ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN
He was ecstatic, the plan had worked to perfection.
Now the world would have to acknowledge him.
Acclaim him.
The master criminal operating in plain sight.
A double event even more spectacular than that of Jack the Ripper who had murdered Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes on the same night, 30th September 1888.
But even the master, the greatest of them all, did not display his victims as an exhibit. He just left them where they had been slain.
But now, he had taken the craft of murder to new, never before seen heights of greatness.
But he had not finished.
He would never finish. Such great work could never come to an end.
The next time he might display a triptych. Three specimens artfully arranged, even though he knew that technically speaking a triptych w
