Title: Back At the Beginning All Over Again   Maria Woyma Normal
Maria Rey Woyma 2 18 2000-04-04T22:00:00Z 2000-04-04T22:00:00Z 45 15950
90917 MTC Consultants 757 181 111652 9.2720    0 0		    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. 
Feedback is much appreciated at TWoyma@aol.com.  � � Chapter 1 � Surrey,
British Columbia June 7th 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 22nd  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 29th 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 30th  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 5th 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 18th 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 27th. 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 27th 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 27th, 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.
� " 'I'm looking for something in red...   Something that's shocking, to
turn someone's head...	Strapless and seamless and cut down to there... 
Stockings and garters and lace underwear...  A guaranteed number to knock
a man dead...  I'm looking for something in red.' " � 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 2nd  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 27th'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 12th 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 12th?" � 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 12th 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 3rd 11:00 AM
� Walking into the 27th, 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 48th 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 4th 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 6th  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... � � �	� � � � �
� � � �