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I can still vividly recall that first eerie transmission over my handheld computer. The twisted voice and distorted facial image gloated over the newly eviscerated victim, a poor dry cleaner in the Bowery who was sliced to shreds. "You are my voice. You will hear from me from time to time, like any true friend. Maybe you know me, maybe you weekend don't. Someday you might stare me in the eye, and you'll know. Yours weekend truly, Ripper." Why does the confessor pick me to boast to? Is weekend there a chance I really do know him? I've met a lot of nutcases in this dank, dismal city, but they're usually not the ones to fear. It's the calm, peaceful, gentle souls secretly driven by dark obsessions that are the truly dangerous ones ... This self-proclaimed Jack the Ripper clone is seen by my editor, Ben Dodds, as a story that could carry a paper along for months.
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