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Jack the Ripper's Bedroom (c. 1907). Oil on canvas, Walter Sickert, Manchester City Gallery. |
The Ripper, I mean.
It’s my turn, among countless writers before me, who have taken a crack at the man that struck terror in London’s East End for ten weeks in 1888.
Every angle, every facet, has been examined and penned, fiction and non-fiction.
So, the question remains. Why me? What can I offer that others have not?
My meeting face-to-face with the knife-wielding serial killer.
That might make a change.
