El Norte de Inglaterra es la casa del horror, pero en general Gran Bretaña es el país más peligroso y criminal de Europa

El guardia de seguridad  -¡de una simple casa de apartamentos de bajo alquiler, en Bradford!-  empezó su rutina. Conecta el vídeo de las cámaras de seguridad que graban continuamente los corredores, las puertas, la calle afuera  -¡de una simple casa de apartamentos de bajo alquiler, en Bradford!- por si había evidencia de ‘comportamiento antisocial’: chicos bebiendo, orinando en el portal o en general gente portándose mal.

Aparece en la pantalla un hombre persiguiendo a una mujer por los corredores.  La golpea hasta dejarla sin sentido. Se va. Vuelve con una ballesta y le atraviesa la cabeza con una flecha. Muerta, se la lleva.

Avisada la policía detiene al hombre:  Stephen Griffiths, estudiante de doctorado en la Universidad, especializado en Criminología y obsesionado con los asesinos seriales y especialmente el Destripador de Yorkshire, Peter Sutcliffe, que asoló la región en los años 70, cometiendo más de una docena de crímenes.  Las casas de estos dos monstruos no están muy alejadas, en Bradford, una de las ciudades del horror, en Inglaterra.

«Yo soy el caníbal de la ballesta», confesó Griffiths ante el juez.  Gemidos de horror se elevaron entre el público, parientes de las tres mujeres que han desaparecido.  En el río Aire se han encontrado trozos del cuerpo de una de ellas, se buscan las otras.  Hay razones para pensar en muchas otras víctimas entre las muchas mujeres desaparecidas en la vecindad.

Estas tres mujeres practicaban la prostitución en la calle Thornton Road -donde vive el caníbal de la ballesta- para pagarse la heroína y el alcohol, o el de sus cafishios.  Pero nadie nace prostituta, a ello conducen muchas razones y estos depredadores deben ser castigados.

Griffith se pavoneaba en Internet de sus perversas tendencias. Basta mirar la foto de este asqueroso con su cuerpo que parece una larva y esa cara de inglés asesino con ese rictus cruel en la boca.

En estas ciudades de la decadencia post-industrial de Gran Bretaña donde la prostitución era la única salida para comer las mujeres en los años 70, hoy para pagarse la adición a las drogas que nos llegan de Afganistán y de Colombia, donde la gente que aún mantiene su cabeza por arriba de la mierda desprecia a los que se han hundido, y la policía, es demasiado evidente, pone poco interés en las vidas de estas desgracias sociales, estos monstruos campan por sus respetos hasta que la casualidad, no el mal trabajo policial, logran acabar con su carrera de vilezas.

El Destripador de Yorkshire, años 70

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yorkshire_Ripper

Se han documentado crímenes de este monstruo desde 1975, posiblemente empezara antes, pero  lo que consta que cada vez sus acciones eran más violentas.

Atacaba a sus víctimas a martillazos, las rajaba con un cuchillo. No siempre las violaba, pero se había fabricado una especie de calzón con un jersey en V, de manera que le colgaban los órganos sexuales y así podía emplearse más rápido con sus víctimas. Inglés inteligente, se las tenía todas calculadas.

Es notable hasta qué punto los criminales muestran, pervertidos, los rasgos salientes de su sociedad.  En Uruguay los criminales son de violento y descerebrado salvajismo impune.  En Japón, país muy tecnológico, gases venenosos y venenos como el cianuro y otras químicas son usuales.  De EEUU, país del revólver, el arma de fuego figura prominente.  En Austria, ¡cuidado con el sótano del austríaco!.  En España, el hacha del troglodita …

Víctimas del Yorkshire Ripper de los años 70 (algunas).

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La historia de cómo lograron al final capturar a Sutcliffe es decepcionante. Lo habían detenido varias veces pero por la descoordinación entre las policías (cometió sus fechorías en diversos lugares) y que los detalles del caso estaban en tarjetas escritas a mano y el volumen de material era impresionante siempre se les escabulló en los interrogatorios.  Al final un inspector retirado retomó el caso en forma voluntaria con otros colegas y lo detuvieron.  Cuando fue detenido Sutcliffe que continuaba su carrera mortal, llevaba el sweater ese bajo su pantalón, con las piernas metidas en las mangas.  Ese detalle horroroso no se le contó al público hasta muchos años después, así como muchos otros aspectos del caso.

Es asombroso que Sutcliffe llevaba una vida normal de trabajador manual.  Por cierto, tenía una camioneta y ese es un detalle, el automóvil, al que no se le presta suficiente atención: el auto es un instrumento de crimen, y la posesión de un vehículo debería ser controlada mejor, ser mucho más caro y de ninguna manera es un derecho humano.

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Su mujer se ha beneficiado bastante de este tipo y en alguna ocasión culpó  ¡a  las víctimas!  Que muchas veces eran alguna vieja o alguna niña que pasaba por ahí y les tocó la mala suerte.

Escena doméstica inglesa: Living room con Destripador Caníbal

El Yorkshire Ripper y su señora, Bradford, años 70  >>>>>

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El famoso ensayo de Orwell, sobre la decadencia del crimen inglés

→ Decline of the English Murder (1946)

It is Sunday afternoon, preferably before the war. The wife is already asleep in the armchair, and the children have been sent out for a nice long walk. You put your feet up on the sofa, settle your spectacles on your nose, and open the NEWS OF THE WORLD. Roast beef and Yorkshire, or roast pork and apple sauce, followed up by suet pudding and driven home, as it were, by a cup of mahogany-brown tea, have put you in just the right mood. Your pipe is drawing sweetly, the sofa cushions are soft underneath you, the fire is well alight, the air is warm and stagnant. In these blissful circumstances, what is it that you want to read about?

Naturally, about a murder. But what kind of murder? If one examines the murders which have given the greatest amount of pleasure to the British public, the murders whose story is known in its general outline to almost everyone and which have been made into novels and re-hashed over and over again by the Sunday papers, one finds a fairly strong family resemblance running through the greater number of them. Our great period in murder, our Elizabethan period, so to speak, seems to have been between roughly 1850 and 1925, and the murderers whose reputation has stood the test of time are the following: Dr. Palmer of Rugely, Jack the Ripper, Neill Cream, Mrs. Maybrick, Dr. Crippen, Seddon, Joseph Smith, Herbert R Armstrong, and Bywaters and Thompson. In addition, in 1919 or thereabouts, there was another very celebrated case which fits into the general pattern but which I had better not mention by name, because the accused man was acquitted.

Of the above-mentioned nine cases, at least four have had successful novels based on them, one has been made into a popular melodrama, and the amount of literature surrounding them, in the form of newspaper write-ups, criminological treatises and reminiscences by lawyers and police officers, would make a considerable library. It is difficult to believe that any recent English crime will be remembered so long and so intimately, and not only because the violence of external events has made murder seem unimportant, but because the prevalent type of crime seems to be changing. The principal CAUSE CÉLÈBRE of the war years was the so-called Cleft Chin Murder, which has now been written up in a popular booklet; the verbatim account of the trial was published some time last year by Messrs. Jarrolds with an introduction by Mr. Bechhofer Roberts. Before returning to this pitiful and sordid case, which is only interesting from a sociological and perhaps a legal point of view, let me try to define what it is that the readers of Sunday papers mean when they say fretfully that “you never seem to get a good murder nowadays”.

In considering the nine murders I named above, one can start by excluding the Jack the Ripper case, which is in a class by itself. Of the other eight, six were poisoning cases, and eight of the ten criminals belonged to the middle class. In one way or another, sex was a powerful motive in all but two cases, and in at least four cases respectability — the desire to gain a secure position in life, or not to forfeit one’s social position by some scandal such as a divorce — was one of the main reasons for committing murder. In more than half the cases, the object was to get hold of a certain known sum of money such as a legacy or an insurance policy, but the amount involved was nearly always small. In most of the cases the crime only came to light slowly, as the result of careful investigations which started off with the suspicions of neighbours or relatives; and in nearly every case there was some dramatic coincidence, in which the finger of Providence could be clearly seen, or one of those episodes that no novelist would dare to make up, such as Crippen’s flight across the Atlantic with his mistress dressed as a boy, or Joseph Smith playing “Nearer, my God, to Thee” on the harmonium while one of his wives was drowning in the next room. The background of all these crimes, except Neill Cream’s, was essentially domestic; of twelve victims, seven were either wife or husband of the murderer.

With all this in mind one can construct what would be, from a NEWS OF THE WORLD reader’s point of view, the “perfect” murder. The murderer should be a little man of the professional class — a dentist or a solicitor, say — living an intensely respectable life somewhere in the suburbs, and preferably in a semi-detached house, which will allow the neighbours to hear suspicious sounds through the wall. He should be either chairman of the local Conservative Party branch, or a leading Nonconformist and strong Temperance advocate. He should go astray through cherishing a guilty passion for his secretary or the wife of a rival professional man, and should only bring himself to the point of murder after long and terrible wrestles with his conscience. Having decided on murder, he should plan it all with the utmost cunning, and only slip up over some tiny unforeseeable detail. The means chosen should, of course, be poison. In the last analysis he should commit murder because this seems to him less disgraceful, and less damaging to his career, than being detected in adultery. With this kind of background, a crime can have dramatic and even tragic qualities which make it memorable and excite pity for both victim and murderer. Most of the crimes mentioned above have a touch of this atmosphere, and in three cases, including the one I referred to but did not name, the story approximates to the one I have outlined.

Now compare → the Cleft Chin Murder ←. There is no depth of feeling in it. It was almost chance that the two people concerned committed that particular murder, and it was only by good luck that they did not commit several others. The background was not domesticity, but the anonymous life of the dance-halls and the false values of the American film. The two culprits were an eighteen-year-old ex-waitress named Elizabeth Jones, and an American army deserter, posing as an officer, named Karl Hulten. They were only together for six days, and it seems doubtful whether, until they were arrested, they even learned one another’s true names. They met casually in a teashop, and that night went out for a ride in a stolen army truck. Jones described herself as a strip-tease artist, which was not strictly true (she had given one unsuccessful performance in this line); and declared that she wanted to do something dangerous, “like being a gun-moll.” Hulten described himself as a big-time Chicago gangster, which was also untrue. They met a girl bicycling along the road, and to show how tough he was Hulten ran over her with his truck, after which the pair robbed her of the few shillings that were on her. On another occasion they knocked out a girl to whom they had offered a lift, took her coat and handbag and threw her into a river. Finally, in the most wanton way, they murdered a taxi-driver who happened to have £8 in his pocket. Soon afterwards they parted. Hulten was caught because he had foolishly kept the dead man’s car, and Jones made spontaneous confessions to the police. In court each prisoner incriminated the other. In between crimes, both of them seem to have behaved with the utmost callousness: they spent the dead taxi-driver’s £8 at the dog races.

Judging from her letters, the girl’s case has a certain amount of psychological interest, but this murder probably captured the headlines because it provided distraction amid the doodle-bugs and the anxieties of the Battle of France. Jones and Hulten committed their murder to the tune of V1, and were convicted to the tune of V2. There was also considerable excitement because — as has become usual in England — the man was sentenced to death and the girl to imprisonment. According to Mr. Raymond, the reprieving of Jones caused widespread indignation and streams of telegrams to the Home Secretary: in her native town, “SHE SHOULD HANG” was chalked on the walls beside pictures of a figure dangling from a gallows. Considering that only ten women have been hanged in Britain this century, and that the practice has gone out largely because of popular feeling against it, it is difficult not to feel that this clamour to hang an eighteen-year-old girl was due partly to the brutalizing effects of war. Indeed, the whole meaningless story, with its atmosphere of dance-halls, movie-palaces, cheap perfume, false names and stolen cars, belongs essentially to a war period.

Perhaps it is significant that the most talked-of English murder of recent years should have been committed by an American and an English girl who had become partly Americanized. But it is difficult to believe that this case will be so long remembered as the old domestic poisoning dramas, product of a stable society where the all-prevailing hypocrisy did at least ensure that crimes as serious as murder should have strong emotions behind them.

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  • Si Orwell deploraba la americanización del asesinato cometido por aquella pareja durante la guerra, qué diría de este serial killer que a la insensata crueldad de Jack el Destripador suma lo peor del Planeta Americano.

Por Armando

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