The icy chill of the journal’s words had taken a grip on my thoughts and emotions. I had fully expected the Ripper (if this was indeed the Ripper), to describe his work in far more graphic detail than he had done. It seemed as if the actual act of killing Polly Nichols, the barbarity of his vicious assault on her lifeless body, had been no more than an adjunct to his day, a casual act, committed with no more emotion than he would have displayed if he’d been swatting a fly, or eating a meal. The ‘sticky warm blood’ upon his fingers, ‘was nothing more than a passing remark, a short statement of fact. He wasn’t in any way repelled by the act of murder, as most murderers are after they realize the magnitude of what they’ve done. This man was incapable of remorse, more than that, he enjoyed the
