapel depresses me and I can't see an end to this bloody mess. We have no real leads and now neighbors are accusing neighbors; anyone with a grudge can take revenge by claiming they are sure the culprit of these fiendish murders is so and so neighbor... and so it goes. Maybe Eliza is right and we are fools. Well, this son of a gasbag needs a drink! The Britannia Public House is just around the corner and who knows, I may learn some new facts about Annie there and have a pint with our madman. What a quaint thought.
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