When I turned the corner I could see the reflection of the auburn dawn in her single wound. The cutthroat killer has become increasingly horrific with each murder. He gave this young woman struggling moments of life before he finished slicing, no, sawing through her neck. A pity that she could not have been slain but a few feet up the alley, she would have been in view of "Vanity". It's a nightclub located on Ringwald. If only he could have slipped up and let her run a few more feet, the bustling crowd would had prevented her murder. I suppose her taste in style was her demise.
Rising from my crouched position, I turned to my fellow investigator.
“Should we bother to identify her or just name her ‘number 6’?” As cold hearted as that joke was, it was nothing but the truth. These women were just the typical “women of the streets”. But as I looked upon her corpse, I could only imagine the struggle she put up. A trace of her hair, nails and clothing was found imbedded into the imperfect concrete. She must have gripped to the ground as the assailant pulled her up by her hair. When she fell from her faulty footwear, her body must have slid and ripped the fibers of her shirt.
She was a beautiful sight to see. The pleasing lithe body that she left so exposed. She was clad in a bright lime green shirt that complimented her midriff. The worn words of “kinky” stretched over her large soft breasts labeling herself and her idea of fun. She looked like she was a C or D cup… but it was hard to tell on women who refused to wear bras. Mascara tears dusted in black glitter ran down her milky cheeks, her last chance at emotion. If only she could have used it in a more meaningful matter rather than her own death as another whore left dead in an alleyway off of Whitechapel. The tattered flannel printed skirt exposed her sheer lace underwear. Her fishnets were no longer clung at her thighs, rather lingering between her knee and ankle. All topped off with the buckle strapped baby doll loafers, the ones with the shiny plastic look.
I had to look away. Not just because the disgusting massacre or the stench, but the idea that this woman had no chance. She took his clove cigarette with that same smile that you give to open hospitality. But this was jsut a trick, a lure... This was his way of receiving their trust, his modern day grapes.
I couldn’t bear to look upon her severed hyoid gland, commonly known as the voice box. With a cough, I commented my partner
“He sawed through to her spinal cord… leaving no evidence.” I gave one last look to the woman before leaving the scene. Just another victim of the modern day Jack the Ripper.