Shortly after arrival, he landed a job at one of the mills and also offered his medical skills.
“Whatever you say,” the mill operator grunted, either not believing or caring that Jack had any type of medical education. “Anyways,” the miller continued, “you’re a big’un. You ought to fit in jus’ fine with the work and all. You jus’ keep that doctorin’ to you’self and we’ll all get along jus’ fine. Do you have a place to live?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, there’s a few bunkhouses back behind the hotel downtown. You can ask the man behind the desk. The houses are for some of what he likes to call the unsavory folk so that they don’t keep folk out of his hotel. I say most of the people in this town are scoundrels but who am I to say?” the miller grinned a rotted-tooth smile.
“The bunks are mostly filled with them Scottish boys. Long as you don’t have anything against Scots, and I don’t know why ye’ would considerin’ you talk just like ‘em, you shouldn’t have any problems here. Plus, a boy your size should be able to do some damage to a couple ol’ boys if you need to.” The miller took in Jack’s large stature. “Well, I better get back to it. The name’s Murphy. You come back in the mornin’ and we’ll get you goin’.”
“Thanks Murphy, I appreciate it. The name’s McKale.”
Living in South Carolina was not like living in London. He had lived an upscale life as a physician in London and was now a rural mill worker. It was hard work but it grew on him.
After a few months, he earned enough to buy a small home just outside of town. With the privacy of his own home, he decided it was time to pick up some old habits.
It was summer of 1898 when Jack made his first kill in South Carolina. He followed a woman walking home on a late afternoon from one of the rural country stores. She was probably heading home to prepare supper for her husband and children. Jack waited for her in the tree line and when she reached him, he took her by the arm. She was too surprised to scream.
When she finally realized what was happening, she started to yell out but by that time Jack’s hand was across her mouth. He knocked her out with a hard fist to her temple and then gagged her mouth so she couldn’t scream once she woke up – and she would wake up very soon. Then, he went to work.
The man who found her the next morning puked when he entered the small grove of trees. He first noticed the pack of dogs and thought maybe they were eating a deer. He, as well as others in the area, didn’t want wild dogs roaming about so he pulled his pistol and shot it into the air, running at the dogs to scare them away. It worked.
He entered the trees expecting to see an animal carcass but he saw a blue dress instead. Then, he saw the blonde hair saturated by blood. The sight was gruesome and the work was one of Jack’s best.
The man emptied his stomach of his breakfast.
The killing of the woman had awoken something inside of Jack. He had not killed in several months and the old joy of killing came back to him. He realized that he had missed it.
He also realized, however, that the murder of the woman didn’t satisfy him as it had previously. He felt almost as if the single death was too small. He realized at that moment, his thirst for carnage had grown.
Some of the greatest unsolved murders throughout history followed that moment:
In 1809, Benjamin Bathurst, a British diplomatic envoy disappeared in the German town of Perleberg. Andrew and Abby Borden were killed in 1892 and the primary suspect was their daughter Lizzy. In 1931, Julia Wallace was killed in Liverpool, England – her husband was originally convicted but that was later overturned; the murder was described as an impossible murder because the evidence indicated that no one could have physically pulled off the murder. In 1947, Elizabeth Short, better known as the Black Dahlia was found severely mutilated with her body cut in half. All of these were done by Jack.
The most famous of his murders, however, were some of the world leaders throughout history. And the first time he saw President Libby Williams, he knew he would add another.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cimarron, New Mexico – August 1864
McKale was the name Jack used to travel. He was fascinated in the Old West where violence was often the law and murder was much more accepted than in the east. It was during the nights after a shift in the mill that Jack would travel.
One evening, under the guise of McKale, Jack traveled to New Mexico. He had originally gone there to seek out young outlaw named Jesse James and was surprised to find an old nemesis instead. Juan, the name tasted bitter in his mouth. It was ongoing game of chess and Jack took his turn by killing Juan’s friend in the hotel in Cimarron.
Jack followed Juan as he left the town but lost him in the mountains. It would do no good to hunt him in the dark so he made camp with a small fire. He woke about an hour later to the sound of guns cocking.
Jack started to reach for his pistol but recognized his situation and retracted his hand.
“We’re coming in,” a voice said from the darkness. “If you go for your gun, we’ll shoot
