My name is Frederick Best. I was a reporter for The Star. I doubt they'll want me back after this. I am writing this in a room outside Wiltshire, by candlelight. The stones are just beyond the window. They were old before anyone thought to ask what they were for. Across the room sits Inspector Frederick Abberline. There is something at his throat a cracked amulet on a cord. I don't like looking at it. I don't know why. He knows I am writing about him. He has not asked to read it. We do not discuss this. Eleven years I made my trade, Digging where respectable men looked away. I learned which doors were safe to knock, And which ones stayed shut after dark. Good at the work, not good myself, I knew the price of digging deep. Then one cold morning, something changed A name I wish I'd never seen. I gave my notice. I walked out. I won't go back to that address. Some things you stop examining The stones. The throat. The rest. This isn't an article. I burned the byline. Left the pages in a drawer, Face down, beneath the floor. If somebody finds them, Let them think I lied. There are things a man can print And things he should leave behind. Bad roads. Worse hotels. His voice came through the wall. Three weeks in a Bristol room, I heard him when he wasn't there. He'd sit for hours without a word, His fingers pressed against his throat. By Thursday, he'd stopped blinking Whenever I said Crowe. I asked him what was on the cord. He said, "You already know." I laughed because I didn't. He looked at me. I stopped. This isn't an article. I burned the byline. Left the pages in a drawer, Face down, beneath the floor. If somebody finds them, Let them think I lied. There are things a man can print And things he should leave behind. A reporter shouldn't be certain of everything. If he is, he's selling something. I've got gaps in this account. Some belong to the weather. Some belong to him. Some have my handwriting. I don't remember writing them. The fog I'll get to the fog. The first thing I remember Is the room becoming small. The second was Abberline Speaking with my voice. The third I was standing at the stones. NOT THE ORDER IT HAPPENED. IT'S THE ORDER I UNDERSTOOD. I TRIED TO TELL IT STRAIGHT. IT CAME OUT WRONG. I SAID HIS NAME HE ANSWERED MINE. I CLOSED MY MOUTH AND STILL HE SPOKE. There was mud beneath my nails. I had not been outside. There was blood along my cuff. I could not find the cut. Abberline stood beside the window, But the glass showed only me. He said, "Frederick, write this down." So I did. I did. I did. I burned the byline. I burned the date. I burned the page that carried my name. But one sheet survived. I don't know how. This isn't an article. I burned the byline. But the words are in my hand Before I decide to write them. If somebody finds them, Don't finish what I began. There are things a man can print — There are things that print the man. (This isn't mine) (This isn't mine) (This isn't mine) I WASN'T THERE. I WASN'T THERE. I WASN'T THERE. The beginning isn't here, at these stones. It was an ordinary morning in November of 1886. A detective sergeant waiting on a transfer he never wanted. Crowe was already in that room. I still don't know how to write what happened next. My name is Frederick
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