Cross Over The Road, a misc. books fanfic

Cross Over The Road. An Alex Cross spoof story.

By Richard Davey.

I've lived in DC all my life. Not the good DC, but the bad one. The one where everyone was stereotypically hard up. I grew up with no money, no parents, no pants, and a chip on my shoulder the size of Melville's Moby Dick. When my parents died, I went to live with my grandmother, who was sixty at the time, and she raised me, taught me right from wrong. As a result of this, when I grew up I joined the police force and ended up working homicide along with my best friend, Sampson, who had had an equally troubled childhood, although the specifics of his up bringing are not interesting enough to look at in any more depth. Despite our humble roots, we both work for the good of the neighbourhood, fighting against the bad guys, who are everyone else in DC. Even the other cops. There are only about three of four other cops in DC who aren't bigoted or lazy or interested only in promotion within the force, and it is up to my partner and I to inspire them to stand up against the corrupt officials, but mainly me. Only I am worthy of tackling crime in DC. I am forty years old. My name is Alex Cross.

I had recently single-handedly solved an exceptionally bizarre, and possibly unbelievable case involving no less than seven serial killers who had been working together under the tutelage of an elusive criminal mastermind, who seemed to know everything about me and my personal life and was most likely to be someone whom I knew very well and had worked with for a number of years solving crimes that were in fact committed by this same individual. This was a little annoying and had caused my family some stress. I had shipped them off to a relative's house with no explanation and had been ignoring their phone calls. The case was laid to rest after the seven serial killers broke into my heavily guarded house in broad daylight under the watchful eye of half the police department and hid themselves in my kitchen. Had it not been for the fact that I needed to clean up a pool of blood left from the previous night, when I had killed my seventy-third serial killer (the fifty-eighth in my own home), I would never have noticed them crammed into the cupboard under the sink. As chance would have it, I was doing the cleaning with my weapon drawn and managed to take them all down quickly … unfortunately, I would have more blood to clean up. The seven serial killers were dead, but I was no closer to catching the brains behind their operation.

My cell phone began to ring. I had stopped mopping the blood from the ceiling and had jumped into the shower, but I was now jumping out to snatch up the cell. It was an old friend from the FBI whom I had worked with before. I answered the call.

'Hello, Jack,' I said. 'What can I do for the FBI today?'

'Alex, we've just made a disturbing and farfetched discovery,' he said. 'We've been finding mutilated corpses for the past three months; all of them seem to share the same pattern. The victims are killed and displayed ritualistically as pieces of art. We just found the body of your late wife's sister's husband's nephew's best friend's uncle's postman's cousin's squash partner's business associate's passing acquaintance cut up into tiny pieces and arranged into a surprisingly accurate portrait of yourself. I'd give it a B overall because I think the killer seemed to have trouble getting the nose right … but then I suppose it must be pretty difficult to make an accurate nose from lungs … maybe an A minus … definite room for improvement.'

I was shocked.

'Derek's dead? I can't believe it. Where did you find him?'

'In your back yard.'

I looked out the window and saw Special Agent Ripper waving to me.

'I'll be there in an hour,' I said hanging up.

Having spoken to Special Agent Ripper, I began to ponder the significance of this grisly find. Another serial killer had struck in my own back yard, and what was more, it was in my own back yard. I surmised it was the work of the mysterious serial killer who had been plaguing me recently. This was unsettling and called for an impromptu musical interlude. I made my way out on to the back porch and sat at my piano, deciding to play some Bach, Mozart, Debussy, Rackmaninoff, Da Vinci, Aristotle, and KISS. As the final notes of Rock and Roll All Nite drifted through the air, a number of Crime Scene Investigators applauded, one or two had even raised lighters in the air. I stood up and took a bow, thanking the crowd and apologising for not giving an encore, before making my down to where Jack was kicking his feet in the dirt.

'Sorry to keep you waiting Jack,' I said. 'What have you got?'

'A piece of gum stuck to my shoe, but that's not important. This killer is one sick bastard and no mistaking.'

I looked over the corpse portrait, which was pretty good, but found no clues that would uncover the identity of the culprit. The killer had been very careful.

'Wait!' I yelled. 'What's that?'

'You mean the artist's signature?'

'No, above that.'

I stooped down and picked up what appeared to be a child's action figure, which had been half buried in the dirt.

'Isn't that a GI Joe figure?' Jack asked.

'Yes,' I replied, studying the toy. My mind was racing. It was obviously a message from the killer. He wanted to tell me something, but what? Was he telling us that he was a real American hero? Perhaps he was a soldier? A toy soldier? A child who had turned to killing because he hadn't got the latest figure that had the real ninja action? I turned to Jack

'I believe we're looking for someone aged between eight and twelve, but not under three years because the toy contains pieces which could become a choking hazard. I suggest we target Toys R Us and canvass the action figure aisles.'

Jack nodded and ran off with a team of agents in tow.

After the FBI had left, one of the Crime Scene Investigators approached me.

'Detective Cross?' He said quietly. He wore a sheepish look, as if he had something important to say, but was worried about the possible consequences. I knew this because I'm a psychologist, and that's the sort of thing psychologists do.

'Yes,' I replied, 'what is it?'

'Well, there's no easy way to put this Detective Cross, so I'll just come right out and say it. You have no clothes on.'

He was of course correct. I believed that whoever was responsible for this murder was also in some way implicated in my current nude status.

'I think the killer is sending us another message,' I thought out loud. The Crime Scene Investigator smiled politely. I made my way back into the house to get dressed, smiling at Investigators as I went and telling them they were doing a great job. Not one of them could look me in the eye. After I had my clothes on I decided that it was about time I went and saw my kids.

I am a single parent; my wife was killed in a drive-by shooting some years ago when I was forty, and I was left to raise our two children single-handedly. Although my grandmother does pretty much all the cooking, cleaning and actual raising, I am still the one who looks after them … when I'm not disappearing for weeks on end chasing the perpetual hordes of serial killers who I have upset in some way, they are my responsibility … or when I go off with my girlfriends on holiday and they turn out to be criminals, or are kidnapped by serial killers, or victims who have escaped from serial killers, or are murdered by serial killers (one of them hasn't actually been a serial killer yet, but there is still time), then it is up to my grandmother to raise them ... or if it's a Tuesday and I'm tired, or the month contains the letter 'A' … other than under those circumstances, I look after my children. It's a full time job. Oh, and I've also got another son, Alex Junior, from a later relationship. His mother got a bit peeved because I was always doing lots of work and she got kidnapped by a killer and imprisoned for over a year, then she ran away to another city and left me to look after the child … Nana-mama's been doing a sterling job, despite being ninety years old.

I drove across town to my Aunt's house, but when I got there it was a scene of total chaos. Squad cars, paramedics, and fire engines littered the street, and behind them all I could see my Aunt's house billowing smoke and flames. I jumped out of the Porsche and ran up to the police line.

'I'm Detective Cross,' I yelled, flashing my badge. 'Where's my family?'

One of the cops pointed to a cluster of people standing by an ambulance and, fearing the worst, I made my way over. Nana-mama was sat on a gurney, her clothes singed, and her hair smoking. Janelle and Damon were being forcibly restrained by a SWAT team and were alternately trying to kick and punch each other in the midst of a stream of the foulest language I had ever heard. They broke loose at one point and went at each other; I was pleased to see that my boxing lessons were being put to good use. The SWAT team, tired and visibly irritated, resorted to stun guns and mace to subdue the two children. My Aunt, meanwhile, was sat on the sidewalk holding Alex Jr. in her arms, staring at her blazing house and sobbing uncontrollably. I moved over to Nana-mama.

'Hey, Old Lady,' I said jovially to the ninety-eight year old, 'you been trying to cook?'

She fixed me with a cold glare that could have frozen the sun.

'Don't be smart with me you little shit,' she yelled. 'Where have you been? Your kids are running wild, and I'm too old to cope with them. Jesus, even your Aunt can't control those creatures.'

I was confused. Both Janelle and Damon had been such good children. This just wasn't like them.

'Creatures? What? They're model children,' I said. 'They never get into trouble. I teach them stuff, and we sing and play piano and do boxing in the basement. I'm an awesome father.'

'Awesome?' Nana-mama sneered. 'You've only spent six hours with them in the past eight months, and even then you were more concerned with the serial killer who'd moved in next door.'

This was true; Toby 'The Gut Fiddler' Faulks had been my next-door neighbour for two months before we both made the connection. It was quite funny really. You spend days searching for the sick killer who's plaguing the city, sending internal organs as grisly mementos to your office in the post, and in the evenings you invite him round for a beer and some tunes on the piano none the wiser. Like he said after I finally cornered him and realisation dawned on both our faces: 'You think you know someone!' I had replied with: 'It's a small world after all', before I shot him in the face.

'Well, that was unavoidable, Nana-mama. He may have tried to kill you or the rest of the family.'

'That's rubbish and you know it. He was targeting overweight, middle aged, white men with red hair. He said so himself when he came round to borrow your hacksaw.'

'He what now?'

'Said he was new to the area and needed to get back to work on his divine project to rid the world of Satan's Children and could he possibly have a lend of a saw. He was so polite, and it's so refreshing to see someone who genuinely seems to care about their work.'

'You knew that he was a killer?' I asked a little shocked.

'That's what I just said, isn't it?' Nana-mama replied. 'Do your ears need cleaning out boy? And why are you changing the subject? You've got to do something about your kids. I'm a hundred and three years old, I can't look after them forever.'

Nana-mama always had to have the last word.

Nana-mama was right of course; I did need to spend a little more time with them. I picked them up from jail the next day and took them to the local Bowl O Rama.

'Bowling?' Damon sneered in the way which only children on the verge of adolescence can. 'Bowling sucks. I don't wanna go bowling. Why are we going bowling? I hate bowling. You can't make me go bowling …'

He carried on in much the same way for the entire journey, but I managed to drown it out. Janelle on the other hand was relatively quiet; she was sat in the backseat staring out the window.

'You okay, Jannie?' I asked. She said something, but a truck drove by us at the same moment, blasting its horn. I think the last word was 'yourself'. I smiled at her in the mirror as we pulled into the Bowl O Rama parking lot.

'Well,' I said after I'd stepped out of the car, 'here we are. Just you two, me, and a whole load of bowling goodness.'

Janelle was scowling at me, while Damon listened to his iPod and kicked the Porsche's back bumper repeatedly.

'Great,' I said.

As we entered the bowling complex, my cell phone began to ring. I hadn't even answered it before both Damon and Janelle had turned around and were heading back to the car. It was Special Agent Ripper.

'Hello, Jack,' I said. 'How's the search coming along?'

'Really badly. We're outside Toys R Us now, but they wont let us back in.'

'Why not?'

'Agents Manson and Gacy got carried away; they were caught racing each other down the aisles on Spiderman scooters. The manager says he may have to call our moms and everything. What should we do?'

I thought for a moment and came up with a plan.

'You guys go home and have something to eat, I'll call my partner Sampson, have a sudden revelation, go to a remote spot with no backup, confront the killer, get attacked a little bit, kill the killer, and await for you to arrive.'

'Sounds perfect to me. See you soon.'

Special Agent Ripper hung up, and I made my way to the car … only to find it had gone, as were Damon and Janelle. I began to suspect that the killer had struck again, targeting my family, forcing me into his undoubtedly sick game of whatever game it is that would be a useful analogy because cat and mouse has already been used as a book title, until I realised that I was stood in the wrong part of the car park.

Having retrieved the car, and with both kids present and correct, I made my back to the house. Nana-mama had been released from hospital earlier on, the doctors had said she was the healthiest hundred and twelve year old they had ever treated, and so I quickly thrust the two children through the front door and ran to the Porsche before Nana-mama's shouts of protestation could reach my ears. She always had to have the last word.

I arrived at Sampson's house a few minutes later; he was sat outside on the front step, reading Aristotle and chugging a beer. He stood up and walked down to greet me.

'Alex, how's it going?' He said, hugging me.

'Good,' I replied, 'I'm good thanks.'

'So, what do you need? Should I round up a posse of like-minded cops to disobey the bigoted chief and work to our own agenda?'

'Not today I'm afraid.'

Sampson's face fell a little; he really enjoyed annoying the establishment.

'Oh,' he said quietly. 'Well, can I help you track down another serial killer without backup and get into a situation where, despite overwhelming odds and personal injury, we triumph … or you save my life again?'

I smiled apologetically.

'This time, Sampson, I think I need to rush off on my own and do something foolhardy that will leave me temporarily hospitalised, but will undoubtedly mean that a killer is stopped.'

Sampson stared down at his shoes. I felt bad for not allowing him to join me on my next escapade, but not bad enough to relent and actually let him join me.

'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but to keep the tension going, I need to do this on my own. But, there is a way you can help me.'

Sampson looked up, an expression of glee etched onto his face.

'Really?' He said.

'Yes, I need you to inspire an epiphany that will lead me to the killer, though I won't explain it to you until after the case is closed.'

'Oh, I can do that. No problem.'

Sampson stood thinking for a while.

'What case are you investing today? I've lost track of all the serial killers that have been plaguing your life recently.'

I explained to him the discovery of the body in my back yard, the portrait, the GI Joe figure, my unexplainable nudity, and the problems with Toys R Us. Sampson listened carefully, nodding at regular intervals. After a few moments, he went to sit back down at the front step, picking up his half empty beer.

'You know, Alex,' he said. 'This reminds of when we were growing up. We would always get into trouble, but not enough to tarnish our future characters. I remember one time when we were running around the local museum, we were pointing at the nude pictures and laughing, and then we saw an artist's name … it was Picasso, and you were saying that you bet he spent most of his time picking his ass hole. We laughed until the security guard escorted us from the building.'

'Yes,' I said. 'I remember that. It seems like so long ago now. You didn't have to worry about family members being kidnapped, friends being tortured, serial killers stalking you for months on end. Simpler times, but I don't miss them.'

'You don't?'

I thought about that for a second.

'Well, maybe a little.'

We both sat in silence for a while contemplating our childhoods, and then it struck me. I thanked Sampson for his help and drove back home.

When I got in, I ran straight past Nana-mama, who must have been playing with the kids, because she was gagged and bound to her favourite chair. She tried to get my attention, her muffled cries not penetrating the gag, but this couldn't wait. I ran out into the back yard, where a group of Crime Scene Investigators were still milling around playing five a side soccer.

'Who's in charge here?' I asked. The investigators looked at each other before one of them tentatively stepped forward.

'Well,' he said, 'I'm the referee, so I suppose I am.'

'Good, have you cleared up the corpse yet?'

'No, we usually let the family take care of that.'

'Fantastic, can you show me the body again?'

'Yes. You're standing in it now.'

I looked down and found entrails all over my shoes. I thanked the referee for his help and studied the corpse-portrait again. There was something I'd missed earlier on, just before I found the GI Joe figure, and there it was. The artist-killer had left his signature, written in bones. The killer was Paul James Thomas Kincaid Robert Fitzpatrick The Third, and I knew him. He was the District Attorney. I ran back to my Porsche and headed to his office.

When I got there, his receptionist told me he had left last night for a vacation at his holiday home, which was located on the edge of the state deep in some wooded area. She drew me a detailed map and gave me a spare key for the house. I asked her if he had said when he was going to be back, but she said that she couldn't reveal that kind of information.

After an hours drive, I pulled up to the DA's house. It looked deserted. I crept up the driveway and looked in all the windows. There was no one home. I let myself in with the spare keys and searched the house from top to bottom. There was nothing to suggest that Paul was a crazed serial killer, only a large collection of weapons, literature on killing, and a Dummies Guide to Slaughtering and Arranging Innocent Victims into Pieces of Art, nothing conclusive. It seemed a dead end. I locked up the house and stepped onto the driveway. I was about to head back to the car, when I spotted something in the back garden. It was a small shed-like building. The door was ajar and I could see lights shining from within. I approached it carefully, drawing my weapon as I went.

Beyond the door was a steep staircase that led to a subterranean bunker. I was halfway down the stairs when the lights went out. Paul knew I was here. I carefully stepped down until I reached the bottom, and then paused, listening for signs of movement. All I could hear was the sound of the blood rushing through my ears, or it was a toilet flushing, I'm not too sure which. I began to edge my way into the darkness, hoping that Paul would give his position away somehow. I decided to take a chance.

'Hello Paul,' I called out. 'May as well give up, I've got half the DCPD here with me. We know it was you who killed all those people, including my late wife's sister's husband's nephew's best friend's uncle's postman's cousin's squash partner's business associate's passing acquaintance, Derek. The games up.'

The bunker was silent for a few moments. Then Paul spoke.

'Detective Cross,' he said. 'So glad you could join me. I've been wondering how long it would take you to work out all the pieces of the puzzle and fit them together so that the puzzle itself is complete and not missing any bits, which can be so annoying … you spend ages on a one thousand piece puzzle only to find that one of the corners is missing and the house is fine, but the horse is four pieces short and you suspect, but can't prove, that the cat has chewed them up because you found what you thought was some papier mache behind the sofa, but it wasn't left over from when the kids did their art homework, as that was done in the kitchen, not the front room, and the cat keeps looking at you with that self satisfied expression as if to say 'that's what you get for not feeding me steak, you bastard, try and finish that one properly; and I've crapped in your shoe' … but I digress, I guess my main point was to enquire whether or not you worked out what the hell was going on?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I worked out that you were the serial killer, which is why I am here, now, to arrest and/or shoot you, whichever seems the best course of action.'

'Right … well, you know it was me, but do you know why?' Paul's dry cackle filled the air. I still didn't know where he was, but if he were caught up in a monologue, he wouldn't be as much of a threat.

'Um, because you're a serial killer?'

'Yes, but the exact reasons for my actions … have you worked them out yet?'

I had not expected this. Usually, I just find out that a person is a serial killer, take them down and add on some psychobabble so that it seems at least halfway plausible in the paperwork.

'Of course I have … it's … uh … because … because your father used to beat your mother when you were young.'

'Nope.'

'Because your mother beat your father?'

'No.'

'You were beaten by your parents?'

'That's it!'

'Really?'

'No, not really. You're way off.'

I sat down and thought really hard. There must be a good excuse for Paul's killing spree, if only I could find it.

'How about,' I said, 'when you were younger, you saw something that disturbed you so much that it lay dormant in your subconscious until recently when something was reawakened inside of you that prompted you to kill as a way of dealing with the trauma?'

'Oh, that's quite good.'

'Is it close?'

'I'm afraid not.'

This exchange continued for a good couple of hours, and every guess I made was nowhere near the truth, and I could tell that Paul was enjoying listen to me grasp at straws. A quarter of the way through the third hour, I admitted defeat.

'Okay, smarty-pants, I've got no idea what made you turn into a killer. Will you tell me now?'

Paul was silent for a while, and then he said:

'Oh, all right then. Five years ago, I was called into the DCPD headquarters to help on a case; a petty criminal named Victor La Serge had been arrested and the top brass got me involved. It was an open and shut case. La Serge was guilty and he ended up getting five years. After the case was closed, I decided to get a bite to eat at a local deli, and it was while I was in that deli that it all began. It was there that I met you, Alex.'

'My god … you mean …'

'That's right. I leant you five bucks for a sandwich and YOU NEVER PAID ME BACK.'

'What? I thought it was because I shot your wife.'

'Susan? Why would that have set me off? She was a serial killer; she knew the risks involved. No, it was definitely the fact you still owe me money.'

This explained everything, especially why Paul had targeted Derek and made him into a portrait of myself. There was just one thing that didn't quite fit in to place.

'But,' I said, 'what about the GI Joe figure?'

'That wasn't me,' Paul replied. 'Now, it's time to die or something a little more original … we serial killers are becoming more clichéd by the day.'

I heard movement up ahead, but I couldn't gauge where Paul was. I shot blindly on the off chance that I would hit him, but I obviously missed as the next thing I knew, I was hit in the head. I stumbled, dazed, and fell to the floor. Paul took the gun away from me and threw it away despite the fact that it would have been more sensible to keep hold of it and use it to kill me, but that would have been too easy … serial killers may think that they are smarter than everyone else, but when it comes to the crunch, they don't really think things through properly.

I struggled with Paul in the darkness, still blinking stars from in front of my eyes. He hit me a few more times, and I feared I'd lose consciousness. I was getting desperate. My hands flailed about, searching for something I could use to fend off my attacker. As Paul's beatings became more ferocious, my fingers closed around an object. It was now or never. I turned the tables around.

Paul screamed out in pain, the beating stopped.

'Jesus Christ,' he yelped, 'that was right in my eye. Where did you get that rubber band from?'

Without thinking, I kicked out and heard Paul curse, crying out that his shin now really hurt. I got to my feet and managed to find a light switch. Paul was laying on the floor in agony. I retrieved my gun and pointed it down at the stricken serial killer.

'It's over, Paul,' I said. 'Are you going to come quietly?'

Paul's laughter filled the bunker.

'What kind of a crazed serial killer would I be if I just handed myself over to the police? No, I think one final foolhardy attempt to kill you is in order.'

Paul leaped up at me, brandishing the weapon he'd been using to beat me. It was one of his shoes. I dodged the blow, spinning Paul around and around until he was really dizzy then I let go of him and watched as he tried to gain his balance, fell over, and began cursing my name. He had almost steadied himself when he threw the shoe at me. It sailed past my head. An inch or two to the left, and I wouldn't have been left standing … I'd be sat on the floor rubbing my head and probably crying. Before the shoe missile had touched the ground, I had shot Paul three times.

He lay on the floor, bleeding heavily. He didn't have much time left on this world. He was coughing and spluttering.

'Alex?' He said quietly. 'Alex, there's something … I must … tell you before … I die.'

'What is it?' I asked equally as quietly, perhaps a little too quietly because I had to repeat myself a little louder so that he could actually hear what I was saying.

'It … wasn't me … who … sent the … seven … serial killers. There is … another … killer.'

I should have been shocked, but this sort of thing happened so regularly that it was now par for the course that no matter how bizarre and complicated and unique a case is, it is somehow related to a completely separate and just as bizarre, complicated, and unique case.

'Here we go,' I muttered. 'Okay, who's the other killer?'

'It's … it's … it's … it's …'Paul carried on like this for some time, breaking up the flow with the occasional sputtering of blood that he coughed up from his mortal wounds. While I waited for him to divulge the information, I completed a couple of Sudoku puzzles I had found in my back pocket.

'It's … it's … it's …'

I checked my watch. Damn it. Diagnosis Murder would be on soon, and I realised I hadn't set the video to record it. Hopefully, Sampson would still be in. I could probably call him in a minute or two and ask him if he could tape it.

'It's … it's …'

I went back up to the house and fixed myself a cup of coffee and a sandwich, then used Paul's phone to call Sampson. We chatted for about half an hour. He agreed to video Diagnosis Murder on the condition that I told him where I was so he could then inform the FBI. I reluctantly agreed, but only because this episode was the conclusion of a two-parter in which Dr. Mark Sloane discovers that his son, Steve, has been selling crack cocaine and weapons to children in his spare time; it's pretty gritty and I heard a rumour that the finale involves a speedboat chase, a gunfight with both father and son dangling from a helicopter which is on fire, and a touching moment where Steve and Mark pause to save a puppy, before they annihilate the hospital with rocket launchers. The show really turned around when Jerry Bruckheimer started working on it.

After I hung up the phone and had finished my sandwich, I returned to the bunker.

'It's … it's … it's …a … a … it's a …you know … one … one of … those … people … you … know … they've got … lots of … with … the … things … you can't … what are they called … like … that other … guy … the … x … files …'

'David Duchovny is the killer?'

'No … it's …'

'Gillian Anderson?'

'NO … it's …'

'Not Chris Carter?'

'No … it's … the … people they … work for …'

'Twentieth Century Fox are the killers? That makes sense actually …'

'Will … you … shut … up … it's, oh, bloody hell, it's someone a bit like the Mastermind, you know, Kyle Craig, I'm not saying they're FBI, but they've been orchestrating crimes and stuff, so there you go … one case closes and another opens up right at the end …'

Paul went still. Another killer on the loose. What are the odds? I'd have to rush back to the city and start solving this case now. I'll spend the evening reading through all of the unsolved murders in the USA since the fifteen hundreds, I expect I'll find a connection that links them all to this mystery serial killer.

'Oh … Alex?'

'Paul? I thought you were dead.'

'Not quite … there's just one more thing.'

What macabre revelation would be uncovered now, I wondered?

'Could you feed my cat? I haven't organised for anyone to clean up the house … oh, and can you ring my brother Clive and tell him what's happened … he'll look after the kids and stuff … and there's some cheesecake in the fridge … you can have it if you want … I don't need it any more …and I think I left the light on in my bedroom, can you turn it off before you leave?'

Paul fell silent again. I think he was really dead this time, but to make sure, I shot him again.

The FBI, local police, ambulances, reporters, well-wishers, and assorted clowns, jugglers and acrobats arrived not long after. A team of paramedics worked on my wounds, applying a bit of Sudocrem to the slight bump I'd received from Paul's shoe attack. Special Agent Ripper hovered near by, waiting to be filled in on everything that had happened. I told him everything, even going so far as to re-enact the final fight with a hapless clown who happened to be standing nearby. After the coroner had removed the clown, I told Jack about Paul's revelation.

'My God,' he said, 'another organised and mysterious serial killer possibly in some position of authority? What are the chances?'

'I know,' I said. 'It's uncanny, isn't it?'

'That might explain this,' Jack said, handing over an envelope addressed to me. I opened it up and looked over the contents. It was a letter written by hand. I read it out loud … not just so that Jack could hear, but also because that's how I read.

Dear Alex, how are things? My sources inform me that you have apprehended our mutual friend, DA Paul Fitzpatrick; my most heartfelt congratulations go out to you, this must be some kind of record.

I paused for a moment. It was a record. The people from Guinness had been to see me last week and had presented me with a plaque: Most Serial Killers Killed By Someone Who Isn't Themselves A Serial Killer Due To A Technicality In The Law Being That They Are In Law Enforcement And Not Just Some Random Mentalist. I had kept quiet about the award because I was going to show it to Nana-mama next week on her one hundred and thirty fifth birthday. I carried on reading.

I have been watching your progress for some time now and feel that I should introduce myself. I am your nemesis. I think we shall enjoy working with one another in the coming months. I have a riddle for you to solve. Are you paying attention? Can you bite your left elbow, while touching your right wrist with your right hand? Do it now, or more will die. You are being watched.

Without waiting I leapt to my feet and began trying to bite my elbow and touch my wrist; a few seconds later the paramedics wrestled me to the ground, shouting about fits and seizures. Special Agent Ripper looked on the scene with growing dismay.

'Who is this sick person?' He said. After the paramedics released me, I patted the dirt off of my clothes.

'He's some kind of demented genius,' I replied. 'He must have somehow known that I would carry out his task in a public place.'

'Yes,' mused Jack, 'maybe that's why he asked you to do it in the letter.'

'Yes.'

'Indeed.' This was getting us nowhere. Special Agent Ripper excused himself, telling me that he had an important phone call to make. I watched Jack as he walked over to a tree and started dialling a number. No sooner had Special Agent Ripper gone to make his phone call, than my own cell phone began to ring.

'Alex Cross,' I answered.

'Hello, Detective,' the voice replied. 'I did enjoy your little task. Tell me, did you feel silly flailing about as if you were mental?'

I heard laughter down the line. The mysterious killer was toying with me. I tried to get Jack's attention, but he was still on the phone. He appeared to be sharing a joke with whomever he was talking to.

'Listen to me, you,' I said in my most serious voice ever. 'I'll catch you and stop your maniacal games, if it's the last thing I do.'

'Oh, I'm sure it will be. No, wait, what I meant is that I'll kill you, not that you'll catch me or whatever … I'm far too amazing for the likes of you. Fact.' The mysterious killer hung up.

I was wondering what to make of all this when Jack returned to my side.

'I've just had a call from the mysterious killer,' I said.

'I'm acting surprised!' He said. 'We've had a break in the case. It turns out that the killer left a surprise for you in the trunk of your car.'

'No way,' I muttered.

'Yes way.'

I raced to my Porsche with Special Agent Ripper in tow. He called out to Agents Manson and Gacy to come and help. We all stood around the trunk and I slowly opened it up, cautiously. We were all holding our breaths, but started breathing again soon after as I was being so slow with the opening of the trunk. After five minutes, the trunk was fully open, and we all peered inside. I gasped, Agent Gacy vomited, and Agent Manson swooned and had to be fanned back to consciousness by Special Agent Ripper. Inside the trunk was a body.

'Jesus,' I said through gritted teeth. 'What kind of sick monster are we dealing with here?'

'I couldn't possibly tell you,' Jack replied. The corpse was fresh; it was a white male in his fifties. I couldn't tell how he had died, but it was what had been done to the corpse that had shocked us all, except possibly Jack, who had been very calm and collected about the whole thing.

'What is that?' Asked Agent Manson. 'It looks like …'

'Yes,' I replied. 'The mysterious killer has dressed the victim in an orange t-shirt and pink and yellow stripped trousers. Not only that, but he has also put a pair of lime green loafers on his feet.'

'The bastard,' Agent Gacy said vehemently.

I whole-heartedly agreed with Gacy's comment.

'I've got to make a quick phone call … it's, er, to my mom,' Jack said suddenly. 'I'll be back in a minute.'

As Jack left, my cell began to ring once more. It was the killer again.

'Did you like my gift, Detective Cross?' The killer asked.

'Yes,' I replied. 'It was very thoughtful of you, but really, you shouldn't have.'

'I know, but I can never come to a party empty handed. Tell me, Alex, what did you bring?'

'A knack for catching serial killers and an aloof demeanour coupled with a sprinkling of egotism?'

'No, Cross. You brought this on yourself.' And the killer hung up.

Jack re-appeared and asked what had been happening. I told him about the latest phone call.

'I'm … he's obviously playing games with you. What are you going to do about it?'

I thought for a few moments, before replying.

'Until we find out who the victim was, there's not a lot we can do, so I think I'm going to go home for a while.'

When I got home, I found Nana-mama was still in the middle of her game with the kids. Though I usually let them carry on playing while I get down to some serious piano playing and thinking about stuff to do with catching serial killers, I was tired and wanted something to eat. I had been rushing around all day and felt that Nana-mama should cook me some food. I untied her from the chair and listened to her re-cap on the fun and frolics that she had got up to with the children.

'… then they stole all my money, took the TV yelling that they were going to sell it, and threatened to put me in an old peoples home if I did anything to try and stop them. Alex, this is the last straw. I'm calling the cops.'

I laughed. Nana-mama really gets caught up in the games. She's got quite an active imagination for a one hundred and sixty year old.

'That's great, Nana-mama. Now, could you cook up a steak for my tea?'

Nana-mama bustled off to the kitchen muttering under her breath, while I took a seat at the piano and played amazingly. I'd just finished playing some Aphex Twin when my cell rang. It was Sampson.

'Hey, man,' I said, 'what's up?'

'We've got ourselves two bodies. I need your help.'

I told Sampson I'd be right there and hung up. Then I had to ring him back again to ask him where the bodies were. After he'd told me, I hung up.

Thirty minutes later, I was stood with Sampson, surveying the scene. We were on a busy shopping strip in downtown. The sidewalk had been cordoned off. I looked down at the two bodies. They were both male, and they had both been shot.

'I just can't figure it out,' Sampson said, massaging his forehead with his hand. I too was a little confused. The first man had been shot in the chest six times by the looks of things; he appeared to be in his thirties, and looked quite normal. The second man had been shot in the head; he too was around thirty years old and also normal looking. What puzzled me was that the serial killer had left their gun in the second man's hand.

'Were there any witnesses?' I asked. Sampson nodded.

'But here's the crazy thing,' he said, 'not one of them can remember seeing the serial killer approach these two guys.'

'No one?'

'Nope, they all recall seeing the second man approach the first, shouting something about how he had taken his wife away from him, that this was his revenge, or betrayal, or something, then they heard the initial gunshots. That was when the first man went down. I asked them if they knew which direction the shots came from and they seemed to think that they came from the vicinity of the gun in the second guy's hand, but not one of them recall seeing a serial killer in that area.'

This was getting stranger by the minute. There were two dead bodies, the first shot multiple times in what would appear to be a frenzied attack; the second had the look of a self-inflicted wound. Why would a serial killer apply two such differing methods of murder?

'Is there anything else?' I asked Sampson. He handed me a piece of paper inside a plastic pocket.

'This was found by the second victim's body. We think it may be from the killer.'

I studied the piece of paper. It was a hastily written note. The handwriting was erratic; possibly indicating that whoever wrote it was in a state of serious distress. It read: 'My god, what have I done? I didn't mean to kill my own brother, but when I caught him with my wife, I just snapped. I'm sorry.' The note was signed, but a bloodstain had rendered it indecipherable.

'Have we got an ID on the two victims?' I asked. Sampson shook his head.

'We're still working on that,' he said. 'As soon as we get the bodies back to the morgue we can start doing DNA tests and all of that kind of technical stuff. We should know who they are in a couple of days, maybe a week or so.'

'They didn't have any thing at all in their wallets?'

Sampson looked at me for a moment.

'Right,' he said, 'of course, wallets. Why didn't I think of that earlier?'

Sampson went over to the bodies and began searching through their pockets. As I watched him working, occasionally slipping over in the blood, I heard my cell phone begin to ring.

'Cross,' I said.

'No,' the voice answered, 'I'm in a good mood actually. It's Jack. We got an ID on the corpse in the back of your car. By the way, you may want to get it into a morgue, I don't think Porsche trunks are that good at keeping bodies.'

'I did wonder what the smell was; thought one of the kids had left an old sandwich back there. So who is he then?'

'Bob Fielding, a taxi driver in the city. He's been missing for three days.'

'Wait, did you say Bob Fielding?'

'Yes, why?'

'Fifteen years ago I had to go to a meeting downtown, this was before I had the Porsche, I hailed a taxi out side my house and it was being driven by Bob Fielding.'

'Really? That's quite … wow, you actually knew this guy? It's not just a random person I … the killer happened to find at short notice for no good reason?'

'No, I one hundred percent know Bob Fielding. Ever since that meeting, we've kept in touch … I'm his son's godfather.'

'Get out of here? Really?'

'No word of a lie.'

'Then how come you didn't recognise him earlier on?'

'He had on lime green loafers.'

'Fair enough. Anyway, just thought I'd let you know what was going on. How're you getting on?'

'I'm at another crime scene … seems that the serial killer struck again. He killed two men in public.'

'But I didn't … know … that there had been another killing. Are you sure it's the same killer?'

'Of course it is … it couldn't possibly be a random, unconnected killing that's easily solvable … it's definitely the work of a serial killer.'

'Oh … okay then, well … I'll be off to kill … some time. I'll be in touch Alex.'

Jack hung up and I went over to Sampson, who was now covered head to toe in the blood of the victims.

'Well how about that,' he said. 'They did have ID. The one shot six times is Timothy Procter; the one shot in the head is Wayne Procter … seems they're brothers. Also, Wayne Procter's wife has just shown up and formally identified both victims.'

'Does she know who the serial killer is?' I asked.

'No,' Sampson replied. 'But she's a little distraught at the moment. She's crying and saying that it's all her fault … keeps saying that she shouldn't have messed around with Timothy behind Wayne's back because she knew something like this might happen if he found out.'

'What? She knew they'd both be targeted by a serial killer?'

'I don't know. Things are a little confused at the moment.'

Suddenly, there was another gunshot. Sampson and I span around, our weapons drawn, to see Mrs. Procter lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

'My God,' I cried, 'the killer's struck again. And look, he's left his gun in her hands again.'

We ran around trying to figure out how the serial killer could have possibly pulled off such an audacious murder in front of our very eyes. The killer had vanished once again. Some of the onlookers tried to be helpful, but they were as confused as we; they all reported that Mrs. Procter had shot herself. Whoever this serial killer was, he was good.

I left the crime scene not long after the third shooting as there was nothing much I could do to help with the case … although I did tell Sampson that I was going to check on some leads because I didn't want him to know that I was essentially clueless. I drove home via the morgue, where I dropped off Bob Fielding's body. When I got inside the house, Damon, Janelle, Alex Jr. and Nana-mama were sat waiting for me.

'How's my happy family?' I asked. They all started talking at once, and I couldn't catch a lot of what was being said, but suffice to say it was pretty heated. After five minutes, Nana-mama stormed off to her room, Damon left the house, and Janelle ran into the basement and looked the door. I was left with Alex Jr.

'Hey little man,' I said, 'are you pleased to see me, or what?' Alex Jr replied by vomiting all over me.

As I was washing myself off, I got a call on my cell phone.

'Alex Cross,' I said.

'Detective Cross, my name is Special Agent Bundy. I was told to get in touch with you if ever I had a problem.'

'I'm listening.'

'I need you to come to Atlanta right away, it's a matter of some importance.'

Special Agent Bundy gave me his address and told me that a flight had already been booked in my name. I left immediately.

As soon as I had touched down in Atlanta, I grabbed a taxi and raced over to the FBI building. Somehow, I knew that this request for assistance had something to do with the serial killer's devilish schemes. Who was this guy? Paul had told me the serial killer had been like Kyle Craig, the Mastermind, so who was this guy? I decided to call him the Krypton Factor, as the Weakest Link was ludicrous and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire had been used already for a serial killer in Patagonia. I had no clues to go on, and not even a far-fetched hunch that could wrap up the case swiftly with little explanation.

The taxi pulled up to the FBI building and I hopped out, running straight in. I waited in line to be searched by the security guards, watching as the long line of Special Agents filtered through depositing their various weapons at the desk. I didn't know that, axes, hammers, chainsaws, and briefcases full of poison, were standard side arms issued to the Agents, but I guess there's a lot I don't know about the FBI.

When I finally got past the security check, I raced up to Special Agent Bundy's office. Inside were around a half dozen agents, all sat round listening to Bundy lecture.

'… now a 'B' looks like this,' Bundy was saying while he drew the letter on the blackboard. 'In its lowercase form, it looks a little like an 'L' with a backwards 'C' near the bottom.' There was a chorus of muttering from the agents and the sound of pencils scribbling notes frantically.

Bundy glanced my way and dismissed the class, reminding them that their homework was due in on Thursday. Some of the agents groaned, but when one of them suggested a game of Tag outside, they turned into cheers.

When we were alone, I approached Bundy.

'I'm Alex Cross,' I said, holding out my hand. Bundy shook it.

'I'm pleased to meet you,' he said. 'Thank you for coming at such short notice. I expect you're wondering why you're here?'

'The thought had crossed my mind. Is it another serial killer? Or is it the Krypton Factor?'

Special Agent Bundy shook his head and walked over to his desk.

'It's nothing to do with serial killers, or this … Krypton Factor thing,' he said rather sternly. 'It's something far more urgent than that, a real life or death situation.'

He rummaged through a pile of papers for a few moments until he found what he was looking for. He handed a document to me. I read through it a couple of times. I was stunned.

'This is terrible,' I said. 'Truly awful.'

Bundy sighed.

'I know. That's why I called you over. I've been working on this for six weeks now and just can't get my head around it at all. Is there anything you can do?'

I looked over the document once more.

'Well, for starters, you don't begin a letter "Hello There Mr. Father of the Guy that died." It's a little thoughtless … you need to say "Dear Sir", or "Dear Mr. …" and put his surname in. Also, you shouldn't open a letter of this kind by asking him how the weather is, or whether he has been watching the new series of Big Brother even if it has been "really really good". You need to sound more professional.'

I turned over the letter and read to another point that stood out as being particularly bad.

'Look at this section here,' I said. Special Agent Bundy looked over my shoulder at the letter.

'What's so bad about this bit?' He asked.

'You're keeping the "father of the guy that died" informed of the developments in your case, correct?'

'Yes.'

'You shouldn't be writing things like … "the Guy that died was, like, totally crying and stuff … and he poo'd his pants, which is gross … the killer Guy was, like, hitting him loads of times, it must've been a bit like 'ow ow! Stop hitting me with that crow bar! It hurts!' But the killer would've been, like, 'no way! Mr. Crybaby! You smell!' and then, like, POW, POW, with more crying and stuff before he is deaded and his head is all icky." It's just not right.'

'I see,' said Bundy thoughtfully, taking notes on a post-it.

'And under no circumstances should you include the crime scene photos.'

'But they're really good …'

'That's as maybe, but in each one the Agents on the scene are grinning, making faces, standing with their arms around each other, and pointing at the corpse while holding their thumbs up … this is probably the worst letter that I've ever seen.'

Special Agent Bundy looked crestfallen.

'Is there anything you can do?' he asked me.

I thought about it, and then suggested he re-write the whole thing, using a template letter from someone else's casebook. He thanked me for my help and began the composition again. After about half an hour, I realised that my services were no longer needed, so I decided to leave, but as I got to the door, Special Agent Bundy called out to me.

'Just one more thing Detective Cross,' he said. 'The biggest mystery of all … how do you end a letter? Is it "yours faithfully", or "yours sincerely"?'

'In this case, "yours sincerely".'

I made my way back down to the lobby of the FBI building and queued up to get my gun back. As I was standing in line, my cell phone began to ring. It was the Krypton Factor.

'Hello, Alex,' The Krypton Factor said. 'How are things in Atlanta? Did you solve the mystery? Are you closer to catching me?'

'What mystery?' I asked confused.

'Special Agent Bundy's conundrum.'

'The letter was a conundrum?'

'No … after you'd finished with the letter … he asked you something.'

'He did?'

'Yes … just as you were leaving.'

'Really?'

'Yes … he was … god … I mean it was literally about two minutes ago. He asked you a question about letters …'

'He was drawing a "B" on the blackboard …'

'No, that was when you first got there.'

'Letters?'

I heard an exasperated moan down the phone line.

'What you're supposed to say Alex is "The answer to the mystery was Yours Sincerely', which I take means that I know you in some way." And then I say: "You're quite astute, Detective Cross. Now, perhaps you can answer me this next mystery". Are you listening?'

'Yes,' I replied.

'Knock, Knock.'

'Who's there?'

'Nobody.'

'Nobody who?' I replied. 'Nobody who? Nobody who? Hello? Nobody who?'

I tried for a couple of hours to get a response from the Krypton Factor, after that I surmised that he had hung up long ago. Irritated that the killer had foiled me once more, I paused only to tie up an FBI agent's shoelaces before heading back to the airport.

When I got back to DC, I found the city in a state of absolute chaos. The streets were filled with rioting citizens; Cars had been set alight and buildings were being looted. The police were running around trying to quell the masses, but they were fighting a losing battle.

I fought my way through the streets, pausing to take a down a couple of serial killers I'd been after for a few months, making my way slowly home. When I reached the house, I found Sampson sitting outside with a grave expression on his face.

'What's up man?' I asked him.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the house.

'Some serial killer has broken into your house, again, and threatened your family, again, while you were running around doing petty chores for the FBI, again, and I was left in charge of trying to keep the peace in all of DC, again, and it's ended in total carnage, again.'

I got the impression he was a little annoyed at me.

'Still, at least you're okay? Right?' I said.

'Yes,' he said stiffly. 'I'm fine … apart from the missing arm and all.'

'I thought you looked a bit different.'

'Well, you better get in there and save the day, again. If you need me, I'll be in the hospital, again.'

I watched Sampson stumble off, leaving a trail of blood as he went. I couldn't help but think he was feeling a little left out of this adventure, but I couldn't let that bother me now … a serial killer had broken into my home and threatened my family.

I broke down the door and stormed into the front room to find my entire family gagged and bound on the carpet, and when I say entire family, I mean that literally … there must have been about sixty people crammed in there … there hadn't been that many people there since Nana-mama's one hundred and eightieth birthday party.

Standing in the corner was a masked man, brandishing a shotgun, which I thought was either the serial killer, or my cousin Eddie.

'Detective Cross,' the masked man said. 'So nice of you to join us … have you gotten to the bottom of the case yet? Do you know who I am?'

'My god,' I cried out, 'you're the Krypton Factor!'

'Yes, that's ri … who?'

'The Krypton Factor … that's what I decided to call you … thought I'd keep up the theme of Serial Killers Named After British Quiz Shows.'

'That's rubbish,' he said angrily. 'I felt I was more like a "Mutilator", or "The Hacker", or better still, "The Executorer", those are much better names.'

'Maybe, but I'm the one who will get the credit for stopping you, so I can be the one to give you a suitable serial killer name, so there.'

The Krypton Factor became enraged and swung the shotgun around, pointing at various members of my family.

'Okay, Cross, who's the first to die?'

I held my tongue from saying Uncle Delbert, who'd promised to get me a bike when I was younger but had never come through, and watched impassively as I tried to think of something good to do that would stop the Krypton Factor.

'I can't let you harm my family, Krypton Factor; you may as well give up now. The FBI are on their way over now … you're going down.'

'Oh, Alex,' the Krypton Factor said. 'You really are quite stupid aren't you. The FBI won't be coming, because I've sent them all to Alaska on a special mission.'

'What? How could you possibly …' but I stopped speaking as the Krypton Factor removed his mask. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was Special Agent Jack Ripper.

'Jack?' I said, bemused. 'But how … why … what?'

'Oh, come on Alex,' he replied. 'It was pretty obvious from the very beginning. God, you even saw me making the phone calls from the serial killer … didn't it strike you as odd that whenever I excused myself to make a phone call, you suddenly received a phone call from the killer?'

'Well, now that you mention it …'

'All this time Alex, I've been going on a murderous spree, and it's all because of you.'

'I don't owe you money, do I?'

'No, it's not about money, it's about … food.'

I was shocked and stunned and baffled and other stuff.

'What do you mean food?' I said.

'Unbeknownst to you, I have been wearing a clever disguise for some time now, I have infiltrated the upper echelons of the FBI and used their resources for my own ends, all to lead you away from the truth … a truth that shall haunt you for many years to come … well, maybe not many years, as I do plan to kill you quite soon … you see, I am not Special Agent Jack Ripper, I am …' Jack pressed a hidden button on his sleeve and a series of clicks, whirs, and hisses, issued from within his suit. I watched as the skin around his face began to separate in a mechanical motion. It took only a few moments, but afterwards, I stared with my mouth hanging open. '… Rosie the Cat.'

I've encountered a number of surprise twists during my many years as a detective catching serial killers, but I have to say that this was by far the most bizarre and unexpected.

'So, let me get this straight,' I said when I had regained the power of speech. 'Rosie the Cat is in fact a serial killer disguised as an FBI agent who I set onto a killing spree because of the food I gave her?'

'You are correct, human fool,' Rosie replied. 'We cats do not care for Kit-E-Kat, Whiskers, or Felix … we prefer cooked chicken, roast beef, and sometimes, pork. Not to mention fishes of various kinds. But the garbage you serve us … processed giblets … the scraps that even the hungriest human would not touch … they are enough to incite homicidal machinations.'

Rosie, still somehow able to hold the shotgun, began to approach me.

'Alex,' she said. 'For what you have done to me and my kind you must pay the price and that price is … death.'

Rosie pulled the trigger and had I been a millisecond late in leaping to the floor, I would have been killed. Rosie threw the gun to one side and pounced upon my back, scratching at me and mewing furiously. I cried out in pain, scrambling to throw her off, but she dug in her claws and wouldn't budge. The next thing I knew, she had leaped onto my head and was attacking my ear viciously. I tried to grab her again, but couldn't catch a hold. By now, my ear was bleeding profusely. I decided to try another tactic, one that would either stop the attack or goad her ferocity. I stood up with Rosie clinging to the back of my head.

'Rosie,' I shouted. 'No. Bad kitty, psst, psst. No.'

I felt her paws pause. Her domesticated nature overriding her animalistic nature. That was when the tables turned. I grabbed her firmly and pulled from my scalp, her claws digging into the skin as she came. She hissed at my with such vitriol, that I could hardly recognise the cute little kitty who had been a part of the family for so long now … then I remembered that she had been a gift from another serial killer … Gary Sonny Jim, or something. I've come across so many now that I'm losing track of their names, although I was considering starting an internet database of them all … a bit like , but with mass murderers rather than films … but that's irrelevant at the moment … Rosie was a gift from a killer, and it stands to reason that she would also carry serial killeristic traits, I had read studies on it and everything … and I wrote a book on the subject too, so I'm not just making it up so that the whole situation can sound half-way believable … it was psychological fact. Bearing this in mind I found it much easier to view Rosie as an evil malignant being rather than a cute fluffy little kitty who had often slept on my chest at night, purring contentedly. I threw Rosie into the corner and leaped at her, using some moves I'd picked up from watching WWF; after twenty minutes, and a succession of body slams, pile drivers, and a diving hurricanrana, the feline was pummelled into unconsciousness and the twenty fight was over.

I stood up, scratched and bruised, my clothes torn and bloodied, and surveyed the scene; the limp kitty laying at my feet, the hostages looking at me, their eyes filled with what I assumed must be eternal gratitude, and a number of uniformed officers who must have shown up during the fight.

'It's all over,' I said breathing heavily. 'The Krypton Factor has been vanquished.'

The uniformed officers looked at each other before one of them stepped forward.

'Detective Cross?' He asked.

'That's me,' I replied, 'Serial Killer stopper extraordinaire. Are you local Police?'

'Not quite,' he mumbled. 'My name is Montgomery Slim, I'm with the ASPCA.'

'The what? Is that part of the FBI?'

'No, it stands for the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.'

For some strange reason I got the impression that things were about to go a bit wrong.

'Oh,' I said. 'Right.'

We looked at each other and then our eyes turned to the kitten on the floor.

'It's not what you think …' I began to say, but I was interrupted.

'Detective Cross,' Slim said, 'we have received a very disturbing report that catalogues a series of increasingly brutal attacks upon a small feline which goes by the name of Rosie. These attacks are reportedly commonplace in this household and we have been asked to intervene with the full extent of the law.'

'There's been a terrible mistake,' I said anxiously. 'You see, that kitten is in fact a deranged serial killer who I have named the Krypton Factor … it's responsible for countless unsolved homicides around the country … maybe even the world …'

I could see that Mr. Slim was having trouble believing my story, so I turned to my family for help. I walked over to Nana-mama, Janelle, and Damon, and unbound them one by one.

'Guys,' I said. 'Tell Mr. Slim about Rosie.'

They looked at me, then Slim, then each other, and then all began talking at the same time. They talked about vicious attacks, beatings, torture, and how they had feared for Rosie's life on several occasions but had been unable to do anything about the situation for they too were living in fear for their lives. I began to protest but my cries fell on deaf ears. I thought that all was lost, but then I saw Sampson walking in, his arm re-attached and held in a sling … pretty fast work for the hospital I thought. I walked over to him and placed my hand gently on his shoulder.

'Sampson, my man,' I said. 'You've got to help me out here. All these people think that I'm some kind of monster.'

Sampson looked around at Slim and my family. Nana-mama nodded her head at him ever so slightly.

'Alex,' he said. 'I'm arresting you for extreme animal cruelty … you have the right to remain silent …'

As Sampson read me my rights and cuffed me I wondered if perhaps I should have paid a little more attention to my family and friends and a little less time trying to save the world single-handed. Sampson led me to a squad car and pushed me in forcefully, banging my head on the car's frame as I went. By now, all the members of my family had been released and were huddled together listening to Nana-mama … I'd like to think that all she was doing was hoping they were all right, but from her gesticulations, I got the distinct impression that she was making sure they all had their stories correct for witness reports … God bless her, she may be two hundred years old, but she's still as devious as a ninety-eight year old.

I won't go into the details of the trial … I'll just say that it last a couple of months and the prosecution pulled out all the stops … almost everyone I knew were called as witnesses. I was found unanimously guilty of animal cruelty and the Judge, who I knew to be a hardcore animal rights campaigner, threw the book at me … it caught me on the side of my head and cut quite deeply, but no one offered much sympathy. I got life with no chance of parole for at least eighty years, which I thought was a little harsh, but being a dedicated law man, I couldn't complain.

Today I spend my days walking around a maximum-security prison, and although I find it difficult, I don't feel alone. Around ninety-five percent of the people incarcerated with me I know quite well … I put them here.