Title: Back At the Beginning All Over Again

Author: Tim Woyma

Rating: R for violence and crime scenes.

Category: Drama/Humor

Pairings: None

Spoilers: None intended

Disclaimer: Jane Katherine McDermon is mine, she lives somewhere in the back of my subconscious. S/Sgt Denis and Cpl. Teather are real people, RCMP officers who kept Surrey, BC safe for years. Parts of the first chapter are based loosely on an account by Cpl. Teather of his time in Surrey. No offense is meant, as I'm merely putting McDermon into a real-life situation. The Deck is also real, a tribute to a great man. The rest of the characters don't
belong to me, so I lay no claim to them.

Back At the Beginning All Over Again
by Tim Woyma

Surrey, British Columbia

June 7^th

6:00 PM

Six pm came early for the 28 RCMP constables of Surrey, BC's Uniform Patrol 'C' watch. Night shift would be starting soon, and the Mounties were still trying to shake themselves awake. Sleeping during the day (or trying to, at least) provided little in the way of restful sleep. The briefing room sat directly next to the men's locker room. The row of lockers that formed the wall served as a visual block only. The smell of leather ankle boots, dirty socks, and sweat filled the briefing room.

Sitting in the back row of tables, Constable Jane Katherine McDermon leaned her chair on its back legs, with her notebook open in front of her. She yawned, adding one more to the chorus the echoed through the room. On one side was Corporal Teather the senior officer in the watch nearing the end of 27 year's service, sipped at his coffee. On the other side sat Constable DeWit, the token French-Canadian officer in 'C' watch, who had graduated from Depot Division 9 months before. As he rubbed at his eyes, the door at the back of the room flew open, Staff Sergeant Denis, the Watch Commander, entered the room, and walked to the podium in front of the waiting officers.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you all slept well." The stale joke fell flat; the Mounties weren't in any mood for bad humor. "I have a number of bulletins for you tonight."

"ITEM #1: The Miami Bureau of Fire and Arson investigations has issued a bulletin and I'll read it. 'Pluorolastomec, a material used to make brake seals and fuel pipes in motor vehicles, may become dangerous after it has been burned. After a vehicle fire, this material melts into a highly corrosive acid, which if it gets onto the skin cannot be removed. The only treatment is amputation.' In addition to this nice polymer, we are also advised that electronic ignition modules have been found to contain a chemical which can, if allowed to contact the skin, cause cancer.' "

Constable DeWit muttered 'Damn, ain't dere nothin' safe dese days?' and lit a cigarette. S/Sgt Denis cleared his throat, silenced the Quebecian, and continued.

"ITEM #2: 'Bill C-17, the Budget Implementation Act received Royal Assent and became law yesterday. All salaries of all members up to and including the rank of Superintendent will remain frozen within the RCMP for the next 4 years. This, however, does not affect pay negotiations for Provincial, Municipal, or City Police Departments." A collective groan came from the 28 assembled peace officers.

"ITEM #3: Before you you'll find a list of vehicles stolen during the day shift. Remember to BOLF for them." Someone snickered 'Be On the Lookout For, yea right!' The shift hadn't even started, and already cynicism was showing. Denis put down his notes, took off his reading glasses, and looked over the faces before him. "I don't want to hear any of you bitching about the pay negotiations falling through. You all still have a job to do, and you make enough to live comfortably as it is. Now get out there and clean up those streets!" The officers grumbled, gathered up their notes, crushed out cigarettes, and made a general movement for the door.

Ten minutes after the briefing had ended, Constable McDermon stood in front of the Duty Constable's window. She'd checked out both a 12-guage shotgun and a portable radio extender, and now she was disputing the ownership of a pen with the Duty Constable.

"Give me back my pen, or I'll leave this station with 4 shells, not 5." She kissed the barrel of the gun. As she walked towards her patrol car, she slid the pen into one of her shirt pockets. Cpl. Teather approached her as she pulled on her nylon patrol jacket.

"McDermon, wait up a minute." She stopped, and set down the cloth briefcase, with the shotgun resting between the handles.

"Did you hear Denis talking about pay? Yea, he lives comfortably, but when's the last time he lived on a Constable's paycheck?"

"Oh, the man's a moron. Always has been, and eh always will be. And the moron wants to see you. No, not now, after shift end." Jane looked puzzled. "I don't know what it's about either, Kat. You're still under probation for the suspension after the Willis incident, aren't you." She rolled her eyes for a moment.

"Yea, but I've kept my nose clean since then. They can't pin anything new on me...Can they?" The older Mountie shook his head, saying that he didn't know. "Damn it to hell. Well, that's 12 hours away, isn't it? Thanks, Bob. I'll see you in a little bit."

"Yea, keep safe out there. See you later." As the older man walked away, she reached into the chest pocket of her coat, and pulled out a small pile of cards wrapped in a very old handkerchief; a pile of cards simply known as The Deck. She unwrapped the cards, and stuffed the cloth under her gun belt. Cutting the deck, and reading the top card, she was met by the piece of sage advice that hopefully would provide some guidance over the next 12 hours.

We must give up

What we are-

In order to discover

What we might become.

Returning the cards to her pocket (though not quite sure how the card would pertain to her), she picked up her bag and shotgun, and headed out into the parking lot. She walked to her car, and walked around it, checking for any new 'dents of unknown origin' that she could be held accountable for. Finding none, she climbed in, secured the shotgun, and moved the seat forward. Turning the car on, the radio lit up, and she automatically pressed the buttons CLR and RTT. The police dispatchers now knew she was on duty, and she pulled out onto the Surrey streets, responding to her first call of the night.

12 Hours Later

The sun rose slowly over the eastern horizon, lighting up street and building, garden and alley. The light gave birth to another day of life for the good people of Surrey, and signaled the release of those who spent the night sleeping off alcohol-induced naps in the drunk tank. Another night shift was ending, and soon the Mounties who were working day shift would be heading out for their work. One by one, the Buffalo Cabs that had spent the night patrolling in and around the city pulled back into the RCMP parking lot. The cars wouldn't even have a chance to cool down, for they'd be back out on the streets for day shift in a little bit.

Cst. McDermon pulled her car into the lot, killed the engine, and moved the seat back (the Constable who drove the car during day shift constantly complained that the seat was always so far forward). She hit the hidden toggle switch and released the cage that held the shotgun in place between the two front seats, pulling it out and carrying it with the briefcase. McDermon put the bag down, and sat down on the rear bumper of the car. She stayed there for a moment, and reflected on the shift, and her impending meeting with S/Sgt. Denis. When she had thought things through, she got her bag, and starting walking inside. As she got to the door, she unloaded the five (thankfully unused) shells, from the shotgun, dropped them in one of the deep pockets of the patrol coat, and entered the building.

After signing in her shotgun and portable radio extender, McDermon dropped her bag, forage cap, and patrol coat in the Constable's Office, and proceeded to the Watch Commander's office. Walled in on three sides by bulletproof glass, and overlooking the squad bay and the dispatch room, the office was generally known as the fishbowl. She knocked on the door, and S/Sgt Denis motioned for her to come in. He was talking on the phone, and he motioned for her to sit. After a moment, he finished talking, and hung up.

"Constable McDermon, I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here. Now, before you get upset, this has noting at all to do with the Willis incident, or any other problems that there've been between us..."

"I understand, Sergeant. What, may I ask, am I doing here, then? Because I would like to take a shower and get a drink and go home. It has been a long shift, you know? Plus, I haven't eaten since 11:30, so are you going to eat that bagel?" Without waiting for an answer, she reached across the desk, and took the bagel, plus some cream cheese. She crossed one leg over the other, and began to eat.

"Constable..." He decided not to rip into the young Constable for her behavior; there were more important matter to attend to, matters that he had no desire to delay in attending to. "Irregardless, Constable, we've gotten some papers in from Ottawa. Concerning you." She spoke nonchalantly in-between bites.

"What sort of papers?"

"Transfer papers, Constable McDermon. For you. To Consular Duty, in Chicago, Illinois. Effective immediately. You are to report to..." He flipped through the papers. "Inspector Thatcher. Two weeks from today." The junior Mountie almost choked on her bagel.

"Chicago? Illinois? In the US of A?" S/Sgt. Denis nodded his head. "Hot damn!" She stood up, and took the papers he handed her.

"Congratulations, Constable. Now get out of my office, and don't come back. You're not my responsibility anymore...What are you waiting for?...Leave!" She looked at the papers, Denis, and back at the papers. Without another word, she left the fishbowl, the station, and her life in Surrey.

Chapter 2

June 22^nd

Chicago, Illinois

The Yellow Cab stopped in front of the Consulate, and the Mountie got out of the back seat. As the cab pulled away, Constable McDermon looked up at the building that would be her new office. It seemed very different from the station in Surrey, more like a bank, as opposed to the where she'd worked in Surrey. The only things that made it stand out were the Maple Leaf flags, and the bilingual metal sign marking it as the Canadian Consulate.

She slid her index finger around the inside of her high collar, and cursed both the wool and the heat under her breath. She hadn't worn her red serge for 4 months, not since Corporal Schneider's wedding. On the sleeve of her tunic resided a lone 5-year service star, and thick gold bullion crossed revolvers (not the newer style crossed pistols, though she was qualified master marksman on those as well) and crossed rifles. Each patch was surmounted with an embroidered Queen's Crown above them. She straitened her lanyard, adjusted her Sam Browne just a bit, and entered the building.

It was very quite inside, almost reverent. No phones were ringing; no meetings were going on, it seemed to be a slow day. The front hall was empty, and she stopped for a minute, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Her head still resonated with the remnants of the loud, liquored-up party that 'C' Watch had thrown McDermon before she left Surrey. Once acclimated to her new environment, she continued her search for the office of her new boss.

Up the front hall, and around a corner, and she came across a door to an office. There was a desk outside the door, but nobody was sitting at it. The nameplate on the door read 'Insp. Margaret Thatcher, RCMP.' Adjusting her lanyard one more time, she knocked on the door three times, opened it, and walked in.

She came to precisely 3 steps in front of the desk. Snapping to attention, she looked her gaze on the wall behind the Inspector, and held her service file out with her left hand. As Thatcher took the file, her eyes glanced to the double Queen's Crown patches, and she knew well what they meant. Queen's Crown were only worn over the crossed pistol, revolvers, and rifles if the shooter had scored 295 or higher out of 300 on their qualification shoot (McDermon had 299 on rifle and a perfect 300 with the revolver).

"Constable Jane Katherine McDermon, Regimental Number 13048, reporting as ordered." Inspector Thatcher took the folder, and looked up at the woman standing before her.

"Have a seat, Constable." McDermon placed her Stetson on one chair, and sat down in the other. The Inspector began reading the file. At the same time, she began talking to McDermon. "Welcome to Chicago, I trust your trip was well."

"Oh, yes ma'am. I got into town 3 days ago, and I've already settled into my new place."

"Outstanding. Well, we've been shorthanded for two reasons. Firstly, our junior Constable, Cst. Turnbull, is on medical leave with appendicitis. Also, the Canadian offices in Kenosha were closed 3 weeks ago, due to budget constraints. We've been swamped lately. The normal things, background checks, government contract bids, low-level diplomacy, nothing truly exciting, but important nonetheless. Are you up-to-date with current diplomatic protocols and situations?"

"I reviewed the current diplomatic briefs that were Fed-Ex'd to me by Constable...Fraser, is it? Yea, Constable Fraser. And, of course, the standard diplomatic course at Depot Division."

"Very well. Well, as you know, you'll be replacing Constable Turnbull as our junior-most Constable. You do, after all, have less time on the Force then he does."

"I just completed my fifth year of service." Her voice contained a hint of pride at that fact. On her sleeve, the gold bullion threat of the 5-pointed service star was embarrassingly bright still.

"Yes, I can see that. It says here you've spent your entire time on the Force in Surrey."

"Yes ma'am. Five years on Uniform Patrol in Surrey, 4 years on Surrey's Dive/Recovery Team. Fascinating work."

"I'm sure it is. Well, irregardless, you're not on the streets anymore. You aren't driving a patrol car, you're not walking a beat, you're not even on Bike Patrol anymore. You're now a diplomatic envoy of the government of the Dominion of Canada, and you will remember to act like it from now on. You're here to serve Queen and Country, not help the Americans clean up their city. Don't forget that, and we'll get along just fine. Constable Fraser should be returning soon, he'll show you around, introduce you to the staff, get you your office, and help you get settled in. Dismissed, Constable. Oh, and welcome to Chicago."

"Thank you, ma'am." McDermon rose, and turned to leave. As she stepped out the door, she ran more or less headlong into a solid wall of red. Both Mounties took a step back, and looked at the other. "Constable Fraser, I presume."

"Yes, that is correct. And you must be Constable McDermon." He extended his hand, which she promptly shook. "Welcome to Chicago. I see you've already met the Inspector."

"Yea, I did meet her. And if I might say, by first impression I think she's got some bug up 'er arse. Hadn't talked to her 5 minutes and she's already giving me this whole speech about not trying to clean up Chicago and to leave the crime-fighting to the Americans. What's she expect, for me to go off and start fighting crimes all day?" Fraser fought back saying anything, he knew why Inspector Thatcher had said what she did.

"Yes, well, I assumed she meant merely to remember what you're job is here in Chicago, as Assistant Deputy Liaison Officer. Did you get the information that I sent to you?"

"Yes, I did. It was a great help in familiarizing myself with my new primary and collateral duties. To be honest, the duties laid out in the packet you sent me don't seem all that difficult."

"To be completely honest, it's not a difficult job, in and of itself. The difficulty comes in the sheer magnitude of jobs that have to be done. With the Kenosha sub-offices closing and Cst. Turnbull sick, there will be many long hours of work involved." He was silent for a moment. Only Turnbull, he thought, would be kept on sick leave for six weeks by complications from a simple appendectomy. "Well, I think we should get you into your office." He began leading her through the Consulate, past the small office that he had, to what seemed to be an over-sized broom closet. He opened the door, and stepped in. "This, uhh, would be your office. It's a bit small, I admit, but it's the only free office in the Consulate." She looked around it, examined the file cabinets, and then took a seat at the desk.

"This is great, Constable." This would be the first time she'd ever had her own desk, let alone her own office. "I don't think I'll have any problems with it." She reached out and turned on the computer. "My own computer on my own desk. I've never had this before." She looked up at him and smiled.

"I'm glad you like it, Constable."

"Please, call me Jane. Or McDermon. Or Kat. Or...well, you get the idea."

"And you can call me Fraser. Would you like to see the rest of the Consulate now?"

"Yea, I'd like that." She stood, and walked around the desk, stopping next to Fraser. She looked up at him; the 6- inch height difference was obvious. He literally towered over her. "Lead the way." She followed him out, and closed the door. He walked down the hall, but she stayed by the door. He turned and looked at her; all she did was point at the nameplate on the door that read 'Cst. Jane Katherine McDermon, RCMP' and grin like a moron. "My very own office." After a moment, she followed Fraser to see the rest of the Consulate.

Chapter 3

June 29^th

11:45 PM

In the one week since McDermon had reported to Chicago, she'd fit in like a hand in a glove. She'd taken up much of the work that had been left to Fraser alone, though both still had to cope with early mornings, short lunches eaten in the office, and late nights. Tonight was no different, with one exception. In two days there would be the annual Canadian Day ball at the Consulate. Combining preparing for that, plus the normal workload, had conspired to keep the two Constables at the Consulate late into the night.

Fraser sat in front of McDermon's desk, going over some last minute orders for the caterer. McDermon had gone off to make copies of June's budget reports, which the two were working on at the same time.

As he waited, he looked around the small office. She'd already settled in, and added the personal touches that made a person's office theirs. His eyes traveled across the various pictures on the walls. One frame held a troop of 32 smiling women, proudly wearing the red serge that they'd spent the last 6 months sweating, swearing, vomiting, and bleeding to earn. Next to that picture was one of 5 or 6 Mounties, with Jane in the center, wearing patrol uniform and standing in front of a patrol car, arms around each other. The next picture was a younger Jane standing in her new red serge, surrounded by her family. Oddly enough, both her parents were of above average height, and her three brothers and her sister were all over 6 feet tall. Another frame held an RCMP-GRC shoulder flash, a Surrey detachment patch, and an 'E' Division Dive/Recovery Unit patch. A small radio sat on a cabinet near her desk, along with a pile of cassettes, mainly country music, old and new, everything from Hank Williams Junior and Senior to David Allan Coe to Lorrie Morgan to Shania Twain, and everything in between.

After a few moments, Jane appeared in the doorway. She was wearing her personally modified Service Order brown uniform. Her insistence on wearing the modified uniform was one of the little things about her that irked Thatcher to no end; Thatcher's displeasure just encouraged Jane to wear it more often. She'd replaced the brown pants with a brown, knee-length skirt, with the same yellow stripe down the side. Being relaxed, and hard at work, her jacket, tie, and dress Sam Browne were hanging on the coat hook. The top 2 buttons of her khaki shirt were open, her sleeves were rolled past her elbows, her shoes were in her desk drawer, her normally tied hair was loose, and she seemed totally at ease.

"I've got the final numbers, Jane. It comes to $37,000. Canadian." In the doorway, she visibly jumped.

"Are you serious!? It's $37,000!? For crab cakes!?" Fraser couldn't resist laughing.

"No. For this month's operating budget surplus. The crab cakes come to..." He set down one set of papers, and picked up another. "Three hundred dollars. American"

"Oh, thank God. For $37,000 dollars, those damned crab cakes had better be served on diamond trays." She walked around and sat down at her desk, dropping a pile of freshly copied papers in front of her. "So, the monthly budget is now done?" Jane steepled her fingers, and rested her chin them.

"Yes. The budget statements for June are complete, and only need to be signed by Inspector Thatcher, then copied into triplicate, and then properly filed and sent off to Ottawa." He sorted the papers into order, and handed them across the desk.

"I'll take these to Thatcher right away, have her put her John Hancock on 'em, and then we can go out and grab a late dinner before I run you home, kay?" She stood, and looked out the window. A light summer rain was falling, just enough to water the plants before the sun dried them out again tomorrow. After a moment, she turned away, and left.

Despite being 11:45 at night, the Consulate was completely lit up, and most of the staff was still working, getting ready for the events in 2 days, doing last minute papers and plans. Jane came to Thatcher's office, opened the door without knocking, and walked in. The Inspector hastily took off her reading glasses and stood.

"I told you to always knock and ask permission before barging into my office!"

"Sorry, Inspector. Must've slipped my mind." Her apology was spoken without an ounce of sincerity. "June's budget report is done, all that's left is for you to sign it." She handed the papers across the desk. As the Inspector signed, initialed, and dated the papers in the proper places, she began to speak again.

"I also told you to wear only regulation uniforms, and that you were never to report to me in an incomplete uniform, again."

"Sorry, Ma'am Boss Lady. That must've slipped my mind, too." Her next words were muttered quietly. "But it doesn't really matter, it's not like I've ever seen you in uniform." Thatcher threw the pen down, and leaned across the desk, glaring at the junior Mountie.

"I don't like your attitude!" The absolute worst thing for a Constable was to have an officer 'not like your attitude.' Jane leaned forward, invading Thatcher's personal space, and glared right back.

"Well, I don't give a damn what you like or dislike!" Jane had become the aggressor. Thatcher stood up strait, re-establishing a comfortable personal space, and thrust the papers across the desk.

"You're on thin ice, Constable! Now get out of my office!" Jane took the papers and turned to leave.

"If you didn't spend your whole damned career in an office, you'd know what ice looked like." Before the Inspector could respond, Jane was already out the door, and halfway back to her office. Fraser hadn't moved from the chair where he sat.

"I got the papers signed." Her words contained no sign of the confrontation with Thatcher. She went around to her desk, and sat down. "You ready to go, Frase?" As she spoke, she pulled her shoes out from the bottom left drawer of her desk, and slipped them on.

"Yes, I just have to file these papers." He left to properly file the papers, and gather his things. By the time he returned, Jane was threading the cross-strap of her Sam Browne.

"Ready, Frase?" As he responded that he was, Jane opened the top drawer of her desk, and pulled out her RCMP-issue Smith & Wesson Model 10 .38 Special. She opened the cylinder, and checked to see that it was properly loaded (Unlike the other Mounties at the Consulate, she still carried either her .38 or her 9-mm, plus handcuffs and various other police gear with her, once a cop, always a cop). Satisfied, she closed the cylinder, and secured the revolver in the holster of her belt.

Grabbing her Stetson, she led the taller Mountie out to the Consulate parking lot, behind the building. Parked there was her black Honda Accord with its British Columbia plates, plus its diplomatic, and RCMP parking stickers. She threw her nylon briefcase into the back seat, which was already cluttered with a gym bag, a Koho hockey stick, and empty McDonald's bags, and then she climbed into the driver's seat. "So, Frase, where you want to eat?" While waiting for the answer, she pulled down the sun visor and used the mirror to pull her hair into a Constable-like bun at the back of her head, fix her tie, and generally make herself more presentable as a uniformed member of the RCMP.

"Whatever you pick is just fine."

"Ok, I think I know just the place." With that, she started the engine, and pulled into the practically non-existent, late night traffic.

Chapter 4

June 30^th

12:25 AM

Clarence's Bar & Grill was a local restaurant owned by a retired officer of the CPD. A popular haunt of cops, both on and off duty, Clarence's was open until 2 am each morning. Two of the tables were occupied by Chicago's finest, but they were only drinking coffee and chatting. In one of the booths, the two Mounties sat across from each other, enjoying what was either a very late dinner or a very early breakfast. Both had ordered similarly, a hamburger and fries. The conversation had slowly shifted to the events of the next day. Using her last fry like a pointer, Jane waved it at Fraser

"Thanks for reminding me, Frase. I have to remember to pick up my dress from the cleaners when they open. I swear, Fraser, you've got it easy. All you have to do is change belts. I have to go all the way back to my place and spend 45 minutes getting ready." She smiled, and pointed the fry once more before eating it. "Of course, it's supposed to be almost 80 tomorrow, you'll be sweating in wool, and I won't, so I guess it's an even trade-up."

"Yes, I suppose it is. Are you going to drive to the Consulate tomorrow?"

"Hell no. Parking's going to be a cast-iron bitch. You think you can pick me up at my place before the party?"

"Certainly, I'll use the Consular car."

"Thanks, Frase. You're the greatest." While Fraser blushed, Jane pulled out her wallet, and paid for the meal at the counter. As she was putting her change away, Jane took her Stetson from Fraser, and they left the restaurant.

Outside, the rain still fell lightly, more a mist then anything. Wispy, dark clouds covered the sky, blocking out the almost full moon. There was still enough moon and street light, however, to see clearly. They crossed the street to where the car was parked, but Fraser stopped, and looked around. As Jane unlocked the door, she noticed him. "What is it, boy? Wadda' smell, eh boy? What is?" Fraser looked at her, and smiled ever so slightly at her mocking. He went off to investigate while Jane started the car. Turning on the radio, she found a good song, and began singing along. After a moment, she thought she heard someone outside the car. Lowering the volume on the radio, she could faintly hear Fraser calling for her. She quickly turned off the car, grabbed her hat and a flashlight out of the glove compartment, and jumped out of the car.

She followed the sound of Fraser's voice, heading down a dark alley, which opened up into a small concrete plot. Turning on the flashlight, she saw a flash of red at the other end.

"Fraser?!"

"Get back here!" She's never heard Fraser yell before; she pulled her revolver and ran down the alley. The only sound was the click-click-click of her shoes. At the end of the alley, she held the flashlight and revolver together, pointing them around, searching for any dangers. As the beam of light swept across the ground, it came across something. Jane stopped moving, and almost dropped the flashlight.

"Sweet holy Lord..." She holstered the revolver, and took in the scene before her. The woman lay face down on the damp concrete, arms and legs outstretched. "Fraser...is that body...missing its head?"

"Yes." Jane had seen her fair share of corpses, including a number of murder victims, but this one was different. It was the first time she'd ever just come across a dead body without prior chance to prepare mentally or physically for it. As Jane looked down at the dead woman, she saw someone who didn't seem all the much older then herself. The alley was silent for a moment.

"Fraser, I've got a question. Would throwing up now betray my cool faade?" She giggled quietly. The giggling escalated into full-blown laughter. Nobody would ever understand exactly why police officers laughed and made jokes at death. It was possibly due to being desensitized to it. Cpl. Teather, Jane's mentor and on-the-job trainer, once theorized that the laughter was crying, thought with no tears left to spare. Without another word, she walked away in silence. Her cell phone was in the car; she'd have to call out the EMTs and the Chicago Police...

3:30 AM

The dark, quiet back alley was bustling, and lit by portable lights. Crime scene photographers, forensic analysts, a team from the coroner's office, and Detective Ray Vecchio crowded around the body. The 2 Canadians stood off to the side, giving their statements to a uniformed sergeant. As Fraser finished, Jane left the two, and walked to the body.

Under the harsh glare of the portable lights, the amount of blood seemed magnified ten fold. It seemed to cover everything around the body, but the rain wasn't enough to wash it away, just keep it damp enough to reflect light. Two men in pale green scrubs approached the corpse, and dropped a body bag on the ground next to the dead woman. They unzipped the bag, moved the corpse into it, and carried it away. All that was left was the blood, and a faint chalk outline. The young Mountie felt sickened again, and turned to walk away. As she headed down the alley, she heard someone behind her yell 'Found the head!' This day was already off to a bad start, and it was only 3:30.

7:30 AM

McDermon walked into the Consulate at the same time she did every day. She'd worn her patrol uniform because she intended to duck out and do some fieldwork that day. Dark blue pants with the yellow stripe up the sides, a short-sleeve, light blue shirt that was open at the collar, forage cap, and black leather basket weave Sam Browne. She always felt like a police office, now she looked the part, too. She'd made sure she had a full canister of Oleoresin Capsicum pepper spray, and her 9-mm 92FS Berretta before she'd left her apartment. The initial shock that came with discovering the murder hadn't yet worn off, and Jane was still on edge. Almost the entire walk to work that morning had her checking over her shoulder and down alleys, her right hand never very far from her pistol.

Her office was empty, and she closed the door. Out of her holster came the pistol. She pulled the heavy slide back with a familiar 'click.' She looked into the pistol to make sure that there was a round cambered for the 5^th time since she loaded it this morning. After that, she set out to find Cst. Fraser. He was coming out of Inspector Thatcher's office, in immaculate red serge. He turned to greet her.

"Good morning, Jane."

"Hardly, Fraser, but thank you for the sentiment. I hardly slept, I look like shit, and I feel like shit, to boot. Plus, we have this crap tomorrow, and a dead body that for some reason is weighing very heavily on my mind. Not a good equation, not in the least. Have you learned anything new about the stiff?"

"Yes. They did an autopsy this morning. I'm heading down to the morgue right now."

"I'm coming along."

"I knew you'd say that. Ray will be here any minute." He began heading down the stairs, followed by Jane. She turned quickly, and called for Diefenbaker to follow; he did right away. Outside, Ray was pulling up in the green Riv, and the 3 Canadians piled in, Fraser and Dief in the back, Jane in the front seat.

"Morning Fraser, Jane." Both Mountie reciprocated the detective's greeting at the same time. "Well, I suppose you two want to know about the body you found last night." Jane was the first to say something

"Yes. Everything." As the Riv merged into traffic, Ray handed Jane a file.

"That's from the autopsy. Victim's name was Lucy Bilby. Twenty-six years old. Resident of 459 S. Franklin, Apartment 6-D. Medical student, worked at a local hospital." Jane looked at the picture in the file, a somewhat plain looking young woman in a white lab coat. "MO is similar to a death we had a few days ago, up in the 18^th precinct. That one was a 32-year-old store clerk. Samantha Pierson." He handed her another file, and she handed the Bilby file to Fraser.

"Same MO, including decapitation?"

"The same."

"Any signs of sexual assault in either case, Ray?"

"None. No rape, no theft, both still had their wallets, and Pierson still had her wedding ring on."

"So, no motive. At least 2 victims, and no motive, is it possible that this could be a serial killer in the making?"

"That's quite possible." She turned and faced the back seat. "Whadda you think, Frase?"

"Well, with no known motive or connection between the 2 victims, it can be surmised that, if both women were killed by the same person, then it's quite possible that we have on our hands a serial killer whose only motive is a desire to kill."

"Sweet Jesus." Jane sighed, and looked out the window at the passing traffic. The car remained silent until they pulled into the 27^th. The 3 police officers headed inside, and went strait to the basement morgue. It was empty and strangely quiet; Mort had gone home after doing the autopsy, and hadn't returned yet. Jane walked along the row of freezers. "The ultimate in Kenmore deep-freezers." She looked at each one until she found the card 'Bilby, Lucy.' She put her hat down on a nearby gurney, opened the freezer, and pulled the slab out.

Putting on a pair of latex gloves from one of the black pouches on her belt, Jane cautiously pulled back the paper shroud. The body and head of Lucy Bilby sat together on the metal tray, looking well frozen, surrounded by light blue medical sheets. She'd seen dead bodies before, but she'd never seen, a completely decapitated, yet intact, head. Looking down into the dead eyes of Lucy Bilby, McDermon felt the sickening feeling being replaced by a desire to find whoever had done this. Closing the freezer, she threw the gloves into the biohazard disposables box, and took the autopsy files from Fraser.

Reading the Bilby file, Jane learned the vital statistics of the deceased, including height, weight, eye and hair color, plus various and sundry measurements. Next was a description of the disposition of the body when recovered. No signs of serous trauma or blows caused by a beating. No marks of any sort indicating binds or being tied up in any way. Lividity indicated that she hadn't been moved much after death, showing that she had probably been killed in that alley, or moved there shortly after death. Cause of death was listed as massive blood loss due to slits up the major arteries of both arms. Decapitation almost certainly occurred post-mortem.

Comparing this report with the earlier one showed nearly identical circumstances of death, including the post-mortem decapitation. No signs of poisoning or drugs were found in either woman's systems. Jane shook her head, and wondered quietly how he'd been able to slice these women up like the Christmas turkey without having to resort to the use of drugs, poisons, or restraints.

"Ray, what about family, friends, associates. Have they been questioned about any suspicions that they might have?"

"Whoa, settle down, Jane. You can't just start investigating crimes here. This isn't your jurisdiction. This isn't your case."

"Can it. Fraser's already told me all about the escapades you two go on." Ray shot Fraser a dirty look, and Fraser apologized.

"Damnit. In that case...yes, they've been spoken to, statements have been taken. But there's a problem."

"What?"

"Nothing important was learned. Not a single damn bit of information. Elaine's running the only other lead right now, trying to find any old, open cases that are similar to this one. Until she's done, we're not going to get any new information, short of another murder." Jane sighed quietly, and then closed the file.

"Damnit to hell." She walked towards the door. "I'm done here. God, I hate the morgue." She pushed through the double, swinging doors quickly. There was no point mourning the dead now, only protecting the living.

Upstairs, the squad room was filled with its normal bustle of criminals and complainants. The familiar activities of the precinct calmed Jane down. Thought she had only visited the 27^th two or three times, just seeing so many people carrying on their normal, daily routines eased her nerves a bit. Ray led the two Canadians across the room to the desk of the young Civilian Aide.

"Morning, Elaine."

"Good morning, Ray. Hi Fraser. And...Constable McDermon." Elaine, and a number of other women around the station still held a good deal of animosity against Jane. She was a lovely woman who was Canadian and wore the same red serge as Fraser; they all saw her as a threat.

"Have you found anything on the Bilby case?"

"There are no open cases with a similar MO. But I did find this." She handed Ray a folder. "Similar MO, but this case was solved. Fifteen years ago." Ray opened the folder and began to read. When he was done, it was passed to Fraser and Jane. "Francis Geoff. He killed people by cutting their arms open, and once they were dead, he would, uhh..."

"Chop their heads off, Elaine."

"Yes. The only thing is, he was arrested. They tried him, found him guilty, the guy went to the chair 13 years ago."

"Well, there goes our suspect."

"Copycat, perhaps." Ray took back the folder, and looked at the map of the various crime locations. "There's no pattern to these crimes. Fraser, don't most murderous psychos make patterns?"

"Well, patterns are often byproducts of various mental disorders, and are often an important clue when dealing with serial criminals such as this. Patterns are sometimes caused on a subconscious level, as I mentioned, but they can also be intentional ways of giving clues, usually as a taunt to the investigating authority." Jane piped up.

"So we have a random, murderous psycho." She took the folder back, and looked at the list of victims. Men, women, young, old, there were seemingly no connections between the victims. "An equal opportunity, random, murderous psycho. How did they catch this guy, Elaine?"

"Luck. A foot patrol came across him while he was getting rid of a body. Until that happened, there were absolutely no leads." Fraser put forward a question.

"How many victims, Elaine?"

"Eight." So it seemed to McDermon, this Francis Geoff killed without any patterns that might lead to his downfall, and was only arrested by pure luck.

"This isn't going anywhere..." Her voice showed a hint of frustration. "Well, I don't know about the rest of you." Jane tossed the file on the desk. "But I've got things to see, people to do...err...rather... something like that. Oh, you know what I mean!" She chuckled nervously, and turned to leave on her own.

10:15 AM

The alley looked different during the day. In the dark, it'd seemed dangerous, and slightly mysterious. The portable lights had given it a sickening, clinical feel. Natural light, however, revealed the truth. It was a normal alley; small, dirty, uninteresting, and crammed between two buildings, in shadows even during the day. It was bordered by walls except for the street end, and the very end of the alley, which had a high chain link fence, and some scrawny shrubs on the other side that were growing in a small plot of land devoid of concrete.

Jane ducked under the yellow police tape, and walked to where the body had been found. The morning heat had dried the last of the damp blood. Now that it was dried, it looked more like someone had spilled a gallon of red paint on the ground. Jane knew that everything that she saw was already noted, recorded, and photographed by the police. With the advantage of plenty of light, she gave the entire alley one more once-over. Every garbage can, dumpster, weed, and speck of dirt was checked by her, in the vain hope of stumbling across a clue that had been overlooked earlier.

Annoyed by the lack of evidence, her hand went absentmindedly to the chest pocket of her shirt, and she pulled out the handkerchief-wrapped cards of The Deck. Cutting the deck and turning over the top card gave her a tidbit of information from a long-dead Mountie.

The only thing necessary

For the triumph of evil

Is for good people

To do nothing.

Putting the cards back in her pocket, she made her way to the dried blood once more. She hunched down and examined the chalk outline for a good 5 minutes, hoping to have an epiphany of some sort. Only one thing came to heran intense feeling of being watched.

Her first suspicion was that a police officer or homicide investigator had come to the alley, and found her. Knowing that she wasn't supposed to be there, she pulled the leather billfold from her pocket that contained her RCMP photo ID and badge. Turning around and standing at the same time, she opened the billfold to show her credentials, but there was nobody there. No uniformed officer, no homicide investigator, nobody. The feeling of not being alone didn't go away, however. The billfold was put away, and the Beretta came out instead.

"Is anyone there?" She swept around the alley with the pistol. She looked up the walls, seeing if there were people watching from windows or fire escapes. There were no fire escapes or windows, just block wall all the way to the roof. She couldn't see anybody on the roof, either. Turning quickly, she searched the alley behind her. The shrubs on the other side of the chain link fence were 6 or 7 feet tall, and growing remarkably well, considering that it was an alley. As she walked towards the fence, she thought she saw some movement. Quickly bringing the pistol up, she began to call out.

"Freeze! Police! Stay where you are!" After a moment of silence, she repeated her orders. Another brief pause, and the bushes moved quickly. The sound of running footsteps could be heard. Holstering the 9-mm, she began climbing the fence as quickly as she could. By the time she could see over the fence, the alley was empty.

Holding on to her hat, she made the eight-foot jump to the ground on the other side of the fence, and ran down the alley. Emerging on the sidewalk at the end, she was met by a torrent of people walking along, minding their own business, making it impossible to see anyone who might have come out of the alley. The Mountie turned, looked back at the alley, and kicked the cinder-block wall in display of impotent rage. "Damnit!"

1:55 PM

Walking into the 27^th, Jane searched the squad-bay for red serge or Armani. Seeing neither, she hunted down Elaine. Finding her walking back from the Xerox machine, Jane followed her to her desk.

"Hey, Elaine."

"Hello, Cst. McDermon. Can I help you with something?

"Have I done something to offend you? If I have, I'm sorry, since I've meant no disrespect. You don't call Fraser 'Constable,' so I assume that it's something personal about me. You can call me Jane." The Civilian Aide grinned; it seemed all Mounties were gifted with the same logic and deduction skills.

"Ok, Jane. What can I do for you?"

"I need information on the Bilby case?"

"Are you working it? In an official manner, I mean." Jane thought quickly.

"Yes, I am." It wasn't a complete lie, Jane considered herself assigned to the investigation. "I'm in need of any information from the interviews with friends and family of the two victims." Elaine handed the Mountie two folders off her desk.

"There's not much in there. Bilby's nearest relatives are in Arizona, and Pierson has no family at all."

"Pierson? But wasn't she wearing a wedding ring? I do believe there was one among her personal effects."

"Yea, she was. Husband turned up dead. Eight months ago, accidentally caught up between a couple of gang-bangers down on the south side of town."

"Damn. Well, what about friends? Somebody has to know these peoples."

"Not many, it seems. Apparently both women kept more or less to themselves. Pierson worked alone; night shift at a convenient store. A few co-workers. Bilby worked at Chicago East, as a second-year med student. But she'd just transferred from Arizona, so she hadn't really made friends."

"God! Clues! All I want are some clues..."

"I'm sorry, Jane. This one might be impossible to solve, if this killer's half as good as the one he's copying. It took a big stroke of luck to catch the first guy" Jane pulled out The Deck, shuffled it, cut it, and held up the top card at eyelevel for Elaine to read.

"Impossible" only defines

The degree of difficulty.

"Thanks for the help, Elaine. I'll return these files in a little bit." She turned and began to walk away. Before she could get very far, though, she was stopped by a gruff voice.

"Miss McDermon, if you please." She turned, moving the files from one hand to the other, keeping them behind her back.

"Yes, Leftenant Welsh?"

"Now those wouldn't be official police reports? Official, not to mention classified, police reports about the Bilby case, as in property of the city of Chicago, as in not-to-be-removed-from-this-station-type files, now would they?" She sheepishly brought the files out into plain sight.

"Uh, yes...yes they would be. I can...uh...leave them here...if it were be illegal for me to take them out."

"Well, yes it would be for you to take those reports out of this station. And I fully intend to stop you from doing that. Unfortunately, I have some matters to attend to in my office right now, so I'll have to have you wait a few minutes before I get around to having a chance to stop you..." Jane smiled broadly.

"Understood, sir." The moment he turned his back, Jane quickly left the room. Once she left the view of Lieutenant Welsh, she slowed down to a normal walking speed. As she left the building, she passed the front desk. The desk sergeant turned to another officer.

"She's the new Canadian one, right? The Mountie, isn't she?"

"Yea, Sarge."

"Wow...now that's a country that knows what to export."

"Oh yea."

Chapter 5

July 1st

2:25 PM

The Consulate was a hive of activity. The caterers were setting up tables, the decorators were decorating, and the Consular staff was overseeing everything, trying to keep things progressing towards the final goal. The goal was, of course, not having Inspector Thatcher kill them the next day.

Jane stood in the dinning room of the Consulate, without much to do. Despite Thatcher's insistence on having the Mounties oversee the preparations, the caterers and decorators were consummate professionals. Jane and Fraser found themselves more like third wheels. Added to that was the fact that the Dragon Lady insisted on peering over McDermon's shoulder, finding fault in everything, and it was easy for Jane to forget all about the murders.

"Constable McDermon!" Jane turned quickly to come face to face with Inspector Thatcher. "Where is the ice sculpture? It should be here by now."

"It is, ma'am. It's in the kitchen as we speak, surrounded by 50 pounds of dry ice."

"And why isn't it out here where it's supposed to be?"

"Because it's hours until the ball starts, and its basically 250 pounds of ice shaped like a maple leaf."

"And why isn't it out here?!"

"Because it's a big-ass block of ice, and if we leave it out here, the guests will get to go swimming before the second cocktail. Ice had a nasty habit of melting, you know."

"Watch your language, Constable. I won't tolerate behavior like that from my Constables. Period." The Dragon Lady turned and walked away; Jane took firm hold of an imaginary neck and began choking it violently. Once Thatcher had left the room, Jane snapped to attention, clicked her heels together, held her arm up at a 45 degree angle, and quietly shouted 'Ja ist Ma! Was auch immer Sie Ma sagen, ist! Sofort! Ihr Wunsch ist mein Befehl!'

By the time the dining room was completely ready, it was almost half past three. When Jane looked at her watch, she nearly screamed.

"Oh...oh shit!" Running to her office, she grabbed her hat. She was already 20 minutes late; she still had to run to the cleaners before she could go back to her apartment. Heading past Turnbull's empty desk, she called out 'Dief, let's go for a run!' Hearing her voice, he woke from his slumber and followed her. "And Fraser says you don't listen." Looking at her watch again, she couldn't hold back venting. "Damn you, Thatcher!" Only after she said it did she realize that the Inspector was probably within earshot. "Crap! Come on, Dief, it's time to get the hell outta Dodge."

Down the stairs (two at a time), and out the front door, she ran briskly, with the wolf in pursuit. The sidewalks were crowded with people out enjoying the warm weather. Dodging clumps of people, the Mountie made good time over the eight blocks to the dry cleaners. When she approached a group of people she couldn't avoid, she resorted to the best trick in her bag. Shouting 'Get the hell out of the way! Police!' had the desired effect of clearing a path. Getting to Charlie's Dry Cleaning, she elbowed her way to the front of the line with judicious use of her badge, and presented the claim ticket for her dress. Hastily checking to make sure that she was given the right item, she rushed out of the store, taking alleys and back streets to cut time off her trip. If luck were with her, she wouldn't have to rush getting ready too badly...

3:30 PM

Fraser waited patiently in the elevator of Jane's apartment building as it rose steadily upward. As he waited, he carefully checked the blue and yellow formal belt that had replaced his Sam Browne. After a few moments of elevator music, the door slid open, and he stepped out. This building was much different from his. Clean, well lit, and basically not a 'rat-trapping, rent-wasting, God-forsaken hell-hole,' as Jane had described his apartment when she first saw it. He walked down the hall until he came upon the door to McDermon's apartment. He knocked, and waited. There was no response, so he knocked again. Nothing.

"Jane?" He knocked again. "Are you in there?" His hand went to the door handle. It was open. "Interesting." He pushed the door open, and walked in. The only sound was a radio playing in the bathroom. The air was warm and humid. He moved across the floor as quietly as his boots would let him. He stopped when he heard movement, and he turned slowly to it. He recognized movement, and froze.

"Don't move, or I'll blow your fricken' brains out!" Fraser instinctively dropped to the ground, and rolled behind the couch. Jane dashed around the couch, and pointed the 9-mm at the form on the ground. "Holy Jesus! Fraser! Learn to knock on the Goddamn door! I could have blown your head off!" Fraser took his hands off his head, and looked up. Jane stood over him, dripping wet. One shaking hand held the pistol at his head, and the other gripped the towel tightly around her. She slowly lowered the hammer, and put the pistol down on the coffee table. With her now free hand she helped him up. "Sit down." She looked over at the clock on the wall. "I'm sorry, I must've lots track of time. I didn't expect it to be so late already. You caught me coming out of the shower. I heard the door open, and I got a little scared..."

"Where's Diefenbaker? I believe he left the Consulate with you."

"Yea, he did. I locked him in my bedroom. You're wolf kept trying to follow me into the bathroom. I'm flattered and all, I mean, your wolf has good taste. But I do like to shower on my own. Personal preference. Now, if you don't mind, I have things to get back to." She returned to the bathroom, and closed the door. Fraser got up, and let the wolf out of his bedroom prison. Almost immediately, the lupine Casanova trotted to the bathroom door, earning a sharp rebuke from the Mountie.

"Oh please. Diefenbaker, she's not even your genus, let alone your species. Leave her be." The wolf looked at Fraser, then the door, whined, and laid down at Fraser's feet.

The Mountie looked around the apartment. It was nice, pre-furnished, obviously intended for business people whom didn't have time to buy matching couches and end tables, thought she kept it on the thin line between clean and messy. Comfortably cluttered, she called it. The pictures on the walls were similar to the ones in her office. Sitting underneath the pistol on the coffee table were stacks of the more recent RCMP Quarterly magazine, plus Newsweek, and USA Today. Seemingly the only other significant thing in the living room that belonged to Jane and made the apartment seem like a home was the oxygen scuba tank and regulator sitting in the corner.

In the bathroom, the radio continued to play, and the music seeped into the living room. An eclectic mix of country music was playing. Everything from the cowboy music of the 50's and 60's, to the modern mix of country and pop music intermingled, as Jane sang along. Music by Hank Williams, Faith Hill, Garth Brooks, and others played. After the song that was playing (Fraser recognized it as 'Take This Job and Shove It' which Jane had a habit of playing after working closely with Inspector Thatcher) ended, another song's slow notes drifted into the living room. Fraser vaguely remembered hearing this one once or twice before'Something In Red' by Lorrie Morgan.

As the song went on looking for something in green, Jane opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom. Fraser and Diefenbaker turned to take a look at her. Dief's ears perked up, and Fraser was momentarily speechless (his usual defensive reaction when encountering attractive women). The words of the song described Jane's dress perfectly. Low-cut red silk hung off her like a second skin, and her normally strait and carefully placed hair was intricately curled, bushy and wild, framing her face. The cut of the dress, stockings, and high-heel shoes made her appear taller then normal.

"What can I say? Red's my color....Fraser...Speak...You can talk, you know."

"Jane, you look...very..."

"Very sexy? Yes, I know. Thank you Fraser." He continued to fumble over his words for a moment; Jane couldn't resist smiling at his predicament. "Did you forget that I was a woman under that brown gabardine serge?"

"To be honest. Yes, I did." Jane couldn't suppress her laughter.

"Oh well, I'd figured as much. Well, I'll give you a hint about the fairer sex. I happen to be a woman. Women like to receive complements. It makes us feel good about ourselves. Therefore, quid pro quo, by reason and deduction, you can safely assume that I do, in fact, like receiving complements." She disappeared into the bedroom, and returned a moment later, fastening a thin gold chain around her neck. "Well, we'd better go before Thatcher has a meltdown. Although that would be sorta funny to see."

"Well, I don't know about..."

"Oh, admit it, Fraser. It would be hilarious."

"Well...I suppose it would be. Perhaps we should avoid that occurrence, though." With her agreeing, she followed him out the door and down the elevator.

7:00 PM

By the time the ball had gotten into full swing, the Consulate was literally jammed full of people. Every public room had conversing diplomats, business people, and politicians. Cst. Fraser stood outside, on door duty, like always, while Cst. McDermon was a floater, drifting around the Consulate, making sure everything was going according to plans.

"Hey, Frase. How's it hangin' out here?" Jane opened the front door to the Consulate just enough to slip out, closing it carefully behind her. "Out here all by your lonesome." He turned around to face her. She was carrying a class of champagne and a glass of water. "Which one you want?" He reached out and took the water. "Figures." They both smiled. "Boring work, isn't it?"

"Diefenbaker is here to keep me company. It's not entirely lonely." She sipped a little bit of the sparkling white wine.

"So, does Thatcher always stick you out here for parties like this? Is she scared you'll start smelling the guests of something?"

"Yes, Inspector Thatcher usually assigns me to door duty for official functions. Cst. Turnbull is usually inside attending to the matters that you are taking care of tonight."

"So, I suppose that means that once Turnbull returns, you can handle door, he'll float, and I'll just take these nights off and stay at home." She giggled like a schoolgirl.

"I don't think that Inspector Thatcher would approve of that."

"Oh, screw her. She doesn't own me."

"Jane, just out of curiosity, how many glasses of champagne have you had to drink tonight?" She closed her eyes, and nodded her head as if she was counting.

"Two, three max. Maybe six. But absolutely no more then ten." She giggled in a very tipsy manner. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just that...you seem.... slightly inebriated." She grinned evilly.

"Are you accusing me of being drunk off my ass, Constable?" Before he could open his mouth, she continued. "Because I'm not." She touched her nose with her right index finger, then her left index finger. Standing on one foot, she took small jumps, moving 90 degrees to the right with each jump until she was facing him again.

"I am the very model of a modern Major General.

I've information, vegetable, animal, and mineral.

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical.

I'm very well acquainted with equations mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

About binomial theorems I am teeming with a lot of news,

And may cheerful facts about the square of a hypotenuse."

The whole time she'd never lost her balance. "Still think I'm, as you said, inebriated?" Not wanting another rendition of anything from Pirates of the Penzance, or any other Gilbert and Sullivan tongue twister in 2/4 time, for that matter, Fraser stated that he did not, causing her to grin again. He still did think she was drunk, though. Jane looked up at the sky.

"Is Ray still inside?"

"Yea, he is. He's elbowing politicians out of the buffet line right now." Even Fraser couldn't resist laughing. The younger Mountie looked up at the stars once more. "There's...uh...no rain tonight."

"No, no rain at all. It should prove to be a very nice holiday week." After that, silence prevailed. It wasn't until a few moments later that one of them spoke again.

"Well, Fraser, I suppose I'd better head back inside before Thatcher pops a blood vessel." She put her hand on the door handle, but it opened from the inside. Ray came out, cell phone in hand. "Ray, I dig the Armani tux. Very nice." He only said one sentence in reply.

"They found another body." Without any other words, the 2 Mounties and the wolf followed the American to the green Riv.

10:45 PM

"You know, Fraser. You've seen one murder scene, you've seen them all." The same harsh, portable floodlights lighted another secluded back alley. The red serge and silk outfits of the two Mounties provided a garish and seemingly inappropriate contrasting touch of color to the dark blue uniformed officers, gray suited detectives, and deputy coroners in their pale green scrubs.

The body lay in a similar position to the first two. The head was missing, just as in the other murders. Definitely the same killer. This time, however, the victim was a man in his mid 30's. His driver's license identified him as Richard Fetter. This victim flew in the face of the theory that the killer was a homicidal maniac who stalked and killed women. This was not all that uncommon. Now he was a homicidal maniac who stalked and killed men and women without discrimination, which wasn't as common, but just as scary.

As the crime scene photographer snapped the horrible, but necessary pictures, the Mounties helped the police scour the alley for clues. As the sweep progressed, it became clear that there would be the same agonizing lack of clues that marked the previous two crimes. Without even giving it serious thought, Jane knew that the autopsy would be identical to the first two, and they'd all still be in the same place that they started.

"Damn it all to bloody Hell..." A determined few officers began their endless sweep for evidence again, knowing that it would be in vain. "They're not going to find anything. You know that, don't you Fraser?" The two stood off to the side, watching.

"Well, it is quite possible that some clue or another has been overlooked in previous searches."

"What are the odds on that?" After a momentary silence, she snapped 'Don't answer that, Fraser.' He stopped mentally figuring the odds. "Come on, Frase, can't you sniff something? Taste something? Conjure up a clue with some obscure and decidedly quaint, archaic detection method that you're oh so well versed in? There's got to be something, there's always something."

"The hard concrete surface of the alley, plus the constant walking around of the officer will have undoubtedly destroyed any minute shoeprint evidence that may have remained. There are no lingering odors, besides the dead body, and tasting anything would undoubtedly contaminate the object, preventing its proper analysis by the forensic experts, and because this is an open and controlled crime scene, that would be tantamount to tampering with evidence and criminal obstruction of justice." She wanted to say something, plead her case in some way, but deep down she knew that he was right, and admitted so to Fraser.

While watching the officers walk slowly across the area in a grid pattern, she felt that feeling of being watched that accompanied her visit to the last crime scene the day before. Knowing it was nothing more then a hunch, a pure gut feeling, she told Fraser what she was feeling, and that she believed that the killer was close by, most probably observing the crime investigators right now.

"Fraser, I didn't tell you want happened yesterday. I was at the Bilby scene and I felt this feeling. Gut feeling, policewoman's intuition. Well...I checked around, and I figured that it was the killer, watching from the other side of the fence at the end. When I called out 'Police' someone started running. I went over the fence, but e was gone. I just know it was him."

"How do you know for sure?"

"I told you, Fraser. Women's intuition, pure gut feeling. I just know, Fraser. He's here. I think this guy likes to watch the commotion he causes." She began to search around. The across the street at the other end of the alley was a small park annex. Borrowing Ray's back-up gun, Jane and Fraser slowly made their way into the fringe of the grassy area. Two pairs of highly trained eyes and ears searched the area for anybody at all. No amount of looking provided any new clues, or any sign of the killer in the darkness. "Damn..."

Chapter 6

July 2^nd

12:05 AM

The halls of Jane's apartment were only half-lit as the Mounties walked along. As Jane unlocked the door, she turned unsteadily to face Fraser. The effects of the champagne were starting to show; she knew she'd have a headache in the morning.

"Thanks a million, Fraser. For walking me home. I appreciate it."

"No need to thank me, Jane."

"You're a good man, Benton Fraser. Now go home and feed your wolf before he eats what little carpeting you have in you apartment."

"Are you sure you'll be alright on your own?"

"Fraser, I've got a 9-mil, a .38, a billy club, OC pepper spray, a couple knives, and some other useful stuff. I'll be just fine and safe." She stepped into her apartment, but turned to look at him. "But thanks for asking. Night." She briefly considered giving him a small kiss on the cheek; she settled for hitting his arm in a friendly manner. She closed the door, and slid the bolt with a satisfying, not to mention comforting, 'click.'

Slipping off her shoes, Jane pulled off her stockings and balled them up. Dropping them next to her shoes, she pulled down the zipper at the back of her dress, and dropped it on top of everything else. She'd clean up the pile of silk and nylon tomorrow; for now, she could care less about it. Having disposed of all her party clothes, she grabbed an old bathrobe, and headed into the kitchen to make a quick snack before slipping off into the tub to try and relax so that she could get to sleep...

2:15 AM

Sleep had been elusive, but finally it had overtaken the Mountie. Her semi-restful slumber was rudely interrupted by a repetitive sound, causing her to turn over wearily. Chalking it up to a leaky faucet that she'd fix in the morning, she slipped back into sleep. The sound persisted, however, a slow, syncopated sound that came every 5 or 6 seconds. It forced her to get up to stop it, if merely to preserve her sanity and allow her to go back to sleep.

Walking into the bathroom, she found that the faucet wasn't leaking. Her next stop was the kitchen sink. It was fine too. After that she checked under the sinks, in the shower, and behind the toilet. There was no leaking water anywhere, but the dripping sound continued. A twinge of fright seeped into her soul, and she dashed to the coffee table, grabbing the 9-mm out of its black leather holster. Flipping the safety off, she stood completely still, even holding her breath, listening. The same sound kept coming in it's unchanging beat. Checking every room in the apartment, in the closets, under the furniture, on top of the furniture, and behind the furniture, she found nothing. Without any other place to look, she stepped over the dress from the night before, and opened the door to the hall just a bit, checking with the barrel of her gun for anything. Not seeing anything, she opened the door.

Sitting on the tile hallway floor, a severed head sat on top of a neatly folded Canadian flag. The rhythmic taping had come from the head hitting her door ever so slightly due to the airflow from a cooling vent in the hall. Jane's reaction was something she never thought she'd find herself doing as a police officer.

She screamed with pure and unadulterated terror.

Slamming the door shut and throwing the deadbolt, Jane leaned against the door, breathing deeply. Her hands shook, and she squeezed the pistol grip so hard she thought she might break a finger...or the pistol grip. Leaning her head back, she noticed something being held to the door the door with a piece of tape. Looking at it for a moment, she grabbed it, and pulled it down. It was an envelope; the front neatly typed 'Constable McDermon.' Opening the envelope, she pulled out the typed message.

'Keep your distance, and you will be safe. Continue following me, and you'll be the next one sitting on a flag in the hallway.'

Heading into the kitchen, she worked to regain her composure long enough to call Fraser and tell him what had happened. Next, she rummaged around, pulled out a bottle of 12-year old scotch and a glass, and she sat down to wait...

2:45 AM

Fraser sat across the kitchen table while the police did their work in the hall. By now, Jane had emptied the last of the scotch, though her thinking remained amazingly clear, considering the situation. Fraser read the note, holding it carefully to avoid destroying any fingerprints on the paper.

"Fraser, please tell me that that head belongs to one Richard Fetter." Despite being gruesome sounding, it would at least mean that there wasn't a missing body somewhere in Chicago.

"It is. It matched his driver's license picture."

"Well....good....I suppose."

"Are you alright?"

"Sure, Frase. Just fricken peachy. I'm dead tired, and there's a severed head in front of my apartment, which means this guy knows where I live." She tapped the envelope on the table. "And he knows my name. And that just makes me fell all warm and fuzzy inside, ya know?"

"You don't have to resort to sarcasm..."

"Fraser, there's a head in front of my apartment. A serial killer was inside my apartment. I can resort to sarcasm if I damn well please."

"You're personalizing this case." Tipping up the glass to drink down the last drops of scotch, she snapped at Fraser in a release of built-up pressure.

"You're Goddamn right I am..." She stood, and walked to front door. The crime scene photographers were back at work, and Jane was careful to stay out of their way. As she watched them snap their pictures, she was tapped on the shoulder, causing her to jump.

Turning around, she came face-to-face with the detective in charge of this case. He was a stocky man, short (thought still taller then McDermon), and his ever-present gray suit was a stark contrast to Jane's sweat pants and old hockey jersey. Apparently this man didn't sleep, and waited around, in the exact same pinstripe suit, for another murder. Without so much as a greeting the man launched into a tirade of questions that she tried to answer as best she could. Most of her answers were unfortunately 'I don't know.'

"Constable McDermon, your answers aren't very helpful, you know. Without more information, it'll be very difficult for us to successfully close this case." The look on her face showed that she thought this man was incredibly dense, and her words reflected those feelings.

"Oh, please forgive me. You won't be able to solve the crime. Boo fricken hoo. What, do you work on commission now? You don't think I don't want this guy caught? He did, after all, come to my apartment and threaten my life. So I've got a hell of a lot more at stake here then you did." She turned away from him, and headed into the bedroom to get The Deck. She cut it and examined the top card.

Courage is not

The absence of fear,

But the mastery of it.

Kicking the door shut with her foot, she peeled off the hockey jersey and sweat pants, and pulled out her red serge. She'd have work to do today.

7:00 AM

Standing at attention in front of Inspector Thatcher's desk, Jane squinted to avoid being completely blinded by the early morning sunlight. The events that had transpired since Fraser ad McDermon left the ball last night had guaranteed that there would be no repercussions for them leaving the ball early. That didn't mean, however, that it wouldn't force Jane to spend close to half an hour at attention in front of her boss' desk, recounting what had happened, and attempting to explain it.

"Any reason why this killer left the head in front of your door, Constable?"

"I can only assume that it was to serve as a warning to halt my investigations of his crimes." The Inspector looked up at the young Mountie; McDermon had stepped into the perfect trap.

"And why, may I ask, were you investigating this crime? Is it not the job of the Chicago Police? While you have work here?" Jane had to think quickly to side-step out of this particular minefield.

"The second victim was a medical student on a post-op rotation at a local hospital. One of the patients under her care was a Canadian citizen, and I believed that it was in the best medical interest of this citizen to find who killed one of their care-takers. Lest, of course, the killer was planning to make some sort of killing spree against doctors and medical workers who cared for Canadian citizens." It wasn't entirely a lie. Ms. Bilby worked in a large, urban hospital, and it was quite possible that there was at least one Canadian citizen admitted into the hospital or who visited the ER while Bilby was on call.

"And you seriously believe this, Constable?" The Inspector's voice carried a rather heavy note of disbelief.

"Oh, yes ma'am. With all my heart. And now that this killer is seemingly gunning after myself, an servant of Queen and country, it's even more important that not only my efforts, but the complete and full force of the Canadian Consulate and Government should be applied to bring this man to justice."

"Well, I'm very glad, Constable, that you're now deemed eligible to dictate policy to Ottawa. However, since this killer did threaten one of my Constables, I'm releasing Constable Fraser and yourself to the services of the Chicago Police to assist in apprehending this man." Jane smiled ever so slightly; she also couldn't help but notice how Thatcher emphasized words like 'my Constable.' "And what are you planning to do for living arrangements. You very well can't remain in your apartment while this killer is still free."

"Of course not, ma'am. Constable Fraser loaned me his bedroll, and I've packed most of my clothes, and I intend to sleep on the floor in my office. If that's acceptable with you, of course."

"It's personal policy not to allow people to live out of their offices. However, considering the situation, I'll allow it for the time being. Once this case is solved, you will be returning to your apartment, or finding a new one, correct?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Very well. Dismissed."

"Yes ma'am." Doing a smart 180 degree turn, she left the office. Fraser was waiting outside. As the two walked out of the Consulate, she filled him in on the events that had transpired in the office. Getting into the black Accord, Jane made note of Thatcher's seemingly sudden change of heart. "You know, Fraser, she can't stand me one bit, but I get threatened, and suddenly she bends over backwards to try and help in her little way. Maybe...just maybe, she's not totally evil and bitchy inside."

"With all due respect, Jane, you shouldn't judge the Inspector so harshly so quickly. She may present a rough exterior..."

"You mean a bitchy exterior."

"A 'rough' exterior to you, but she has your best interests at heart, as well as the interests of the RCMP and Canada."

"Perhaps, Fraser. But she does come off rather bitchy, you have to admit. I mean, picking up her dry cleaning? I'm a highly trained officer of the law, not a bantam to some colonial czarina. " She turned into the alley murder scene, and slammed the breaks. "Sorry." They climbed out of the car, and adjusted Stetsons as they ducked under the yellow police tape. Much like the previous scene, this alley was dirty, empty, and completely un-noticeable.

Knowing that there were no clues left un-found in the alley, the Mounties made their way across the street into the small park annex. Using the light of day, they searched for any clues that might have been missed. Fraser's senses were sharper in this sort of evidence detection, and he found something first. A slight footprint embedded in a small area of dried mud, a naturally forming plaster cast. Much more importantly, it was a clue.

Searching the rest of the small, grassy area provided nothing new, but the footprint was a massive start. Upon closer examination, Fraser surmised that it was a running shoe, approximately size 11. It represented the first physical clue in the case.

9:30 AM

The 27^th's squad bay had its normal activity, but the news of the new found clue seemed to add an extra bit of energy. With the footprint, there was now a chance to start finding suspects. A chance to close this case for good. And nobody seemed happier then Ray.

"We'll get a forensics team out there right away. Who found the print?"

"Fraser did. Good eyes on him. Unfortunately, that's all we found."

"Don't worry about it, Jane. It's one more clue then we had before. And in this case, every clue is big. What size did you say it was, Fraser?"

"Size 11, normal width. Without a second print, however, I couldn't make an estimate of height based on stride-length."

"Well, that's ok. It's a start. What about you, Jane? You're not going back to your apartment, are you?"

"Not while this killer's still lose. I'll tell you one thing, next time he visits, it won't be to leave his calling card with my mail. I'll be staying at the Consulate."

"I'll talk to Lt. Welsh, and get a marked car outside the Consulate whenever you're there."

"Thanks for the thought, Ray. But I'll be fine without it."

"I'm sure you will be, Jane. But I'm doing it anyway."

"What about forensics? Anything valuable on the head?"

"No. Nothing on the head. No fingerprints, hair, skin, or fibers. The letter, on the other hand, did have fingerprints that weren't Fraser's or yours. We figure it might be the killer, Elaine's running 'em right now. Hopefully she'll find a match, get a name, maybe an address, and we can check it out." Jane grabbed her Stetson, and turned to Fraser.

"I'll go back to the Consulate and fill in Inspector Thatcher. You stay here with Ray, and wait for those prints. Give me a call when you find out, I'll have my cell." Tapping Fraser on the arm with her Stetson as she walked by, she quickly left the building.

10:15 AM

McDermon sat at her desk, changing into her patrol uniform and filling out an incident report to file with the Consulate records, the Assistant Superintendent in charge of Consular activities, and another for Ottawa. Paperwork upon paperwork was the lot of the officer who worked on a crime. Finishing up the last sheet, she affixed her name and regimental number to each one, setting each one into a manila envelope to be filed off in its proper place.

As she made her way back into her office, her cell phone began ringing. Grabbing it off the top of the computer monitor, she popped it open.

"Constable McDermon."

"Jane, it's Ray. We got a match on the prints. Joe Cave. A bunch of priors for armed assault, armed robbery, all sorts of good things. He lives at 384 East Bancroft." She grabbed her black clip-on tie, and slipped it on. "There're a couple marked cars on their way. We just got a warrant." She grabbed the black basket weave Sam Browne, and checked the Beretta.

"I'm on my way."

10:25 AM

Slamming on the breaks, Jane's car came to a stop from 35 miles an hour in less then 3 car-lengths. Throwing the door open, she grabbed her forage cap and sprinted out to where 2 marked cruisers and a green '77 Buick sat parked, just around the corner from the residence of one Joe Cave. Behind the first cruiser, Ray, Fraser, and 4 uniformed cops crouched down for cover.

"Is he in there?" Fraser turned a bit to face her and nodded. "God, Fraser, we're bringing down a perp who quite probably is armed, dangerous, and waiting for us. Think next time you might want to leave the red serge on the parade ground, or maybe on a postcard? That, or stand 15 feet away from me. Damn conspicuous like that, liable to get yourself shot." Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Ray. "What're we waiting for?"

"We were waiting for you." He proceeded to give her the plan for entering to house. He'd go first, her and Fraser would follow, and the uniformed officers would secure the perimeter and enter the rear of the house. "On three, we go....ok? One. Two. Three. Go!"

The officers sprang to their feet and fanned out as they had planned. Dashing up the front steps, Ray barely had time to shout out 'Police! We have a warrant!' before crashing through the front door with his gun drawn. He moved through the cluttered downstairs, searching for the suspect. Jane had her gun drawn, too, and she headed up the small stairs with Fraser behind her.

At the top of the stairs, the Mounties halted briefly as Ray made his way up, two stairs at a time. As the detective reached the waiting Canadians, they could hear the uniformed officers forcing the back door. Without waiting another moment, Jane kicked the door in, and the three piled into the small bedroom. Joe Cave stood in the corner of the room with a Remmington .3006 deer rifle aimed at the door. As a single shot rang out, Fraser leapt across the room, tackling the man. Without a moment's pause, Ray also fell upon the man, controlling and cuffing him while Fraser made his way to Jane. She sat against a small dresser, clamping her right bicep tightly.

"The bastard shot me! That son of a whore! He shot me!" Grabbing Fraser's hand, she hauled herself to her feet, and pulled her hand away from her arm. It was only a flesh wound, not the first time she'd been so wounded. Crossing the dirty bedroom, she grabbed the cuffed man and hauled him to his feet. Since the time he'd been arrested, he had been spewing obscenities at the officers. "Shut your filthy face!" He looked her straight in the eyes, and spit. "You bastard!" She pulled back with her good arm to punch him, but Fraser stopped her.

"He's in custody, Jane. He's a prisoner, you can't do that."

"The bastard shot me!" Without waiting for Fraser or Ray, she roughly prodded the man down the stairs to the waiting uniformed officers. The man never stopped screaming the whole time.

"Oh boy, my lucky day! A chick pig. And a hot-ass one, too." His eyes traced up and down Jane's body. "You got your own handcuffs, there? I bet you do. You gonna frisk me, baby?"

"I suggest you shut your mouth, boy. I hope you understand that you're the prime suspect in three violent murders, along with assaulting a peace officer with a deadly weapon. You've been read your rights, and everything you're saying is being recorded for posterity and your subsequent trial."

"Oh, feisty bitch! I like, I like. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you're not really a cop. Probably not. Just some whore wearing a uniform. Is the uniform what they paid you for your body?" He turned as best as he could to look back at Ray and Fraser. "Am I right? Was she a good ride? I bet she's a real good ride, with a body like that." Without any anger in her voice, she spoke firmly to him.

"Careful sir, watch your step there." Jane stuck her foot out in front of his, and 'accidentally' shoved him with her elbow. The man went down hard; because his hands were cuffed, he couldn't break his fall. He landed on a small coffee table, none of the officers made any attempt to help him up. His trash talking was silenced, and replaced by painful moans. The paramedics, when they arrived, would find him with a broken nose, numerous facial lacerations, and two fractured ribs. Leaning down, she put her lips within inches of the man's ear. Using her sexiest voice, she whispered quietly. "You need to be more careful in the future...baby."

12:15 PM

The ER's suture room was quiet. The only sounds were the rattling of instruments while a first year medical student stitched the gunshot wound shut. Jane barely moved each time the needle passed into her arm, pulling the thin silk thread. Wide-eyed, the med student finally broke the silence.

"Are you really a Mountie?" Jane turned her head to face the younger woman, as if the student had asked if Jane was from Mars. "I...I was just curious. Your chart says Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"Yea, I am a Mountie." Without asking another question, the med student tied off the silk thread, and placed a compress over it. After giving the follow-up medical instructions, the student left. Fraser and Ray came into the room. Fraser immediately turned and faced the wall until Jane pulled her Kevlar vest on (the vest was the only thing she wore between her bra and her uniform shirt). As she grabbed her light blue shirt, and began putting it on, Ray began talking.

"Well, the perp talked. Painkillers and fear can do wonders. Actually, it was more like singing like a stool pigeon. He claims that he was paid to take that note to your apartment. It seems his regular job is as a bike deliveryman." Jane immediately voiced her objections.

"You saw his rap sheet, it's a country mile long. It's quite possible that he's merely lying about it." Fraser took his normal place as voice of reason.

"He has an alibi."

"What sort of alibi?"

"He was with...a lady of the evening on the night of the third murder."

"Wait...you're telling me that a convicted felon, whose word we're now trusting, by the way, has a hooker for his alibi. And its times like this that make me remember why I choose law enforcement for my life's work. And the $64,000 question is: Do we have any idea where we can find this...ahem, lady of the evening? To back up his story?"

"He says that he...uhh...contracted her services on 12^th Avenue, between Franklin and Ross. Goes by the street name Midnight Sally About 6 foot tall, short black hair, brown eyes, big...teeth. At least, that's all we got before they put him back under with enough dope to knock out a horse." An audible groan was Jane's only response for a moment.

"Ok, so the entire case right now is resting on the word of a street whore. All right! Yea!" The sarcastic enthusiasm sat heavy on the quiet air. "Well, who here is going to go and question these streetwalkers to try and verify his story?" A moment of silence answered her question. Pulling on her gun belt, she turned to Ray. "Give me a lift to 12^th?"

11:45 PM

Jane and Fraser sat in her office, killing time while waiting for any new information from Ray. McDermon sat on the bedroll laid out behind the desk; Fraser sat at the desk. To pass the time, the two were exchanging stories; it was Jane's turn.

"So, it must've been early July...maybe late June. We were on a back road just outside city limits, it was a little before dark, dusk, I guess. Anyway, it was me and...uhh...Danny Daily...I remember him, nice guy, couldn't get more Irish if he tried, though. Anyway, we're in the back seat of his car, we're making out, he's got his hands all over me, you know how that...nevermind...

"Anyway, we're getting kina far, and what do we hear? Tap-tap-tap on the window. I look up and out the window; it's the cops. It's like 'Damn!' So I grab my shirt, get out of the car, and try to talk our way out of it..."

"Jane, I must say, you had quite a wild time in high school."

"High school? Fraser, I was 24 years old at the time. I'd just gotten off day shift. I was still in my patrol uniform!" Both Mounties began to laugh, Jane laughed uncontrollably, Fraser more subdued.

"Well, were you able to talk your way out of it?"

"Yup...yea, I talked my out of it. It was my last date with Danny, though. Not much of a loss, though. Anyway, there was one time..." Her narrative was cut short by the ringing of McDermon's cell phone. Picking it off the top of the computer monitor, he opened it up, and answered.

"Constable McDermon's cellular phone. Constable Fraser speaking." A pause while he listened. "Understood. I'll let her now, Ray." He closed the phone and put it back in its place. "That was Ray. He said that Mr. Cave woke up, and was able to give enough information for the sketch artist to come up with a composite. He's faxing it over. He's also having it run for matches in local, state, and federal databases." Basically that meant that it would be a long night for Elaine. Jane hauled herself to her feet, and walked to the fax machine in the corner, which began ringing as she reached it. Another moment, and the fax began printing a drawing of a man's face, and a sheet of the basic physical information.

The drawing was of a man of average appearance. He had a head of hair neither extra thick nor noticeably thinning. A nose that was neither large nor small. Clean-shaven, with unremarkable brown eyes. The attached sheet said that he was a little under 6 feet in height, of average weight and build. Overall, an un-remember able and unremarkable man.

Handing the fax to Fraser, Jane sat back down on the bedroll, and kicked off her shoes.

"Were you able to verify Mr. Cave's story, Jane?"

"Oh, yea. And I had a great time, doing it, too, by the way. I got to spend six hours walking up and down 12^th Avenue, asking hookers for information. Among other things, I learned that I could make $4,000 a week, and 2 hours would cost me five hundred American (I think I'll stick with hunting for guys, thank you much)." She tossed the shoes into the corner of the office. "And when I finally did find the particular hooker I was looking for, bad news. She was able to confirm Cave's alibi...in exchange for protection from prosecution, which I gave her. Not that I have the authority to negotiate on behalf of the State's Attorney, but the hooker didn't know that, and since I've never had any problems lying to hookers, I really don't feel all that bad about it."

"I understand."

"Thanks for staying with me, Fraser. You're always so willing to give up your personal time to stay with me. It really means a lot to me." He nodded that it was no trouble, stood and left for his office to collect his Stetson. After he left for the night, Jane sat down at her desk, and rummaged through a pile of personal things she'd brought from home. Pulling out a number of papers, and 2 pencils, she set her brain to focusing on something other then this case.

'The cipher machine converts the input (plain language, P) into cipher (Z) by means of a function f. Thus, Z=f(P,K) where K denotes the key...' Sharpening the pencil, she flipped the page. 'T=Lufttemperatur in ganzen Celcius-Graden. +28C-a. =27C=b. =26C=c...'

After a few minutes she rubbed her eyes, and realizing that that distraction by way of a 50-some-odd year old Short Weather Cipher Book wouldn't work and not having anything stronger then coffee to drink, she straitened all the papers, and jammed them back into their original place, between a German grammar primer and a book on the works of Bletchley Park and Herr Arthur Scherbius' Enigma machine. Taking one last look at the composite drawing fax, she turned off the lights, and crawled into the sleeping bag to rest.

Chapter 7

July 3^rd

11:00 AM

Walking into the 27^th, the two Mounties made their way to Ray's desk. Grabbing the chair in front of the desk, Jane sat down, while Fraser stood at the edge of the desk. The American was on the phone with someone about something that didn't seem important to anything resembling police work. When he'd finished what he was doing, he hung up the phone, and opened a manila folder that sat in the center of his desk blotter.

"The composite came back with a match." He handed a pair of mug shots to Jane. "His name is Burke McCulla, released felon. Rap sheet even longer then the last guy's. Convictions for armed assault and robbery, two of them, indictments for attempted murder, and second-degree manslaughter, no convictions on the last two. It seems this guy has done everything against the penal code that you can think of."

"And he's out why? You'll have to forgive me, I've only been in this country a few weeks, and have yet to fully understand your law system."

"He worked out a plea bargain for his last assault charge. Did 12 months in Jolliet."

"Plea bargaining to get a shorter sentence. In that case, I understand your legal system completely. Just like Canada. By any chance did Elaine work her magic to come up with an address?"

"An old one. The last one from his parole officer. It's about 6 months old, nothing more recent."

"Well, it's all we have, so I guess we'll have to go on it." Taking the paper from Ray, Jane looked at the old address. She then handed the paper to Fraser. When he was done looking over the information, he put the paper back into the file. At that point, Jane grabbed her Stetson, and they all left the station to see what there was to see at the old address.

11:15 AM

The apartment was a non-descript, run down South Side building. It was just like every other slum-like apartment building within a five-block radius, except for the fact that this one was the last known residence of Mr. Burke McCulla. Heading inside, the officers were met by rat-infested surroundings similar to Fraser's apartment. Speaking with the super confirmed that Mr. McCulla was still living there or was, at the very least, still paying rent on his apartment, on time every month.

Heading up the dirty stairs, the three officers were silent. There was no need for conversation now. Upon reaching the door to apartment 3-H, Ray and Jane pulled their guns. Because she was wearing her Service Order without a Kevlar vest, she stepped aside and allowed Ray to take the lead in kicking the door in. Moving in quickly, they checked the apartment for any signs of McCulla. Finding nothing, sidearms were holstered and replaced by latex gloves pulled from pockets and belt pouches.

The apartment, though of similar size and age to Fraser's, was infested with insects, small rodents, and other unsavory things. The furnishings were varied, and most were seemingly pulled out of garbage piles. An ancient gas stove sat with a bowl of burnt pasta in the dingy kitchen.

Sitting on the badly gouged kitchen table was a pile of old newspapers, a map of the Chicago area, and an envelope, with the neatly typed label 'Constable McDermon.' Carefully picking it up by its edges, Jane slit the end off the envelope with her knife, blew gently to separate the sides, and slid the paper out. She opened it carefully to avoid obliterating any fingerprints. The note was, like everything else, neatly typed. By the varying darkness of the letters, it could be determined that the note was typed on a manual typewriter.

'Dear Constable McDermon,

Welcome to my humble abode. I wish I could have showed you a nicer apartment, but as you may have guessed, the salary for a multiple murder isn't as good as you'd think...

You can stop searching for clues. This apartment will contain nothing but fingerprints. Because you're reading this, however, I can rightly assume that you already have my fingerprints, and therefore, my name and all other information that you can find in a criminal file. For your own good, I highly suggest you give up.

Burke McCulla

PS. Oh, I hope you sleep well in your office tonight. Rather small to live in, though. Next time, a locked window won't keep me out. This is your last warning.

PPS. I thought I might include a little paper for you in German. I couldn't help but notice all the German books in your bedroom. Oh...and don't turn it into the police. It's private and for Your Eyes Only.'

Jane looked at the second piece of paper. Her German wasn't the best, and it took her a moment's thinking to translate a few of the words. What was mumifziert? After a moment, it came to her. Mummified. And Sgemehl geknebelt? Another moment. Gagged with sawdust. Handing the papers to Fraser and Ray, she translated the second page for them. It was, for all intents and purposes, not only a treat to her, but also a confession to the other killings. Ray was the first to respond; once they'd recovered from the shocking words and declarations that Jane translated.

"I'm getting a forensics team in here right away. This guy's going down hard. And I'm doubling the guard on the Consulate. Get a marked car parked outside the Consulate 24 hours a day. You're not going to be alone for a minute until this guy is in custody." While Ray began dialing his cellular phone, Fraser stepped to Jane's side.

"I think we need to bring Inspector Thatcher up to speed right away. She'll want to know about the increased police presence at the Consulate."

"You're right, Fraser. We'll swing by the office and fill her in. Get any new suggestions from her." McDermon often referred to Thatcher's orders as 'suggestions.' "We'll leave as soon as the forensics team arrives."

1:45 PM

Jane looked out the window of her office. She could see a marked Chicago police car sitting across the street. After a moment, she couldn't resist waving out the window to the uniformed officers who had to spend their shift sitting across the street from her window; she felt responsible for taking them off the streets. They waved back, and Jane felt an unspoken bond with the Americans. She'd spent more then one shift watching a house or office, and now she was the one being protected.

Moving back to her desk, she read through the papers that she'd read a million times. The information on the killer. The notes, both the first one, and the second, German one. Se looked at the drawing again. Then she re-read the notes. Eventually, Fraser came into the office and sat down in front of her desk.

"Going over the information of the case again?"

"No, Fraser." She lied. "I'm just playing Solitaire. Get anything new from forensics?"

"No, there was nothing beyond fingerprints. They were able to get a full set. Previously, there were only six prints, all five on the right hand, and the thumb of the left."

"Well, we're moving up in the world of clues at least. Nothing else?"

"No. Nothing. No hair, skin, saliva, blood, or anything other then the aforementioned fingerprints. A few pairs of shoes were found. Size 11, but there were no running shoes. Also, Ray is visiting with Mr. McCulla's known acquaintances and his parole officer. Perhaps he will turn up some more information."

"Hmm...God willing." Her mood was summed up by an audible sigh. "Damnit Fraser! We're so close, this guy's just under our noses. We just have to find him. Find him, catch him, and make him pay..."

"Jane, you're personalizing this case again. You're allowing your personal feelings to cloud your judgment. If you allow it to continue, it's quite possible that you might make...a miscalculation. An error."

"Fraser, I am well aware of the dangers of personalizing a case. I am a police officer, after all. Just because I've never been north of 60 doesn't mean I'm not a Mountie. Because I am a Mountie, and a damned good one at that, Fraser, and I know all about personalizing cases. Sometimes you win, and you feel damn good about yourself. And sometimes you lose, and that hurts like hell, and then you need a drink. Or two. Or ten. Until you can't stand up anymore. Then you go home, and sleep it off, and then go back to work with the world's biggest damned headache. It's called being a police officer, Fraser. I am a police officer. It's what I do. I'm also a grown woman, and I can make my own choices."

"I'm merely looking out for your best interests, Jane..."

"Thank you, Fraser. But as a grown woman, I can make my own choices, and I choose to personalize this case. Body, blood, soul, and divinity, I AM this case!" Throwing the file on the floor, she walked to the window, and looked out. Without saying a word, she brushed a loose strand of chestnut hair out of her face, and finally turned back to face Fraser. He still stood, holding the file from off the floor, his expression and posture unchanged since he came in. He stood, unfazed by Jane's explosion, for he knew that she needed to release the pressure that had been building inside her. "I'm sorry, Frase. Of course you're right about what you said. It just isn't good policy to personalize things like this. And...I still don't care. Because it is personal." She pulled out the German language note, and a neatly hand-written translation. Her words were lower and spoken more deliberately. "It is because he made it personal. That's why..."

4:55 PM

"This is, by far, the worst part of police work. I swear to God, is anything as boring as this?" Sitting across a small table, Fraser and McDermon sipped coffee and waited for any new information on the case, via cell phone.

"Patience is a virtue, Jane."

"Yes, patience is a virtue. That's very true. But we're Mounties. We're the best police officers north of the 48^th parallel. And what are we doing to arrest a psychotic murder? Why, we're sitting on our butts, drinking coffee."

"You must admit, we have accomplished a good deal today. The letter that you found in the apartment would be more than enough to secure a conviction for the killings."

"True, true. Of course, this waiting, it'll drive you crazy. How do you stand it?" Fraser commented that the patience could only be acquired through experience. "I suppose, Fraser, but this here is a big reason why I'd never become a detective. When you're out on the streets, at least you have other things to do while you wait. "

"That keeps you active, preventing you from mulling over one crime, or personalizing one case. You know, there were times in the Territories when I'd pursue one criminal for weeks at a time. Sometimes months."

"But you always got your man, right?"

"Something like that. I learned, eventually, how to take my mind off tracking whomever I was tracking for a few minutes every day."

"To preserve your sanity?"

"Exactly."

"Maybe I should take up a hobby. Knitting, perhaps. Or kick boxing. Something relaxing, you know? Lower stress and blood pressure; work out extra energy, all those good things. Stress is the premature killer, i'n it? Aight." As she sipped her coffee, the tiny cell phone rang; she nearly up-ended the table answering it. After a clipped conversation, she shut the phone, and grabbed her Stetson. "That was Elaine. The marked car outside the Consulate spotted someone suspicious hanging around. They think it might be McCulla. Let's go."

6:10 PM

Pulling up in front of the Canadian offices, the Mounties quickly got out of their car, and headed to the marked car. A pair of uniformed Chicago cops were leaning against the blue and white car, obviously out of breath from a foot chase. Looking into the backseat of the cruiser, it was clear to the Canadians that the Americans hadn't caught whomever they were after.

"You didn't catch him?"

"Nope. Sorry Constable. We gave chase on foot, followed him almost 3 blocks that way." He pointed to the east. "Back alleys and everything. Then we turn a corner, and poof, he's gone."

"Damnit!" She slammed her hand on the hood of the car. Fraser posed the question of whether or not they were sure that the man they had chased was Burke McCulla. The officers said they were absolutely sure.

"We did call in backup, they're responding Code 2." Now that the chase was over, there was no need for the backup to rush to the Consulate with lights and sirens. After a few minutes, the police car pulled up quietly behind the other blue-and-white. The responding officers took over watching the Consulate, and the first pair of Americans then took the Mounties on a step-by-step walkthrough of the foot pursuit. Not even Fraser's keen tracking sense could pick up any trace of McCulla, even after almost two hours of diligent searching and re-tracing of the chase route. Once again, it seemed, the man had escaped the grasp of the police without so much as a single trace of evidence.

8:15 PM

The Consulate, strangely enough, was nearly empty. Most of the workers had finished early, and had left, knowing that the next day would be a day off (there was no use being the only governmental office open in the city on the 4^th of July, even if it was an American holiday). Only Fraser and Jane remained, plus a clerical worker or two. Fraser had gone into the Inspector's office to bring her up to date on the latest revelations in the case. Jane was in her office, checking her e-mails before going to dinner. Nothing of vital importance. Cpl. Teather had e-mailed her from Surrey to fill her in on what'd been going on of interest (she'd also been telling him a little about the case). Another e-mail from her mother (who didn't yet know about the case) was waiting.

As she finished typing her reply, she felt a light, cool summer breeze play across her shoulders and ruffle her hair. She was sure she'd have closed her window, but it wouldn't be the first time she'd have opened it without realizing until after the fact. After clicking the send button, she swiveled in her chair to close the window.

There, straddling the windowsill, was a man dressed head to toe in black. He had a large knife hanging off his belt. Jane tried to yell out and alert the others, but no sound came out as she fumbled for her .38. Before she could clear leather, the man jumped from the ledge. She ran to the window, and leaned out, but there was no sign of him below.

Running out of her office, she took the plush stairs two at a time, and rushed out onto the sidewalk. Heading down the sidewalk to the spot under her window, but she still found no trace of the man. Since the man had apparently survived the jump un-injured, she took to pursuit. Heading down the block, she saw movement, or what she thought was movement, in an alley. Approaching the gap between the two buildings, she threw herself against the wall, and looked around the corner. In the darkness, she could see nothing. Moving cautiously into the shadows, she moved down the alley. By the time she could see the other end she slowed to a stop. After a moment, she took another step forward when she heard a voice behind her.

"Constable, I did warn you to halt your investigation. Twice. And you failed to heed my warnings. And now you'll pay." She began to turn, but a pair of strong arms gripped her. One arm was held vice-like around her arms; the elbow of the other arm was crushing her throat. She tried to break free, but the man was too strong. "I warned you, and now you're going to die..."

The arm around her neck moved, and she gasped for air. Her relief was short-lived, however, when the unmistakable feel of cold steel against her throat replaced the elbow. Having failed at her other attempts to break free, she quickly brought her leg back, swiftly and painfully into his groin. The pain reflex caused him to pull his arms away. As he fell in pain, the knife dragged across her neck, cutting a number of blood vessels. Taking the opportunity she'd made for herself, she ran back down the alley towards the Consulate. As she reached the sidewalk, she turned to see the man struggle to his feet painfully and make his way towards her.

"Freeze! Police! I will shoot!" Before he even had a chance to react to her words, the Smith & Wesson .38 barked once, lighting the alley briefly. After barely a moment's pause, the revolver sounded 5 more times. The man was stopped in his tracks by the first bullet, the next 5 ripped into center mass before he hit the ground. Holstering the warm .38, she stood over him as the marked police car pulled into the alley, lights and sirens on. The smell of cordite gunpowder sat heavy on the air as the American police officers jumped from the car and approached the body. Seeing that there was nothing at all that could be done to help the man, one officer called in for an ambulance, and the other turned off the car's lights and sirens. With the scene turned over to the American authorities, Jane leaned against the cop car, closed her eyes, and faded into darkness.

Chapter 8

July 6^th

12:00 PM

"Good God, Fraser. The damned crap they pass off for food in this place could gag a buzzard." Pushing the very last rolling tray of hospital food she'd be served, she instead reached for the bag of clothes that Fraser had brought. The very first thing she pulled out was the jacket of her favorite brown serge. "Thanks, Fraser."

"You're quite welcome. I also took the liberty of bringing some personal effects. Make-up, jewelry, et cetera."

"Well, thank you kindly, good Constable." Fraser left the room. A few minutes later Jane emerged, looking no worse for wear, except for a pale knife wound starting near her left ear and disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt on the right side of her chest. She'd covered it up the best she could with make-up, but it was still plainly visible.

"How's your...uhh...neck feel?"

"Well, Fraser, it doesn't feel like anything anymore. Flesh wound, if anything."

"Jane, you had your jugular vein and one carotid artery cut."

"Like I said, flesh wound. And the scar'll be gone in a couple weeks, six at the most. Hey, you think I could get some of that sick leave? Turnbull got, what? Six weeks for appendicitis? What can I get for this? A couple months?' After a few moments' contemplation, she spoke again. "Eh, screw it. I'd go crazy after about a week."

"I highly doubt that. You'd keep yourself occupied."

"Yea, occupied with trouble." As they walked down the brightly lit corridor, the conversation took the predictable turn. "What about the coroner's inquest? Final conclusion?"

"Burke McCulla died of massive trauma to the chest. The first shot was deemed the fatal one. Right through the heart. The other five caused further damage to the internal organs, but in no way furthered cause of death."

"And the District Attorney?"

"The State's Attorney declared it a good shoot. Self defense by a peace officer in the line of duty. They're recommending that no RCMP inquest be held looking into the events." That was a blessing; any investigation into the shooting would put Jane on paid suspension for months, until it was completed. Jane nodded silently.

Stepping into the bright sunlight, she squinted to preserve her sight. It was warm out, a pleasing change from the constant climate controlled hospital room. The joy of being released from the hospital, she knew, would soon give way to incident reports to be sent to Ottawa and Regina and seemingly half a dozen other government offices across the Dominion, filed out in triplicate, signed with name and regimental number, dated, and stamped, like always. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she didn't find what she was looking for. Turning to Fraser, she took the proffered handkerchief from him with a nodded 'thank-you.' Unwrapping it, she shuffled the Deck, cut it, and read the top card.

Anything we do

May be unimportant.

But it's important

That we do it anyway.

She couldn't help laughing. Even it times like this, this beautiful gift always seemed to make sense, and a little point. Putting the Deck back into its accustomed place, she headed climbed into her passenger seat of the black Honda Accord, re-energized and ready to get the paperwork finished and sent off...

END