CHAPTER 2

16 Gipsy Hill, SE19 1NL, Friday 10:40pm

"Have you checked for prints upstairs?" Makepeace asked one of the constables.

She was standing in the main area of the cellar next to a pale faced young cop still not used to wearing the police uniform. By the looks of it, the kid was about to lose his dinner. He nodded, trying to form adequate words not to disappoint an SI10 Sergeant Detective, but his voice failed him, forcing him to clear his throat.

"Y-yes," he stammered. "I don't think the—"

"We have dusted the entire house, detective," one of his senior colleagues snarled pushing away from the banister against which he had been leaning. "Believe it or not, we do know how to do our job in this division. The perpetrator was obviously wearing gloves. I assure you, he is no amateur."

Harry deliberately ignored his condescending attitude. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?"

The officer looked at her, not quite understanding the question. Makepeace arched an eyebrow, knowing not to expect a reply, and continued doing her job.

"Have you found anything out of the ordinary, officer…?" she read the name off his tag. "…Banks. Anything that might've been left at the scene by the killer?"

"You mean a note with his name and address? No, nothing of the sort," said Banks, his thick moustache twitching above a sarcastic smile.

Makepeace wasn't thwarted by the belligerence from local law enforcement. When she first joined the force, she dealt with antagonistic remarks on a daily basis. The sentiment got compounded after she joined SI10, where she found it difficult to fit in at first. In fact, she had been very close to requesting a transfer before Spikings, in a brilliant move, paired her up with Tom Graham. He had been an outstanding first partner—always gentle and helpful, albeit a tad overprotective. Harry would never forget how he took her under his wing and taught her everything she knew about being a SI10 detective. After a year and a half of working together, Tom got a promotion that significantly increased his take home pay, and kept him mostly tied to a desk. His death while on a special field assignment last year had hit her harder that she cared to admit.

By the time their partnership dissolved, she had made a name for herself and could certainly hold her own. For a while, she was assigned to several SI10 men who unwittingly hadn't treated her quite as an equal, but she had worked hard and had managed to earn their respect. Makepeace thought she knew all about antagonism and hostility at the workplace… until she met Lieutenant James Dempsey, from the NYPD.

To say they got off to a rocky start would be the understatement of the century. The first few weeks working with him were downright unbearable. His appalling conduct and chauvinistic remarks made her want to push him out of a moving car on more than one occasion in hopes he would get run over by a bus. Yet, as much as she tried to appeal to Spikings' sense of graciousness, any plea for reassignment (from either of them) had been futile. Her boss insisted on pairing them up: the only woman in the division and the obnoxious American, and there was no changing his mind about it.

After a while, working with Dempsey got a little easier as they both learned to tolerate each other and she realized there was a human side to him after all. Then somehow, she wasn't quite sure when, they began anticipating the other one's moves, reading each other's minds until, to everybody's surprise, they became the best tandem SI10 had ever seen. And although he could be rough, callous and a bit of a bully at times, she herself could not fathom having anybody else as a partner.

"Is that the gent who found the body?" Makepeace asked, pointing her chin at a youngster with too many piercings to count on his right ear and a tall, green Mohawk sprouting from his scalp. He was slumping against the far wall near a corner where two cops in uniform looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. He had been given a blanket under which he was shivering uncontrollably. His face, Harry noticed, was just a shade lighter than his hair.

"Yes," Banks said disdainfully. "That's the… gent."

He was about to say something else when his facial expression suddenly changed from mocking to cautious. Dempsey, who had been with the forensics team surveying an adjacent room where the body had been found, was now walking toward them. Obviously his reputation preceded him.

"Have you questioned the guy yet?" Dempsey asked curtly.

"Nobody has been able to get anything remotely coherent out of him," Banks answered hooking his thumbs in his belt. "You're welcome to try yourself."

The basement was plagued with dancing shadows cast by a lonely bulb hanging from the low ceiling. The smell of death lingered in the air, along with something else—something difficult to identify. It was the kind of place any normal person would avoid at night given the creepiness factor.

The punk's eyes were empty, fixed on a spot somewhere along the concrete floor. He was either in deep shock or high on drugs. Makepeace suspected both. Dempsey stood in his line of vision but the kid didn't even bat an eyelash.

"What's your name?"

No response.

"I asked you a question."

Silence.

Dempsey waited a couple of seconds and then let out a heavy sigh. Makepeace braced herself for what she knew would follow. She forced herself not to cringe when her partner grabbed the punk by the shoulders and shoved him harshly against the wall. The youngster's eyes widened in fear as his dilated pupils tried desperately to focus on Dempsey's face mere inches from his.

"Look kid, I ain't got no time for losers who're too high on shit to remember their own fuckin' name, so be a good boy and try not to piss me off, cause I got a very short fuse," Dempsey growled through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous. He had a tight grip on the lapels of the worn out leather jacket which he'd pulled all the way up to the stunned youngster's ears, making the punk's head peek out like that of a turtle. "Now tell me your goddamn name or you'll be left with no nose to sniff all that crap that makes you so happy."

As usual, his charming methods had the desired effect. The punk's face crumpled tightly and he let out a barely audible "Skip" that sounded more like a trembling sob than anything else. Makepeace bit her lower lip when she noticed how the two uniformed cops looked at each other not quite knowing how to react.

After a brief moment of silence, a muffled, dripping sound echoed across the basement. The poor kid had lost control of his bladder. Dempsey released his iron clutch on the youngster's jacket and took a step back.

"Jesus!" he snarled in disgust.

"We just want to talk to you, Skip," Harry interjected shooting a warning glance at her partner.

Calm down, it said.

Dempsey rolled his eyes, but let her take over without an objection.

"I d-don't know anything," Skip stammered, a thick cockney accent seeping into his speech. "I just c-came down here like I do s-sometimes…"

"To do what?"

The punk shrugged timidly and tilted his head. "Y'know… t'smoke a joint, do s-some skag…" he swallowed with difficulty. "I went into tha' room over there and saw the duffle. I thought t'was full o'money, or somethin' I could sell for a few quid… I never… How was I s'pposed to know…?"

"Where exactly was the bag when you found it?" asked Makepeace softly.

"Right there in the middle of the room. I didn't move it. Tried to lift it, though. Before I opened it," he quickly clarified. "T'was heavy."

Of course, for a scrawny kid like Skip a bag of crisps would've been heavy.

"At what time did you get here?"

"Don't remember."

Dempsey's patience was already running low. "Make an educated guess," he requested in a passive aggressive manner that indicated to Harry he was quickly getting fed up with their only witness.

"D-don't know," Skip flinched, his eyes wide with panic. "Eight, a little bit 'fore that, not sure…"

"Do you come here every night?" Dempsey pressed.

"Not every night. Hadn't been here in about four or five days."

"So when were you here last? Was it four or five days ago?"

Skip could tell the crazy cop was a time bomb about to go off at any moment. His automatic response would have been a vague "I don't know", but he thought hard for a moment and came up with a more concrete answer.

"Four, four days ago."

"Are you sure?"

The young punk nodded emphatically. It had been Tuesday. He was sure.

"Lieutenant!"

The lead forensics investigator was standing at the door between the main cellar and the smaller room. He had introduced himself earlier as Chief Forensic Pathologist Albert Smith. Makepeace remembered seeing his signature on many forensic reports she'd come across at the office, but they'd never had the pleasure, or the misfortune given the circumstances, to meet in person before this case. A tall, balding man in his fifties with evident gravitas struck her as a consummated professional. He'd certainly had successfully assisted SI10 on repeated occasions.

He was flexing his index and middle finger in that universal sign that conveys one should approach. Both Dempsey and Makepeace complied, leaving a very shaken kid in the corner of the basement in the care of the two uniformed cops.

"You found something," Dempsey guessed.

Makepeace had not been inside the tiny room before. A cold shudder shook her the moment she crossed the threshold and saw the black bag in the middle of the empty space. Even though the building was abandoned, she had expected to see wine bottles or beer barrels. The room was cold and damp, gloomily lit by another lonely light bulb hanging from the ceiling and, like the rest of the walls throughout the house, this one was also decorated with heavy graffiti.

"At first glance, it seems we're dealing with somebody who has killed before, and who is willing to kill again," Smith began. "As you can probably tell, all evidence points to the meticulous work of a serial killer: the type of crime, the manner in which the body was disposed, where the body was placed, the fact that the murder most likely happened elsewhere judging by the lack of blood found at this location… It all fits the MO. Everything, except one thing."

"No message from the killer," Dempsey said.

"Or so it seems," Smith replied after a beat.

Dempsey frowned quizzically. At Smith's signal, a member of the forensics team reached up and pulled the string hanging from the light bulb, leaving the cellar in total darkness. An ultraviolet light came on, and then they saw it. Written in block letters across the duffle bag:

G d R


The signature of the killer was tattooed on both their brains as they walked out into the cold December air without saying a word. A thin layer of ice was already settling on the street; the bitterness of a London winter was imminent. Once inside the car, Harry exhaled heavily to release the tension she had been feeling since their arrival at the house. She looked at the clock display on the dashboard: 00:17. Dr. Smith assured them he would have more solid answers in the next few hours, once the forensics team had finished its thorough investigation. For now, given the late hour, all they could do was wait.

"We'll have to talk to the victim's family tomorrow," she said to break the silence.

"Yep," Dempsey agreed, lost in thought.

"Smith said the body should already be at the morgue by 8:00," she continued, horrified by the thought of a mother having to visit such a place to identify her child. "I can meet you there."

"I doubt we're gonna get much outta the family so soon," Dempsey replied.

He was right. It was too soon, but they needed a decent lead sooner rather than later, and talking to the family was the best alternative they had at the moment.

"Right now all we have to go on is that bag and the odd inscription…" Harry sighed.

She hated stating the obvious, but her partner wasn't including her in his thought process, which was not only odd, but unprecedented. What the hell was the matter with him?!

"…which is not much," she pressed on, this time turning to him.

Dempsey sat with his eyes closed, resting his head against the bucket seat. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned his head to face her, but didn't offer more than an absent "Mmm…" in reply.

He was obviously working on a lead. She had learned to trust his instincts over the years, as they were seldom wrong. He could see connections and clues where nobody else cared to look. At first, she found his freaky sixth sense to be a fluke, a series of fortunate coincidences, but nobody can get that lucky that often. He was, without a doubt, a brilliant detective.

Ultimately, it had been his passion and his dedication which had elevated him to that secret pedestal she held for him (not that she would ever admit it to him or even herself). Harry figured he could get inside a criminal's mind because he could've easily gone down that path himself. But this was no crooked job, no murder for hire, and that worried her. She wondered whether he could really get inside the mind of a serial killer, and if he could, what did that say about him?

She shivered, refusing to follow that train of thought.

"Harry…"

Dempsey's soft voice reeled her back. She turned to him once again, eager to hear his initial impressions on the case. He was wearing a sombre expression.

"Nuthin'."

He mumbled the word with a slight shake of the head, as if dismissing a flashing thought. He looked tired, worn out. Harry had a strong feeling there was something besides the present case on his mind, that he'd been about to share something personal. She fought the urge to press him, knowing it would just be a waste of time. When it came to his own emotions, Dempsey was the most reserved person she had ever met. He would not share his feelings with anyone unless he was ready to do so. That, she'd found out, only happened on an extremely rare occasion.

Her mind travelled to the young boy whose life had been ripped away and her vision blurred.

"Who could possibly do something like this?" she muttered.

Dempsey didn't reply. He kept looking at the deserted street through the windshield, his mind miles away.


Old Wickham Place, 1960

The first thing James noticed when he came to was dampness. The second thing was a disturbing absence of light. He was laying face down with his cheek pressed against cold concrete and surrounded by what felt like dust and debris. He tried to move, turning a splitting headache into a series of lightning bolts that exploded like shrapnel behind his eyelids, painfully travelling down his spine and spreading throughout his entire body. He let out a helpless whimper. His shallow breathing made his lungs feel like they were being savagely stabbed with every intake of breath. When he tried to roll on his side, a wave of nausea overtook him. He threw up, and once again his skull threatened to burst open.

It took all his strength and will power to push himself up on his hands and knees. He could smell sweat and blood, most likely his own. His hand hurt. The gash had stopped bleeding, but a dull pain remained. The moment he began moving forward he realized he was shivering, his arms barely able to support his weight. His eyes tried to focus on his surroundings, but he could only see black all around. He didn't know where he was or how long he'd been there. A bolt of fear made his stomach clench. He closed his eyes again, not that it mattered much in the darkness, and tried to keep his feelings in check.

Don't panic. Not now. Think! You gotta think.

He took several deep, calming breaths and opened his eyes again. Slowly, a faint light materialized a few feet away from where he was kneeling. He didn't know what it was at first, then everything came back to him in a flash.

The neutral ground... Hernandez... The old building... Sean…

He clumsily crawled toward the light. Dusk shyly intruded into the abandoned lobby,offering James a safety blanket as it lured him out of that place. Once in the yard, he used the brick wall to help himself up to his feet. He called out his brother's name, but his voice was too hoarse to rise above a faint whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again, but the place was completely deserted.

James stumbled down the street, still a bit disoriented but comforted in the fact that if he kept walking toward the Hudson River he'd be within the safe zone. It was probably way past dinner time, but the sun still tinted the sky with lingering summer rays. The city skyline was etched against a grayish canvas as dusk turned darker. In a place like New York, however, stars often forgot to come out at night. The ones in the heavens, anyway.

Signs of life appeared before him the moment he hit 12th Avenue. The Shamrock, one of the most frequented corner pubs near the docks, was crawling with rowdy patrons. They came in and out, laughing loudly, washing out the remnants of a hard day's work, oblivious to James' presence as he quietly wandered down the street like a zombie trying not to lose his balance.

There were a couple of yellow cabs parked at the curb. Their chain smoking cabbies were leaning against one of them, complaining about the Eisenhower administration and the non-stop rise in gas prices. A group of men who'd had a pint of beer too many were singing an old Navy song way off key. And then there was a man coming in James' direction with a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth and a distracted look on his face. He raised his eyes, saw the boy and rushed to him just in time to prevent his fall. James, out of strength, collapsed in his arms.

"Jimmy?"

The man had recognized him right away. He was Jack Dempsey's older boy. They worked together at the plant. His own daughters had tagged along the Dempsey kids at factory picnics and community parties. The two had a reputation of always getting into trouble.

He lowered one knee to the ground, resting James' body against his other leg.

"That's a nasty cut you got on that eyebrow, boy," he drawled in that heavy New York accent so commonly heard in southern Manhattan. It was only then that James noticed the sticky wetness dripping down the right side of his face.

"Mr. O'Malley?" he said faintly, his eyes unfocused.

Jeffrey O'Malley was an average built man, of average height, who earned average wages in a place where average wasn't exactly the norm. He was a good husband and father, and a regular Sunday Catholic in an area of town where parishioners were on the decline.

"When're you kids gonna quit gettin' into all those fights, huh?!" O'Malley said soothingly, doing a piss poor job of cleaning the wound with a dirty handkerchief he'd produced out of his pocket. James gasped in pain and pushed the offending hand away.

"C'mon. I'll take ya home. Best if you go see a doctor 'bout that cut."

By the time they made it to the old apartment building, night had already fallen hard and the neighborhood cats were out on the prowl. Most of the windows were open to fend off the mugginess permeating the island during the sticky summer months. Mr. and Mrs. Bergen were involved in a heated shouting match, something about a cookie jar; Mrs. Stephens was deep-frying something or other and making the entire building stink of scorched oil; Mr. Danes' mutt kept barking at the ruckus the Bergens were making. All in all, a typical evening at 59 W. 44th St.

Sophia opened the faded bluish door to the apartment to find Jeffrey O'Mally practically holding her older son up on his feet. Her soft brown eyes widened at the sight of James, covered in blood, slumped against the taller man.

"Jimmy!? Oh, thank God!"

She pulled him into her arms looking up at O'Malley questioningly, but only got a silent shrug in reply.

"Jimmy, what happened?! Where-?"

Jack Dempsey came to the door and offered the other man a short, silent nod. His eyes were fixed on his son like tempered steel. He curtly thanked his colleague for bringing his kid home and slammed the door shut.

"The hell've you been!?" he shouted menacingly shaking James' shoulders.

"Jack, c'mon," Sophia said weakly. "Can't you see he's—"

"SHUT UP!" Jack spat, turning to her with a warning stare. James fixated on the worn-out carpet, but said nothing. He felt dizzy, like he could throw up at any moment. The Bergens kept going at it. His dad's voice, however, soon drowned any other sound. "You think y'all can run 'round gettin' into fights all day 'n come home whenever the fuck you please? Yer gonna learn to respect my rules, boy! Both o'ya!" He was already unbuckling his belt as he barked: "And where t'hell's your brother!"

James met his father's eyes for the first time, confused. A sunken feeling got a hold of his gut, like somebody had just punched him hard in the stomach.

"H—he… He ain't back yet?"

[To Be Continued...]