True Crime Studies: Naming Jack the Ripper by Russell Edwards
Who was Jack the Ripper? Was it Aaron Kosminski? George Chapman? Walter Sickert? Bigfoot? Spring-Heeled Jack? There is no shortage of theories about the identity of the infamous Whitechapel ripper, and no shortage of books written about it. Unfortunately, no amount of sleuthing will ever unveil the mask because the crimes happened 133 years ago, making it kind of hard to track down a, now, very dead serial killer.
Most true crime readers already have an idea who they believe Jack is though, as do the many authors who write about him. If you pick up enough of these “unmasking” books you’ll find a lot of them share one major flaw- the inability to bend, or rather, arrogance. These authors are so positive in their theories that they’ll refuse to listen to anyone that may offer a counterpoint. Russell Edwards of Naming Jack the Ripper is no different, and it’s the one dumbbell that weighs down his otherwise compelling analysis.
Jack the Ripper, also known as the Whitechapel Murderer, and sometimes The Leather Apron, was a serial killer who murdered and mutilated an estimated number of five women in the Whitechapel district of London in 1888. The first serial killer in history to be heavily followed and obsessed over by the media, Jack the Ripper may be gone but he continues to live on in folklore, pop culture, and in the minds of millions to this day. This man who murdered five women so horribly has made himself immortal by simply remaining a mystery.
Jack’s crime spree officially started on August 31, 1888, and ended 70 days later on November 8, 1888. Only a few months forever cemented in history. It’s not at all a surprise that Jack wasn’t caught as criminal investigations back then relied almost entirely on eyewitness statements. You either had to be caught in the act or seen by someone you knew in order to be properly identified, and the Ripper case had neither of those. There was also the issue that was 1800s police work, it wasn’t exactly that professional. Ironically, this is the only reason Naming Jack the Ripper even exists because back in the 1800s, it was apparently okay for policemen to take accessories off dead bodies and gift them to their wives as Police Constable Amos Simpson did on the morning of September 30, 1888, when he allegedly took a shawl from one of the Ripper’s victims.
(By the way, Amos Simpson’s wife did not appreciate this particular gift. She took one look at that thing and said, “are you nuts? Why would I want a dead woman’s bloody scarf?!” and made him put it in the closet. I don’t actually know what he did with it but point is, she didn’t want it, so fellas, don’t be cheap. Just buy your girl a scarf.)
Naming Jack
Naming Jack the Ripper is not the best “unmasking” book out there, but it is one of the most convincing. That is something I will praise this book on, Russell Edwards is good at making you believe him.
Edwards is a Ripper fan down to his very core and he writes his “evidence” with a clear passion for the subject. You’re moved by his earnest desire to find Jack’s identity and he’s not too bad of an investigator either. Published in 2004, Naming Jack the Ripper started all from a rumor about a mysterious shawl that may or may not be a piece of evidence in one of the world’s most famous unsolved criminal cases of all time. It’s the Kentucky Fried Mouse of true crime circles.
Supposedly the shawl had belonged to Ripper victim Catherine Eddowes and that she’d been wearing it the night she was murdered. According to the story, it was removed from her body and then passed down through the family of Amos Simpson. Generations later, it was handed over to Scotland Yard’s Black Museum where it sat in a dark room until it was finally sold to Edwards at an auction.
Honestly, I’m surprised this shawl isn’t more famous. Whether or not it actually belonged to Eddowes, it’s still connected to a case so famous it has its own fandom. Despite being debunked by experts, the Ripper letters have continued to live on in importance, yet this simple shawl gets the cold shoulder.
An ominous piece of true crime history, the shawl’s shadowy presence among those who believe its story is only amplified by the dark reddish stains that defile it. If it actually did belong to Eddowes, and if she really was wearing it that night, and if those stains really are her bloodstains, then that makes the shawl the only existing piece of physical evidence regarding the Ripper case. Edwards had no doubt though. He runs hard with all these “what-ifs” and sets out to unmask the Ripper, and before the book even ends, he has his man.
“He is no longer just a suspect. We can hold him, finally, to account for his terrible deeds. My search is over: Aaron Kosminski is Jack the Ripper.”
Russell Edwards, Naming Jack the Ripper
Naming Jack the Ripper goes into great detail about this mission that Edwards bestows on himself and I will say, it makes a compelling case. For one, Edwards has clearly done his research. He dives deep into the history of Jack and his victims, as well as the Whitechapel area, discussing the social issues of the time along with the economic struggles and how they possibly resulted in the birth of Jack. Even if you don’t agree with his final verdict, I suggest giving Edwards’ book a try for these sections alone. He lays out the case in a neat linear fashion and hands over every tiny detail that was available at that time.
Then comes the unraveling. He ties everything around the shawl. No matter how far he might steer away, he eventually goes back to Eddowes’s delicate fashion piece that’s older than everyone’s grandmother. It’s understandable why Edwards clings to it so desperately though, it is the whole basis for his case, and through it he offers something that most “unmasking” books do not have- DNA. This is of course, debatable, but using the shawl Edwards finds “proof” that it belonged to Eddowes and that Jack was a pervert as he apparently ejaculated on the fabric. Using these light traces of blood and sperm, Edwards matches the DNA to Aaron Kosminski who was a suspect back in 1888. The rest of the book then does what it can to connect the dots with Kosminski taking the shawl’s place as the book’s centerpiece.
Verdict
I really liked this for its persuasive power and the historical details it offers, which is what a book like this is supposed to do. It’s meant to persuade you and Naming Jack the Ripper certainly does its best. However, the riveting journey of the shawl as it’s tested for DNA and connected to numerous persons in history becomes a slog when Edwards comes bouncing back into the picture with a big, non-subtle sign that might as well say “I’m a Hero!”
If anything lowers this book’s rating for me it’s how much Edwards insert himself in the story. Naming Jack the Ripper is 10% the case, 30% the shawl, and 60% Edwards talking about himself. It takes you out of the narrative, away from the shawl, and into the Edwards home office where you can see him making a Charlie Kelly “Pepe Silvia” type conspiracy chart with a picture of the shawl pinned at the center. It reminds me of Steve Hodel’s Black Daliha Avenger where everything is somehow framed to be about the author. Edwards even connects the streets of Whitechapel to himself by recounting the years he spent walking through them as a college student having a connection with the city.
If you can ignore all that, it’s a very good read. Whether you believe everything Edwards presents, it’s hard to ignore everything he offers which in my opinion, makes this book a successful, not to mention fun, endeavor.
(3.5 / 5)
Imagine this. You’re home alone, waiting for your partner to return, when you hear a knock on your door. You answer it to see a family of five, bundled up against the cold. The father, a kindly older gentleman, explains that he used to live in this house as a boy. And he would love to show it to his family.
Do not let them in.
The story
Released in June 2024, We Used To Live Here is author Marcus Kliewer’s debut novel. It tells the story of Eve, who just purchased a beautiful house with her partner, Charlie. Their plan is to flip the house and sell it.
One night, while waiting for Charlie to come home, Eve is surprised by a knock at the door. It’s a man named Thomas Faust and his family.
Thomas explains that he grew up in the house and hasn’t been in the area in years. Would Eve let them in so that he can show the home to his children?
Against her better judgment, Eve lets them in. She regrets this almost at once when Thomas’s daughter vanishes somewhere into the house.
What worked
I always appreciate a book that allows you to play along with the mystery. And this book does that better than just about any other I’ve seen.
Pay close attention to the chapters, to the words that aren’t there. To everything about this novel.
This is mostly down to Kliewer. This is ultimately his work of art. But the production value is also fantastic. I don’t want to ruin the multiple mysteries, so I’ll just say this. There are clues in this book that require some specific artistic choices in the page layouts in this book. And I loved that.
If you’d like to experience another horror book review, check out this one.
We Used To Live Here is also the kind of story that makes you question everything right along with the main character, Eve. Eve is a great main character. But she might be an unreliable narrator. She might be experiencing every single horror described, exactly as it’s described. Or, she might be having a psychotic breakdown. Through most of the book, we can’t be sure. And that is so much fun.
Finally, the weather plays a large part in this story. There are several stories in which the weather or the land itself could be considered a character. Even an antagonist. This is certainly one. The winter storm is the thing that traps the family in the house with Eve. It also makes escaping the home difficult. Reading this book during the winter was especially impactful. Most of us know what it feels like to be shut in by a storm. I’ve personally lived through some of those storms that are just referred to by their year, as though they were impactful enough to claim the whole 365 days for themself. And that was with people I liked. Imagine what it would feel like with strangers. It’s a staggering thought and one that we explore in depth in this book.
In the end, We Used To Live Here is a fantastic book. It’s the sort of story that sneaks into your brain and puts down roots. And if this is just the first book we’re getting from Kliewer, I can’t wait to see what else he comes up with.
(5 / 5)
As a disclaimer, this is a review of The House of My Mother from a critical perspective. I will not be discussing my opinions of the legal case against Ruby Franke and Jody Hildebrandt. I will be discussing the merits of the book as a work of true crime alone.
In 2015, Ruby Franke started a YouTube channel called 8 Passengers. In August of 2023, Franke and her business associate Jodi Hildebrandt were arrested for, and later plead guilty to, charges of aggravated child abuse. And in January of this year, Shari Franke told her story in The House of My Mother.
The story
The House of My Mother is the true story of Shari Franke, the oldest child of one of the most famous family vlogger families.
As a child, Shari came to the conclusion that her mother didn’t like her. Soon, she began to fear her mother’s anger.
Things got significantly worse when Ruby started their family vlog. All of the families most intimate moments were splashed across the internet for anyone to watch. This became a living nightmare for Shari.
Of course, that was only the start of the family nightmare. Because Ruby was about to meet someone who would reinforce all of the darkest parts of herself.
Eventually Shari manages to escape her home. But her younger siblings were still in her mother’s clutches. She had to save them, and her father, from the monster her mother had become.
What worked
Through the book, Shari only ever mentions the name of one of her siblings, Chad. This is because Chad is the only of her siblings that is an adult at the time of the publication.
There are children involved in this story. Children who’s lives and privacy have already been damaged. Shari didn’t want to do that to them again, and neither do I.
It probably won’t surprise you that this book is full of upsetting details. But not in the way you might imagine.
Nowhere in this book will you find gory details about the abuse the Franke kids suffered. And I consider that a good thing. Those sort of details are all fun and games when we’re talking fiction. When it’s real kids who are really living with the damage, it’s not a good time.
What you’ll find instead is a slew of more emotionally devastating moments. One that stuck with me is when Ruby’s mother gives her a pair of silk pajamas as a gift after Ruby gave birth to one of her babies. Shari asks Ruby if she’d bring her silk pajamas when she had a baby. Ruby responds that yes, when Shari becomes a mother they can be friends.
What a lovely way to make a little girl feel like she’s not worth anything unless she reproduces. And, if she does decide to have children, who is going to bring her silk pajamas?
In the end, this isn’t a story about ghosts or demons. It’s not about a serial killer waiting on a playground or in the attic of an unsuspecting family. Instead, this is a story about things that really keep us up at night. It’s the story of a woman so obsessed with perfection that she drove away her eldest daughter. The story of a young woman who’s forced to watch from afar as her beloved brothers and sisters are terrorized and abandoned. These are the sorts of things that really keep us up at night. These are the real nightmares.
More than that, though, The House of My Mother is a story of survival. It’s about a family that was ripped apart and somehow managed to stitch itself back together again. It’s about a brave young woman who managed to keep herself safe and sane in the face of a nightmare. If you haven’t read it yet, I can’t recommend it enough.
For more like this, check out my review of Shiny Happy People.
(5 / 5)
Boreal: an Anthology of Taiga Horror is a collection of twenty-two haunting tales that dwell in the deepest darkest woods and frozen wastelands, edited by Katherine Silva and including Haunted MTL’s very own Daphne Fauber. Each story has even been gifted with its very own poster, hinting at the horrors to be found within it, bestowing a beautiful visual collection as well.
The tales are varied and touch upon the environment in new and different ways, each hearkening to a sort of epiphany or raised awareness. These stories exude both dread and wonder at the smallness of our human existence in contrast to the sacred world we have isolated from, sheltering ourselves in our comfortable houses with centralized heat and everything we could possibly need or want at the ready. The taiga becomes a sanctuary outside of our own dulled awarenesses. It is a holy place imbued with powers beyond mortal human reach, a wilderness that threatens to swallow us – both whole and bit by bit, simultaneously.
The protagonists enter into this realm through ritual, superstition, longing, stubbornness, and their own hubris – yearning to survive its dangers, and to make their own marks upon it. The starkness of their surroundings harbors delicate moments that would be all too easily missed if not deliberately sought or pointed out. The softness of fur, the dappled sunlight shining through trees, the hazy clouds of breath forming in crisp air, the brittleness of bleached bone… those quiet experiences that beg to be forgotten, to lay safely sleeping just below the frozen surface, awaiting spring.
There are those who followed in the footsteps of their predecessors, seeking to escape the constraints of their parent’s and elders’ indoctrination, traditions, madness, and abuse, yearning to find their own way despite also being inextricably bound to their own pasts. There are those who just wanted to go for a walk in the woods, and remained forever changed by what they experienced. There are those who wished to impose their will upon the wilderness, their order falling to disarray, unable to make lasting impact. There are those who sought to leave behind the world of mankind, looking for oneness in the natural order of things through isolation, leaving a bit of themselves behind after being consumed by the terrors they encountered. There are those who truly found communion with the woods, became one with its wildness, and invited its spirit into their hearts to find peace, even at cost of their own lives. And then, there are the spirits themselves…
(3 / 5)
All in all, I give Boreal: an Anthology of Taiga Horror 3.0 Cthulhus. I love existential angst so I found it to be an enjoyable read, and I appreciated the myriad manners in which the biome was explored. But there were points in which I found myself struggling to follow along, as if the words were swept up into their own wilds in ways that alienated myself as reader, as if my mere voyeurism into this otherworldly place was not enough to comprehend the subtle deviations in storytelling mannerisms fully. I suppose in some sense this seems appropriate, but at the same time, it left me feeling a bit unfulfilled, as if I had missed a spiritual connection that should have resonated more deeply.