The Autumn of 1888 is known as the Autumn of Terror in London. Because over three months, from August to November, some of the most notorious murders in history took place in the poverty-stricken Whitechapel district. The culprit – the infamous Jack the Ripper. The identity of Jack the Ripper is a rabbit hole like no other, there are countless suspects, none of which fit perfectly. But the general consensus among Ripperologists has clustered around one person – and there may be some DNA evidence to back it up.
TRANSCRIPT:
Picture a maze of slums that were overcrowded, unsanitary, and held together mostly by bad luck. That was Whitechapel in East London in the 19th century.
It’s where Jack the Ripper carried out his murders. It was also likely his home, since he knew the area’s back alleys and patrol routes. But even without a serial killer, the place was already an absolute nightmare.
By 1891, about 76,000 people were packed into just 357 acres. That’s roughly half a square mile. Or, if you prefer, about 210 people per acre. So yes, 76,000 people, half a square mile, and essentially no proper sanitation.
London did build a modern sewage system between 1859 and 1865, but Whitechapel was not first on the list. In fact, 1858 brought a summer of what was politely known as The Great Stink. And the overcrowding didn’t happen by accident.
Mass immigration played a huge role. During the Irish Potato Famine, over two million people fled Ireland, with many ending up in Britain. At the same time, Jewish communities in Eastern Europe were facing violent, state-approved attacks known as pogroms, forcing families to flee cities like Warsaw, Kiev, and Odessa.
Ships carrying these refugees often docked along the Thames near Whitechapel. And so, more and more people, already penniless and desperate, were funneled into a place that had no capacity to care for them.
Then came industrialization, which drove the urban population up and the living conditions down.
Advances in agriculture pushed rural workers off farms and into cities to look for work.
If you were lucky, you might find work on the dock or driving a cart. You know, something unstable but survivable. Children worked as chimney sweeps for pennies. And women… well…
Women’s work included selling flowers, selling pies… and, in some cases, “selling pies.” Estimates suggest around 1,200 women in Whitechapel were involved in sex work, often around the area’s many pubs.
The term sweatshops comes from this period, and they offered tailoring work under brutal conditions. Long hours, tiny pay, and just enough income to not be able to afford a bed for the night in Common House Lodging. And those were not exactly the Ritz.
Known as flophouses or dosshouses, these were overcrowded dorm-style rooms where beds were shared in shifts. You slept while someone else worked, then swapped. It’s like hot-desking, but for resting. Back to the pub it is!
If you couldn’t even afford that, your next stop was the workhouse, which somehow managed to be worse.
Workhouses were parish-run shelters for the completely destitute. You entered through a single guarded door, surrendered your belongings, and earned your stay through labor: breaking stones, crushing bones for fertilizer, or other tasks that sound like punishment.
They were meant to provide structure and relief. In practice, they were underfunded, poorly managed, and often inhumane. Basic standards like clean bedding were frequently ignored. Over time, they became catch-alls for the sick, the elderly, and the mentally ill.
This was the world of Jack the Ripper.
The victims were not random in the broader sense. They were among the most vulnerable. Impoverished women, many of them single mothers, often living in lodging houses, often having lost partners to death or abuse.
With few options for stable income, many turned to sex work to survive, and drank away any feelings about it. They were navigating poverty, illness, and social neglect, often late at night, alone, when they crossed paths with someone who saw vulnerability not as something to help, but something to exploit.
The Victims
To bring Jack the Ripper’s identity into focus, we have to look at the time and place of the… mmmuurrrrrd—
Right. Problem.
I can’t use words related to violence or explicit content. Which does make covering Britain’s most notorious, violent serial offender challenging. So, we’re going to do what the 19th century did best: aggressively euphemize everything.
For romance, Victorians had phrases like “giving a green gown,” “basket making,” and “dancing the blanket hornpipe.” In this episode, we’ll stick with “selling pies.”
Women in that line of work were called “dollymops,” “night flowers,” “soiled doves,” “working girls,” or, if you were more judgmental, “trollops.”
For death, we’ve got “joined the choir invisible,” “pushing clouds,” or “gathered to their fathers.” Personally, I’m fond of “pushing clouds.” It feels gentle. Incorrect, but gentle.
And instead of the M word, we’ll go with “dispatched.”
This video may start to sound like a mad lib of some serious foul play using very silly words.
Most discussions focus on “The Canonical Five”: the five women whose cases are most closely linked by location, timing, and the manner in which they were… dispatched.
Authorities and the public largely agreed these five were connected. But in total, there were eleven Whitechapel cases between 1888 and 1891. The others are often excluded simply because, in a place like Whitechapel, it was difficult to distinguish a pattern from the everyday violence.
Mary Ann Nichols was the first of the Canonical Five.
She was found at 3:40 a.m. on August 31. Mary Ann was 43, a mother of six, and lived in and out of lodging houses. She survived by selling pies and had several arrests for drunkenness and disorderly conduct.
She was last seen around 2:30 a.m., intoxicated and looking for a client. About an hour later, two men found her. Her throat had been cut, and there were multiple stab wounds around her lower abdomen. Her body was still warm, meaning her dispatch had been recent. Which also meant whoever did it was likely still nearby.
The second was Annie Chapman, found around six a.m. on September 8. Known as “Dark Annie,” she had been a mother of seven. After the loss of her first child, both she and her husband struggled with alcohol. When he later passed away, she lost her entire financial support.
She tried to earn money through crochet and selling flowers, but eventually turned to selling pies.
The time of her dispatch is debated. A doctor suggested around 4:30 a.m., but a witness later reported hearing a woman say “No,” followed by a thud against a fence closer to 5:20.
Annie’s injuries were similar to Mary Ann. She had slashes across the throat and multiple stabwounds to the abdomen. In addition, her insides were taken outside and placed next to her shoulder. Her womb was removed, suggesting an obsession with reproductive organs.
Her case stood out for two reasons. First, the person responsible showed a degree of anatomical knowledge. Intentionality, not a random slashing.
Second, it made something clear: this was not an isolated incident. Whitechapel had a serial killer.
Victims three and four came on the same night: September 30.
The first was Elizabeth Stride, found around one a.m. A witness saw a man and woman arguing. He didn’t intervene, assuming it was a domestic dispute.
Elizabeth was found shortly after. Her injuries were less extensive than the others. Only her throat was cut, meaning the act may have been interrupted. Which brings us to the second case that night.
Catherine Eddowes was found at 1:45 a.m. less than an hour later. She had just been released from custody for drunkenness around one a.m. and was seen shortly afterward speaking with a man. She was discovered within forty-five minutes.
Catherine’s life had been marked by instability from an early age. She was a workhouse orphan and later lived through abusive relationships and poverty. She supported herself through odd jobs and, at times, selling pies.
Her case showed an escalation in intensity, and it deeply unsettled investigators. Her dispatch was especially brutal, with the typical throat gash and disembowelment. But in this case, her face was hacked up, as well. A torn piece of her bloody apron was found blocks away at 2:55 a.m.
The final of the Canonical Five was Mary Jane Kelly, sometimes called “Black Mary.” Her case was different from the others in that hers was the only one indoors.
Mary Jane had been living in a small rented room. She was known to drink heavily and had recently separated from her partner. Despite the instability, having a private room gave her something the others didn’t have. Privacy.
She was seen multiple times the night before at a pub, by neighbors, and by a man named George Hutchinson, who claimed to have followed her with suspicion, having observed her with a well-dressed companion. She took the man back to her room, and after they didn’t come back out for a while, Hutchinson left.
The next morning on November 9, a landlord’s assistant came to collect overdue rent. When there was no answer, he reached through a broken window to unlock the door.
What he found inside was beyond anything seen in the previous cases. Because he had privacy, the suspect really took his time to realize all of his violent fantasies.
Her organs were dispersed around the room. Her breasts were cut off. Her throat was slashed down to the bone, and her face was hacked beyond recognition. She was totally emptied of her viscera. Blood everywhere. The police who inspected the crime scene were traumatized.
Patterns emerged across all the cases. For example, they happened within a tight geographic area, in the early morning hours, and involved slashing the throat so the women couldn’t cry out. This was usually paired with stab wounds to the reproductive area or disembowelment.
And the victims were women on the margins. Often mothers, some unhoused, usually under the influence, and relying on selling pies to survive.
The Investigation
How was it possible for someone to move through an overcrowded district, in the open, and repeatedly dispatch people without getting caught?Short answer: chaos.
Long answer: so much chaos.
Whitechapel wasn’t just crowded. It was loud, unpredictable, and overwhelming. People minded their business because minding your business was how you got by. When disorder is constant, it stops being an emergency.
The investigation itself was chaotic. And the media played a big role.
And that circus of distraction was exactly what the suspect thrived in. The media at the time sensationalized the story and created a public panic. Imagine that. The news exploiting people’s fear and making things worse… That would really suck… huh.
To be fair, the late 19th century was basically the birth of mass media. Before this period, newspapers were mostly for the wealthy and politically engaged. Then trade expanded, the middle class grew, and suddenly there was a market for information. How did the government respond? Tax it. Heavily. They wanted to make public discourse and political influence expensive.
But between 1850 and 1890, those taxes were reduced, printing technology improved, and literacy rates rose, especially after the Elementary Education Act of 1880 made school mandatory.
Several publications came onto the scene during this boom:
The Daily Telegraph, The Northern Star, and The Illustrated London News, which was the world’s first illustrated paper. By 1862 it was selling more than 300,000 copies per week. Illiteracy in poor areas like Whitechapel was still common. The drawings from the paper were a very popular way for the uneducated to take the news, and they ate up the graphic images.
This was one of the first major crime stories consumed at mass scale. Sensational headlines, dramatic illustrations, bold claims. It sold incredibly well.
Accuracy was sometimes invited, but not required. The public became obsessed. The case dominated conversation. And the press didn’t just report on the investigation, they actively shaped it.
One event in the media turned the investigation on its head. The suspect sent letters to the papers, taunting the authorities.
The letters turned the case into an absolute spectacle. Most experts believe the letters were a hoax written by a journalist to sell more papers. But man, did it work.
Newspapers published them widely, and one—the “Dear Boss” letter—introduced the name “Jack the Ripper.” Before, he was known as “Leather Apron.” The press embraced the nickname immediately. It was memorable, dramatic, and most importantly, great for sales.
The letters themselves fueled public fear, boosted newspaper sales, and kept the story alive, turning a series of crimes into a legend.
The papers speculated wildly about Ripper’s profession, habits, and identity, often drawing on some anti-Semitic stereotypes that were popular at the time. So now you have panic, misinformation, and prejudice, all layered on top of an already fragile situation.
At one point, police arrested a suspect named John Pizer. He was a shoemaker, which conveniently aligned with the earlier nickname “Leather Apron.” He was also aa local misogynist, known for abusing prostitutes. And he was Jewish. An easy target.
So, on September 10, an officer named Sergeant Thick, which sounds like a great stripper name, arrested Pizer, telling him “You are just the man I want,” which sounds like a great stripper line.
A crowd gathered outside the jailhouse ready for blood, but Pizer had solid alibis. Plural. He was released, and the police went back to the drawing board.
The truth is the police had no clue. During the investigation, more than 2,000 people were interviewed, nearly 300 were investigated, and 80 people were detained. And yet, no clear answer.
Part of the issue was structural. This wasn’t one unified investigation. It was split between two police forces. There was the Metropolitan Police, which covered most of London. And there was the City of London Police, which covered the “Square Mile,” the historic financial district.
Yes, the greater London area contains a smaller, separate city inside it called the City of London. It’s home to St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, the London Stock Exchange, and the Bank of England. It’s a city in its own right, and they have a separate police force.
Most of the cases fell under the Metropolitan Police. But Catherine Eddowes was found in Mitre Square within City of London jurisdiction. Which became especially awkward because her case happened the same night as the other two incidents… same night… same pattern. Different police forces.
They did cooperate, but naturally there are going to be some complications.
The investigation pulled in a wide range of detectives, coroners, and even local butchers.
One key figure was Chief Inspector Donald Swanson, who oversaw much of the case behind the scenes. He reviewed evidence, coordinated information, and, unlike others, kept his theories largely to himself.
Then there was Dr. Robert Anderson, head of the Criminal Investigation Department. He had the unfortunate timing of taking medical leave just as things escalated. By the time he returned, the situation had spiraled into panic and media frenzy. The public frankly resented him.
Anderson later claimed he believed he knew who was responsible. But, there wasn’t enough evidence to pursue a conviction.
And then there’s Sir Melville Macnaghten [mick-NAW-tun]. Reportedly one of the most handsome men at Scotland Yard. Finally, a qualification system we can all understand. Macnaghten was respected, methodical, and unusually open to working with the press, something many of his colleagues saw as a terrible idea.
He also had his own theory. He believed the more likely candidate was Montague Druitt.
What would lead these investigators to have such a wide array of suspects? And who were they looking at the most?
Let’s start with Montague Druitt. The main argument against him is… timing. A body was found in the Thames shortly after the final Canonical Five case. So the theory goes: the incidents stop because he’s no longer around to commit them. Which is neat. Very tidy. Unfortunately, timing alone is not evidence. And beyond that coincidence, the case against Druitt is largely speculative.
Then there’s Francis Tumblety, which, objectively, is an excellent name for a suspect. He was an American “doctor,” and that’s a loose term. His medical practices were… creative. At one point, he reportedly hosted a dinner party where he showed guests a collection of preserved wombs.
He also had a long record of arrests for things like assault and fraud. He was arrested in connection with the Whitechapel cases in November 1888 but was released, either on bail or due to lack of evidence, and promptly fled back to the U.S. Also worth noting, he was a very large, noticeable man. Not exactly built for quietly blending into dark alleyways. And he didn’t match witness descriptions. So he remains suspicious, but inconclusive.
Next was Charles Cross. Or at least, that’s the fake name he gave police. He was the man who discovered Mary Ann Nichols. The theory here is that he didn’t discover the scene, he was interrupted. When another man approached, Cross allegedly played it off as if he had just arrived.
Suspicious? A little. As was his daily commute that happened to overlap with several of the locations and times of the incidents. But that’s as far as the theory goes.
Then we have George Chapman. Unlike most suspects, Chapman actually did dispatch multiple people. Three women, to be exact. But his method was poisoning, which did not fit the pattern of Jack the Ripper. And his targets were romantic partners who were with him for a long time, not random strangers. He was eventually caught and executed, but for a different set of crimes.
Now we get into more imaginative territory. In 1992, a diary surfaced, allegedly written by James Maybrick, claiming to be Jack the Ripper. According to the story, it had been in the family for generations before being handed over. The diary contains detailed accounts but most experts consider it a hoax. Ink testing was inconclusive, and its origin is shaky, at best.
Other suspects include Michael Ostrog, a con artist with a medical background; Walter Sickert, a German artist some believe had psychological motives; and Thomas Cutbush, a troubled man whose name sounds a little too on theme. In many cases, these were people who were unstable, criminal, or simply nearby. And the press or public filled in the rest.
And then we get to the real stretches. Like Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, better known as Lewis Carroll, author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Yes. That one.
Some fringe theories claim hidden confessions are buried in the text through elaborate anagrams, which require some serious rearranging. Most historians politely consider this idea nonsense.
There’s also the theory involving Prince Albert Victor, grandson of the reigning monarch. The claim was that he committed the acts due to syphilis-induced insanity.
And finally “Jill the Ripper.” Some proposed the perpetrator could have been a woman because a woman could move through the streets without drawing suspicion, even if her clothes were stained with blood, by posing as a midwife. One name suggested was Mary Pearcey, who did commit a brutal double dispatch of her lover’s wife and child. But there’s no solid evidence linking her to the Whitechapel cases.
And that’s really the pattern here. Dozens of suspects. Endless theories. Very little proof. Because at the time, the tools just didn’t exist to solve something like this conclusively. Just witness accounts, physical clues, and a lot of guesswork.
But in more recent years, modern forensic techniques have pointed back toward one suspect in particular…
So what are we actually looking for?
Someone living in Whitechapel at the time. Someone who knew the area well enough to move through it quickly and quietly. Someone who could blend in. And someone with a known history of instability or violence. When modern researchers revisit the case using newer methods, one name tends to rise above the rest.
Aaron Kosminski.
Eyewitnesses generally described the suspect as being in his early 30s, and Kosminski was in his mid-20s.
Modern criminologists have also re-examined the timeline, especially the night of the so-called “double event.” Some believe the same person was seen in different clothing that night, suggesting he may have returned home to change clothes. This would require living nearby.
This is where geographic profiling comes in.
It’s a method that maps incident locations to estimate where an offender is likely based. The idea is that people tend to operate within familiar territory.
There are two broad patterns. A commuter, who travels linearly between distinct locations. And a marauder, who moves outward from a central home base and back again like spokes on a wheel. About eighty-five percent of serial killers follow the marauder pattern. This makes proximity very important.
Kosminski lived very close to multiple key locations, including one tied to a possible earlier case. Before the Canonical Five, there was Martha Tabram.
Her case is often debated. She’s not officially included, but many believe she may have been an earlier victim. She was found on August 7, 1888. Her case differs in some ways, but not completely. Her injuries were less controlled, more chaotic. Her throat was cut from the front before she was stabbed thirty-nine times. This would have covered the suspect in blood. The other victims were cut from behind. Maybe he learned from Martha.
The truth is MOs don’t have to remain consistent. They evolve, making it difficult to draw an airtight pattern.
Kosminski’s background also raises questions.
He immigrated to Britain in 1881 and lived with family members who later became responsible for his care as his mental health declined.
By the mid-1880s, reports describe increasing paranoia and auditory hallucinations… hearing voices. He later claimed those voices told him to commit the violence.
After the final Canonical Five case, police began conducting more thorough house-to-house inquiries. When they encountered the Kosminski family, Aaron came onto their radar. They began to watch him, and then something interesting happened. The killing pattern stopped. The pressure Kominski felt from surveillance may have been enough for him to withdraw.
In 1890, his family had him admitted to a workhouse after he kept attacking his sister with a knife. From there, he was transferred between institutions for the rest of his life, eventually dying from gangrene in 1919.
The final case in all eleven dispatches happened in February 1891, the same month Kosminski was finally institutionalized. Again, it’s not proof, but the timeline adds up.
Then there’s the DNA. In 2011, a shawl allegedly recovered from one of the scenes was tested. It had been passed down through a family for generations when a constable confiscated and kept it. The DNA extracted from the blood on the shawl was compared to descendants of both the victim and the Kosminski family. It showed a positive match in both cases. But, it was mitochondrial DNA, which is shared by many people. So it also doesn’t uniquely identify him, but it doesn’t rule him out. And whether the shawl was even legitimately connected to the case… things get murky very quickly.
So where does that leave us? The profile fits. The geography fits. The timeline fits, well enough. But none of it reaches the level of certainty.
Modern common opinion is that Sir Robert Anderson was right. It was Kominski. In his memoirs, he wrote that there was one witness who had a clear view of the killer’s face and recognized Aaron immediately, but refused to testify against him because he was a fellow Jewish immigrant.
The clues point to Aaron Kominski, but we will never be able to say for sure.
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