The Devil of Whitechapel (Under Editing)

iii-iii. Haytham

It was a slap in the face, dumping a body on Old Montague Street. That was where the city morgue was, the place where the first few Ripper victims were examined. It was like the bastard was trying to save them the trip, except for the fact that they'd started taking the victims to Ezra's makeshift morgue in his basement. You can't even find me when I'm trying to help you, it seemed to say.

Haytham was going to find him. He was going to find him, and when he did, he sure as hell wasn't going to give him up to the police. He was going to do exactly what he'd done to all of those women. And he would wait until he begged him to kill him to finish him off.

He deserved it.

He was careful to not stray too close to the crime scene: Warren had been pretty damned clear what would happen if he got too close, and the last thing he needed was to be in prison: there were too many guys in there who would love nothing more than to rip his head right from his shoulders, and he couldn't help Selina from behind bars, anyway. Instead, he stood down the street from where the investigation was taking place, doing his best to learn as much as he could about the crime.

Not much. He wasn't able to learn all that much from that vantage point.

He wasn't surprised, but he was a little disappointed. He'd thought he was better than that.

And so, he headed out to Ezra's house. Surely, he would have some answers for him. Something that he could use to figure out where Selina was, like Cohen said.

Haytham probably should've been able to figure out that it was a terrible time to pay the good doctor a visit. He should've been able to figure that out from the moment he saw that lorry parked out in front of the house. But, he didn't: he was a man on a mission. A mission to figure out where the hell Cohen had taken Selina.

A mission that could be ruined by the police, should Warren ever find out that he was still looking into the Ripper murders.

So, yes: he should've paid a little more attention to whether or not the police were where he was. But... as good as he was about noticing the tiniest of details at crime scenes, he was really, really terrible at... noticing the tiniest of details.

Haytham knocked on the door.

He'd kind of assumed that it would take a moment for someone to answer the door. And that was why it surprised him so much when the door immediately opened.

A police officer opened the door, a confused look on his face.

Shit!

"Inspector Fletcher?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

Haytham tried to smile, as if the answer were obvious. "I broke my hand. Dr. Ireland's helping me with it."

The police officer raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "Warren said-"

"Yes, yes: believe me, I know what Warren said," Haytham said. "What I don't remember Warren saying was that I can't visit my doctor and my friend for help about my broken hand."

The police officer stood there for a second, trying to decide whether or not the story was valid. Then, he stepped to the side.

"The doctor's examining a victim, right now," the officer said. "He'll be up in a minute."

Haytham walked into the parlor, the officer closing the door behind him.

There were three more of them sitting in the parlor, awkwardly twiddling their thumbs while they waited for Ezra to finish up downstairs. Vera was also sitting in the parlor, with a teapot in hand. If it weren't for the fact that they were in police uniforms, one might have assumed that Vera was just hosting high tea for a few of the neighborhood gentlemen.