The police were only minutes later upon the scenes of horrendously gruesome public murders. They took down details immediately. We even know when blood stopped flowing from the victims and coagulated. Yet the perpetrator was never seen. It was the dead of night. Yet the perpetrator was never even heard fleeing the scene. Despite the pitch darkness, there was never a shoe print in blood or even half a heel print. The perpetrator himself was never officially identified. He was known only as Jack the Ripper.
It is necessary for the serious student of the Ripper crimes to place himself back at the scene. The reader must walk the streets, hear the Thames fog horns and the chimes of Big Ben. He must keep in his mind every clue. Everything is a clue. Even the weather provides a clue: the Ripper almost always struck on a rainy night. Fortunately, newspapers and journals of the time were detailed. They even recorded laughter from the inquest audience and sobs from the witnesses who had to identify the mutilated remains of their siblings or former lovers.
Scarlet Autumn is a vivid and graphic account because it is an investigation and a chronicle all in one. It starts at the beginning and works forward based only on the evidence. It is therefore free of the stereotypes and clichés that have derailed many investigations into the realm of folklore.
The reader will be introduced to much new evidence that will speak volumes. In Scarlet Autumn, Gian J. Quasar does not overlook any detail. This is not a formula rehash or a debunk. This is meant to be the ultimate companion to all works on the Ripper. Quasar does not even put forth a dominant suspect. But his detailed investigation will cause many suspects to fall. He gives the reader the power to go back in time and transpose into the filthy world of Victorian Whitechapel. A Dickensian London was being squelched by modern industry. Whitechapel was a gangrenous wound. Molten poverty seeped up from the dirty cobblestones. A rusty, smoggy mist crawled over the ground. To this backdrop in the autumn of 1888 a “shabby genteel” fellow, described as clerkly and Jewish, about 35 years old to middle-age, murdered prostitutes for no reason except to retrieve organs and baffle the police. He was about 5 feet 6 inches tall, stoutish, possessing a soft voice. Theories tell us that he either committed suicide or was possibly locked up for something else. Yet there is no evidence for either. All that is truly known for sure is that he did mysteriously segue into the dirty sounds and daily life of a world he knew all too well. As mysteriously as he arrived he also vanished, never to be revealed. No lucrative reward ever brought a witness. Hordes of vigilantes never caught sight of him. He was the first true phantom killer.
The result is the greatest crime mystery in history. It is purely phenomenal that his killings went unsolved, as elaborate as they were, in as crowded a place as London’s rookeries. We must look beyond the psychological generalizations of today. We must look at the specific trail of the Ripper. It is one in scarlet. It is an intentional trail. And the victims were killed to be clues.