The month of April in the year 2021 was the heaviest logistical schedule at The Valley Flicker trial site because the days were getting longer and the weather was optimum to accommodate the increased backlog of project reenactments. The crisp morning air was refreshing, the sheen of dew still glistening atop the blades of grass as sunlight beamed through droplets, casting diamond lights along the valley floor. The temperature at this time of the day was still on the cool side and wouldn’t warm much before noon, much to the delight of the LHC trial site crews, all of whom had smiles on their faces this time of year, the elements too pleasant to complain about. It was when they most enjoyed their work.

At the moment there were five Flicker trials underway. One trial was concealed beneath a giant-sized black tent, closely akin to an old circus big top. That particular trial was one unique night time historic event of record. Being shrouded in darkness allowed the participants to do run-throughs, day or night. On the outer boundary of The Valley, standing on top of the hill adjacent to the observation tower, the solitary woman surveyed the landscape. From her vantage point overlooking the expansive facility, grounds buzzing with activity, she could see vehicles of various sizes and models moving along the roads. She wasn’t paying much attention to what normally inspired her, preoccupied by what she’d read in the morning edition of “The Sun”, the horrible headline stating:

“Copycat Killer Continues In Whitechapel”

“To the frustration of local authorities and Scotland Yard no leads have surfaced regarding the death of another woman in the Whitechapel district of London. Found last weekend, the corpse remains unidentified, the body brutally mutilated in what appears to be an homage to the infamous ‘Jack the Ripper’ who terrorized the same region during what became known as ‘The Autumn of Terror’ in 1888. Forensic specialists have been called to the case. Police now believe this to be the third such type of ritualistic copycat killings since early January of this year, coinciding with a release of the publication of the successful, yet closely guarded ‘Flicker Project’ in which a Dr. Ethan LaPierre identified, or, in project linguistics, ‘spy-glassed’ an original suspect in the case, Aaron Kosminski, as the notorious ‘Jack the Ripper’. The spokesman from Scotland Yard stated the investigation was ongoing, focusing on the possibility that the new published report triggered someone seeking the same level of notoriety. The first two murder victims being women in their early twenties, currently unidentified....”

“Excuse me! Ms. Daley! Ms. Daley!” The rather overzealous, if vigilant young intern they’d all nicknamed “Mercury” (as he was always running messages in and out of The Valley to various recipients at light speed) fast approaching, waving her down, he had attracted the attention of the project professional he was seeking out. Stumbling through swampy muck, the soft, soggy, springtime sod was clutching at his feet. Maggie smiled, fascinated by the way history tends to repeat itself.

“Mind yourself, mate!” Maggie responded, erring on the side of caution.

The student apprentice was holding a black notebook with one word embossed on the cover: “Classified.” Racing to reach her with it in his outstretched hand, the wiry lad was gleaming as he handed it over to her.

“Congratulations, mum!” He was struggling to catch his breath.

Maggie stared at the intern, confused for a moment before it finally hit her.

“You mean?” She paused.

“Approved! Practically this instant! Dr. Van Ruden just called the office and he said to get the initial Scope paperwork over to you, post haste!”

The young man took a deep breath to slow down and think. He looked up to the sky over his thick plastic glasses.

“He also told me to tell you, beggin’ your pardon, mum, but he said this, too: ‘Tell Margaret to get her ass ready. We’ll be drinking at Oxford next Monday.’ Ms. Daley, allow me to be the first to say ‘Congratulations!’ on your Flicker approval and your title as Scope in the project. Fuck yeah! Sorry mum...my language.”

“No, no. You’re right!” Maggie remarked. “Fuck yeah! Thank you!”

The student ran off toward the tower, almost losing his footing, nearly taking a spill down a long, steep hill into The Valley below as Maggie watched Mercury fly. Finding him endearing, suddenly a pensive, contemplative expression furrowed her brow as her thoughts turned to a more innocent time, a more innocent girl right here in the same predicament some months ago. Thinking back further, to her childhood, she could not recall a time when she didn’t know about Jack the Ripper. He was an integral element of English folklore, a part of the vernacular, the subject that would never go away, more famous than infamous. She could not believe some lunatic took inspiration from the press release of a successful jump as an opportunity to kill innocent women and grab headlines. Innocence lost. She unfolded the newspaper again, laying it on top of the folder. Maggie stared at the article in abject terror, in utter disbelief.

In the beginning of the Valley trials for “20/20 Hindsight”, well before she was selected as an intern, Maggie became engrossed with the program since she was the project Scope’s assistant at Oxford. She did her own research. As she did, Maggie learned all of the gruesome details of the case. She felt so badly about the way these women lost their lives but more so, how their identities were trumped by a fictitious name. It truly terrified her to think there was someone out there duplicating these horrible murders. It was then the thought occurred to her that she could fall victim. Not merely her mortality but her identity. Not that she was a princess or anyone of importance to anyone else but herself. The cold chill of fear passed through her, undoubtedly the same exact fear women shared in 1888. The possibility existed that everything she was as a person, as a woman could be buried with her, just as history did with the victims of Jack the Ripper. In her research she discovered the sickening course of society, the depressing truth that every serial killer stole more than lives. The perpetrators stole headlines. These women had real names. They had lives and loves, pains and pleasures that everyone has, if they fortunately lived long enough. To be robbed of a full life is truly unfair. To be robbed of its remembrance is simply inhuman. Maggie trembled at the thought. There was never any redemption for the women of this story. It was never told, never even written about by the Scope who’d gone back to witness these atrocities. Jack the Ripper, a faceless manifestation, still ruled history, still popular, more fascinating than ever. With one deep sigh, tucking the newspaper with its horrible headline underneath her arm, she abandoned it in lieu of the great story about to unfold in the binder she received.

“More bloody paperwork.” She began to glance over page after page of “legal” and “ethics” forms to fill out, already drowning in a sea of black and white.

Maggie Daley had become part of the privileged tribe, not in the sense of being inducted into the exclusive club of Scope candidates, an honor in its own right, but having been blissfully influenced by Anson Van Ruden while she was at the LHC, introducing her into a realm of rock music from the 60’s and 70’s. Flipping through her delivered documents, Maggie donned the earphones connected to a smartphone. Listening to her favorite classic rock station, effectively chasing images of carnage from her mind, she replaced them with one of her beloved songs from the legendary rock group “The Guess Who”. Maggie cranked it up, singing along from the hilltop.

“These eyes cry every night for you, these arms long to hold you again.

The hurtin’s on me, yeah but I will never be free, no, my baby, no, no

You gave a promise to me, yeah and you broke it, you broke it...”

In a trance, Maggie must have momentarily gotten lost in the music because she never sensed the approach of somebody from behind, most likely originating from The Valley car park just beyond the hilltop. Reacting out of reflex, startled, she felt the unexpected contact of a hand upon her shoulder. Maggie spun around, expelling a soft shriek of surprise. Stepping back from who touched her, almost falling down the steep hill, she regained her balance over the terrain just in time. Removing her earphones, Maggie’s expression was one of joy and elation, recognizing a familiar face, one absent far too long.

“Well, hello there stranger.”