"Here. Take these."
In the S4 offices once again, Jace and Rosie accepted the files from Dr. Welch without a word.
"This is new information which may help to bring the case to a close."
Jace nodded.
Rosie pushed a hairpin back into place.
The S4 office was silent.
Dr. Welch cleared his throat. "Very well," with that, he exited the office.
As soon as the door was shut behind him, the fellow detectives broke into grins.
"He hates it when we do that," Jace chuckled. He began to flip through his file. Rosie laughed in response.
"It impresses him," she said.
"He thinks it's a sign of our focus."
"At least we have that going for us," Rosie replied.
"It's a start," Jace agreed.
The mind-games Jace and Rosie played with the heads of Scotland Yard varied and were many.
They had both realized long ago that maintaining a cool, calm exterior could intimidate many people into observing a control and knowledge which may or may not truly have been present.
Since almost the first time they had worked together, Jace and Rosie had been convinced of each others abnormal abilities; and both had seen that their abilities worked best when combined.
Without discussing it, but with each knowing what the other was doing, they set about convincing others of their superior talents. They had soon found that complete comprehension was what impressed Dr. Welch above everything, and silence conveyed that comprehension in a way that words never could.
Rosie smiled softly to herself.
She loved being a detective.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Twenty-four hours later Rosie was sick of studying the file. The sun was shining for once in the normally fog-ridden city, and she was frustrated with being cooped-up inside the stuffy office. She sighed and closed her eyes. There had to be an answer somewhere. She looked out one of the office windows. She just wanted to get out of that place.
Suddenly, an emotion--not her own--flashed through her.
Her eyes narrowed.
She turned to Jace.
"What?" She said accusingly. She was irritated. Jace raised an eyebrow.
"You've got a theory--a rather concrete one at that. What is it?"
Jace had too much self-possession to be startled by this declaration, but he was slightly surprised. He hadn't said more than a few words to her all day.
Rosie crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "If you think it was the uncle who orchestrated the whole thing, and not the father, why haven't you have told me?" She unfolded her arms and reached for her ever present cup of coffee.
"We're supposed to be working this case together." She took a sip and looked at Jace--waiting for an answer.
Jace now had both eyebrows raised. So she came to the same conclusion....
"Exactly," he said, ignoring the question and going straight to the theory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Forty-five minutes later Dr. Welch was quickly passed in the hall by two very intent detectives.
They failed to see the smile playing about his lips.
And he failed to see theirs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was cold.
It was dark.
It was a stakeout.
It was Rosie's first, but Jace's second--a fact that did not sit well with Detective Tracer's competitive senses.
In the time that slowly ticked by, Rosie resolved to someday even the score. Jace would not best her.
Rosie breathed out and watched it blend in with the London fog. She held back a laugh as she saw Jace, who had not observed her, do the same. Suddenly, the clicking and sliding of an opening door brought their complete attention to a shop across the street.
Jace nodded to Rosie.
Rosie turned and signaled to Callie Anne.
Callie Anne--an informant who had worked for Scotland Yard for many years--was standing in a doorway a little ways down and across the street. At Rosie's signal, she stepped away from the doorway and onto the sidewalk. The clicking of her shoes made an eerie sound in the night air.
Callie stopped to check something in her purse, then walked down the sidewalk, turning left into a dark alley.
The dark figure that stepped from another doorway was barely visible through the fog. Jace was the first to spot him, but the others--Rosie and the few officers hidden in the shadows--soon heard his muffled footsteps through the thick London fog.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning's newspaper headline read: "Scotland Yard Strikes Stalker." Jace and Rosie each bought two copies--one for their homes, and one for reading at the office.
Over the steaming coffee, above the morning paper, and across the S4 office, Rosie saw Jace smile. Rosie smiled too.
Jace set the paper down after reading the article for a third time. He walked over to the coffee-pot which always sat near the door, and poured other cup of coffee. Then he crossed the room, coffee-pot in hand, and, without a word, lifted Rosie's mug and refilled it.
"Do you realize," she said, "that they never mention our names? They simply say 'the detectives of Scotland yard.'"
"Yes," Jace answered carelessly, crossing the room to place the coffee-pot back on its stand. He said no more, and neither did Rosie. It didn't matter in the least to either of them.
They weren't in it for the fame.
Jace returned and seated himself at the edge of the desk. He took the paper from Rosie's hands. Rosie reached for her coffee.
"Who is Davis Nolder?" Jace asked after a moment.
"Who?"
"Officer Nolder," he repeated. "They seem to be singling him out."
"Oh. He was the first officer on the scene last night after you jumped the stalker."
"Oh. Right. Good cop. Seemed to have the routine down pat."
Rosie shook her head at the American slang. She took her paper back, folded it and put it away in a drawer--a signal that she was ready to get back to work.
A minute ticked by. Jace hadn't moved. Rosie bit her lip, refusing to smile as she looked his direction.
Jace sipped at his coffee.
He sipped at his coffee again.
He knew Rosie was looking at him, but he pretended not to see her.
Rosie looked away; she knew it was of no use. Jace had seated himself on her desk, and he was going to stay there until he tired of it.
Jace took an extremely audible sip of coffee. Rosie couldn't help herself, she looked back.
"Can I help you?" Jace didn't look at her, but continued looking across the office, seemingly lost in thought.
But Rosie saw the smile at the corner of his mouth.
"Jace. Get off of my desk."
"Oh." He turned and looked at her, a look of complete seriousness on his face. "Did you want to sit here?"
Rosie rolled her eyes and shook her head. He was impossible. She picked up some paperwork.
After a moment of silence Jace cleared his throat. A moment more passed before he spoke.
"Rosie...how did you know?"
"Know what?" Her heart gave a slight thump, but she feigned indifference. Jace hesitated, not certain of the correct wording.
"A thousand things, actually," he said. "My theory, the cab being down the street last night, the canceled Mass on Sarah's birthday--yeah, especially that one--about Governor Pray being connected with the stalker, about my cat...."
"You haven't got a cat."
Jace cocked his head to the side. "How did you know that?"
Rosie blinked at him.
"Exactly."
Detective Tracer laughed.
Detective Buntley smiled. For a moment he seemed to have let it slide, but after taking a sip a coffee, he said, "Rose. I'm serious. What is it?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cab hit another rut.
Nolder was driving again.
The jolt brought Rosie's mind back from the memories of so long ago-from the first case she and Jace had worked together.
Jace had been a different man back then. Youth had played a big part in that, Rosie supposed.
He had learned a lot since graduation from S4. Experience can be a sorrowful teacher. Perhaps that accounted for quite a bit of the tension she could feel coming from Jace, who was seated on the other side of the cab.
A tense smile touched Tracer's lips. She would never forget the look on Jace's face all of those years ago when she'd finally admitted to possessing psychic abilities.
The smile faded as she unconsciously compared their behavior from back then to their behavior now.
They had worked so well together--and had a good time doing it.
"Whoa, there, Charity!" Nolder called out, and the cab came to a stop.
Detective Tracer, Dr. Welch and Detective Buntley exited the cab and stood facing the Liverpool cathedral.
The Bishop was just inside.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
Jack the Ripperger
Three days later, they discovered the identity of Jack the Ripperger.
Or, more accurately, Rosie discovered it. This irritated Jace quite immensely.
Not that it surprised him, really- in fact he almost wondered what took her so long. What irritated him was the idea that he had come all the way overseas only to prove his inferiority to a female. Even if she was psychic.
As Davis Nolder drove him to the S4 office, Jace tried to avoid letting it get to him. He did not succeed.
His coolness on the surface belied a volcanic eruption underneath. This was both his strength and his weakness. On the one hand, perception was reality, and getting everyone to buy off on the fact that he was cold, cool, and in control contributed greatly to his success. The other contributions came from willpower, raw talent, and burning emotion. But unless you could read minds, you would never know it.
Rosie knew it. And that was the other hand.
*****
As Jace walked into the S4 offices, he almost ran headfirst into Niles. He wasn’t happy about it. “Hey Jace, how about that Rosie Tracer, eh? Spot on!”
“Yeah, spot on Niles. Get out of my way.”
“You don’t have to be all angry about it! It’s a good thing! We’ve discovered the murderer! Niles glared at him. Jace glared back.
“Ahem.”
Niles moved aside and Jace continued down the hall. He heard Niles muttering behind him. “Too much whiskey last night, I’ll wager. What a grot!”
So what if Niles was right? Jace thought. That was only half the story anyway.
******
Rosie didn’t look up as Jace entered. She sat in a chair facing the wall, as she had done so often in the past.
“I was waiting for you.” was all she said.
Jace moved to the only table in the room, where a coffee pot sat still steaming. He knew it would be good. He poured himself a cup and waited for Rosie to say something else, knowing full well she was waiting for him. It was a game they used to play. However, this time, he wasn’t in the mood to wait for up to 12 hours as it sometimes took. He cleared his throat.
“Well, congratulations. So are you going to tell me how you did it?”
“No.”
Jace sipped his coffee.
Black.
Strong.
He looked out the window and was irritated.
“I’m not going to tell you Jace, because you already know how I did it. You’re irritated because I cracked the code first.” She turned her chair and looked at Jace for the first time. It was true. She didn't need her psychic powers to figure that out.
His answer confirmed her statement.
“I suspected it was an anagram the minute I saw it… I just couldn’t put it together.”
An anagram, Jace thought. A word or phrase which, upon re-arranging the letters, spelled something else- supposedly something with significance.
Jace had once sat down and determined that the letters of his name could spell "Cajun Beetly" or "Jane bet Lucy" - among other things. He didn't know what kind of significance that held. He chuckled silently and remembered two anagrams of Rosie's name - "Secret I Roar" and "A Rector's Ire".
“Pere P.G. Jarreck, H.T.I.” Rosie said, bringing Jace out of his introspection.
Jace was silent. The name sounded vaguely familiar... but he didn't know why.
"Father Pierre Gabriel Jarreck, Honneur le Triese Innocentes." Rosie spoke again.
Jace was silent again. He knew French when he heard it - but that didn't mean he knew French. Rosie continued.
“Father Jarreck is the Catholic Bishop of Liverpool, very well-known and respected, and not just by Catholics. The initials at the end of his name are French for 'Honor of the Innocent Three' meaning of course, the Blessed Trinity."
Jace remembered now that Rosie had explained it.
"It is immediately obvious that this is the only explanation for the message 'Jack the Ripperger'. It is also apparent that he is not the killer.”
Jace frowned.
Rosie looked at him quizzically. "Do you disagree?" she asked.
The American Detective didn't change his expression.
"No. But it just doesn't make sense." He lowered his coffee cup onto the table and folded his arms across his chest.
Rosie clasped her hands in her lap and tilted her head.
"I mean, why would the killer leave a message pointing to someone who is obviously not the killer? Murderers who leave clues typically do it for one of two reasons: to deliberately mislead the authorities by implicating an innocent, albeit possible, suspect; or to leave factual hints about their identity, as a sort of sick game. In this case, neither possibility fits! What's the point?"
Jace was now pacing across the room. He wasn't really asking any questions, he was just talking to himself.
Rosie interrupted while she had the chance.
"Well, somehow Bishop Jarreck must be connected, or at least have some information that the killer thinks is relevant. We need to talk to him."
Jace gave a short laugh.
"That's going to go over real well. Implicating the Bishop in a serial murder case is like accusing the Queen of Treason."
"I didn't say it would be easy, Jace."
He turned and looked at her. She met his gaze steadily, intently. He looked away.
"So the killer has something against Catholics" Jace said, changing the subject. "He kills Catholic girls, and implicates a Catholic Bishop." He paused thoughtfully. "Must be a Lutheran."
Rosie cleared her throat, and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
"Oh, relax Rosie!" said Jace. "I was just kidding."
Scotland's best detective spoke cautiously. "It’s not that, Jace...”
“Well then, what is it?”
Rosie looked directly at Jace. There was no uncertainty in her voice.
“The killer is a female."Jace raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Rosie, we've been through this already..."
Rosie Tracer sighed heavily. "No Jace, we haven't. I mentioned it briefly the day after the last two murders, and you immediately dismissed it."
"Well it's obvious!" said Jace, gesturing his arms in exasperation. "There is absolutely no way that one female could overpower two others- especially those Germans!" Jace alluded to physique of the first two murder victims, and that Scotland Yard had established only one killer was present at each of the crime scenes. "Rosie, the victims were overcome swiftly and with brutal force. It's rare to find even a man with that kind of power! If there was a female anywhere in this city capable of such actions, we would have found her already!"
"I know Jace, I know" said Rosie "But you've overlooked one critical error."
"Well what's that, Rosie?"
"Jace, the handwriting never changes. It's the same every time."
Jace Buntley opened his mouth, and then closed it. He blinked.
Rosie blinked back.
There was a terrific silence.
"Well then" Jace said slowly "Maybe we should just start arresting every female that weighs over 90 stones." He knew better than to question Rosie's authority on graphology.
Rosie Tracer smiled, and looked down…Jace took another sip from his coffee cup, no longer hot.
"In that case we’ve got the dissection note figured out.” He was referring to the paper they had found at the crime scene that detailed the method of dismemberment.
"If the killer was male, as we first suspected, then the dissection note was his, and he forced the victims to write his sick little message on the wall for him. That would explain the terror behind it.”
Jace paused, and looked into his mug.
“But, if we have correctly determined that the killer is a female, then someone else – a man – wrote the note for her. That means we have an accomplice. That also means we need to explain why the killer would be terrified while writing her own message.”
He looked at Rosie.
Her head was still down.
The room was silence.
Jace sighed and rubbed his temples. There was so much that just didn't make sense! They solved one mystery only to uncover three more.
But they were making progress- together. Just like old times.
Jace looked over at Rosie, still sitting silently in her chair. One hand was laid carelessly in her lap, and the other was on her chin. She was softly, absent-mindedly, biting her index finger. Her cheeks were flushed. Lost in thought.
So quiet.
So demure.
So lovely…Jace remembered when he had last been in England- in Scotland. He remembered the energy he felt when working with her- the power.
Even the toughest cases seemed almost easy. Time flew- nothing was impossible when they were together.
He smiled from pure admiration.
Something he hadn’t felt in a long time surfaced.
“Rose…” Jace began.
Rosie wasn’t listening.
********
"Well then, maybe we should just start arresting every female that weighs over 90 stones."
Rosie played these words over in her head.
She smiled when she first heard them- purely, and genuinely- and not because of the joke.
She smiled because Jace accepted her theory without question, without argument, and without pride. His ability to put his ego aside for the sake of reason had always amazed her, and she respected him immensely for it.
What also amazed her was the complete trust he placed in her abilities. Jace knew the power of her psychic abilities, and the passion with which she pursued her work. She would never make a statement as bold as she had without intense feeling behind it- and Jace knew it.
He knew her.
That’s why he didn’t question her.
And that’s why Rosie Tracer was completely defenseless.
Her cheeks grew hot, her heart pounded in her chest.
She touched her face and looked down.
She remembered that feeling from so many years before, when they had been partners together at the S4 academy. She remembered the time they had spent together, the feelings they shared…
And she remembered that those feelings were gone.
They were cold.
They were black.
They were dark shadows in the memory of her heart, behind closed doors and blood-stained walls.
The raging inferno that once engulfed her heart was reduced to embers by one night in Paris.
Time had extinguished even that....
Deep in the corners of Rosie’s heart, a fire was rekindled.
**************
“Rose…”
Rosie Tracer looked up suddenly.
Jace was smiling like she hadn’t seen in years. Like the day she knew he loved her for the first time.
And he had called her Rose. No one else ever called her that.
For one split second, they met each other’s gaze.
For one split second, Jace Buntley and Rosie Tracer shared a feeling neither had known in over five years.
Rosie’s eyes shone with liquid excitement.
But something was wrong.
Buntely’s face became a mask of pain.
*******
There was a terrible crash as a half-empty mug of cold coffee was thrown against the wall.
A hollow door slammed shut.
Rosie Tracer sobbed in an empty room. Empty footsteps sounded down the hall.
Black liquid dripped from the wall....
That night in Paris.
Or, more accurately, Rosie discovered it. This irritated Jace quite immensely.
Not that it surprised him, really- in fact he almost wondered what took her so long. What irritated him was the idea that he had come all the way overseas only to prove his inferiority to a female. Even if she was psychic.
As Davis Nolder drove him to the S4 office, Jace tried to avoid letting it get to him. He did not succeed.
His coolness on the surface belied a volcanic eruption underneath. This was both his strength and his weakness. On the one hand, perception was reality, and getting everyone to buy off on the fact that he was cold, cool, and in control contributed greatly to his success. The other contributions came from willpower, raw talent, and burning emotion. But unless you could read minds, you would never know it.
Rosie knew it. And that was the other hand.
*****
As Jace walked into the S4 offices, he almost ran headfirst into Niles. He wasn’t happy about it. “Hey Jace, how about that Rosie Tracer, eh? Spot on!”
“Yeah, spot on Niles. Get out of my way.”
“You don’t have to be all angry about it! It’s a good thing! We’ve discovered the murderer! Niles glared at him. Jace glared back.
“Ahem.”
Niles moved aside and Jace continued down the hall. He heard Niles muttering behind him. “Too much whiskey last night, I’ll wager. What a grot!”
So what if Niles was right? Jace thought. That was only half the story anyway.
******
Rosie didn’t look up as Jace entered. She sat in a chair facing the wall, as she had done so often in the past.
“I was waiting for you.” was all she said.
Jace moved to the only table in the room, where a coffee pot sat still steaming. He knew it would be good. He poured himself a cup and waited for Rosie to say something else, knowing full well she was waiting for him. It was a game they used to play. However, this time, he wasn’t in the mood to wait for up to 12 hours as it sometimes took. He cleared his throat.
“Well, congratulations. So are you going to tell me how you did it?”
“No.”
Jace sipped his coffee.
Black.
Strong.
He looked out the window and was irritated.
“I’m not going to tell you Jace, because you already know how I did it. You’re irritated because I cracked the code first.” She turned her chair and looked at Jace for the first time. It was true. She didn't need her psychic powers to figure that out.
His answer confirmed her statement.
“I suspected it was an anagram the minute I saw it… I just couldn’t put it together.”
An anagram, Jace thought. A word or phrase which, upon re-arranging the letters, spelled something else- supposedly something with significance.
Jace had once sat down and determined that the letters of his name could spell "Cajun Beetly" or "Jane bet Lucy" - among other things. He didn't know what kind of significance that held. He chuckled silently and remembered two anagrams of Rosie's name - "Secret I Roar" and "A Rector's Ire".
“Pere P.G. Jarreck, H.T.I.” Rosie said, bringing Jace out of his introspection.
Jace was silent. The name sounded vaguely familiar... but he didn't know why.
"Father Pierre Gabriel Jarreck, Honneur le Triese Innocentes." Rosie spoke again.
Jace was silent again. He knew French when he heard it - but that didn't mean he knew French. Rosie continued.
“Father Jarreck is the Catholic Bishop of Liverpool, very well-known and respected, and not just by Catholics. The initials at the end of his name are French for 'Honor of the Innocent Three' meaning of course, the Blessed Trinity."
Jace remembered now that Rosie had explained it.
"It is immediately obvious that this is the only explanation for the message 'Jack the Ripperger'. It is also apparent that he is not the killer.”
Jace frowned.
Rosie looked at him quizzically. "Do you disagree?" she asked.
The American Detective didn't change his expression.
"No. But it just doesn't make sense." He lowered his coffee cup onto the table and folded his arms across his chest.
Rosie clasped her hands in her lap and tilted her head.
"I mean, why would the killer leave a message pointing to someone who is obviously not the killer? Murderers who leave clues typically do it for one of two reasons: to deliberately mislead the authorities by implicating an innocent, albeit possible, suspect; or to leave factual hints about their identity, as a sort of sick game. In this case, neither possibility fits! What's the point?"
Jace was now pacing across the room. He wasn't really asking any questions, he was just talking to himself.
Rosie interrupted while she had the chance.
"Well, somehow Bishop Jarreck must be connected, or at least have some information that the killer thinks is relevant. We need to talk to him."
Jace gave a short laugh.
"That's going to go over real well. Implicating the Bishop in a serial murder case is like accusing the Queen of Treason."
"I didn't say it would be easy, Jace."
He turned and looked at her. She met his gaze steadily, intently. He looked away.
"So the killer has something against Catholics" Jace said, changing the subject. "He kills Catholic girls, and implicates a Catholic Bishop." He paused thoughtfully. "Must be a Lutheran."
Rosie cleared her throat, and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
"Oh, relax Rosie!" said Jace. "I was just kidding."
Scotland's best detective spoke cautiously. "It’s not that, Jace...”
“Well then, what is it?”
Rosie looked directly at Jace. There was no uncertainty in her voice.
“The killer is a female."Jace raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Rosie, we've been through this already..."
Rosie Tracer sighed heavily. "No Jace, we haven't. I mentioned it briefly the day after the last two murders, and you immediately dismissed it."
"Well it's obvious!" said Jace, gesturing his arms in exasperation. "There is absolutely no way that one female could overpower two others- especially those Germans!" Jace alluded to physique of the first two murder victims, and that Scotland Yard had established only one killer was present at each of the crime scenes. "Rosie, the victims were overcome swiftly and with brutal force. It's rare to find even a man with that kind of power! If there was a female anywhere in this city capable of such actions, we would have found her already!"
"I know Jace, I know" said Rosie "But you've overlooked one critical error."
"Well what's that, Rosie?"
"Jace, the handwriting never changes. It's the same every time."
Jace Buntley opened his mouth, and then closed it. He blinked.
Rosie blinked back.
There was a terrific silence.
"Well then" Jace said slowly "Maybe we should just start arresting every female that weighs over 90 stones." He knew better than to question Rosie's authority on graphology.
Rosie Tracer smiled, and looked down…Jace took another sip from his coffee cup, no longer hot.
"In that case we’ve got the dissection note figured out.” He was referring to the paper they had found at the crime scene that detailed the method of dismemberment.
"If the killer was male, as we first suspected, then the dissection note was his, and he forced the victims to write his sick little message on the wall for him. That would explain the terror behind it.”
Jace paused, and looked into his mug.
“But, if we have correctly determined that the killer is a female, then someone else – a man – wrote the note for her. That means we have an accomplice. That also means we need to explain why the killer would be terrified while writing her own message.”
He looked at Rosie.
Her head was still down.
The room was silence.
Jace sighed and rubbed his temples. There was so much that just didn't make sense! They solved one mystery only to uncover three more.
But they were making progress- together. Just like old times.
Jace looked over at Rosie, still sitting silently in her chair. One hand was laid carelessly in her lap, and the other was on her chin. She was softly, absent-mindedly, biting her index finger. Her cheeks were flushed. Lost in thought.
So quiet.
So demure.
So lovely…Jace remembered when he had last been in England- in Scotland. He remembered the energy he felt when working with her- the power.
Even the toughest cases seemed almost easy. Time flew- nothing was impossible when they were together.
He smiled from pure admiration.
Something he hadn’t felt in a long time surfaced.
“Rose…” Jace began.
Rosie wasn’t listening.
********
"Well then, maybe we should just start arresting every female that weighs over 90 stones."
Rosie played these words over in her head.
She smiled when she first heard them- purely, and genuinely- and not because of the joke.
She smiled because Jace accepted her theory without question, without argument, and without pride. His ability to put his ego aside for the sake of reason had always amazed her, and she respected him immensely for it.
What also amazed her was the complete trust he placed in her abilities. Jace knew the power of her psychic abilities, and the passion with which she pursued her work. She would never make a statement as bold as she had without intense feeling behind it- and Jace knew it.
He knew her.
That’s why he didn’t question her.
And that’s why Rosie Tracer was completely defenseless.
Her cheeks grew hot, her heart pounded in her chest.
She touched her face and looked down.
She remembered that feeling from so many years before, when they had been partners together at the S4 academy. She remembered the time they had spent together, the feelings they shared…
And she remembered that those feelings were gone.
They were cold.
They were black.
They were dark shadows in the memory of her heart, behind closed doors and blood-stained walls.
The raging inferno that once engulfed her heart was reduced to embers by one night in Paris.
Time had extinguished even that....
Deep in the corners of Rosie’s heart, a fire was rekindled.
**************
“Rose…”
Rosie Tracer looked up suddenly.
Jace was smiling like she hadn’t seen in years. Like the day she knew he loved her for the first time.
And he had called her Rose. No one else ever called her that.
For one split second, they met each other’s gaze.
For one split second, Jace Buntley and Rosie Tracer shared a feeling neither had known in over five years.
Rosie’s eyes shone with liquid excitement.
But something was wrong.
Buntely’s face became a mask of pain.
*******
There was a terrible crash as a half-empty mug of cold coffee was thrown against the wall.
A hollow door slammed shut.
Rosie Tracer sobbed in an empty room. Empty footsteps sounded down the hall.
Black liquid dripped from the wall....
That night in Paris.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Unexpected Revelations
"With your superior abilities, and his keen mind, I have no doubt you will be able to make great headway in this case." Detective Tracer gazed at Dr. Welch, no emotion apparent on her face. Dr. Welch cleared his throat, and with a barely perceptible movement of his hand, he tugged at his collar. It always disconcerted him when she looked at him this way."I believe we have already made a good start," she said, continuing to look at him. Dr. Welch briefly wondered how she could do it--stay focused on his eyes when there was so much activity going on all around them.
They had arrived at the crime scene some time before. Detectives Kevson and Niles had gone immediately to the bodies, but Jace and Rosie had been looking for something else. Jace walked directly over to Chief of Police Joe Mason, who had gone ahead to the crime scene. Rosie watched him, already knowing what he was asking after--whether this was due to her psychic ability, or simply because she had once known him so well, she wasn't sure. She just knew what he was looking for. She watched as Chief Mason pointed, gestured, and pointed some more. Jace stood and listened attentively. He shook his head and obviously asked the chief to repeat his answer. Rosie realized she was staring, and so started for the wall which was few feet from the bodies which bore the signature mark of the murderer.
"JACK THE RIPPERGER" was scrawled across the wall in the victims' own blood. Detective Tracer stood and analyzed the wall for quite some time. So long, in fact, that her turned back began to draw the attention of the police officers who were running around trying to find something to do. But her still frame gave no need for speculation to her fellow detectives. They knew she would speak to them when she had it all settled. Until then it was best to leave her alone.
An hour elapsed. Rosie's back was stilled turned on the activity at the crime scene--but it had begun to quiet down. Detective Buntley had finished gathering the information he required, and for the last fifteen minutes, he'd stood watching Rosie from a few yards away. She hadn't moved for thirty minutes. Buntley wasn't as used to this type of behavior as Kevson and Niles were, and he was beginning to worry about her.
"She's fine." Jace glanced at Niles, who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
"What?"
"She's fine. She does this all of the time." Niles looked back to Rosie just in time to see her sway and then catch herself. "Uuh...."
As Niles was trying to find a thought to articulate, Jace was quickly striding toward Rosie. When he reached her, he placed his hand on her shoulder. Kevson's warning cry of, "Don't do it!" came a split second too late. At the touch of his hand, Rosie jumped and let out a startled cry. Something fell from her hand to the ground, but Jace saw only the tear falling from her eye. She knew he saw it, and she quickly brushed it away. She immediately looked down at the ground. Jace thought she was trying to break his gaze, but when he followed her gaze, he saw the object she'd dropped. He leaned down to pick it up, but his hand froze just before he reached it.
It was a rosary.
Rosie saw his hesitation, and quickly reached to pick it up herself. Her hand brushed his as she lifted it, and her touch seemed to bring him back. They both straightened themselves at the same time.
Jace could think of nothing to say. Thoughts flashed through his head like paintings on display. What an odd time for that cup of coffee to enter his thoughts...."I'm fine," Rosie said, breaking the tension.
"What was it?" Jace and Rosie turned at the sound of Dr. Welch's voice. Rosie's own voice shook as she began to answer, but she quickly continued with an even tone. "The murderer was under some sort of influence when this message was written."
"Drugs?" Jace asked.
"Alcohol?" Kevson and Niles chorused, coming up behind Dr. Welch. Rosie shook her head in response to both questions.
"No--no, I don't think so. In all of my studies in graphoanalysis I've never seen anything like this. Except for perhaps once...." Involuntarily she looked at Jace, but then quickly looked away. She didn't want to remind him of that night. She turned to study the wall again. "I first noticed it after Clarissa's murder, and with each new murder it has become progressively more apparent."
"What is it?" Rosie didn't know which of the men had asked the question. They were all intent on studying the writing on the wall. She took a deep breath.
"She was terrified."
There was complete silence from the men. It took them a moment to absorb her statement. Niles finally spoke up. "You said 'she'." Rose closed her eyes and turned away from the wall. Another tear slipped down her cheek. She silently pushed her way through the men, leaving them to contemplate was she hadn't said.
"Detective Tracer," Deputy Chief Hudson approached Rosie. "I think there is something you should see." He motioned for her to step over to where the bodies had been laying. "We were moving the bodies, and when we lifted the second one..." He stopped and cleared his throat, obviously disturbed by the memory of the process. "We...ah...found a note."
"Let me read it." Rosie held her hand out to him. He placed a pair of gloves in her hand instead. "Put these on." Rosie fought the sickening feeling threatening to envelope her stomach. She didn't have to ask. She put the gloves on, then accepted the blood-covered piece of paper. Hudson waited as she read it. Her face registered shock and then disgust in quick succession. "It's..." She took a quick breath.
"What is it?" Jace came up behind her. She immediately handed the paper to him and quickly walked away.
"It appears to be a step-by-step directions on how to..." Hudson stopped and cleared his throat again. "Ah...properly dissect the victims."
Dr. Welch had been observing Rosie since Hudson had stopped her, and when she walked away, he followed. As he walked by Buntley and Hudson, he heard what the note contained.
"Tracer."
He stopped Rosie just as she reached the coach. She waited for him to come to her, but didn't turn to look at him. She was still afraid she was going to be sick.
"What could you tell from it?"
She continued to gaze out at the city lights. It will be light in a couple of hours, she thought to herself. "It was written in a masculine hand."
"What?"
"A man. It was written by a man."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Silence.
"The writing on the wall...it's feminine?"
"Yes."
"And the writing on the paper...it's masculine?"
"Yes."
"What are you thinking?"
"I don't know. It would seem...I don't know."
"I think you do have an idea." A new voice entered the conversation. It was Detective Buntley.
"Please, share it with the doctor." Rosie did nothing more to acknowledge his presence.
"If the writing on the wall was indeed a woman's"--Rosie rolled her eyes at this--"and if, as Miss Tracer says, she was 'terrified' as she wrote it, perhaps she was forced to do it. Perhaps by the man who wrote the...directions. Perhaps it is the victims themselves who are forced to write it before they are killed."
The voicing of Jace's theory sent a chill through both Dr. Welch and Rosie. Jace turned and walked away, having been called back by one of the chiefs.
"I am afraid I will not be able to do this, Michael." Rosie only used Dr. Welch's first name when they were alone, and even then only when the situation warranted it.
"A WOMAN?!" Chief Mason's shocked reaction could be heard across the lot. Dr. Welch cast a glance his way, but turned directly back to Rosie. She had not moved. She was taking no notice of the commotion caused by this new piece of information. Dr. Welch returned to the matter at hand.
"Come now, Tracer. You've worked cases similar to this before. I know you never really get used to it, but you are the best we have. You need...."
"Not with him," Rosie cut him off. "Not for years." She looked directly into her old professor's eyes. "Perhaps Detective Buntley and I would work best apart."
"No." Dr. Welch was adamant. "You work together brilliantly. He was brought here specifically to work with you."
"Yes," Rosie said, irritation barely present in her voice. "And if we were in a different setting, I would have a thing or two to say about your not consulting me in that wee matter."
Dr. Welch continued on as if he hadn't heard her, "I have yet to meet two men more suitable as partners."
Rosie closed her eyes in frustration. Even he often forgot.
"I want to bring in Callie Anne."
"What? Rosie. She's been living a normal life for years."
"Even so, she still has a sharp mind. ...And I need her help."
"Fine. Call her tomorrow," Dr. Welch had more to say, but Rosie had no more responses for a moment.
She knew he was right about Jace, and she didn't want to discuss it anymore.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was almost six o'clock in the morning before the work was finished at the crime scene. The detectives were all exhausted by the time the coach pulled up in front of the S4 offices. Rosie had taken every precaution to keep from being seated next to Jace. But, unknown to her, all of her strategies would have been in vain had Jace not also been trying to avoid her.
In her office once again, Rosie found a fresh pot of coffee. She poured herself a cup, and moved to look out the window. She lifted the mug to take a sip.
"You shouldn't drink that." She took the sip, then turned to look at Jace.
"You need sleep." He tried to ignore the defiance in her eyes.
Rosie turned back to her desk. "I won't be able to sleep, anyway." Her tone was quiet, and she didn't look at him again. Not that it mattered. He probably wasn't looking at her anyway.
"It's been a long time."
"I'm aware of that, Jace." It was the first time she had used his name. Strange how it brought back so much."If we work together on this case, we stand a much better chance of solving it." He was silent for a moment. "I think you know that."
"I am aware of it."
"I'm going to get some sleep at my hotel. You should too." Rosie raised an eyebrow. "At your own place." Jace rolled his eyes, and Rosie bit her lip to keep from smiling. "We'll need to get together to discuss the case later tonight." With that Jace left the office.
Rosie stared at the closed door, remembering seeing him walk through it hours earlier. She suddenly remembered the coffee stain on her skirt. A sudden desire to pour an entire pot of tea on Kevson's head possessed her, but then was quickly gone as she remembered the last time she had seen Jace. It had been over five years before in Paris. In front of Notre Dame cathedral. The cathedral seemed to have a particular beauty that night. Entrancing.
Rosie shuddered at the rememberance. The night had started out so beautifully, but it had a horrible ending. He'd left her there that night, with a promise of never returning sounding in her ears. She could still hear it. She covered her ears in an attempt to block it out, then placed her head on the desk--intending only to finish the Rosary she began at the crime scene, but hours later she was still sleeping there.
They had arrived at the crime scene some time before. Detectives Kevson and Niles had gone immediately to the bodies, but Jace and Rosie had been looking for something else. Jace walked directly over to Chief of Police Joe Mason, who had gone ahead to the crime scene. Rosie watched him, already knowing what he was asking after--whether this was due to her psychic ability, or simply because she had once known him so well, she wasn't sure. She just knew what he was looking for. She watched as Chief Mason pointed, gestured, and pointed some more. Jace stood and listened attentively. He shook his head and obviously asked the chief to repeat his answer. Rosie realized she was staring, and so started for the wall which was few feet from the bodies which bore the signature mark of the murderer.
"JACK THE RIPPERGER" was scrawled across the wall in the victims' own blood. Detective Tracer stood and analyzed the wall for quite some time. So long, in fact, that her turned back began to draw the attention of the police officers who were running around trying to find something to do. But her still frame gave no need for speculation to her fellow detectives. They knew she would speak to them when she had it all settled. Until then it was best to leave her alone.
An hour elapsed. Rosie's back was stilled turned on the activity at the crime scene--but it had begun to quiet down. Detective Buntley had finished gathering the information he required, and for the last fifteen minutes, he'd stood watching Rosie from a few yards away. She hadn't moved for thirty minutes. Buntley wasn't as used to this type of behavior as Kevson and Niles were, and he was beginning to worry about her.
"She's fine." Jace glanced at Niles, who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
"What?"
"She's fine. She does this all of the time." Niles looked back to Rosie just in time to see her sway and then catch herself. "Uuh...."
As Niles was trying to find a thought to articulate, Jace was quickly striding toward Rosie. When he reached her, he placed his hand on her shoulder. Kevson's warning cry of, "Don't do it!" came a split second too late. At the touch of his hand, Rosie jumped and let out a startled cry. Something fell from her hand to the ground, but Jace saw only the tear falling from her eye. She knew he saw it, and she quickly brushed it away. She immediately looked down at the ground. Jace thought she was trying to break his gaze, but when he followed her gaze, he saw the object she'd dropped. He leaned down to pick it up, but his hand froze just before he reached it.
It was a rosary.
Rosie saw his hesitation, and quickly reached to pick it up herself. Her hand brushed his as she lifted it, and her touch seemed to bring him back. They both straightened themselves at the same time.
Jace could think of nothing to say. Thoughts flashed through his head like paintings on display. What an odd time for that cup of coffee to enter his thoughts...."I'm fine," Rosie said, breaking the tension.
"What was it?" Jace and Rosie turned at the sound of Dr. Welch's voice. Rosie's own voice shook as she began to answer, but she quickly continued with an even tone. "The murderer was under some sort of influence when this message was written."
"Drugs?" Jace asked.
"Alcohol?" Kevson and Niles chorused, coming up behind Dr. Welch. Rosie shook her head in response to both questions.
"No--no, I don't think so. In all of my studies in graphoanalysis I've never seen anything like this. Except for perhaps once...." Involuntarily she looked at Jace, but then quickly looked away. She didn't want to remind him of that night. She turned to study the wall again. "I first noticed it after Clarissa's murder, and with each new murder it has become progressively more apparent."
"What is it?" Rosie didn't know which of the men had asked the question. They were all intent on studying the writing on the wall. She took a deep breath.
"She was terrified."
There was complete silence from the men. It took them a moment to absorb her statement. Niles finally spoke up. "You said 'she'." Rose closed her eyes and turned away from the wall. Another tear slipped down her cheek. She silently pushed her way through the men, leaving them to contemplate was she hadn't said.
"Detective Tracer," Deputy Chief Hudson approached Rosie. "I think there is something you should see." He motioned for her to step over to where the bodies had been laying. "We were moving the bodies, and when we lifted the second one..." He stopped and cleared his throat, obviously disturbed by the memory of the process. "We...ah...found a note."
"Let me read it." Rosie held her hand out to him. He placed a pair of gloves in her hand instead. "Put these on." Rosie fought the sickening feeling threatening to envelope her stomach. She didn't have to ask. She put the gloves on, then accepted the blood-covered piece of paper. Hudson waited as she read it. Her face registered shock and then disgust in quick succession. "It's..." She took a quick breath.
"What is it?" Jace came up behind her. She immediately handed the paper to him and quickly walked away.
"It appears to be a step-by-step directions on how to..." Hudson stopped and cleared his throat again. "Ah...properly dissect the victims."
Dr. Welch had been observing Rosie since Hudson had stopped her, and when she walked away, he followed. As he walked by Buntley and Hudson, he heard what the note contained.
"Tracer."
He stopped Rosie just as she reached the coach. She waited for him to come to her, but didn't turn to look at him. She was still afraid she was going to be sick.
"What could you tell from it?"
She continued to gaze out at the city lights. It will be light in a couple of hours, she thought to herself. "It was written in a masculine hand."
"What?"
"A man. It was written by a man."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Silence.
"The writing on the wall...it's feminine?"
"Yes."
"And the writing on the paper...it's masculine?"
"Yes."
"What are you thinking?"
"I don't know. It would seem...I don't know."
"I think you do have an idea." A new voice entered the conversation. It was Detective Buntley.
"Please, share it with the doctor." Rosie did nothing more to acknowledge his presence.
"If the writing on the wall was indeed a woman's"--Rosie rolled her eyes at this--"and if, as Miss Tracer says, she was 'terrified' as she wrote it, perhaps she was forced to do it. Perhaps by the man who wrote the...directions. Perhaps it is the victims themselves who are forced to write it before they are killed."
The voicing of Jace's theory sent a chill through both Dr. Welch and Rosie. Jace turned and walked away, having been called back by one of the chiefs.
"I am afraid I will not be able to do this, Michael." Rosie only used Dr. Welch's first name when they were alone, and even then only when the situation warranted it.
"A WOMAN?!" Chief Mason's shocked reaction could be heard across the lot. Dr. Welch cast a glance his way, but turned directly back to Rosie. She had not moved. She was taking no notice of the commotion caused by this new piece of information. Dr. Welch returned to the matter at hand.
"Come now, Tracer. You've worked cases similar to this before. I know you never really get used to it, but you are the best we have. You need...."
"Not with him," Rosie cut him off. "Not for years." She looked directly into her old professor's eyes. "Perhaps Detective Buntley and I would work best apart."
"No." Dr. Welch was adamant. "You work together brilliantly. He was brought here specifically to work with you."
"Yes," Rosie said, irritation barely present in her voice. "And if we were in a different setting, I would have a thing or two to say about your not consulting me in that wee matter."
Dr. Welch continued on as if he hadn't heard her, "I have yet to meet two men more suitable as partners."
Rosie closed her eyes in frustration. Even he often forgot.
"I want to bring in Callie Anne."
"What? Rosie. She's been living a normal life for years."
"Even so, she still has a sharp mind. ...And I need her help."
"Fine. Call her tomorrow," Dr. Welch had more to say, but Rosie had no more responses for a moment.
She knew he was right about Jace, and she didn't want to discuss it anymore.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was almost six o'clock in the morning before the work was finished at the crime scene. The detectives were all exhausted by the time the coach pulled up in front of the S4 offices. Rosie had taken every precaution to keep from being seated next to Jace. But, unknown to her, all of her strategies would have been in vain had Jace not also been trying to avoid her.
In her office once again, Rosie found a fresh pot of coffee. She poured herself a cup, and moved to look out the window. She lifted the mug to take a sip.
"You shouldn't drink that." She took the sip, then turned to look at Jace.
"You need sleep." He tried to ignore the defiance in her eyes.
Rosie turned back to her desk. "I won't be able to sleep, anyway." Her tone was quiet, and she didn't look at him again. Not that it mattered. He probably wasn't looking at her anyway.
"It's been a long time."
"I'm aware of that, Jace." It was the first time she had used his name. Strange how it brought back so much."If we work together on this case, we stand a much better chance of solving it." He was silent for a moment. "I think you know that."
"I am aware of it."
"I'm going to get some sleep at my hotel. You should too." Rosie raised an eyebrow. "At your own place." Jace rolled his eyes, and Rosie bit her lip to keep from smiling. "We'll need to get together to discuss the case later tonight." With that Jace left the office.
Rosie stared at the closed door, remembering seeing him walk through it hours earlier. She suddenly remembered the coffee stain on her skirt. A sudden desire to pour an entire pot of tea on Kevson's head possessed her, but then was quickly gone as she remembered the last time she had seen Jace. It had been over five years before in Paris. In front of Notre Dame cathedral. The cathedral seemed to have a particular beauty that night. Entrancing.
Rosie shuddered at the rememberance. The night had started out so beautifully, but it had a horrible ending. He'd left her there that night, with a promise of never returning sounding in her ears. She could still hear it. She covered her ears in an attempt to block it out, then placed her head on the desk--intending only to finish the Rosary she began at the crime scene, but hours later she was still sleeping there.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Howdy's Flashback
“Eliza! Verga! Get down here!” Howdy Redder was losing his patience- and his voice.The two German exchange students had been sent to London to further their studies in English, and also (supposedly) to help the Redder family with their business of watch-making. However, neither of those goals seemed to have been achieved in the 6 months they had been there.
“Vee are bizzie, Fatther!” Came a shouted reply from upstairs, and then some giggles.
Howdy Redder hated it when they laughed like that. “Tee hee! Tee hee!” It always got on his nerves.
“I mean it this time! So help me! I’ll… I’ll….!” Mr. Redder didn’t know what he’d do.
Probably nothing, except get redder in the face and raise his blood pressure. Those girls were absolutely impossible! If they weren’t at school supposedly learning English, they were flirting with the boys at school. And if they weren’t flirting with boys, they were talking about them. If they weren’t talking about them, they were either asleep or had their mouths full. And sometimes, even that didn’t stop them. They were impossible!
“Eliza and Verga, you will both come down here this minute and speak to your father! I do NOT want to have to come up there!”
Howdy Redder’s wife, Justina Redder, was no laughing matter. She was tall and lean, mighty lean. She was also rather pompous, and possessed quite the ego. She liked to let people know it, too. If she wasn’t lecturing the girls on their lack of virtues or work ethic, she was lecturing Howdy on his. Her one droopy eyelid, normally half-closed, sprang open when her temper flared.
Their marriage was farimly normal, if also a bit comical. Howdy was short and skinny, and his eyesight had never been very good, which necessitated the use of extremely thick glasses. Over the years he had developed a bit of a pot-belly, and quite recently his hearing had started to decline as well. Whether that was because of the incessant, blabbering chatter of the German exchange girls, or an unconscious physiological defensive reflex, was not clear.
Some would have described him as a silly little man, but that would have been before they knew his profession- Watchmaker.
Yes, for all their drawbacks, many and varied though they were, Howdy Redder and his wife Justina were famous all over England, and indeed the world, for their watches.
German clockmakers had nothing over this couple when it came to making things tick! They could wind circles around the competition, and indeed had, in the last World Clock and Watch Makers Jamboree, held in Munich, Germany. That’s where they had met Eliza and Verga, the daughters of a German clockmaker by the name of Mikhail Nollenkopf. (Little did he know, but a great-great grandson of his would have quite a romantic and tragic affair in WWII…. but that was years down the road.)
The London couple had won first place – again – and many Germans had come forward to pay them their respects, and also to get a closer look at their watches. Mikhail was one of them, and shook hands enthusiastically with Mr. Redder.
“Amazing, amazing!” Mikhail said over and over. “Vee haff never seen anything like ziss in zee Fazzerland! I vill look forward to seeing your verk in zee next yearz Jamboree!”Howdy and Justina thanked him very much, but mentioned that this would most likely be their last Jamboree, since they were thinking of retiring from the business.
“Ach! Mein Leiben! Mein shiesserkopf poopie!” Mikhail had said “You are zee best in zee biziness! You cannot retire! Your work must continue… I cannot allow zis!”
He took off in a frenzy, and soon returned with two bratty looking girls. They were beautiful and ravishing in their skimpy Lederhosen, and Mikhail was practically beating the young German boys off with a stick.
“Here!” Mikhail said “Zees are my two beautiful and talented young daughters, Eliza and Verga. Zey haff helped me for many yearz in clock-making! Zey vill help you vith your biziness! Zey haff been vanting to learn English for qvite sum time now!!” Mikhail’s own English was getting worse as he spoke, and a sort of wild, frenetic look had come into his eyes. He looked like a caged animal that had just seen a chance at freedom.
Howdy and Justina, suddenly hopeful at the thought of gaining some help, were all too ready to listen. For indeed, they had never had any children, and though the idea of adoption had come up, Howdy had never been certain that Justina would not have beaten a child or two to death if it had not been her own. She had quite the temper, and a strong right hook to match. “Why, yes! We would love some help!” Justina said quickly. Though Howdy looked doubtful, she would not be deterred from this sudden prospect of good fortune. It was like a sign from God…
“Now, zey know some English, but zey haff been…” Mikhail suddenly stopped and glared at his two daughters. “Vell, zey vere doing well in their studies until zey reached zee age of sixteen! Suddenly, other subjects in school became much more interesting! Zey need to be beaten!”
“Ha!” Laughed Howdy. “You don’t have to worry about that in my house! Hahaha… *ahem* "
He coughed and looked away under Justina’s intense glare.
“Vell zen, I vill get everything here taken care of, and you may expect zem to be arriving shortly!” With that, Mikhail Nollenkopf and his daughters, more sullen looking then ever, departed.
*********
That had been almost a year ago, and Eliza and Verga arrived several months afterwards. They had proven helpful at first, it was true, but their productivity kept slipping and slipping until finally, Justina and Howdy were at the end of their rope. It seemed that things just couldn’t get any worse!
“Eliza! Verga! Right this MINUTE!!” Justina’s voice was getting shrill. That was a bad sign.
The German girls came downstairs, all pouty and huffy.
Howdy’s wife glared at them.
“Now, you two girls are going to help Mr. Redder with the new gear reduction assembly he is working on! This promises to be a revolution in the watch-making industry, and you might just learn a thing or two about it to take back to your father in Germany! Wouldn’t that be nice of you? It would indeed, and that’s probably why you won’t do it! The trouble with young people today is that they have no appreciation for hard work and sacrifice! What do you think I do all day? Yes, it is all about sacrifice and being miserable! If you are happy in this life, then you are doing something wrong! I got into the watch making business because I hated it! Why do you think I married Mr. Redder?"
Justina was on a roll. It was going to be awhile, so Howdy went down into his workshop.
A few hours later, Eliza and Verga showed up. They weren’t really in any mood to help, so they didn’t. This was the usual order of business recently! Howdy wondered just how much longer they could continue like this… he wanted to send them back, but Justina would have none of it.
“No matter how bad it gets, they have to live out their end of the bargain! Furthermore, it is our responsibility to send them back to Germany better than when they came, or not at all!” This was Justina’s take on the situation, and that was that! Unfortunately, it also turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. How guilty the both of them would soon feel...!
Poor Howdy! Since he was Anglican, his prayers really didn’t do that much good, and his suffering was all but wasted. He desperately needed a solution to his problem, but little did he know just how soon he would get it… and how terrible it would be!
Oh, the horror of it all!
“Vee are bizzie, Fatther!” Came a shouted reply from upstairs, and then some giggles.
Howdy Redder hated it when they laughed like that. “Tee hee! Tee hee!” It always got on his nerves.
“I mean it this time! So help me! I’ll… I’ll….!” Mr. Redder didn’t know what he’d do.
Probably nothing, except get redder in the face and raise his blood pressure. Those girls were absolutely impossible! If they weren’t at school supposedly learning English, they were flirting with the boys at school. And if they weren’t flirting with boys, they were talking about them. If they weren’t talking about them, they were either asleep or had their mouths full. And sometimes, even that didn’t stop them. They were impossible!
“Eliza and Verga, you will both come down here this minute and speak to your father! I do NOT want to have to come up there!”
Howdy Redder’s wife, Justina Redder, was no laughing matter. She was tall and lean, mighty lean. She was also rather pompous, and possessed quite the ego. She liked to let people know it, too. If she wasn’t lecturing the girls on their lack of virtues or work ethic, she was lecturing Howdy on his. Her one droopy eyelid, normally half-closed, sprang open when her temper flared.
Their marriage was farimly normal, if also a bit comical. Howdy was short and skinny, and his eyesight had never been very good, which necessitated the use of extremely thick glasses. Over the years he had developed a bit of a pot-belly, and quite recently his hearing had started to decline as well. Whether that was because of the incessant, blabbering chatter of the German exchange girls, or an unconscious physiological defensive reflex, was not clear.
Some would have described him as a silly little man, but that would have been before they knew his profession- Watchmaker.
Yes, for all their drawbacks, many and varied though they were, Howdy Redder and his wife Justina were famous all over England, and indeed the world, for their watches.
German clockmakers had nothing over this couple when it came to making things tick! They could wind circles around the competition, and indeed had, in the last World Clock and Watch Makers Jamboree, held in Munich, Germany. That’s where they had met Eliza and Verga, the daughters of a German clockmaker by the name of Mikhail Nollenkopf. (Little did he know, but a great-great grandson of his would have quite a romantic and tragic affair in WWII…. but that was years down the road.)
The London couple had won first place – again – and many Germans had come forward to pay them their respects, and also to get a closer look at their watches. Mikhail was one of them, and shook hands enthusiastically with Mr. Redder.
“Amazing, amazing!” Mikhail said over and over. “Vee haff never seen anything like ziss in zee Fazzerland! I vill look forward to seeing your verk in zee next yearz Jamboree!”Howdy and Justina thanked him very much, but mentioned that this would most likely be their last Jamboree, since they were thinking of retiring from the business.
“Ach! Mein Leiben! Mein shiesserkopf poopie!” Mikhail had said “You are zee best in zee biziness! You cannot retire! Your work must continue… I cannot allow zis!”
He took off in a frenzy, and soon returned with two bratty looking girls. They were beautiful and ravishing in their skimpy Lederhosen, and Mikhail was practically beating the young German boys off with a stick.
“Here!” Mikhail said “Zees are my two beautiful and talented young daughters, Eliza and Verga. Zey haff helped me for many yearz in clock-making! Zey vill help you vith your biziness! Zey haff been vanting to learn English for qvite sum time now!!” Mikhail’s own English was getting worse as he spoke, and a sort of wild, frenetic look had come into his eyes. He looked like a caged animal that had just seen a chance at freedom.
Howdy and Justina, suddenly hopeful at the thought of gaining some help, were all too ready to listen. For indeed, they had never had any children, and though the idea of adoption had come up, Howdy had never been certain that Justina would not have beaten a child or two to death if it had not been her own. She had quite the temper, and a strong right hook to match. “Why, yes! We would love some help!” Justina said quickly. Though Howdy looked doubtful, she would not be deterred from this sudden prospect of good fortune. It was like a sign from God…
“Now, zey know some English, but zey haff been…” Mikhail suddenly stopped and glared at his two daughters. “Vell, zey vere doing well in their studies until zey reached zee age of sixteen! Suddenly, other subjects in school became much more interesting! Zey need to be beaten!”
“Ha!” Laughed Howdy. “You don’t have to worry about that in my house! Hahaha… *ahem* "
He coughed and looked away under Justina’s intense glare.
“Vell zen, I vill get everything here taken care of, and you may expect zem to be arriving shortly!” With that, Mikhail Nollenkopf and his daughters, more sullen looking then ever, departed.
*********
That had been almost a year ago, and Eliza and Verga arrived several months afterwards. They had proven helpful at first, it was true, but their productivity kept slipping and slipping until finally, Justina and Howdy were at the end of their rope. It seemed that things just couldn’t get any worse!
“Eliza! Verga! Right this MINUTE!!” Justina’s voice was getting shrill. That was a bad sign.
The German girls came downstairs, all pouty and huffy.
Howdy’s wife glared at them.
“Now, you two girls are going to help Mr. Redder with the new gear reduction assembly he is working on! This promises to be a revolution in the watch-making industry, and you might just learn a thing or two about it to take back to your father in Germany! Wouldn’t that be nice of you? It would indeed, and that’s probably why you won’t do it! The trouble with young people today is that they have no appreciation for hard work and sacrifice! What do you think I do all day? Yes, it is all about sacrifice and being miserable! If you are happy in this life, then you are doing something wrong! I got into the watch making business because I hated it! Why do you think I married Mr. Redder?"
Justina was on a roll. It was going to be awhile, so Howdy went down into his workshop.
A few hours later, Eliza and Verga showed up. They weren’t really in any mood to help, so they didn’t. This was the usual order of business recently! Howdy wondered just how much longer they could continue like this… he wanted to send them back, but Justina would have none of it.
“No matter how bad it gets, they have to live out their end of the bargain! Furthermore, it is our responsibility to send them back to Germany better than when they came, or not at all!” This was Justina’s take on the situation, and that was that! Unfortunately, it also turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. How guilty the both of them would soon feel...!
Poor Howdy! Since he was Anglican, his prayers really didn’t do that much good, and his suffering was all but wasted. He desperately needed a solution to his problem, but little did he know just how soon he would get it… and how terrible it would be!
Oh, the horror of it all!
Nolder Uncovers the Evidence
After Nolder dropped Jace off at the LondonTowne Inn, he stopped outside for a smoke and a quick drink.
"Nothin' wrong with a quick spot o' whiskey now, is there?" Davis Nolder thought to himself.
As he stood there in the alley, next to his trusty mare Little Charity, his mind went back all those years to his beloved wife, Lanney.
She had been the most beautiful of Scottish lasses, she had. Eyes of pure blue, and hair as golden as the sunset. It was rare indeed, to find a pure Scot with blue eyes and blonde hair, and he couldn't deny that was part of the reason he loved her so much.
"Fell in love at first sight, I sure did" Davis muttered to himself in the darkness. "There'll never be another like her. Dammit all, I can't belive I lost her...."
Suddenly, Little Charity whinneyed at the sudden arrival of a Police Officer.
"Right-O, there! Who be you, my good man?" The officer asked of Nolder.
"Bloody Mary, it's me, Davis Nolder! What are you doin' here, Rabbie?"
"Davis! You no-good sot! Where's the Yank?"
"Yank?! You mean Mr. Buntley, you do! Don't ye be calling him no Yank, you bloody Limey! He's the best in all America, and I'll blacken your eye you don't give him the proper respect!"
"Well now, Davis! I can see you've been hittn' the bottle. " Officer Robert Vernon was quite accustomed to Davis' outbursts.
"Listen Davis, I need you to get the Yank right away, and bring him to the Station! There's been another murder!"
"Another Murder?!!" Davis was aghast. "I thought it was just a scare! You know, a bloody rumor!"
"That's what we thought at first! You know ever since that bloody Ripperger got famous, EVERY murder has been reported as his doing! We thought this one was too, at first, until..." Robert suddenly stopped short.
"Until what, man? Come on, out with it! Don't keep a fellow officer waitin'!"
Robert drew back.
"Now listen, Davis! You ain't no officer! You know you got stripped of your badge a year ago after..."
He stopped, the situation suddenly awkward. Davis slouched his shoulders.
Davis apologized. "I'm sorry mate, I didn't mean..."
"No no, you're right, Rabbie. I'm wrong. I ain't no... OFFICER... anymore."
"Well listen, mate." Robert skipped over it. "It was right GRISLY, it was! When they found 'em, there wasn't a single limb left attached to the body, not a single one! Arms, legs...."
He gulped "even the 'ead, mate! They was all off!"
"Bloody 'ell, Rabbie! who would do such a thing?!"
"That's just it!! We knew it 'ad to be him, mate! We knew! Ain't no one in the 'ole damm country that kills like that. It's that bloody B*^@#*, Jack the Ripperger!"
Robert punched his fist into his hand."Well 'ell mate, who were they? Girls, Catholic, like the last?" Davis drew closer.
Robert put his head in his hands. "They were." Davis gasped. Robert continued.
"Their names were Marcille and Kelsie, runners from France! They were on an exchange program. Apparantly, running in France made them hot- TOO hot! They thought that coming to a cooler climate might help 'em out. They sweated profusely in France!"
"By the Knights who say Ni!" said Davis.
"Big the Knights indeed!" said Robbie "And now, they'll never return. Never to return to France, never to laugh "Tee hee, tee hee" again! Poor girls!"
Davis took a long pull from his bottle. Robbie, wiping his eyes, took one as well. Little Charity neighed, sullen at being left out of the conversation. Davis placated her with a few swigs. Charity hiccuped, and then whinneyed.
"Well mate, go ahead and wake up the Yank... er, Mr... Buntely."
"Aye mate, aye!" Said Davis. "I'll wake him up straight away! To the Station, you say?"
"Right-O, mate! Dr. Welch and the Chiefs will be waitin'!"
And with those words, Officer Robert Vernon vanished into the night.
Davis Nolder went upstairs.
"Nothin' wrong with a quick spot o' whiskey now, is there?" Davis Nolder thought to himself.
As he stood there in the alley, next to his trusty mare Little Charity, his mind went back all those years to his beloved wife, Lanney.
She had been the most beautiful of Scottish lasses, she had. Eyes of pure blue, and hair as golden as the sunset. It was rare indeed, to find a pure Scot with blue eyes and blonde hair, and he couldn't deny that was part of the reason he loved her so much.
"Fell in love at first sight, I sure did" Davis muttered to himself in the darkness. "There'll never be another like her. Dammit all, I can't belive I lost her...."
Suddenly, Little Charity whinneyed at the sudden arrival of a Police Officer.
"Right-O, there! Who be you, my good man?" The officer asked of Nolder.
"Bloody Mary, it's me, Davis Nolder! What are you doin' here, Rabbie?"
"Davis! You no-good sot! Where's the Yank?"
"Yank?! You mean Mr. Buntley, you do! Don't ye be calling him no Yank, you bloody Limey! He's the best in all America, and I'll blacken your eye you don't give him the proper respect!"
"Well now, Davis! I can see you've been hittn' the bottle. " Officer Robert Vernon was quite accustomed to Davis' outbursts.
"Listen Davis, I need you to get the Yank right away, and bring him to the Station! There's been another murder!"
"Another Murder?!!" Davis was aghast. "I thought it was just a scare! You know, a bloody rumor!"
"That's what we thought at first! You know ever since that bloody Ripperger got famous, EVERY murder has been reported as his doing! We thought this one was too, at first, until..." Robert suddenly stopped short.
"Until what, man? Come on, out with it! Don't keep a fellow officer waitin'!"
Robert drew back.
"Now listen, Davis! You ain't no officer! You know you got stripped of your badge a year ago after..."
He stopped, the situation suddenly awkward. Davis slouched his shoulders.
Davis apologized. "I'm sorry mate, I didn't mean..."
"No no, you're right, Rabbie. I'm wrong. I ain't no... OFFICER... anymore."
"Well listen, mate." Robert skipped over it. "It was right GRISLY, it was! When they found 'em, there wasn't a single limb left attached to the body, not a single one! Arms, legs...."
He gulped "even the 'ead, mate! They was all off!"
"Bloody 'ell, Rabbie! who would do such a thing?!"
"That's just it!! We knew it 'ad to be him, mate! We knew! Ain't no one in the 'ole damm country that kills like that. It's that bloody B*^@#*, Jack the Ripperger!"
Robert punched his fist into his hand."Well 'ell mate, who were they? Girls, Catholic, like the last?" Davis drew closer.
Robert put his head in his hands. "They were." Davis gasped. Robert continued.
"Their names were Marcille and Kelsie, runners from France! They were on an exchange program. Apparantly, running in France made them hot- TOO hot! They thought that coming to a cooler climate might help 'em out. They sweated profusely in France!"
"By the Knights who say Ni!" said Davis.
"Big the Knights indeed!" said Robbie "And now, they'll never return. Never to return to France, never to laugh "Tee hee, tee hee" again! Poor girls!"
Davis took a long pull from his bottle. Robbie, wiping his eyes, took one as well. Little Charity neighed, sullen at being left out of the conversation. Davis placated her with a few swigs. Charity hiccuped, and then whinneyed.
"Well mate, go ahead and wake up the Yank... er, Mr... Buntely."
"Aye mate, aye!" Said Davis. "I'll wake him up straight away! To the Station, you say?"
"Right-O, mate! Dr. Welch and the Chiefs will be waitin'!"
And with those words, Officer Robert Vernon vanished into the night.
Davis Nolder went upstairs.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
The Plot Thickens
And then Jace woke up. What a horrible nightmare! But it was no nightmare- there was still the incessant banging on the door, and Davis Nolder’s irritating voice.
“Sir! Sir! Mr. Jace Buntley, Sir! You’ve got to get up! There’s been another murder! We’ve got to get to the central office, right away!”
Jace groaned and shifted in the bed. He checked his watch – 12:05 AM, Tuesday morning. Six hours since he arrived in London; one since he went to bed.
“Mr. Buntley sir? Are you there!?”
“All right, shut up already! Give me five minutes.”
“Yes sir! I’ll be waitin’ outside with the coach!”
Jace heard Nolder’s footsteps grow faint. He groaned again, louder, and stretched to his feet. Still slightly buzzing from the London whiskey, he was glad he hadn’t had enough to get drunk. Only 1 quart this time. He dressed quickly and threw on his trenchcoat. He didn’t need to strap on his shoulder-holstered Beretta.
He hadn’t taken it off.
Davis met him at the street, fairly hopping with excitement. Jace observed the 6’4”, rail-thin coachmen with slight amusement, and wondered where he got his energy. Davis hustled him into the coach.
“Right this way, sir! Right this way! You wouldn’t believe it, you just wouldn’t! Not again, not so soon after the last one! Bloody mess, from what I heard! Not one limb left connected! Bloody, bloody mess it was!”
Jace kept silent as Davis rambled on, shutting the coach door and climbing to the driver’s seat. As the reigns snapped and they began moving, Jace could still hear Davis muttering to himself.
“Right shame it was, too. Beautiful girls from what I ‘eard. Beautiful. Runners they were, visiting from France. Never return back, they sure won’t. Never return. Right shame.”
Jace nodded silently to himself in the coach. He had suspected this from the beginning, and Nolder’s last statement only confirmed it. He knew exactly where the killer would strike next, and he knew when. But he didn’t know why…
Dr. Welch met him in the coach outside London’s downtown police station, and climbed aboard along with two Police Officers.
“Pardon the circumstances surrounding our introduction, Mr Buntley! It is a great honor to meet you! I only wish it were under more pleasant arrangements.” The director of Great Britain’s most prestigious investigative school grasped hands firmly with Jace, and the detective helped him aboard. The two Officers followed suit.
“Mr. Buntley, this is Chief of Police Joe Mason, and Deputy Chief Anthony Hudson. They will accompany us to the crime scene.”
“So we’re going straight there.” Jace stated. That was fine with him. The sooner they got cracking on this case, the better.
“Not quite.” Said Dr. Welch “We will actually be stopping by Scotland Yard’s south London branch first.”
Officers Mace and Tony sat silently in their seats.
Jace didn’t move.
*****************
As Jace followed Dr. Welch down the hallway of Scotland Yard’s South London branch, he tried to keep his pulse from rising.
He did not succeed.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the blood coursing through his veins. He was angry that he felt this way; angry that he could not control his emotions. He wanted to be angry that he was about to see her again… but he wasn’t.
Sudden voices brought Jace out of his reflections. Unconsciously, he had slowed in the hallway. Dr. Welch was already inside the S4 office
.“Wake that man up!” Jace heard Dr. Welch order.
This was soon followed by several terrific shouts, and the sharp cry of a woman.
That voice.
That voice sent a galvanized shock through Jace Buntley’s entire body. That voice sent at once a thousand memories flooding back into his head, and a thousand emotions through his veins. Jace Buntley, American Detective, top crime detective in the entire State of New York, was afraid. His hands shook and his mouth went dry. He didn’t want to take another step.
He walked through the door.
Kevson’s cry and subsequent flailing appendages startled Niles and knocked him off balance. Niles bumped into Rosie who spilled her coffee onto her lap. Rosie cried aloud and dropped her coffee mug on the floor with a clatter. Jace walked casually through the door and observed the scene.
“Mr. Buntley, this is Rosie Tracer, our top detective at Scotland Yard.” Dr. Welch never missed a beat when it came to formalities. He was also quite adept at ignoring even the most embarrassing of social mishaps.
“Rosie, this is Mr. Jace Buntley, American detective and top crime investigator in New York City.”
Rosie couldn’t speak. She managed to barely nod her head.
“We’ve met before, Doctor.” Jace said abruptly.
“But of course you have!” replied Dr. Welch. “Of course you have. Although I do not believe you have made the acquaintance of Detectives Kevson and Niles…?”
Dr. Welch cast his gaze in the direction of the recovering detectives, and folded his hands. He glared at them with a look implied absolute buffoonery. Kevson and Niles shifted uncomfortably, looking for all the world like two school boys caught playing hooky. There was certainly nothing at the moment to suggest that besides Rosie, they were the best two detectives in Scotland Yard.
“Uhhhhh, hello Mr. Buntley. I’m Detective Kevson.” He reached forward and shook hands firmly with the American. Niles followed suit. “Detective Niles, at your service!”
Jace didn’t reply but instead walked straight up to a map of London pinned against the wall. The locations of the murders were noted in ink. “Get a world map.” Was all he said.
The detectives in the room looked at each other. Rosie looked down with a crooked smile. Jace had never been one for formalities.
Jace turned around to face Kevson and Niles. He carefully avoided looking towards Rosie.“If you want to solve this case, get me a world map”
Kevson looked over at Detective Tracer, who stared him down before he could even ask the question.
“I’ll be right back!” he said, and disappeared out the door. Dr. Welch looked quizzically in Jace’s direction.
“Mr. Buntley, I hope this will not take long. Indeed, we shall review the facts of the previous murders, but there is a fresh crime scene requiring our attention! Chiefs Mason and Hudson are already on their way, and their officers have no doubt prepared the scene for our arrival…”
“I assure you, Doctor, that this will not take long, and that it will, indeed, prove to be very relevant to the facts we shall undoubtedly discover at the crime scene. I thank you in advance for your cooperation, and for that of your team. It is my pleasure to work with the finest detectives in England.” He nodded in the direction of Dr. Welch, and returned to studying the map.
Dr. Welch harrumphed and clasped his hands behind his back. His mouth curved in a very faint, very satisfied smile.Rosie bit her lip and closed her eyes. Jace had just bought himself the entire night, if he wanted it. Her face and hands grew flushed. She both hated and loved it when Jace did this.
Kevson strode back into the room moments later, a world map loosely rolled in his hands. “How did you find that so fast?” Niles asked.
“I’m psychic.”
Rosie bit her lip again. This was a bad night for her lips.
“Spread it out on the table” Jace ordered. Once done so, he circled the countries of the murder victims.“What do you see?” He asked.
Kevson spoke up. “I see a perfectly good world map with four circles on it.”
Niles jabbed him in the ribs, saving Rosie the trouble.
“I see a pattern.” Niles said.
“Of what.” Jace.
“Foreigners!” Said Kevson. “He’s a xenophobe. He’s a misguided freak trying to do England a favor.”
“No.” Said Rosie. “It’s a clock.” She was irritated she hadn’t noticed this sooner.
Jace looked at her for the first time since they had been introduced by Dr. Welch. No one else noticed, but she knew he was pleased.
“Yes” he said “A clock.”
“What the heck?” Kevson.
“Bloody hell!” Dr. Welch.
“Bugger me! I get it!” Niles.
Jace went into action.
“Germany is One O’clock. It’s the start, the beginning. The killer strikes at one. Switzerland is Three O’Clock. Italy Five. France is now Seven."
Dr. Welch interrupted. “How did you know the next victims were from France?!”
Jace didn’t bother to look up. He also didn’t bother to reveal his source of information.“Word travels fast in London.”
“Wait” said Kevson “Why are they all odd numbers?”
“Because” said Rosie, but before she could finish, Niles interrupted.“Well I’m pissed if Ireland isn’t number nine!”
“And guess who’s after that?” Jace.
“Iceland, at 11 O’clock?” Niles.
“No” Rosie spoke again, and her blood went cold.
Jace looked at her again, and nodded his head.
“Scotland, at 12.” Rosie finished.
“Son-of-a-gyspie mongrel!” Kevson was losing his patience. “What’s up with all the bloody O’clocks?! One o’clock, three o’clock, how can you tell!?”
Jace looked at Dr. Welch. “We’ve spent enough time here already.” He said.
Dr. Welch nodded his head in agreement. “Indeed, we have spent enough time here, Mr. Buntley. But it was indeed time well spent! In just a few short hours, you have proven your worth and then some.” He paused briefly. “As expected, of course! We shall now proceed to the crime scene.” He looked directly at Kevson. “Detective Tracer can explain fully there.”
They rose from the table and headed out the door.
Somehow, Jace and Rosie ended up next to each other. They stared rigidly ahead, though the entirety of their attention was focused on their peripheral vision. Both minds whirled, as much from the suddenness of their reunion as with the new details of the case. Despite Jace’s insight, so many questions were left unanswered… why were the girls all Catholic? Why did the killer target only females? Rosie shuddered at the thought that yet more murders would occur before this case could be solved.
The clock pattern. It made perfect sense. She would explain it all to Kevson at the crime scene, in details so thorough even a buffoon could understand. But also, she wondered what they would find at the crime scene… what gruesome details she would have to describe… what sickening information she would surely be able to reveal about the killer himself…
Meanwhile, Jace was wondering why he was always such a jerk when it came to Rosie.
“Sir! Sir! Mr. Jace Buntley, Sir! You’ve got to get up! There’s been another murder! We’ve got to get to the central office, right away!”
Jace groaned and shifted in the bed. He checked his watch – 12:05 AM, Tuesday morning. Six hours since he arrived in London; one since he went to bed.
“Mr. Buntley sir? Are you there!?”
“All right, shut up already! Give me five minutes.”
“Yes sir! I’ll be waitin’ outside with the coach!”
Jace heard Nolder’s footsteps grow faint. He groaned again, louder, and stretched to his feet. Still slightly buzzing from the London whiskey, he was glad he hadn’t had enough to get drunk. Only 1 quart this time. He dressed quickly and threw on his trenchcoat. He didn’t need to strap on his shoulder-holstered Beretta.
He hadn’t taken it off.
Davis met him at the street, fairly hopping with excitement. Jace observed the 6’4”, rail-thin coachmen with slight amusement, and wondered where he got his energy. Davis hustled him into the coach.
“Right this way, sir! Right this way! You wouldn’t believe it, you just wouldn’t! Not again, not so soon after the last one! Bloody mess, from what I heard! Not one limb left connected! Bloody, bloody mess it was!”
Jace kept silent as Davis rambled on, shutting the coach door and climbing to the driver’s seat. As the reigns snapped and they began moving, Jace could still hear Davis muttering to himself.
“Right shame it was, too. Beautiful girls from what I ‘eard. Beautiful. Runners they were, visiting from France. Never return back, they sure won’t. Never return. Right shame.”
Jace nodded silently to himself in the coach. He had suspected this from the beginning, and Nolder’s last statement only confirmed it. He knew exactly where the killer would strike next, and he knew when. But he didn’t know why…
Dr. Welch met him in the coach outside London’s downtown police station, and climbed aboard along with two Police Officers.
“Pardon the circumstances surrounding our introduction, Mr Buntley! It is a great honor to meet you! I only wish it were under more pleasant arrangements.” The director of Great Britain’s most prestigious investigative school grasped hands firmly with Jace, and the detective helped him aboard. The two Officers followed suit.
“Mr. Buntley, this is Chief of Police Joe Mason, and Deputy Chief Anthony Hudson. They will accompany us to the crime scene.”
“So we’re going straight there.” Jace stated. That was fine with him. The sooner they got cracking on this case, the better.
“Not quite.” Said Dr. Welch “We will actually be stopping by Scotland Yard’s south London branch first.”
Officers Mace and Tony sat silently in their seats.
Jace didn’t move.
*****************
As Jace followed Dr. Welch down the hallway of Scotland Yard’s South London branch, he tried to keep his pulse from rising.
He did not succeed.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the blood coursing through his veins. He was angry that he felt this way; angry that he could not control his emotions. He wanted to be angry that he was about to see her again… but he wasn’t.
Sudden voices brought Jace out of his reflections. Unconsciously, he had slowed in the hallway. Dr. Welch was already inside the S4 office
.“Wake that man up!” Jace heard Dr. Welch order.
This was soon followed by several terrific shouts, and the sharp cry of a woman.
That voice.
That voice sent a galvanized shock through Jace Buntley’s entire body. That voice sent at once a thousand memories flooding back into his head, and a thousand emotions through his veins. Jace Buntley, American Detective, top crime detective in the entire State of New York, was afraid. His hands shook and his mouth went dry. He didn’t want to take another step.
He walked through the door.
Kevson’s cry and subsequent flailing appendages startled Niles and knocked him off balance. Niles bumped into Rosie who spilled her coffee onto her lap. Rosie cried aloud and dropped her coffee mug on the floor with a clatter. Jace walked casually through the door and observed the scene.
“Mr. Buntley, this is Rosie Tracer, our top detective at Scotland Yard.” Dr. Welch never missed a beat when it came to formalities. He was also quite adept at ignoring even the most embarrassing of social mishaps.
“Rosie, this is Mr. Jace Buntley, American detective and top crime investigator in New York City.”
Rosie couldn’t speak. She managed to barely nod her head.
“We’ve met before, Doctor.” Jace said abruptly.
“But of course you have!” replied Dr. Welch. “Of course you have. Although I do not believe you have made the acquaintance of Detectives Kevson and Niles…?”
Dr. Welch cast his gaze in the direction of the recovering detectives, and folded his hands. He glared at them with a look implied absolute buffoonery. Kevson and Niles shifted uncomfortably, looking for all the world like two school boys caught playing hooky. There was certainly nothing at the moment to suggest that besides Rosie, they were the best two detectives in Scotland Yard.
“Uhhhhh, hello Mr. Buntley. I’m Detective Kevson.” He reached forward and shook hands firmly with the American. Niles followed suit. “Detective Niles, at your service!”
Jace didn’t reply but instead walked straight up to a map of London pinned against the wall. The locations of the murders were noted in ink. “Get a world map.” Was all he said.
The detectives in the room looked at each other. Rosie looked down with a crooked smile. Jace had never been one for formalities.
Jace turned around to face Kevson and Niles. He carefully avoided looking towards Rosie.“If you want to solve this case, get me a world map”
Kevson looked over at Detective Tracer, who stared him down before he could even ask the question.
“I’ll be right back!” he said, and disappeared out the door. Dr. Welch looked quizzically in Jace’s direction.
“Mr. Buntley, I hope this will not take long. Indeed, we shall review the facts of the previous murders, but there is a fresh crime scene requiring our attention! Chiefs Mason and Hudson are already on their way, and their officers have no doubt prepared the scene for our arrival…”
“I assure you, Doctor, that this will not take long, and that it will, indeed, prove to be very relevant to the facts we shall undoubtedly discover at the crime scene. I thank you in advance for your cooperation, and for that of your team. It is my pleasure to work with the finest detectives in England.” He nodded in the direction of Dr. Welch, and returned to studying the map.
Dr. Welch harrumphed and clasped his hands behind his back. His mouth curved in a very faint, very satisfied smile.Rosie bit her lip and closed her eyes. Jace had just bought himself the entire night, if he wanted it. Her face and hands grew flushed. She both hated and loved it when Jace did this.
Kevson strode back into the room moments later, a world map loosely rolled in his hands. “How did you find that so fast?” Niles asked.
“I’m psychic.”
Rosie bit her lip again. This was a bad night for her lips.
“Spread it out on the table” Jace ordered. Once done so, he circled the countries of the murder victims.“What do you see?” He asked.
Kevson spoke up. “I see a perfectly good world map with four circles on it.”
Niles jabbed him in the ribs, saving Rosie the trouble.
“I see a pattern.” Niles said.
“Of what.” Jace.
“Foreigners!” Said Kevson. “He’s a xenophobe. He’s a misguided freak trying to do England a favor.”
“No.” Said Rosie. “It’s a clock.” She was irritated she hadn’t noticed this sooner.
Jace looked at her for the first time since they had been introduced by Dr. Welch. No one else noticed, but she knew he was pleased.
“Yes” he said “A clock.”
“What the heck?” Kevson.
“Bloody hell!” Dr. Welch.
“Bugger me! I get it!” Niles.
Jace went into action.
“Germany is One O’clock. It’s the start, the beginning. The killer strikes at one. Switzerland is Three O’Clock. Italy Five. France is now Seven."
Dr. Welch interrupted. “How did you know the next victims were from France?!”
Jace didn’t bother to look up. He also didn’t bother to reveal his source of information.“Word travels fast in London.”
“Wait” said Kevson “Why are they all odd numbers?”
“Because” said Rosie, but before she could finish, Niles interrupted.“Well I’m pissed if Ireland isn’t number nine!”
“And guess who’s after that?” Jace.
“Iceland, at 11 O’clock?” Niles.
“No” Rosie spoke again, and her blood went cold.
Jace looked at her again, and nodded his head.
“Scotland, at 12.” Rosie finished.
“Son-of-a-gyspie mongrel!” Kevson was losing his patience. “What’s up with all the bloody O’clocks?! One o’clock, three o’clock, how can you tell!?”
Jace looked at Dr. Welch. “We’ve spent enough time here already.” He said.
Dr. Welch nodded his head in agreement. “Indeed, we have spent enough time here, Mr. Buntley. But it was indeed time well spent! In just a few short hours, you have proven your worth and then some.” He paused briefly. “As expected, of course! We shall now proceed to the crime scene.” He looked directly at Kevson. “Detective Tracer can explain fully there.”
They rose from the table and headed out the door.
Somehow, Jace and Rosie ended up next to each other. They stared rigidly ahead, though the entirety of their attention was focused on their peripheral vision. Both minds whirled, as much from the suddenness of their reunion as with the new details of the case. Despite Jace’s insight, so many questions were left unanswered… why were the girls all Catholic? Why did the killer target only females? Rosie shuddered at the thought that yet more murders would occur before this case could be solved.
The clock pattern. It made perfect sense. She would explain it all to Kevson at the crime scene, in details so thorough even a buffoon could understand. But also, she wondered what they would find at the crime scene… what gruesome details she would have to describe… what sickening information she would surely be able to reveal about the killer himself…
Meanwhile, Jace was wondering why he was always such a jerk when it came to Rosie.
Rosie Waits
Rosie Tracer wiped at the steam on the window and gazed out into the night. There was something about this night...something that was reminding her of him. But she never let herself remember. It had been too long ago, and since that terrible night had taken his Faith from him, she knew it would take a miracle for him to see what was necessary for them to be together.
Her breath soon fogged the glass again, taking away the view of the London city lights, and with them the memories best forgotten.
She returned to sipping her lukewarm coffee. Having come from Scotland, she was more partial to coffee than she was the weak tea the English always served. At least that was what she told herself. Subconciously, it was because the drink reminded her of him.
"It's going to be another long night, isn't it?" Rosie turned to look at the two detectives sitting at the conference table in her office at Scotland Yard. "Yes, Kevson," she answered without emotion. "It will be long."
The two detectives--Kevson and Niles--glanced at each other, then turned back to the papers spread on the table and continued rifling through them--searching for clues amid thoroughly exhausted reports. But Rosie turned back to the window with a roll of her eyes. Kevson's sense of humour popped up at the strangest times. She heard him take a breath, and she knew the next thing to come out of his mouth would be directed to her.
"Is there a fresh pot of tea down the hall?"
She considered giving her usual short answer of "Quit using my psychic abilities for your own benefit", but her nerves were on edge tonight, and she was tired of his persistent questions. "Yes," she told him. Without another word, Kevson stood and walked out the door, his teacup in hand.
After the door shut behind him, Niles' quiet voice said, "That wasn't very nice." Rosie turned to look at him, but couldn't see his eyes through the hair which was covering them. "Niles," she said pointedly. He pushed the hair from his face. "You know there's no tea down the hall," he said.
Rosie sighed. "No, I don't know if there's a fresh pot of tea down the hall. And neither do I know if we will be here all night. I don't know if we'll find any clues in those over used reports, and I don't know if 'Jack the Ripperger' will strike again tonight, tomorrow, next week, or ever!" Emotion began to creep into her voice. She was stuck, and she knew it. She didn't know which direction to go. "If only he were here," she thought without meaning to. When it came to crime-solving, he was the best to be found. Years ago and now. She heard about his work in America from time to time. But she was asking for trouble thinking this way. She stopped herself and glanced out the window. "And I have absolutely no idea why it is that I have this distinctly uneasy feeling."
"Well, young women are out there being killed by a sadistic and maniacal murderer. So...yes...that might be it."
"No. I know that feeling well. It's not that. It's something else." She turned to him, hoping he could explain it. He was the best undercover detective Scotland Yard had to offer. Surely he could think of something. "It's something more," she said under her breath. "Like I'm waiting for something...."
But whatever Niles would've answered was forgotten when Kevson walked back through the door--a teacup in one hand, a teapot in the other, and a satisfied smile on his face. "Tracer," he said, "I think we should keep you around for awhile." A disbelieving smile flashed across Rosie's face.
"It was a coincidence, man," Niles stated.
"Suuuure," Kevson winked at Niles, then sat down to get back to work, the teapot near his hand.
Rosie shook her head. Kevson would not believe her claim that that true psychics had only a few and random insights to that which normal men did not see. She tried to explain it by saying it was like having hypersensitive intuition--that she could sometimes experience others' emotions, or see another's memory running through her head as if her own. But this explanation went over his head, and indeed over the heads of many and most people to whom she found the need to explain her ability.
"Come on, men, let's get back to work." Rosie was so used to being seen as one of the guys that she didn't notice Niles' comment. She simply returned to the table, and the three of them began running through the facts.
"So far five women have been killed, beginning with Eliza and Verga from Germany. Both sixteen years of age." This said by Rosie.
"Then there was Clarissa, who was from Switzerland. She was eighteen." This given by Kevson.
"And Marianne and Alicia. Both eighteen. And both from Italy." This said by Niles.
"All of these women have been Catholic. Odd, isn't it?" Rosie was quite intrigued by this case.
"Wait," said Kevson. "They were both from Italy? Did they know each other?"
"We don't know," Niles answered, slightly irritated that he couldn't keep up.
"We don't know?" Kevson was startled. "How could you not know?" He directed his question to Rosie, though Niles had been the one to answer him."Not now, Kevson. Please."
"No," said Niles. "We don't know. We're working on it."
"Why is it that all of these women come from countries which don't have English as their official language?" Rosie was suddenly struck with this fact.
"That's right," agreed Niles. "None of these women have been English. Why?"
"Well, if you don't know," Kevson was continuing along the same vein. He was not going to be deterred. "Then I suppose you're slipping." Niles and Tracer tried to ignore him, and continued going down the list, but Kevson soon caught Rosie's attention again.
"That must be why they're bringing him in." Not seeing that Rosie had frozen in place, he flipped his tie over his face and leaned back in his chair, intent upon taking a nap.
Rosie tried to overcome the fear that had suddenly jumped into her throat. She wanted to ask. But she couldn't. Her pride wouldn't let her. Instead, she sat in the chair and stared, unseeing, at the paper in her hand. Then it seemed to her that she heard footsteps in the hall. Louder and louder, they came closer and closer. Niles continued speaking, oblivious to all external sounds, so lost was he in thought. Kevson was even more oblivious, so lost was he in sleep. Were they deaf that they did not hear? Rosie's breath seemed to suddenly leave her body, and her heart seemed to suddenly no longer exist.
The door opened. In the eternity that it took for the door to reveal who was standing at the entrance, Rosie swore she would never again be caught off-guard like this. But her fears were unfounded.
In the doorway stood Dr. Welch, the head of S4. "There's been another murder," he said without greeting. His eyes swept the room. "Wake that man up," he ordered Niles, nodding his head toward Kevson. Niles stood and leaned over to Kevson, pulling his tie from his eyes. "Noooo!" Kevson screamed, still asleep. His scream startled both Niles and Tracer. Niles let out a yell of his own, and Tracer knocked her coffee over and onto her lap.
This was the scene Jace Buntley walked in on that night at Scotland Yard HQ.
Her breath soon fogged the glass again, taking away the view of the London city lights, and with them the memories best forgotten.
She returned to sipping her lukewarm coffee. Having come from Scotland, she was more partial to coffee than she was the weak tea the English always served. At least that was what she told herself. Subconciously, it was because the drink reminded her of him.
"It's going to be another long night, isn't it?" Rosie turned to look at the two detectives sitting at the conference table in her office at Scotland Yard. "Yes, Kevson," she answered without emotion. "It will be long."
The two detectives--Kevson and Niles--glanced at each other, then turned back to the papers spread on the table and continued rifling through them--searching for clues amid thoroughly exhausted reports. But Rosie turned back to the window with a roll of her eyes. Kevson's sense of humour popped up at the strangest times. She heard him take a breath, and she knew the next thing to come out of his mouth would be directed to her.
"Is there a fresh pot of tea down the hall?"
She considered giving her usual short answer of "Quit using my psychic abilities for your own benefit", but her nerves were on edge tonight, and she was tired of his persistent questions. "Yes," she told him. Without another word, Kevson stood and walked out the door, his teacup in hand.
After the door shut behind him, Niles' quiet voice said, "That wasn't very nice." Rosie turned to look at him, but couldn't see his eyes through the hair which was covering them. "Niles," she said pointedly. He pushed the hair from his face. "You know there's no tea down the hall," he said.
Rosie sighed. "No, I don't know if there's a fresh pot of tea down the hall. And neither do I know if we will be here all night. I don't know if we'll find any clues in those over used reports, and I don't know if 'Jack the Ripperger' will strike again tonight, tomorrow, next week, or ever!" Emotion began to creep into her voice. She was stuck, and she knew it. She didn't know which direction to go. "If only he were here," she thought without meaning to. When it came to crime-solving, he was the best to be found. Years ago and now. She heard about his work in America from time to time. But she was asking for trouble thinking this way. She stopped herself and glanced out the window. "And I have absolutely no idea why it is that I have this distinctly uneasy feeling."
"Well, young women are out there being killed by a sadistic and maniacal murderer. So...yes...that might be it."
"No. I know that feeling well. It's not that. It's something else." She turned to him, hoping he could explain it. He was the best undercover detective Scotland Yard had to offer. Surely he could think of something. "It's something more," she said under her breath. "Like I'm waiting for something...."
But whatever Niles would've answered was forgotten when Kevson walked back through the door--a teacup in one hand, a teapot in the other, and a satisfied smile on his face. "Tracer," he said, "I think we should keep you around for awhile." A disbelieving smile flashed across Rosie's face.
"It was a coincidence, man," Niles stated.
"Suuuure," Kevson winked at Niles, then sat down to get back to work, the teapot near his hand.
Rosie shook her head. Kevson would not believe her claim that that true psychics had only a few and random insights to that which normal men did not see. She tried to explain it by saying it was like having hypersensitive intuition--that she could sometimes experience others' emotions, or see another's memory running through her head as if her own. But this explanation went over his head, and indeed over the heads of many and most people to whom she found the need to explain her ability.
"Come on, men, let's get back to work." Rosie was so used to being seen as one of the guys that she didn't notice Niles' comment. She simply returned to the table, and the three of them began running through the facts.
"So far five women have been killed, beginning with Eliza and Verga from Germany. Both sixteen years of age." This said by Rosie.
"Then there was Clarissa, who was from Switzerland. She was eighteen." This given by Kevson.
"And Marianne and Alicia. Both eighteen. And both from Italy." This said by Niles.
"All of these women have been Catholic. Odd, isn't it?" Rosie was quite intrigued by this case.
"Wait," said Kevson. "They were both from Italy? Did they know each other?"
"We don't know," Niles answered, slightly irritated that he couldn't keep up.
"We don't know?" Kevson was startled. "How could you not know?" He directed his question to Rosie, though Niles had been the one to answer him."Not now, Kevson. Please."
"No," said Niles. "We don't know. We're working on it."
"Why is it that all of these women come from countries which don't have English as their official language?" Rosie was suddenly struck with this fact.
"That's right," agreed Niles. "None of these women have been English. Why?"
"Well, if you don't know," Kevson was continuing along the same vein. He was not going to be deterred. "Then I suppose you're slipping." Niles and Tracer tried to ignore him, and continued going down the list, but Kevson soon caught Rosie's attention again.
"That must be why they're bringing him in." Not seeing that Rosie had frozen in place, he flipped his tie over his face and leaned back in his chair, intent upon taking a nap.
Rosie tried to overcome the fear that had suddenly jumped into her throat. She wanted to ask. But she couldn't. Her pride wouldn't let her. Instead, she sat in the chair and stared, unseeing, at the paper in her hand. Then it seemed to her that she heard footsteps in the hall. Louder and louder, they came closer and closer. Niles continued speaking, oblivious to all external sounds, so lost was he in thought. Kevson was even more oblivious, so lost was he in sleep. Were they deaf that they did not hear? Rosie's breath seemed to suddenly leave her body, and her heart seemed to suddenly no longer exist.
The door opened. In the eternity that it took for the door to reveal who was standing at the entrance, Rosie swore she would never again be caught off-guard like this. But her fears were unfounded.
In the doorway stood Dr. Welch, the head of S4. "There's been another murder," he said without greeting. His eyes swept the room. "Wake that man up," he ordered Niles, nodding his head toward Kevson. Niles stood and leaned over to Kevson, pulling his tie from his eyes. "Noooo!" Kevson screamed, still asleep. His scream startled both Niles and Tracer. Niles let out a yell of his own, and Tracer knocked her coffee over and onto her lap.
This was the scene Jace Buntley walked in on that night at Scotland Yard HQ.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Jace Arrives
The night was cold and black. Just like his coffee. American detective Jace Buntley stood at the pier of London’s East Quay, watching as his ship sailed off into the darkness. The distant ringing of buoys sounded in his ears, and the moonlight pierced eerily through thickening clouds. It seemed bizarre, as if this was all just part of a dream; part of a bad murder mystery. Yet it was real, as real as the pain heavy in his heart.
Jace sighed and looked down into his coffee mug. Cold and black, like the night. Like his soul. Like… he was startled as a sharp voice broke the stillness.
"eigh there, fellow! Are you Mister Buntley, the American?"
"Yes, I am indeed. And whom, may I ask, are you?"
"Name’s Davis, Davis Nolder! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Buntley! I’d say just about the whole South Side of London’s been awaitin’ your arrival! Pardon the Police Chief, he’d a been ‘ere himself, but Bangers an’ Mash! if there wasn’t another murder scare tonight! He’s clear on the other side of the city! I’m to take you to your ‘otel room, sir. Coach’s waitin’ sir."
"Well then, let’s go ahead. Pleased to meet you, Mr Nolder."
Jace shook the Londoner’s hand as they both moved off the pier. As the detective entered the interior of the coach, he reflected on the turn of events that had brought him across the Atlantic and back into the country to which he’d sworn he never would return. It had been almost 8 months ago in March when the news first reached New York about the brutal murders in London. The systematic murders of young, eligible, beautiful Catholic girls on their way home from midnight masses. The first murders had been a shock, as much from the grisly manner of death as of the sickening message left by the killer.
Their names had been Eliza and Verga, German transfer students on a 9-month hiatus to London. The Police report had named them feisty youngsters, but 16 years old, and sassy. Their deaths had come as a shock, but also as semi-relief for their foster family in London. The father, Howdy Redder, had already gone deaf since their arrival. Though they were beautiful and full of life, they were also full of impertinence, and all too ready to share it. But nothing warranted the gruesome fate they encountered one fateful evening.
When the police found their bodies, or more accurately, what was left of their bodies, there was not a single recognizable feature to be found. In fact, it was just too horrible to recount without causing scandal, so Jace Buntley skipped to the next memory.
The message from the killer had been drawn on a nearby wall in the victims’ own blood, and merely said: "JACK THE RIPPERGER". This sickening note was the only clue Scotland Yard possessed. For indeed, Scotland Yard had been called in to handle this case. It wasn’t so much that the Londoner’s couldn’t handle it, as it was that every single member on the Police Force just happened to be Anglican. Jace Buntley didn’t care. He had been Catholic, once, but that was before….
Suddenly, a sharp jolt jolted him out of his reminiscence. The coach had driven over a rut in the cobblestone street."Sorry sir, didn’t see that one!" Came the muffled voice of Davis Nolder from the driver’s seat. “Next time I’ll take a shorter swig from the bottle!” It was just as well. Jace didn’t want to torture himself with the memories of a former life in London, a life with a beautiful young girl by the name of Rosie Tracer.
Rosie had been an intern with Scotland Yard then, on her senior year in the Scottish School of Spies and Sleuths, or S4 for short. S4 was known for graduating the most gifted and talented English detectives in the nation, and Rosie had been at the top of her class. It wasn’t until much later that her secret was discovered: she was psychic.Yes, it was this ability that had placed her in the most secret division of Scotland Yard, and gave her exclusive rights to the most secret of secrets. There were secrets everywhere, and yet, she had insisted upon sharing them with only one man, a man for whom there were no secrets… Jace Buntley lit up a fag and breathed deep. He blew the smoke out of the coach window and wondered just where fate would take him next… after his hotel room, of course. And after the bar. And then after the loo, shower, loo again, and bedroom floor. After fate had taken him to all those places, THEN he wondered where next.
Also, he wondered what Rosie might be doing at this very minute, what she might be thinking…
Jace sighed and looked down into his coffee mug. Cold and black, like the night. Like his soul. Like… he was startled as a sharp voice broke the stillness.
"eigh there, fellow! Are you Mister Buntley, the American?"
"Yes, I am indeed. And whom, may I ask, are you?"
"Name’s Davis, Davis Nolder! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Buntley! I’d say just about the whole South Side of London’s been awaitin’ your arrival! Pardon the Police Chief, he’d a been ‘ere himself, but Bangers an’ Mash! if there wasn’t another murder scare tonight! He’s clear on the other side of the city! I’m to take you to your ‘otel room, sir. Coach’s waitin’ sir."
"Well then, let’s go ahead. Pleased to meet you, Mr Nolder."
Jace shook the Londoner’s hand as they both moved off the pier. As the detective entered the interior of the coach, he reflected on the turn of events that had brought him across the Atlantic and back into the country to which he’d sworn he never would return. It had been almost 8 months ago in March when the news first reached New York about the brutal murders in London. The systematic murders of young, eligible, beautiful Catholic girls on their way home from midnight masses. The first murders had been a shock, as much from the grisly manner of death as of the sickening message left by the killer.
Their names had been Eliza and Verga, German transfer students on a 9-month hiatus to London. The Police report had named them feisty youngsters, but 16 years old, and sassy. Their deaths had come as a shock, but also as semi-relief for their foster family in London. The father, Howdy Redder, had already gone deaf since their arrival. Though they were beautiful and full of life, they were also full of impertinence, and all too ready to share it. But nothing warranted the gruesome fate they encountered one fateful evening.
When the police found their bodies, or more accurately, what was left of their bodies, there was not a single recognizable feature to be found. In fact, it was just too horrible to recount without causing scandal, so Jace Buntley skipped to the next memory.
The message from the killer had been drawn on a nearby wall in the victims’ own blood, and merely said: "JACK THE RIPPERGER". This sickening note was the only clue Scotland Yard possessed. For indeed, Scotland Yard had been called in to handle this case. It wasn’t so much that the Londoner’s couldn’t handle it, as it was that every single member on the Police Force just happened to be Anglican. Jace Buntley didn’t care. He had been Catholic, once, but that was before….
Suddenly, a sharp jolt jolted him out of his reminiscence. The coach had driven over a rut in the cobblestone street."Sorry sir, didn’t see that one!" Came the muffled voice of Davis Nolder from the driver’s seat. “Next time I’ll take a shorter swig from the bottle!” It was just as well. Jace didn’t want to torture himself with the memories of a former life in London, a life with a beautiful young girl by the name of Rosie Tracer.
Rosie had been an intern with Scotland Yard then, on her senior year in the Scottish School of Spies and Sleuths, or S4 for short. S4 was known for graduating the most gifted and talented English detectives in the nation, and Rosie had been at the top of her class. It wasn’t until much later that her secret was discovered: she was psychic.Yes, it was this ability that had placed her in the most secret division of Scotland Yard, and gave her exclusive rights to the most secret of secrets. There were secrets everywhere, and yet, she had insisted upon sharing them with only one man, a man for whom there were no secrets… Jace Buntley lit up a fag and breathed deep. He blew the smoke out of the coach window and wondered just where fate would take him next… after his hotel room, of course. And after the bar. And then after the loo, shower, loo again, and bedroom floor. After fate had taken him to all those places, THEN he wondered where next.
Also, he wondered what Rosie might be doing at this very minute, what she might be thinking…
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