The City Ripper

Introduction

For the last two years, the city of Chicago has been the theater of a series of grisly murders. While they acknowledge this specific wave of violence, police say the murders are not connected in any way. Additional evidence brought up by a handful of journalists appears to tell a whole different story. The chief inspector has scheduled a press conference on Tuesday morning to clarify things regarding these murders.

Monday, May 9th - 19:30

The man was carrying his orange, plastic tray and looked around the food court, trying to find a place where he could sit down. While he enjoyed the food, his gyros and garlic potatoes were only an excuse to come here, and not look entirely suspicious. Unsurprisingly for a Monday evening, there were not that many people seated in the food court. A total of about 25 or so people were to be found for the roughly 250 seats available throughout the entire area.

The man was eagerly waiting to hear back from his contact. The contact and he initially met the day following the first murder. Ever since the contact had gotten in touch with him on several occasions throughout the past two years. Every single time they met; the man was unable to get a visual of their contact. Even other potential clues about their identity, such as their voice, were not conclusive. The contact wanted to keep total privacy and went to great lengths not to get identified. They were like a ghost.

When the contact initially reached out to him, the man was highly suspicious about their motives. He was a political blogger, and very often had to deal with various people threatening him: politicians, law enforcement agents, even attorneys. Once, he even ended up in a physical altercation with a goon. Ever since, he carried a weapon wherever he went, for obvious reasons.

When the blogger agreed to meet with the contact, all he knew was they had information concerning the latest murder that took place in the city. He wondered where would things connect with his work, although it didn’t take him long to understand the motives the contact had: the murder victims were all, in a way or another, taking part in the persecution the LGBTQ+ community was increasingly facing in the city, and to a broader level, at state and national levels.

He received gory details about how the murder took place, or how the person was executed. Other information such as how the body was positioned, and what kind of weapon was used, were also very precise. Still in disbelief, the blogger reached out to official sources to corroborate information not yet made available to the public. His contact proved to be right, and their information quite valuable. The number of details the blogger provided raised the Chicago police department’s suspicions.

Police officers were insistent about learning the identity of this mysterious contact, yet the blogger did not provide any information, because he protected his sources. He also did not have the slightest idea about who the contact was or what they looked like. Police did not need to know about that part.

The police officers he spoke with demanded to meet with him, yet he refused to do so. He had always kept a certain buffer between law enforcement and himself, to avoid any potential conflict. He also did not appreciate police in general, often enough referring to them as pigs, and branding them as 1312, ACAB, or all cops are bastards.

During the following months, the blogger ended up being the subject of intense online police surveillance, having his communications spied on. Due to his various knowledge in computer security, he successfully avoided being tracked down. As the months went by, he acquired more sophisticated security systems, went through a pile of burner phones, and upgraded his various writing tools with the latest encryption software. He always made the effort to protect his various sources and his own identity. He was not going to make an exception. Not even for this mysterious source.

The only way to reach out to him was by leaving comments on his articles and by sending him an email to an address located out of the country. Whenever he wrote back, he used a VPN with extra security layers. For the rare times he made a phone call, he stayed on the line for no more than 30 seconds and disposed of his burner phone. Never did he use the same phone twice. He was untraceable and would remain so. Even his profile picture, which was shared on his blog entries, was doctored.

He eventually grew tired of the CPD’s behavior and made a series of posts on his blog about how they bastardized his rights granted and protected by the constitution, going as far as explaining how they had been spying on his online activity, how and at which frequency they attempted to hack into his systems and each of their attempts at meeting him under false pretense. He kept receipts of their actions and provided them, to the CPD’s and the district attorney’s great displeasure.

During all that time, not only did he publish these specific articles, he continued to push new material related to the murders as they took place.

Eventually, the CPD, with the help of some insistence coming from the district attorney, backed off and let him be. He was still extremely careful whenever he went out, avoiding crowded places as much as possible, and always keeping a weapon handy. It made his covering of political news more laborious than it ever was.

The blogger finally found an acceptable seat and sat down. He started eating his meal while waiting for his source. He looked around, at the crowd, trying to see if he could identify the person he was waiting for. The food court was rather quiet. The various fragrances of steamed hot dogs, burgers, pizza, Chinese food, and fries meld together nicely in the air.

After a few minutes, he heard a voice coming from the seat behind him: “Hello again, dear blogger. I am aware it has been a while since we last spoke; I am happy to see you are well. As always, do not turn around. I will explain what is the latest.”

It was his source talking to him, he did not doubt this. The blogger could discern the source’s usual vocabulary and mannerisms in their speech, even though the voice was once again slightly off.

The source went on, “the latest is another police officer. Actually, this time it was Captain Smith. I assume the CPD will have even more itchy trigger fingers for the next few weeks than they had for the past month. While I am glad things finally cooled off regarding the previous execution, I believe we will not see each other much for a while, now.”

The blogger’s tongue hit his palate. He thought, a police captain? Geez, we’re in for a thought ride this time.

The blogger was unhappy about this. He knew he would have some renewed and limited interactions with the district attorney, with their office sending him countless emails and leaving comments on the articles, asking, no, demanding that he calls them to finally arrange an in-person meeting.

This also meant trying to stay under the radar and being on the lookout for new tracking attempts.

He started to protest something, yet his contact quickly shut him off: “I cannot stay any longer, I am sorry. I knew you would sit at this table. Underneath it, I taped an envelope containing pictures of the execution and some extra details for you. You will also find a list to publish. Goodbye.”

The blogger reached out under the table and found the package, taped to the table. He carefully pulled it out, making sure no one saw what he was doing. He put the envelope in his shoulder bag and started leaving the area right away, abandoning the second half of his meal. As he walked away, he looked around, and all seemed normal. People were eating, people were passing by. No one looked suspicious. It is as if his source never existed.

One thought crossed the blogger’s mind: How did they know, once again, where I was going to sit?

Tuesday, May 10th - 11:30

I sat in the room, waiting for the press conference to begin. The room was large, about 50 feet by 150 feet. The neon lights gave a cold, pale blue ambiance, which paired nicely with the blasting air conditioner. It was May, and I was still wearing a scarf.

I guestimated there were about fifty other people in the room with me, most of them journalists, camera crews. There were also some police officers wearing their uniforms. I was there as the criminal affairs columnist for the Chicago Daily Messenger, my cellphone in one hand, a list of questions in the other. I was ready to record the whole ordeal.

I looked at my phone and noticed it was almost time. The chief inspector was known to make his big announcements right before lunch. His thinking was when people were hungry, they would not be asking too many questions, as they would subconsciously focus on the upcoming meal and will want to be done with this as soon as possible. What an ass, I told myself.

In case the announcement was to last more than a few minutes, I had a protein shake waiting for me in my purse. It was a big purse that also carried my wallet, sunglasses, various pens, and notepads, as well as some pepper spray. One could never be too careful in this city.

The chief inspector finally entered the room, flanked with two other officers. They headed towards the table located at the front of the room. The room became silent, as all three took a seat, with the chief taking the middle one. I heard more whispers in a funeral home.

He began his monologue… “First of all, thank you, everyone, for showing up to this press conference, especially on such short notice.” I gave him an eye-roll.

No shit, sherlock. You notified us 30 minutes ahead of time.

“As you all know, we work diligently to ensure everyone’s safety and well-being in the city. For this, I must thank all of my colleagues from the CPD. We have done a tremendous job. Sadly, over the past year, we have witnessed several unresolved murders and...”

Someone from the crowd cut him off and clarified, “two, chief inspector. It has been over two years since the murders started.”

I guess everyone has had enough of his bullshit…

Chief asshole, as we nicknamed McClane in the journalistic circles, didn’t pay too much attention to the interruption. He took a loud sip of water, giving half the room some shivers in the process. He resumed, “we must say these murders are not related in any way. It is not the work of a single individual, as some of you might claim. Our investigation has taught us the victims were killed in various ways, and none of the methods were used twice: drowning, stabbing, shooting, decapitation, immolation, blunt trauma, poisoning.”

I could tell he was getting irritated at the whole situation, and more precisely at the crowd who was not buying into his explanations. He did not want to be here with the media today, I guess the mayor told him to show up anyways.

He went on, “The victims do not have anything in common, and they are not of the same gender nor social caste. They are of various ages and various builds. Hair is different for each of them and so are facial traits.” His voice went faster and now sounded even more irritated than when he first started the conference. “You journalists are bringing forward a false theory that is scaring the population. You believe this is the work of a single individual, yet nothing points to that. I want you to stop this foolishness and only report facts.” As he finished those last words, he slapped the table with his hand and took a deep breath. The two officers exchanged nervous looks.

He clearly lost his shit.

No one in the room dared say a thing as an uncomfortable silence settled in. You could have heard a fly, or even my tummy rumbling, for that matter. I forgot to eat breakfast earlier today, and I usually took my lunch around 14:00. To hold me up until then, I opened up my protein shake and chugged half of it, making weird swallowing sounds. I might as well make everyone even more uncomfortable. I received weird and disgusted looks. Chief asshole sent me a death glare. So be it

One of the journalists who worked at a local radio station, Anton, stood up and broke the silence. He started asking a series of questions, without being prompted in the first place, drawing the ire of the chief inspector. He did not want to miss his chance to get this information out in public. Plus, it’s 11:45; we had 15 minutes to go, and then McClane would disappear. That was his modus operandi.

As Anton spoke, the two officers exchanged nervous looks, again. “Clearly, you have chosen to remain blind to several facts about those murders. Facts that we diligently shared in our publications, important facts for public awareness.” McClane responded, “yes, some of that information came from us, some of it also came from that blogger friend of yours, which we cannot find. We have no way to verify what is said on that blog. You are taking half of your source material from a ghost.”

Anton was not buying into that crap. “I never brought up the blogger. So far, his information has been accurate. You simply do not want to admit its veracity. As for the facts you ignored, all the murders took place in the same part of the city, in the downtown area, on both banks of the Chicago River. The river flows through the city and its surroundings are surprisingly not well lit at night. At most, the murders all took place in half a mile radius, so 800 metres for the non-Americans.”

People in the room chuckled. McClane did not.

The area is indeed a dark hole at night, surprisingly enough. You would think they would have been more careful about ensuring people’s safety around a river. The skyscrapers’ lights did not illuminate much of the streets.

Anton added, “You have also blatantly chosen to dismiss the fact all of these murder victims were white supremacists, or at the very least, known associates of said supremacists. Some, if not all of them, had tattoos conveying this ideology on their body. They were also notable for having made numerous threats against people of color and people under the LGBTQ+ umbrella. They have made similar threats against people who were either socialists, liberals, or who did not support the right-wing, alt-right, neo-Nazi agenda. We obviously cannot withhold such important information from the public. And you cannot ignore any longer all of these similitudes.”

Anton sat down, satisfied with his unintentional roasting. Other journalists took this as a signal to rise from their seats and ask various questions. They all spoke at the same time, and soon enough the room was nothing but a huge buzzing sound.

The chief inspector chugged the rest of his glass of water and got up. He told us the press conference was over, he would not take any other question, nor make any other declarations. He was mad he got thrown under the bus. He hastily left the room, followed by his two lackeys.

Look at that, I told myself. He is regular as clockwork: it is now noon.

As for me, it was time to go back to the journal and write that article.

Tuesday, May 10th - 15:30

On my way back to the office, I grabbed some lunch. Judging by how McClane treated us all again today, I started wondering if anyone truly appreciated him. Once more, he proved his lack of respect today. If he treated people like this in public, I wondered how he did in private.

Due to today’s tight deadline, I was glad I decided to eat while working. It was not something I particularly enjoyed. I usually took the time to go out for lunch, and after most people had done so. I enjoyed the tranquility early afternoons provided. All was so quiet at that time.

As I finished writing my column and sent it over to the editor, I noticed we were almost at the cutting hour. It did not take long for the editor to summon me in his office. In so many words, our conversation went as follow:

Him: “You need to take a hold of yourself. We cannot publish this. Legal will have our heads.”

Me: “Why not?”

Him: “You are insulting McClane. You call him an incompetent pretender. You describe him as a morally bankrupt douchebag.”

Me: “We all know he is incompetent, and that he is morally bankrupt. It is not an insult. Let us call a cat a cat.”

My boss looked at me, exasperated. He knew when I was holding my ground like this there would be no chances of me giving in.

Him: “We will remove the ‘douchebag’ and publish. If we hear from him about this, it’s on you.”

Me: “Yeah, whatever.”

I left his office, went to grab my things, and left for the day. I needed to catch some sleep before tonight’s hockey game. It was the playoffs, and it was sacred.

Tuesday, May 10th - 21:30

*Ding*

The sound had something too familiar. Something came up in the blogger’s inbox. It was not a regular email; it was something sent to his blog. With a sigh, he looked at what came in. He hated when people sent messages while he was watching hockey.

He looked at the email, ran the decryption tool, and stared at what was mentioned. It came from his contact. They wanted to meet him again, as they had unique information concerning all the murders. The meeting was to take place at the local public library, the following evening. As usual, he had to go alone.

To make sure the blogger would take them seriously, the contact included the name of the final person to be executed, as well as some extra unique information. When the blogger saw the name, his eyes were wide open. No wonder the email was encrypted.

The blogger muted his tv and remained thoughtful for the rest of the evening.

Wednesday, May 11th - 9:00

I walked in at work, holding my coffee in one hand, my sunglasses in the other. I was not yet at my desk when I heard my name being yelled. Ruh-roh. It was the editor. He was standing in the doorway to his office, angrily waving at me. I went towards him. Without even him telling me, I assumed McClane was there… and indeed he was.

We spent about 15 minutes talking in the office, with the door closed. There was a calm discussion, followed by a waltz of insults, then papers thrown in the air, and a series of legal threats.

Legal managed to calm down McClane. I was to write an apology next week. He left. I was told to take the day off.

Wednesday, May 11th - 20:30

The blogger sat on a library bench, with his small gray notebook on his knees. He was connected on the public Wi-Fi, still hesitating about publishing his latest blog post. When he published his previous post, a few days ago, he thought he would have been done with the City Ripper for a while. He was wrong.

Following the previous night’s email, he was provided with a list of reasons why those people were executed. Never published photos of the murders and an audio description were also part of the bundle he received. The contact had required the list and each photo to be published. The contact claimed they wanted to smoke the ringleader out of his hole.

Now, the blogger was terrified about this delicate operation. The ringleader was a powerful man, and he knew the implications of naming him, before his death, would be massive. If he chose not to publish the list prior to the execution, it came down to aiding a criminal. This time he would not be able to dodge the district attorney.

We were supposed to keep our heads low for a while, he thought. What the fuck are they doing?!

The blogger took a deep breath and clicked publish. He knew it was the right thing to do. His post was online, and now all was left to Karma.

Thursday, May 12th - 10:30

I sat in the Chicago Daily Messenger’s editorial board room, along with twenty or so other people. The editor, legal counsel, and even some detectives were present. We were all discussing the information that went up last night, reading it over and over again, trying to decorticate the information that was vomited.

That blog post had the effect of a bomb.

According to the blog post, there used to be a network of white supremacists that infiltrated the city’s management at various levels. Some other information concerning the people on the list was screenshots of their message board activity, place of employment, various user accounts, private messages, and emails sent between themselves.

Part of it was violence against the LGBTQ+ community, yes. Some other information was about diverse illegal activities, including rape, voyeurism, pimping, and pedophilia. Altogether, that information was extremely disturbing. A lot of it was graphic and would give me nightmares for the upcoming weeks.

The city ripper managed to cleanse the city from everyone on the list, save for one person. Named as the ringleader was Chief Inspector McClane.

Every news outlet in the city was covering this event. The mayor summoned the chief inspector to a meeting, yet McClane never showed up. Due to those circumstances, the mayor had no other choice than to suspend McClane, pending an investigation.

The journal’s legal department recommended I wait until things were sorted out before writing the apology.

No matter the outcome, McClane had lost the little credibility he had left, forever.

Thursday, May 12th - 14:00

Chief Inspector McClane walked into his favorite bar, the glaucous Barn Owl café, and sat down at the counter. Save from the bartender, who was arranging their stock and turned their back on him, the café was empty. The place was eerily quiet, and not a sound could be heard. Both the televisions and the radio were turned off.

The décor looked like an old barn, with wooden barrels piled up in a corner, decorative haystacks sitting in another, horse saddles and bridles hanging on the worn wooden walls. Scattered between the tables were several 8” by 8” beams, which rose towards the ceiling, meeting with perpendicular and diagonal beams. To give a certain realism to this barn, decorative ghostly white barn owls were perched aloft.

McClane had a spine shiver and decided to obnoxiously clear his throat, attempting to catch the bartender’s attention. The bartender asked with a faint voice, “I heard you walk in. What do you want to drink?” The inspector could not discern if the bartender was a man or a woman, and the voice did not provide any additional clues. He responded, “Jameson. Triple.”

The bartender grabbed a bottle of whiskey, ice cubes, and a glass. As they pour the drink, they let out a remark, “it’s a tough day today, eh? How does it feel to be the last person alive on that list?” McClane, visibly annoyed at the question, let out a sigh while rubbing his forehead, and snarled, “just give me my fucking drink and mind your own business.”

The bartender turned around, smacked down the tumbler on the counter, making a spill in the process, and said, “Inspector, you are my business.” The voice sounded familiar. McClane raised his head, looked at the bartender, and let out a panicked “YOU!” He tried to reach for his weapon, yet the bartender was faster. They fired their taser, which was aimed at the inspector, sending him crashing onto the wooden floor. The inspector passed out, paralyzed.

Friday, May 13th - 14:00

I had been at work since 9:00, writing another article concerning our guardian angel, AKA serial killer. The night before, I received an email in my private inbox. The killer wanted to meet me in person, at 14:00. They said it was a perfect time for me, as this was my usual lunch break. They were right, and I finally was on my way to meet with them. They also warned me we would meet with the blogger.

I went to the address they provided me; it was an apartment unit above the Barn Owl café. I punched the security code at the front door and went upstairs. I found the unit I needed to go to and entered the next code. The door opened. All along, I made sure I was not being followed. I still carried my weapon.

The unit was a commercial loft, with concrete walls, floors, and ceilings. There was barely any lighting. Discarded furniture was littering the area. I was pained to find my way around. This is where I saw him. McClane was naked and tied up to a stainless steel table. He had a gag covering his mouth. He looked exhausted. Who knows for how long he tried getting out of this pickle.

As he saw me, he became agitated. I went towards him and removed his gag. He shrieked and told me to stay the fuck away from him. I was perplexed as to why he would say that. I did not like him, yet I was not going to kill him.

He noticed my visible confusion and told me to turn the portable DVD player on. I had not even noticed its existence in the room. I hit play, and took a step back, grasping. What I saw made no sense. The person on the screen was... me.

“You probably wonder what you are doing here, and why you see yourself in this video,” my video self said. “Since everyone in the family is here, let me give proper introductions. I am you. So is our friend the blogger. While we all are part of the same physical entity, we each have our own personalities. We act independently, we have our own preferences, we do our own work.”

I stared in disbelief.

“You are a journalist, with a strong sense of justice. You found out about the crimes McClane, and his acolytes were perpetrating, yet you had no means to legally bring them to justice. The information you held was obtained illegally, due to you, or should I say the blogger, hacking into their system as you worked another case. You thought about the only other way to bring justice, and you needed someone to help you. Hence why I am here. I have killed everyone on that list, save for this jerk. Yet.” My image pointed at the table.

McClane was terrified.

“I have taken pictures and videos of every execution I did. These bastards were monsters and needed to pay the price for their actions. Luckily for us, we are not visible on any of those media. We are never mentioned. Now that you are here, the final execution is yours, if you want to.”

My head was starting to turn. My image went on, “you may free McClane and walk out of here. If you do, he will nail you for all these executions. Or. You can execute McClane for what he did, and no one will ever know about us existing. Authorities will try to chase a ghost.” There was a moment of silence.

“What will you choose, what will you do?”