Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

Summary: It takes a murderer to know a murderer. From the gilded streets of Paris to London's depraved East End, death can always be found—since such is not uncommon for a phantom and his angel to encounter. And so, as husband and wife sit over a cup of tea, they discuss a grisly string of murders committed by London's most notorious serial killer. Erik analyses; Christine considers. Story set in between Idle Recollections on a Red Death and A Moment's Absolution.

To Analyse a Murderer

Paris, France

1st September 1888

"Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them." – Alice Sebold, author of Those Lovely Bones.

…

"Oh, this is simply ghastly. Whoever could do such a terrible thing?" Christine de Maricourt, former prima donna of the Palais Garnier, found herself whisper as she read the morning paper, her eyes never leaving the article in hand. She stared at the newspaper's heading, a dark frown piercing that lovely pale brow.

The London Times was one of several newspapers her husband purchased on a regular basis, since his interest in the world's affairs had only intensified in the years of her marriage to him. She had learned English under his tutelage—extraordinarily patient and attentive as he had been in her instruction, although both ultimately preferred a lively French annunciation, compared to the dull, commonplace tones accompanied by such a bland language as English—to understand the story before her, printed as it was in bold black ink: Another Whitechapel Murder.

A murder had been committed, and a woman left dead in the cold streets of a faraway London.

Christine could hardly imagine it; for even in her time in living in a crime-infested city as Paris, and the events centring around her own life, which had forever changed, not only hers, but also that of her husband's, had she found a sense of cold injustice done to this poor Unfortunate, this Mary Anne Nichols; or rather, Polly, as those who knew her had claimed her name to be.

She sipped her tea, half in thought. Inquests would undoubtedly be made; though she doubted much would come of them, given the unfortunate woman's profession. She again considered the paper's heading, just as her eyes swept over the words following it, and her look darkened. This murder had not been the first committed in the great span of London's long history, and would certainly not be the last.

A sense of ill-foreboding drew down her spine like a sharp knife; and Christine knew that, deep down, this was merely the prelude to something, most terrible. Mary Anne Nichols would not be so idly forgotten—not if her murderer and the papers had anything to say about it, for Christine believed it a man; as a man, not a monster, she realised, had the power to commit such a dreadful act, and therefore, take pleasure in his grisly work. She scarcely heard her husband enter the room, engaged as she was in her ruminations that the smell of death lingered around her like an overpowering perfume.

Her husband's scent.

"And what has my angel captivated on this lovely autumn morning?" asked he, those thin, bony fingers drawing possessively round her shoulders. He laughed when he felt her bristle. "Ah, why so fearful, my dear? Has your own husband, whom you love above all else, even that of music itself, frightened you so?"

She glanced up from the paper, a worried look crossing her features. She considered him, that black mask of his mercifully absent from his face, as the faint traces of a smile curved around those emaciated lips, moulding it into an almost skeletal grin. She shook her head at the childish display he afforded her, chagrined by his amusement. "You startled me, Erik! You honestly made me believe that horrid man was here for a moment." She sighed, and looked again at the paper, her expression vague, half-guarded. "He is rather dreadful."

"What man?" enquired her husband, his hands falling abruptly from her shoulders. He raised a thinning eyebrow, and frowned at her continued silence. "This vow of silence of yours is not becoming of you—no, indeed, especially not for that voice I made so hard to perfect. You are still unwilling to speak? Oh, my dear Christine, be assured: there is no one to hear our discourse, since we are rather remiss in any servants—to which you and I both agreed upon our required privacy in such matters, certainly—for our most humble household, and who might, therefore, be lurking about. So, as I might again enquire: what man would be here, other than your Erik?" He eyed her, curiously, before pouring himself a cup of tea.

Christine hesitated, silently considering her answer. She gingerly accepted her teacup—that he had refilled without her notice—before finding her voice. "I came across reading something quite horrible this morning, Erik. I fear I cannot even place it into words." She then relinquished the object that had distressed her so, and noted his curious expression. "Is it not a disastrous thing, to have happened?" she questioned when she saw him finish reading, her tone genuinely compassionate.

Saying nothing in response Erik only looked up, as if considering her words, before setting the newspaper aside in apparent disinterest. He retained his silence as he drank his tea, the morning sunlight which poured through the window bathing him in a study of deep and impenetrable thought—a veritable thinker, cast in human form—that only personified his silent musings.

"It is not so terrible, as I imagine it could have been," he answered, almost cryptically. He noticed Christine shudder, though he disregarded it. "Oh, this is nothing to be concerned over. After all, he merely slit her throat and cut at her abdomen, as well as other portions of her body. He could have done more, my angel. Much, much more, I daresay…" Erik responded, in means of comforting her.

His angel, however, was far from comforted. For in the many years of her marriage to him, his callous regard for others still shocked her at times. Christine set down her teacup, resolution etched on that seraphic countenance. She would not allow him to escape from expressing at least a hint of compassion, not this time. "Erik, you, of all people, must feel some means of sympathy for this poor woman's death. She undoubtedly suffered so much in her life. We should at least feel something for her passing."

The former Opera ghost gave her a look which unnerved her, that unmoved expression dulled by cold indifference. "Erik feels nothing. Erik cannot feel for those whom he knows not. Erik only feels for his Christine, and that is enough."

But it was not enough—not for his Christine. "And if I had been in this woman's place instead?" she countered bravely, if not foolishly. "Would you have felt anything if I had suffered a fate, similar to hers? If you do feel for me, then is it not enough, that he did as much to her?" she pressed, those brilliant blue eyes haunted by some dark phantom, whose face she could not perceive in the looming stillness of her thoughts. She saw him flinch at her remark.

"Of course Erik would feel!" he nearly shouted, rising from his seat. "Erik's heart is not one of stone, Christine." He turned away from her then, staggering from the table, his thoughts in turmoil, almost shattered by the course of their discussion. Dear God, why could she not understand that he did not feel—could not feel—for those who would never feel anything for him? Surely she would understand if she knew…

But he cast aside the possibility when he returned to her side, like the loyal dog he was, kneeling as he had when she had removed his mask for the first time. "Erik is…sorry…so sorry if he has upset his Christine," he responded brokenly, before kissing the hem of her skirt.

And it was enough. Christine's resolve had broken, when she realised just how much she had injured him. She silently reproached herself. When would she ever learn to keep her tongue in check, especially when his moods changed so abruptly? Erik's conscious state was always a precarious thing when addled: easily unhinged and not without consequence.

Sighing in regret, Christine's hands fell about his face, caressing those sallow cheeks, before lingering near those sunken eye sockets. Her fingers brushed through the soft wisps of his thinning hair, and she kissed his forehead. "There is nothing for which you must be sorry," she said gently. "It is completely my fault, as I am…merely anxious this morning." She cast him a firm look when he tried to argue the point of her being at fault. "No, Erik, it is my fault," she gravely asserted. "The news of this fiend has upset me, just as I doubt there shall even be an investigation." She shook her head then, dismayed. She felt him move under her touch, those withered lips timidly kissing her fingers.

"You should not concern yourself over this sordid affair with the dead," he told her gently. "There is nothing you can do."

Christine inclined her head in resignation; as always, Erik was right: there was nothing she could do, powerless and so far away from London as she was. But the reality of it nevertheless pained her. "I understand that," she returned quietly. "But it is no less upsetting that such things do happen in this world. Oh, Erik, what if he murders again? What if another unfortunate woman meets the same fate? What if he comes here? By all accounts, he cut her throat from 'almost ear to ear,' and he had done so, without even being seen. I am afraid that he shall acquire a taste for it, if he hasn't already."

Erik met her troubled gaze, those perceptive yellow eyes piercing through that shadowed veil of her own, disjointed reasoning; his present upset, now, completely forgotten. "Murders are rather commonplace, Christine, especially in a dismal, godforsaken city as London," he said, rising from his lowly position on the floor, his beautiful voice, however, remaining cloaked in apathy.

Christine's frown deepened. "Do you believe that the police will attempt to find the murderer?" she asked quietly, hoping that her Erik—like any good husband—would reassure her that this murderer, this dark assailant, would be caught and, by the mercy of God, be brought to justice.

But Erik disappointed her, when he only shook that grim death's head. "There is little to be done, in the manner of finding the one responsible, my dear. The police assigned this duty are rather poor in their means in hunting down a petty thief, let alone a murderer." He had the audacity to scoff, and he glowered at the paper's headline. "I even doubt that they shall trouble themselves, in finding this fellow. As those placed in such an unfortunate position as this woman, in particular, my dear Christine, are forgotten with the evening's paper. Her grave will probably not even be given the common courtesy in being marked, much less having a plaque commemorating her name to memory. Perhaps in a century, someone will remember her…though not now," he said, before relinquishing the paper to Christine's hand.

She accepted it, albeit reluctantly; that tender expression, though, full of sadness. "It is unfortunate, this man's cruelty," she muttered, her gaze locking with her husband's, those brilliant yellow eyes watching, almost urging her to speak; and Christine gave in to him, unable to deny that she, if reluctant in her own uncertainties, wanted to speak. She took one of his hands in hers. She looked down at it, admiring the mastered beauty which derived from those deft fingers—a beauty so often illustrated upon her own skin—before looking once more at the man she had married. "Is there nothing, which can be done to prevent another murder, Erik?" she asked, fearfully, hoping yet again.

But again, her beloved Angel of Music had only disappointed her. Taking the article in his other hand, Erik folded it, before placing it in the inner linings of his waistcoat. He looked at her, that expression firm, resolute, that captive hand, however, remaining devotedly in hers. "I find it best not to concern yourself with this nonsense, Christine," he said, after a long moment. "For this shameful blot of humanity belongs to those of a tarnished Londinium—not for those of beauty, and certainly not for Erik, or his Christine." His deadpanned stare implied that he would say no more on the matter; and Christine complied, willingly, finding that she, like her husband, wished to pursue a less macabre subject over breakfast—especially since the detailed horrors of the murder had already taken much of her appetite.

They spoke of the latest performances at the Opera for the rest of the morning instead.

…

Author's Note: Just a few, important notes, the names and phrases in italics are from actual newspapers, which published articles concerning Jack and his victims around the time of the murders. In this story, the papers' names shall be mentioned along with the articles, so as not to cause any unnecessary confusion. I truly believe the details in the articles speak for themselves, and are far better than any shoddy attempt I could make to describe the crime scenes. I can only make the suggestion for those interested to read the articles; the really are, quite horrific. Please also note that, where I describe the murders, the details/photographs/illustrations in the actual articles are not for the faint of heart. If any of you are squeamish, like I am, please try to refrain from reading those specific parts of the story. They are going to become rather graphic as this story progresses.

On a similar note, this story is going to be very, very dark. There is romance, surely, between Erik and Christine, but their love is not the main focus here; it is something else entirely. I daresay it is even hinted in this first chapter. As such, this story will remain strictly Leroux, with the exception of Christine's appearance. For me, Christine is going to ever remain a brunette. I blame it on seeing the animated film when I was five. But, other than that, those of us who adore Leroux can rejoice; the siren will indeed be mentioned! ;)

And lest I forget, on a historical note, Londinium, which Erik mentions at the end is the old Roman name for London. In the time of the Icenian warrior Queen Boudicca, Londinium was burned, and was pretty much razed to the ground. Hence, Erik's acerbic reference to it.

But truly, I do hope that everyone enjoys what I have so far of it; it will certainly be a lot more complex as the story unfolds. I also intend for this to be comprised into five parts, as Erik and Christine come to terms with the past, present, as well as the notion of what it is to be considered human. This is going to be a dark story with very dark themes of cruelty and the inhumanity of mankind. And yet, this story will be one, I feel, will reflect elements of hope found in Idle Recollections, as well as A Moment's Absolution. For in spite of how evil mankind can be, there are always those who abstain from that ever-tempting darkness.

January 12th, 2012: I've re-edited this chapter again. Hopefully, I've caught everything this time around.