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!

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.

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.

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.

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…