On Ripperology
I'm the first to concede that much of my investigative career has been devoted to the persecution of what some might consider 'minor' transgressions. I make no apology for this: accumulated acts of pettiness contribute more to human unhappiness than any Mafia. While a cursory inspection of my Case Book is sufficient to detect the hand of Coe in the resolution of various high profile cases*, I'd acknowledge, that the police are better equipped to deal with the professional criminal than the best intentioned amateur. Apart from the impracticality of their assistance, career psychics are nearly always tempermentally unsuited to the investigations in which they insinuate themselves. Ronald Hawthorne's plaintive appeals to the spirit world invariably conclude with his being led away by his ‘personal physician', screaming and gnawing his trademark beret. On at least two occasions that I know of, he's been so traumatised that he's required hospital treatment. Quite simply, he has neither the sight nor the stomach for the role and would be well advised to return to the salons of Mayfair where, I'm sure, former clients Cherie Blair and Elton John might be prepared to forgive his previous indiscretions. I'm made of sterner stuff! If I hesitate to involve myself with the sort of sadistic criminal who has thrived in the latter part of the 20th century, it's because, nine times out of ten, the police are competent to the task. No great genius is required for an analysis of the habitual murderer. We should be wary of flattering the boors, numbskulls and misfits responsible for such crimes with the notion that they are, in fact, intellectually superior to those who pursue them, or indeed their victims. The source of this myth can be attributed to the creative imagination. Novelists and film-makers will, naturally, attempt to imbue their creations with emotional depth. "What manner of deep seated resentments," they wonder, "would cause a man to make a hobby of murder?" The fact is that so-called serial killers resent society no more (and in most cases a great deal less) than gluttons, poison pen writers or obsessive newspaper correspondents. Their personalities are unremarkable save for a lack of restraint and total absence of imagination.
Some psychics, as viewers of certain cable channels must be aware, are so manifestly unbalanced that their appearance at any crime scene would cause them to be listed as suspects. Margaret Beck, when she's at liberty to conduct an investigation, sleeps rough on the proximity of the crime scene, harasses legitimate investigators and invariably attributes responsibility to the Pumpkin People; Phyllis Yuill's technique comprises entirely of throwing teabags at people. While such misfits are, fortunately, precluded from contemporary investigations, there's nothing to stop them from passing retrospective judgement on cause celebres of the past. The identity of the the Whitechapel Murderer (genuine criminologists rarely refer to ‘Jack the Ripper': the name is in poor taste) is considered the Grail of the celebrity fixated psychic. Naturally the purpose of the pursuit is titillation rather than enlightenment: I've been invited to participate in 'investigations' into the case on numerous occasions and always refused. Most recently, Patricia Cornwell, the crime writer, requested my assistance in apportioning responsibility for the slayings to artist Walter Sickert. Until being taken on a conducted tour of the Scotland Yard Museum, Ms Cornwell claimed never to have heard of the Whitechapel murderer, a claim I find improbable. Having been apprised of the circumstances of the murders, though, she set herself to resolving matters with such vigour that within weeks she had struck upon what she considered compelling evidence against Sickert. Unfortunately, this was almost entirely conjectural and dealt with inconvenient details that contradicted her argument (such as the murders' explicit links to Rotarian ritual) by ignoring them. The fact that Sickert lived in London at the time of the Whitechapel murders is possibly the basis for an investigation, but no more. After failing to convince me as to the merits of her case, Ms Cornwell turned to Ronald Hawthorne, who could be convinced that black was white if he could argue his case on television. Three weeks into the investigation, however, he withdrew, claiming that Sickert's ghost, enraged by his imminent exposure, had daubed the words 'Young Holborn Posse' on his fence: a terrible warning against further meddling! The book was eventually written without any psychic insights.
*No police force in the western world, incidentally, will admit to seeking my assistance. Detectives in poorer countries are more inclined to respect the expertise of outsiders. Our own policemen have an unrealistic confidence in their own capabilities and resent what they perceive to be interference. This is why so many investigations are botched.
Home |
Glossary |
Hamilton Live |
Casebook |
Contact
