Pt. 1 - five years later
Peter Caine looked across the desk at his foster father Paul Blaisdell with disbelief. "You're kidding! Paul,
are you saying that you know who this guy is? This nut case that's been leaving carved up corpses in public places for weeks! Why didn't you lock him up when you tracked him down the last time?" The detective paced the small office angrily, glaring at the older man behind the desk.
Paul sighed, wishing there had been an easier way to relay this information to his impetuous charge. " What I said Peter was that I recognized his M.O. when we found the first body. It's been nearly five years, but I'm pretty sure it's the same man. " He looked across at his agitated foster son with a bitter smile. "As for why I didn't lock him up - I wasn't in a position to do anything about it at the time."
"What does that mean?" Peter asked angrily.
"I wasn't part of the investigation, Peter. Hell, I wasn't even a consultant. The only reason I heard about it at all was the agent in charge was sponsored by a friend. He told me about a string of horrific murders up and down the coast of Mexico. A corpse being found in churches, in ancient ruins, even in a hospital that was under construction. Each body was like our victims, tortured probably for days, then slowly bled to death." Paul shuddered as he remembered the dispassionate way his friend had described the case. "My friend was NSA, or at least that's what we told people he was. He told me his agency wouldn't have even bothered with what was obviously a local matter if the killer hadn't taken out one of their couriers. A team was sent in to retrieve the material the man was carrying when he was kidnapped. The agent in charge took it upon herself to eliminate the kidnapper as well as retrieve the package."
"If they took this guy out, then why are bodies turning up here, five years later?" the young man demanded furiously.
"I don't know Peter. I just don't know." Paul's face reflected the weariness he was feeling. After the first body had been found, he had made a few phone calls. After the third body, he had stopped calling friends and had started calling adversaries. The story had been the same from all of them. No one was talking, not even to him.
"Chief?" Chief Strenlich stood silently in the doorway, pointedly not watching Peter continue his pacing. "This lady says she needs to see you." He stepped aside to let a tall brunette preceded him into the office. Her gray eyes swept the room quickly, sizing up the two men at a glance.
"Captain Blaisdell? My name is Miriam Nightbird. I believe we have a mutual friend, David Rochester. He told me you might be in need of my services."
"Your services?" Paul asked, a cold lump forming in the pit of his stomach at the sound of his old "friends" name.
"Yes, in dealing with a certain gentleman of interest to both of us. We knew him five years ago as "El Doctor de la Muerte." I believe your local reporters have taken to calling him The Ripper."