Tales of Jack the Ripper (2 page)

Dr. Springer flipped on the light switch. “Winter is coming on quickly.”

Still holding Faber’s lifeless hand, Estell rose from the chair beside his bed and faced Dr. Springer.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” the doctor said, gesturing toward his patient. “Don’t take chances with your health. If you’re feeling poorly—whatever it is—see your doctor.”

“It’s hard to believe he was allowed to work for so long, and no one noticed his illness.”

Dr. Springer turned and glared at his friend, still very angry with Faber. “He has never been a very good liar, but it wasn’t until he began to hobble about the laboratory that we knew something was wrong.”

“For all his knowledge of medicine,” said Estell, at times he seems to have little faith in it.”

“And he won’t ever listen to anyone. I have never seen such a fuss over a few simple tests. You know, it wasn’t until after the Dean had a talk with him that he finally gave it up. And I’ve had to take a leave of absence to come here and take care of the sissy.”

Faber knew Dr. Springer was right to be angry. Six months ago, when he was just beginning to have difficulty controlling his right side, diagnostic studies could have confirmed or denied Faber’s suspicions. There was the slim possibility that surgery at that early stage in his illness might have remedied the problem. But the thought of going under the knife caused him to quickly put this out of his mind. Although he had used the scalpel for nothing but good for over fifty years, he had a fear of putting himself in a position in which poetic justice might lend a hand.

“Try not to be too hard on him,” Estell said, squeezing Faber’s hand and placing it beside him. She looked him in the eyes. “Well, I’ll be leaving in the morning. The bus should get me back to Nashville by mid-afternoon. I want to be home in time to fix supper for Danny and the boys. But I will be back to see you soon.”

Better hurry, then,
Faber thought, although he didn’t much care. He knew she had come only out of a sense of obligation.

“Thank you for coming, Estell,” Dr. Springer said as she left the room. He sat down beside Faber and, while taking his pulse, turned to speak to the nurse in the hall. “He can have one more visitor today.”

Faber heard the murmuring of those waiting in the dining room as they rose to depart. They seemed to number six or eight. When there were that many, all conversing at once, their words overlapped so that he couldn’t understand what was being said. He was amazed that after nearly a month of being bedridden, he still had so many daily visitors.

Miss Lumbly entered the room. “He was such a saint,” she told Dr. Springer. “I always tell people about the case of that little Simmons girl—you remember, don’t you? All those headaches and the sickness, and every doctor her father took her to diagnosed simple migraine.”

“I remember,” said Springer.

“When Dr. Faber heard about it, he said it sounded like brain abscesses and told the man to take her to Baltimore to see that specialist.” She shook her head. “How could he have known. He just had an intuition about such things, and that little girl is alive and well today, all because of him.”

She was wearing maroon, a color which had always irritated Faber. It was the color of irritation, the color of a bruise. He remembered that first drunken prostitute, Polly Nichols, as wearing maroon. And she—not the whore, but Miss Lumbly—was wearing a shapeless black straw hat with fake flowers sticking out all over. Come to think of it though, he could remember Polly as wearing one like that too.

Faber’s wife, Carolyn, had known Miss Lumbly through her involvement with the Daughters of the American Revolution.

“She’s a haughty socialite,” he remembered Carolyn saying, “who prides herself on knowing everyone of
substance
in Knoxville.”

He didn’t get to know the woman until after his wife’s death. Since then from time to time, Miss Lumbly had come to call on Dr. Faber. No doubt she thought that since he was a widower, he might easily be persuaded to relieve her of her spinsterhood.

A saint,
she had said. If only she knew. The cow—he would like to show her….

Over the years the memories had bled together into one chilling corpse, an experience devoid of spiritual beauty or revelation. As if awakening from a blackout, he would be in the midst of his work before he knew what was happening.

He knelt beside the woman, savagely piercing her, dividing and violating her hot, wet tissues, his knife penetrating to her most secret flesh.

He took the woman, her mind, her body, and her life—the feeling had never been the same with a cadaver.

To prove his knowledge of her, he carefully separated the organs. And though he was privy to the smells of her living blood, her vagina, even her bowels, she suffered the shame of it without protest, remaining lifeless on the damp flagstones.

What else could she do? He could see that he had cut her throat, no doubt to quiet that horrible mouth. If she struggled, he would overpower her again. And after all, if they were caught, her shame would be that much greater.

He had almost had his fill when a staggering drunkard entered the road. Faber automatically thought to use his cloak as a curtain for the exposed woman. No, he decided, let her suffer the man’s disapproving stare. The fellow seemed not to notice them, however, as he reeled away into the night.

Faber looked at his watch. He was still too drunk to see it well. It looked to be about two o’clock in the morning.

No one else was about. But at any moment, a policeman might see them from his beat along an adjoining road. The woman was the one who had shamefully allowed herself to be exposed in public, however Faber might be detained and questioned about his involvement. That would never do.

He put away his knife, gathered his cloak about him, and started walking. When, several blocks away, he encountered a policeman, he tried not to stagger and draw attention to himself. He didn’t want the man to see he was in his cups.

Faber shook off the memory.

Miss Lumbly was still going on about him. How did she speak of him behind his back?

Just like your mother, Jack—all sweetness and light, singing the praises of the lord of the manor when in his presence, but damning him when he could not hear her.
Faber could think of nothing worse than having to listen to his mother’s mouth—the damned whore.

But that was an ugly way to think of poor, lonely Miss Lumbly. She had never done him any wrong. She obviously did the best she could with what life had offered her.

“Why do you talk about him as if he were not here?” asked Dr. Springer. “He
can
hear you. He can also respond, although it is often too frustrating for him to try and find his words.”

Ignoring Dr. Springer, she looked down at Faber with a smile and took his right hand. He watched it being lifted, but couldn’t feel it. “Such a wonderful man.”

Dear God, was that genuine
sadness
in her voice? Her expression darkened. “Oh, but that son of his, Wayne.”

“Miss Lumbly,” Dr. Springer said, “I think it’s time for Dr. Faber to rest.”

“But sir, I have
just arrived
.”

“Nevertheless.” He ushered her from the room.

“Well I never,” Miss Lumbly exclaimed, her voice receding down the hall. “I’ll come back soon, Dr. Faber.”

“She doesn’t mean to be so insensitive,” Dr. Springer said when he returned. “Then again, perhaps she does.”

He chuckled and Faber did his best to laugh with his eyes, as his paralyzed face formed a half smile.

There wasn’t much more in life that Faber wanted for himself and he would have accepted death as reasonable at this time if it weren’t for the loose ends he was leaving behind. There was his research; that would go on without him. Most of all, there was Wayne. He had always been a very troubled soul, and now, at the age of twenty-one, the young man already had a reputation about town as a drunk.

Faber knew and understood the problem. With great patience and sympathy, he had talked with his son many times about his drinking, suggesting that he attend the Thursday night AA meetings at the Methodist Church on Hyde Street.

“You do know, don’t you,” Dr. Springer said looking him squarely in the eyes, “that I’ll make sure Wayne gets along all right? He’s going settle down with time.” He placed one of his hands on Faber’s shoulder. “He’s had a good father and a good upbringing and you know that’s got to go a long way toward building his character. I think he never got over the loss of his mother—he was so young and they loved each other so much. “Faber turned his eyes away.

“I know what you think—even the death of that little girl didn’t change him. We both know it was an accident and he wasn’t charged because he was your son—everyone does. I’m just glad no one thinks the less of you for it.”

Everything his friend said was true, but none of it suggested the cause of his son’s drinking. He remembered the times when whiskey burned in his own belly and rage burned in his head.
“No, sir, please!” she cried. She had actually called me “Sir,” as I raised the knife to slash at her throat.

Wayne had never known about that part of Faber’s life, had never known his father was an alcoholic. But if it were not hereditary, and Faber believed it wasn’t, then what was the cause?

Faber had gone over the possibilities endlessly. He was sixty years old when Wayne was born and had always been concerned that he might not relate to his son easily. But he had always been nothing if not a good example to the boy. He had not had a drink, smoked, cursed, or otherwise demonstrated anything but temperance in manner or lifestyle since long before the boy was born.

His own father, a stable master by trade, died when Faber was a very young boy, kicked in the head by one of the Earl’s prize horses. His Lordship allowed the boy and his mother to stay on, eventually moving them into one of the servants’ quarters in the big house. Faber’s mother took care of the charring and he worked in the stables as his father before him. The Earl became something of a father to him and lavished special attention on the Fabers. He brought in a tutor and the boy received a good education. Faber thought this was because the Earl loved him and, perhaps, because the man felt somewhat responsible for his father’s death.

He remembered the wind was hard biting that day and he had returned for his cap and gloves. Just outside their apartment door, he heard his mother’s urgent voice, whispering. “Not here, sir. Please—not now!”

“The boy will be busy for some time,” His Lordship said. “He’ll be repairing the tumbled-down wall near the front gate until early evening. “Faber returned to his work. He knew now how he and his mother earned special favors from the Earl. This was how he had gained an education and a surrogate father, and how, eventually, he was afforded the opportunity to go into medicine.

Wayne as a seven-year-old child came into his mind. “Come on, Father, take me to work with you today.”

The boy had been asking for over a week. Faber was reluctant—there was a lot a boy could get into at the laboratory. But his mother, poor Carolyn, had been dead only two months and he needed to spend time with his father.

“If you promise to stay out from under foot.”

Wayne promised, they made sandwiches for their lunch, and headed for the university in the Ford. As they moved through the streets of Knoxville, Faber allowed his son to control the gear shift.

“First gear, co-pilot,” Faber would say, pressing in the clutch. Wayne would push the stick into position. “First gear, Sir,” he would say.

On the campus lawn, Faber introduced him to the friendly squirrels. They sat in the cool grass for a moment and fed the animals the crusts from their sandwiches. Wayne told a bad joke, and as they laughed together he put his hand on his father’s shoulder. In a rare fit of affection, Faber reached out and hugged his son.

“Today, will you do an experiment just for me?” Wayne asked, hugging him back.

“Of course I will.”

In the Epley Building, Wayne was introduced to those who shared Faber’s work and laboratory, Dr. Walker and Dr. Bennett. He was more interested, however, in the strange equipment that filled the lab, and as he explored, he discovered the animals with the metal and glass electrodes implanted in their brains. At first, he wandered silently up and down the rows of cages, almost tip-toeing past the pitiful monkeys, cats, and dogs. “You stuck pieces of metal in their heads!” he said quietly, turning to his father with eyes wide. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Frankenstein—you’re just like Dr. Frankenstein!”

Dammit
—Faber was engaged in serious research and would not have his son think poorly of him! He, too, hated what he had to do to the animals.

“Now, son,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “They aren’t in any pain.”

But Wayne wasn’t listening. He was crying and the animals added their voices to his.

Dammit all to hell,
he was doing the best he could to make amends for what he’d done. It just had to be enough!

Through the din, Walker and Bennett looked helplessly to Faber. “Come to me, Wayne, this instant!”

Sniveling, the boy crawled behind a stack of empty cages in a corner and Faber had to wrestle with Wayne to get him out.