The Whitechapel Project

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Previously on Whitechapel

Six escaped from the Whitechapel Project, thanks to the help of the mysterious Mister Rich. Although Six got some clues to the nature of his past, he had more questions than answers when Mister Rich was shot by a man masquerading as a police officer. A high-speed chase with real police officers and a van with two unknown men led to a showdown at a hospital, during which Six was knocked unconscious. He awoke in an expensive hotel room with a note from someone named “Elizabeth” and a wake-up call from the front desk that referred to him by an unfamiliar name.

Episode Ten – Mr. Druitt

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Druitt?”

I say no and hang up before the receptionist could respond. I don’t know any “Mr. Druitt,” but I’m too sore to build up too much hope that it’s my real name – I’ve been burned too many times to think that it’s just that simple. I make my way to the bathroom to find some pain killers to make me feel more human, or as human as a psychic killer can feel.

The bathroom is as big as my cell. It has all the carefully-placed clutter of a high-end hotel – soap bars wrapped in elegant tissue paper, glass glasses covered in plastic wrap, and soft hand towels folded into animal shapes. Next to the elegantly nondescript toiletries is a bottle of white pills and a small stack of neatly-clipped together papers. The top sheet is a pink hospital admission form, and the logo on it matches the one on the pill bottle – Mercy Anderson, the hospital I left Mister Rich at. The hospital I was knocked unconscious at.

Ignoring the bottle for the moment, I snatch up the papers, sit on a small leather couch in the bathroom (who has a couch in a bathroom?) and devour all the information they contain. A John Doe was admitted on January 7^th at around 3am – not too long after the time I dropped Mister Rich off. The person admitting John Doe was listed as “Richard Marsh.” I didn’t give Mister Rich a name when I admitted him, but I didn’t give a name for myself, either, and I certainly don’t remember signing any paperwork.

I puzzle over the names for a moment before it hits me: Mister Rich. “Rich” is short for “Richard.” It’s likely that Mister Rich is Richard Marsh, or at least the pseudonym he gave. That probably makes me John Doe. Did Mister Rich wake up after I admitted him? How did he get me away from the men in the wool coats? I skim the page again, and find a signature from a police officer, and a note that I was a witness of some kind. Looks like the police managed to win the fight with the overcoats somehow.

I turn to the next page. It’s another pink form – a discharge form for January 10^th. The patient’s name is listed as M. John Druitt, discharged by his wife Elizabeth Stride-Druitt. Trying to find the connection, I flip back to the first sheet and compare the two. The patient numbers between John Doe and M. John Druitt are the same – at some point between the time I went in and the time I went out, I gained a name, the same name the receptionist at this hotel called me. The woman claiming to be my wife is also probably the same Elizabeth who left me the note. Now that I see the name written down, “John Druitt” does ring a faint bell, but I don’t get the impression that it’s me – I feel like “Six” is more me than “John Druitt.” Then again, the idea that I’m married seems new to me as well. For all I know, I have a wife and kids somewhere who are wondering where their daddy is. Or worse, they’ve already given up hope and assumed I’m dead.

I shake my head – no point in getting worked up over a family that might be a complete fabrication. I have to focus. The next page is a copy of the doctor’s chart, with a picture of my face stuck in the top right corner. Most of it is gibberish to me (guess I’m not a doctor), but I do notice that I was kept under heavy sedation the entire time. I can’t find anything on the chart to explain why I was sedated, but it looks like they treated me for a variety of minor injuries. No reference to an EKG or any other kind of brain scan – that’s probably for the best.

I look at the last page. It’s an invoice from the hotel for a day of pre-paid Internet time in the name of M. John Druitt. The name – my name, at least for the moment – is circled with an arrow pointing to it, and the word “Internet” is underlined.

Whoever Elizabeth is, she apparently assumes I’m an idiot. That’s fair – most times, I feel like one.

I look at the bottle of pills, and find that it’s Vicodin. I dry-swallow a couple and drop the bottle into my pocket before folding up the pages and putting them in with the bottle. I snatch up the clothing, and find a small black gym bag folded underneath them. I stuff the clothes into the bag and head out of the hotel room.

*     *     *

The front desk is an expanse of marble manned by efficient men and women in dark, pressed suits. I glance at one of the women – a small, pretty thing with short brown hair. My mind flashes back to the man in the cell, the first man I killed, and I feel a strange sense of euphoria at the thought. No. I push the memory away. I take a deep breath. In. Out.

I approach the desk and ask if there’s anything for John Druitt. A moment later I have a brown envelope with “M. John Druitt” written across the front, and the number six in the top left corner. Cute. The envelope is heavy and feels like it has some kind of padding inside, so I tuck it away in my bag to open later in case it’s a gun or a bomb or a severed hand – something that these five-star eager beavers might frown on having displayed in their efficient marble bee hive. I ask where I can get to an Internet terminal, and the cute brunette gives me directions to the business center on the second floor. Within minutes I’m typing in the code from the invoice and pulling up a browser.

I type the words “John Druitt” into the search bar. On a hunch, I add the word “Whitechapel” before I hit Enter. Within seconds, the screen is full of web page links, but I don’t have to click on any of them to know what they’re talking about: The Whitechapel Murders of 1888.

Jack the Ripper.

As I stare at the screen, the information floods into my brain. One of the main leads for the identity of Jack the Ripper was a barrister named Montigue John Druitt (born 15 August 1857, died 1 December 1888). Jack’s third victim was Elizabeth Stride. His victims had many similar cuts – the throat slashed open with two deep cuts, the lower abdomen ripped open with a deep, jagged wound. My mind starts picking out pieces and throwing them in front of my eyes.

The guard in my cell: I can see myself taking the axe out of my head and chopping at his throat; once, twice, until his head flips back like a candy dispenser. In my mind I feel my arm pumping as I slash open his stomach.

Francis, the guard: “Your patient couldn’t have gotten far, but… well, you’ve told us enough times what happens if he starts killing.”

Mister Rich’s threats to me: “If you’re telling the truth, I won’t let that thing inside of you take over. I will kill you first.”

The fake police officer at the motel: The axe slashes across his throat once, twice, nearly severing his head. I see his body fall backwards, as the axe splashes open his abdomen. Loops of intestine spill onto the snow while the frozen air turns white with his escaping heat.

I look down at my hands, hands I’ve seen covered in blood, hands that I’ve imagined around a woman’s throat. They kept me locked up, doped up, chased me down and tried to contain me. All this time, I thought it was because they wanted to use me, that I was some freaky experiment or government project gone rogue. I thought I was the plucky underdog, trying to escape from impossible odds to find my life and go back to being a normal person. I never though that I was the mad dog that needed to be put down. I never thought I would turn out to be the most notorious serial killer in human history.

All this time I’ve been bitching about answers, and now I have one. Are you happy now, Six? Are you happy to know that you’re a fucking monster?

I stumble back from the computer, knocking over the chair in the process. I have to get out of here, now. I have to get away, have to hide, have to think. But where can I go to hide from myself, hide from the thing lurking inside of me, waiting to come out?

I turn around, and see that someone is watching me.

Who is watching me?

Mister Rich?

One of the men from the van?

A woman I’ve never met before?

Or a man I don’t recognize?

The choice is yours.

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