Right! What you know!

My Dear Inspector Abberline,

I forward to you this, in abstentia, my congratulations and best wishes on your retirement from the infamous Pinkerton National Detective Agency. You have had my utmost admiration for your tenacity and perseverance, and while you did not reap the true reward you sought for for so very long, I hope you do take some consolation that I stopped way before you did.

As far as you know.

This missive is a parting gift, if you might take it as such, as you retire to chilly Bournemouth with that delectable Mrs. of yours, the former Emma Beaument. It is a pity that she and I never met, but, really, she and I would never have had the opportunity to cross paths. Straight and narrow, inspector…straight and narrow.

How fitting that my “final” prize, Mary Jane Kelly, for “Fair Emma” was indeed worthy of my skills. Inspector, she was a beauty, and fallen as she was, it was a pleasure to make her acquaintance. Mary was tall, slim, fair, of fresh complexion, and of attractive appearance, but…you only met her after my work was done. I doubt you found her very appealing once you came upon her, prone and vivisected as she was, but trust me, Frederick (I do hope you don’t mind I call you that), she was very attractive.

Very attractive indeed.

How puzzling the insides of a woman are, the extra parts, the bits and pieces that make up the female form. I hope you appreciated the aesthetics of the beauty I left,   the abdominal cavity emptied of its viscera, the displacing of the bosoms, the flaying and intricate incisions that transformed “Fair Emma” into a work of art…a work of art I left for you and the stalwarts of Scotland Yard.

All these years later, the cases still open, and you now in retirement…are you still pondering why? I know you think you know the who. It wasn’t poor mad Georgie, I’m sure you realize now. Yes, he did poison those young ladies (of which you only pinpointed three; he had a much higher count) and paid for his “crimes.” Not mine, Frederick, not mine.

Why? I must admit, I loved them all, in my own way. Especially Mary. I keep her heart with me, always.

There were others before, and many, many after those attributed to me. Each throat cut, ever organ removed, every slice given live with me even now, Frederick, and while you wile away your time by the sea shore, think on this:

You were never, ever close in catching me. Pity. It was fun.

Hug your Emma, Frederick, but never worry, for she is as safe from my knife as the purest child in the church of the lord our God. Love her, as I love mine. I shall be enjoying the rewards of my memories, and those that I still come to know.

With fond regards,

“Jack”

Pollination in the Parking Lot (#AtoZChallenge)

Welcome to the A to Z Challenge : 26 Stories during the month of April

Welcome to… The Apartment Building: Swan Rise

(For Links to the previous stories, CLICK HERE)

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The cars in the parking lot were blanketed in yellow gold pollen. Microgametophytes, the seed plants wind borne gift of life, did not all reach its intended destinations, but settled onto the vehicles, giving their drivers a morning’s unwanted dusting. Some sneezes, a cough, a brushing onto pants and shirts, light jackets for an early spring morning…the plants and flowers were trying to mate, and the autos and Swan Rise residents got in the way.

This was a yearly occurrence, some worse than others. Intrusions into the day to day that most knew were coming but dreaded all the same. Pollen counts were always “the worst we’ve seen in years,” forgetting other years when the same statement was proclaimed. The cars got washed, the allergy sufferers suffered, and the parking lot doings went on.

Other mating rituals could be found through most of the year, but it was only the “damned yellow seed” that bothered many. Building dogs tried to mate, sniffing around each other (at least those that had not been snipped), and cats yowled during their seasons, the feral cats drawing their housed brethren to the window sills high above. Birds nested on the overhang and the roof, and bugs of all types found solace in cracks and loose mortar. No one talked about any rodent problem: there was NO rodent problem, even if the Laundry Room Mafia ladies said they saw a few quick scamperings while their salvo of gossip swirled the stagnant hot laundry room air.

There has long been a legend in the building of a prostitute that took up shop at the darkened edge of the lot. A large elm tree spread it’s branches and leaves over a large section, encasing the trunk and roots in deep shadows. A few coming-in-late dwellers said they were approached for “a date” by a young woman. She was tall in her stilettos, leggy and curvy in “all the right places” (said one of the husbands in the building, who asked to remain anonymous). All the tales said she was rebuked and sent on her way but prying eyes saw, some car tops had distinct imprints,  and the police came and reports were made, but this intruder was never caught.

She came in on an evening breeze, a pistil to the desires of the movements of the stamen, and like pollen, she only lasted so long.