I said a silent prayer for the poor girl’s soul as I sat in my comfortable office chair, her soul after all was known unto God, if to no-one else. My own feelings at that time were a mixture of horror, revulsion, and a deep sadness, sadness for another poor lost soul, taken from life by the well-sharpened blade of a madman. Despite my own professional training, and though it wasn’t a word much used by my modern colleagues, I knew that The Ripper was quite mad; sick, yes, with many symptoms of the most terrible psychological disorders, but madness was the only term I could use to describe these acts of wanton violence and mutilation. Yet, his own soul must have been troubled also; for he was also known unto God was he not, if God truly existed? Would his deeds have placed him outside God’s
