Broadway Tunnel, 79th St.

Ten minutes later

"Christ," Duane cursed as we made our way onto the platform, "looks like a war zone!"

I didn't argue. He was right. The first responders had done their usual impeccable job; the corpses were covered by sterile sheets without moving them, so we could uncover them once all civilians had been escorted out, to spare them the trauma, and then record the crime scene. Denny was already accessing the CCTV footage via Wi-Fi, both from the platform and the train itself; as Unit police officers we were legally authorised to do so at crime scenes.

Or slaughterhouses, in this case.

McCann was there, but didn't indulge in the hearty greeting she normally would have as an old friend of the Unit; she made her way over to me and bleakly reported, "Commander, I have never seen anything remotely like this in all my career, not even in the bloodiest of gang or hood warfare, and I served in '97 in L.A. during the heatwave, at that.

"No-one's injured - anyone who didn't make it out of those two carriages is dead." Her professional façade cracked then; tears sparkled in her blue eyes. "We count twenty-seven fatalities, assuming this maniac hasn't taken and eaten anyone - oh, we heard about that, word gets around. Holy Mother of God," she whispered brokenly, "what is this guy's deal?!"

I had no answer for her, shaking my head in baffled horror, numb with the realisation of how badly I'd screwed up. Twenty-seven dead, just like that...

Amelia Young, an EMT with five years' service, was having trouble with a Blood - I recognised her as Streetcat. She was clutching - oh, dear God, that was Billy the Knife. He'd been split open just like Tomosawa, I saw, still holding his blade even in death. They were both covered in blood.

The EMT, touched by the young girl's fierce devotion to her dead friend and sharing her sorrow at seeing a little boy in such a dreadful state, was near tears, pleading, "Honey, he - he's gone, there's nothing anyone can do for him now. Please, you have to let him go, let us and the police do their job."

"Police," Streetcat spat in a voice far too old and bitter for the kid she really was, "where the fuck were they when the Bloods needed 'em, huh?" She saw me and instantly recognised me from my time in the NYPD. "Where the fuck was your fancy Unit, cop?! Protectin' some fuckin' hood -"

(Now how the hell did she know about that? I couldn't help but wonder with admiration, even in the face of this horror.)

"- while my peeps were bein' cut to pieces! Do you SEE this?" She furiously gestured towards Billy's pathetic remains, angry tears in her eyes which she refused to shed in front of adults. "Do you see what that FUCKER did to Billy? He was just tryin' to...he...oh, God..."

I knew Marie Simpson's case too well. It was one of those things that shouldn't happen in this day and age, but does nonetheless. She'd fallen through the cracks in Child Services (overworked, understaffed and unappreciated as always) when she was just short of thirteen, an age when her biggest worry should've been whether her boobs were going to grow or whether some boy liked her as much as she liked him. Fate had dealt her a busted flush...she'd run away from a useless mother and a would-be rapist of a father.

The courts had removed Marie from their custody once her case was brought to their attention by a brave teacher, correctly judging them to be totally unfit parents, but before she could be put up for adoption she'd run away - streetwise even then - and was taken in by the Bloods. A social worker did find her, but she scornfully refused all entreaties to return to the system, saying, "The Bloods are a way better deal, buddy, so take a hike while you still can!"

They just had her running errands at first, passing messages and acting as a courier, letting her gradually work her way up in what passed for a hierarchy in a street gang. Strictly speaking, they should have been called the 'New Bloods' or something like that, as they had little or nothing to do with the 'true' Bloods, i.e. the United Blood Nation - these kids stayed well away from drug dealing...thankfully. Their membership was more diverse; they didn't discriminate. They mostly kept themselves to themselves, holding loose territories.

As gangs went, they were nearly respectable, and mostly law-abiding. The Bloods were an anomaly among such gangs, possessing rigid codes of fairly decent behaviour and a degree of hard sense when it came to being tooled-up. They understood that a weapon could be both protective and risky, and that fooling around with one was a great way to attract police attention - or to get dead. They even knew to check the chamber of a semi-automatic to ensure there wasn't a round in it.

(You'd be amazed by just how many kids all over the world are killed by that same simple, stupid mistake every year. Mind you, it happens to adults as well. There's more to being an adult than just reaching the age of majority or drinking, though too many faux adults don't realise that. It's partly because of such idiots that the police are needed.)

So their policy was never to allow a Blood to carry one until they were sure it would be handled properly, i.e. no using streetlights as target practice, for example, or taking random potshots at passing cars. Weapons were for fighting, for defence of self or your peeps, not jerkin' around. They even had an initiation of sorts in which an up-and-coming Blood was given a weapon and then placed in a situation which could be resolved without one, if proper restraint was shown. If the Blood pulled it off without incident, they got to keep the weapon or pick their own.

If not...well, it was Darwin in action, New York street style.

But she was still only fourteen years old. No fourteen-year-old girl should have to deal with something like this, shouldn't have to live with a gang instead of a loving family...shouldn't have to cradle the body of a slaughtered friend as if she couldn't bear to let him go. But that, sadly, was the reality of life on the streets of New York in 2027. Things are better now - thanks in part to the Unit, I'm proud to say - but back then I took Streetcat's scathing criticism very much to heart.

Because she was right. We'd failed them.

No. I had. Gang or no, the Bloods were as much New York citizens, born and bred, as Bernalli, and just as entitled to the protection of the law - maybe more, as even the oldest of them, Jerry the Fixer, was still only sixteen.

And Billy was the youngest at nine. What the hell was going on in the world when a nine-year-old boy habitually carried a 10-inch butcher knife because he honestly felt he needed to - and, worse, when he was right, to some extent?

It's a hell of a note when a kid can criticise an adult - a cop, even - and be justified in doing so, isn't it?

We had to put it right. Somehow.

I knelt down next to her, gently easing a now-crying Amelia aside, very deliberately not trying to avoid kneeling in the blood. I said quietly, "You know the drill, Blood. Let's talk at the station." I gently stroked a stray lock of Billy's blond - now blood-red - hair back into place, as if it mattered now. I tried not to retch at the thought that his face looked like a deflated balloon. "We'll take care of him, I promise."

"He tried to save us," she intoned dully. She was about to collapse into hysterics and/or despair, and I wanted her at Base before that happened so our counsellors could help her. "He was tryin' to cover our backs."

"Brave lad," I told her, knowing she needed to hear the validation from an adult. "A true Blood to the end."

That last, 'To The End', was a shameless psychological trick I'm not going to apologise for; I knew it was the Bloods' mantra (not that these poorly-educated kids would be likely to know that word), and I could only hope she would respond in kind to this reminder of the Bloods' principles.

Thankfully, she did. "To The End," she whispered, looking at me with something like respect.

"Wanna help us catch the bastard who did this?" I briskly offered. She nodded after only a moment. I couldn't help but admire this little girl's strength, a consummate survivor if ever there was one. She hadn't forgiven me yet for my fuck-up, but I believed it would come. "Then come down, tell us everything you know."

Streetcat hugged Billy one last time, kissed his cheek - ignoring the blood - and swore, "We'll get him, Billy. Blood for Blood, he'll pay." She stood and, pretending nonchalance - because as we both knew the alternative was screaming hysteria - she shrugged and said offhandedly, "Always wanted to see your Base."

"You will," I promised.

New York Tactical Operations Unit Base, Manhattan

Later that night

When we got back, Base was more silent than it had ever been. No-one spoke as we tiredly trudged in. No-one even tried to break the mood. Frankie was still crying, but no-one was gonna pull her up on it because, dammit, we all felt the same way. Never before had we been so overwhelmed by such a crushing sense of utter failure. Not since 9/11 had any of us felt anything like it. I saw the first plane hit, I helped pull those pitifully few survivors out, and I swear to God it didn't feel anywhere near as bad as this did.

This guy clearly had no moral sense whatsoever. Even hardened mercenaries usually hesitate at the prospect of killing kids, even when they're armed. This bastard had done just that with what as far as I could see was relish, if not joy.

Ed came out of his office and gathered me in by eye. I nodded almost by reflex and directed a subtle hand signal to my dispirited team: Go home. Let me deal with him. They didn't even try to argue; Candy, warm-hearted as always, hugged each team member as they left, slightly exceeded her authority by telling Frankie to do the same, and then gently took charge of Streetcat, asking her if she'd like a shower, a meal and a bed for the night. To her relief, the girl wasn't too proud to agree.

Then again, what else was she going to do? Where could she go? Most of the Bloods were dead.

Commissioner's office

"Drink that and forget the damn regs for once," Ed instructed me, handing me a glass of something smooth and probably deadly from his private reserve. I had no idea what it was and less interest, but damn, it was good, sliding down my throat like warm honey. He joined me, sipping.

We both put off speaking for as long as we could bear, but finally Ed sighed, "We got him totally wrong, didn't we?"

"I got him wrong," I demurred bitterly.

Look, I wasn't succumbing to any martyr complex; intellectually I knew no-one could've seen this coming. Based on the available facts our logic had been impeccable and we weren't to blame. But cops don't think that way. We take every needless, accidental or premeditated death in our city personally. We wouldn't be cops if we didn't. Wearing the Badge was and is an honour and a privilege, but as we'd always known, by God it came with a price...which the Unit was now paying.

Ed brooded over his glass for a moment, then looked me hard in the eye. The sheer rage I saw there mirrored my own. "Kelly, I no longer care what the DA, Conover or even Senator Brooks have to say about the Unit or its future. We...are going...to end this, I don't care how. Kids, for God's sake! Find him. Take him down. Do whatever it takes, Commander - I am hereby giving you total discretion in this matter, on my own authority, and the DA and the Mayor can go fuck themselves!

"Personnel, tech, money - you are to consider yourself to have a free hand." His voice rose, which normally it never did - but this case was anything but normal. "Get this maniac off our streets, Commander! That is a DIRECT ORDER!"

This was, I knew, effectively a declaration of war - against both the killer and the bureaucracy. But it was an order I was only too willing to obey, and I knew the rest of the Unit would feel exactly the same. I stood, tossed back the rest of my glass in salute and snarled, "You got it, Chief. HE'S GOIN' DOWN!"

New York Tactical Operations Unit Base, Front Desk

Next morning

Hardly anyone had gotten much sleep, of course. Cops generally don't; worries about whether you've missed this or that piece of 'vital' paperwork (metaphorically, that last, since we do not in fact use paper in the Unit - all documents are electronic in form), wondering what lead to follow up next, concerned about colleagues still on shift...

Oh, you get the picture.

But as soon as everyone had reported in, bright and early as I'd fully expected knowing my team as I did, I took an almost savage pleasure in passing on Ed's order. I received exactly the response I wanted, an impassioned 'Hell, YEAH!' from each and every one of them. We got to work immediately.

We were interrupted by a young and very pretty woman approaching the front desk, manned by a recovered (and needlessly apologetic) Frankie. "Excuse me..." she ventured in a Colorado accent.

From across the room I glanced at her - then something made me look again. Damned if she didn't look familiar somehow...

"Yes, ma'am?" Frankie smiled at her. "Welcome to the New York Tactical Operations Unit. I'm Operator Frankie Sandford, can I help you?"

"Well, I hope so," the woman replied, her voice starting to break. "My name's Violet Davies. I'm looking for my son -"

I'd started to lose interest, but her next words made me stare at her:

"- his name's Billy. He's nine years old."

She was visibly startled to realise the entire room had gone quiet. She wasn't to know why, of course.

Frankie broke the uncomfortable silence by uneasily saying, "Um, forgive me, but you seem a little young to -"

"I was raped when I was twelve," she answered in a tired tone that said she'd explained this far too often before, "but I couldn't bear the thought of abortion...not once my mom told me what that really meant. I'd always thought it meant they just took the baby away, but once she explained...I couldn't. I just couldn't. I wanted to keep him, he was so beautiful, but everyone said I was too young, I was just a kid myself, he'd be better off adopted - you know," she sighed in a world-weary manner.

She took an old-style (i.e. physical) photo from her purse and held it up. "I got this from the people who were supposed to be taking care of him when I 'couldn't'. He was six at the time."

Several cops looked.

Without a doubt, it was Billy the Knife.

I knew I had to intervene. I crossed to her. "Ms. Davies, my name is Kelly McAllister; I'm the Commander of this Unit. If we're talking about the same person - and with all due respect that's still an 'if' - the person in question is...involved...in a case we're working on and so I cannot just accept your unsupported word that you are his mother. A photo isn't proof."

She didn't take offence; she nodded. "I went to the NYPD first once I found out he was in New York, and they told me you'd ask for a DNA sample to prove it. That's fine." A tear trickled down her pale cheek. "Please, I just want to find my little boy. He ran away, he's been missing for nearly two years...I don't even know how he got here..."

"Come with me to Forensics," I offered, "we can do the test there."

Forensics Lab

The result was no surprise. There really was a strong resemblance; the blond hair, the line of the jaw, the eyes - even the quirk at the left side of the mouth. Jocelyn looked up from the DNA analyser and nodded. "99.7% positive, Commander, all 13 alleles match. She's his mom, all right." There was no way Violet could have interpreted the look on Jocelyn's face as she said it; like me, she'd been desperately hoping for a negative result.

Now, of course, we'd have to tell her the horrible truth.

"So do you know where he is?" she asked.

We both hesitated just that little bit too long.

"What - what's wrong? You -" Then she understood. "You don't want to tell me...oh, God, he's dead, isn't he? No...oh, no..." She broke down.

I've always said Jocelyn Barton is full of surprises, but today she totally proved it. She showed a degree of tact and sympathy I honestly would never have expected from her by taking the young woman in her arms. Her glare at me dared me to say anything disparaging, but I was genuinely touched by this rare gesture from her. "Come over here, honey," she gently coaxed, "and sit down."

Violet complied, still sobbing, and Jocelyn did an amazing job of soothing her. She finally gathered her resolve, thanked Jocelyn, looked at me and asked, "What happened to him?"

Dear God, if ever there was a question I didn't want to answer...

But I had to. It was my duty. So I told her everything we knew about Billy's death...except, at first, the mutilation. I prayed fervently she wouldn't ask to see his body (knowing even as I did that that was a futile hope - he was her son, for Chrissake); I even debated lying through my teeth in the name of compassion and telling her he'd been cremated because of a possible biohazard, but no true cop would ever be so cowardly. I couldn't bring myself to do it.

We protect and we serve. Sometimes that means telling people uncomfortable or even awful truths in the name of justice, even things they don't want to or shouldn't hear. Billy deserved the truth, and so did his mother. So when she brokenly asked to see him, I didn't hesitate. But Jocelyn did. "Um, Commander, I'm not sure it's -"

"PLEASE!" Violet cried. "Please, I - I have to see him! I have to know! I came here hoping to regain custody because his adoptive parents had let him run away, so my lawyer was going to argue they were unfit, but now...now I know he's...oh, please let me see him..."

Still Jocelyn hesitated. For a moment I thought I was actually going to have to give her an order, but she sighed and capitulated, crossing reluctantly to the freezers. "He's in here."

One very useful innovation developed by our techs is our SubVoc™ equipment in our collars; it picks up on the slightest throat movements, translates them into speech, interprets said speech via AI and transmits the words to the intended recipient. It's proven terrific in the field for Unit officers in hostile situations to covertly summon aid whilst giving nothing away.

I subvocalised: Trauma Counsellor to Forensics, now. Urgent.

On my way, sir, was the reply from Karen Miller, transmitted directly to my eardrum because she'd received my call in the same manner and thus she knew subvocalisation was required.

Jocelyn unlocked Freezer 9, but before opening it she told Violet, "Ma'am, you need to prepare yourself. What you're about to see is - well, even hardened officers would find it difficult to -"

"Show me," Violet insisted with a newfound resolve. Jocelyn sighed. Her expression said it all: I tried. Don't blame me.

The drawer slid out. Immediately Violet let out a horrified shriek, to our utter lack of surprise - not because this confirmed the truth that he was dead, awful in itself, but more because of the terrible state his assailant had left him in. Her tears started again as she whispered with incredulous horror, "What...what happened? Why is his face all...?"

I steeled myself, then started to tell her the final, terrible truth. "As far as we can determine, he died instantly and without pain -"

"He did," Jocelyn confirmed, "I would swear to that in court. He never felt a thing, Violet."

"How...how can you know that...?"

"Twelve years of forensics field experience," Jocelyn answered confidently. "We can tell a great deal about the effects of a wound by the way it's inflicted. Any pathologist examining the fatal wound would tell you the same: death was instantaneous. He never even felt it," she insisted. "He was dead before he hit the floor."

"Oh."

"- but afterward, the killer...tore out his spinal column and his skull," I finished. "I'm afraid we don't know why. A hoodlum was killed and mutilated in exactly the same way a few nights ago...and we have just as much idea as to why: none. I'm truly sorry, Violet." The door opened and Karen came in; her brief nod to me told me Frankie had briefed her.

That's teamwork. It's why the Unit is unbeatable.

Karen took charge of the sobbing woman, leading her gently away from the sad remains of her son and the death of all her hopes. Jocelyn sighed, sniffing. She seemed near tears herself, another surprise. "God, I hate telling parents their kids are dead."

I said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The sound of the freezer closing sounded very final.

New York Tactical Operations Unit Base, Trauma Counsellor's office

Three hours later

Once again we were engrossed in data processing, and finding it hard going - the facts seemed to keep contradicting each other. I'd never known or even heard of a case like it. Meanwhile, Violet Davies was beginning the long process of accepting her son's death, beginning with her request to take him home to Denver for burial. Now I had to be the one to hesitate, but again Jocelyn surprised me.

"Sir, I'm afraid there's very little more I can learn from Billy's body; if the Commissioner clears it I'll release him to her," she told me.

Violet hesitantly said, "Commander, if it'll help you with the case, help you catch this monster, I'm willing to wait...there's no rush, is there?" she added bleakly, and our hearts broke all over again. We could see where Billy had gotten his bravery from.

But Jocelyn was right; we'd gotten all we could from the poor lad. "Hell, I'll clear it," I decided. "It'll just take an hour or so."

She looked surprised. "So soon?"

I barely smiled. "We've moved on a long way from what you might've seen on CSI or NCIS," I readily informed her, "transitioning to electronic documentation has helped the Unit streamline a lot of routine procedure, and processing e-docs is intrinsically faster anyway. This is basically just exchange of e-mails, evidence documentation and chain-of-custody forms between the Unit and the District Coroner. The part that takes the most time, to be honest, is typing this stuff up."

"Oh," she said, clearly impressed. "Why don't all police departments do their stuff like that?"

"This is a new, essentially experimental police unit," I explained, "a prototype, if you will. Once we've fully proved the concept -"

"And God only knows how long that's going to take," Jocelyn interrupted with tired cynicism.

"- it will be implemented all over the U.S. - and eventually, we hope, all over the world."

"Wow," she breathed. "Good luck." Then she looked hesitant. "Commander, there's one more thing. I know this is a lot to ask, but...I gather there was a survivor from this...gang...Billy was involved in. May I talk to her?"

That caught me on the hop. For some reason I hadn't expected it. "Um, might I ask why? The girl's a vital material witness and that might prejudice the case -"

"She knew him," Violet pleaded, "better than I ever had a chance to. She's my last link to my little boy. Please," she begged.

When you're a cop you have to learn to balance proper legal procedure against human needs and compassion. Sometimes the legal thing isn't the right thing. Procedure demanded I deny the request.

But cops are, first and foremost, human beings.

No-one human could have naysaid such a heartfelt plea. I certainly couldn't. If I had to I would face down the Chief, the DA, the Senator - hell, I'd face down the Goddamn President, if it came to that. On the other hand my point about Streetcat's testimony was still valid. So I agreed, but added, "I have to be present to ensure our case isn't -"

"No, I understand," she nodded, "I just..." She paused, and looked so lost, haunted...alone. "I want to...get to know my son. Even just a little. That's not too much to ask, is it...?"

"No, it's not," I told her firmly. "Just give me a moment first to talk to her, explain things." And to help her prepare for this, I added silently. I had absolutely no idea how she was going to react; one of the many things the Bloods had had in common with each other was that they were united in their disdain (at the very least) for their birth families. Streetcat in particular had good reason to actually hate them - her father, at least. Yet I couldn't deny Violet's plea.

What can you do?

Witness Accommodation Room 1

"His mom?!" Streetcat gasped. "The fuck's she doin' here?!"

I always make a real effort to understand where people like Streetcat are coming from, but this time the contempt I heard in her tone angered me. "She came looking for her son, when the people who adopted him lost track of him!" I snapped. "I know you have no reason to believe this, but some folks really do care about their kids! Dammit, 'Cat, when she fell pregnant with him she was younger than you! He was a fucking rape baby!"

Yeah, I know, I really shouldn't have told her that. It just came out before I could stop it. I was angry with her, dammit.

But it made a difference. There was something I'd forgotten until that moment: another female Blood, with the incongruous street name of Juicy Julie, was raped a year ago at the age of 15, and she too fell pregnant. Local social workers were in a way pleased to hear it because they hoped she would choose to have the child and just possibly might decide to leave gang life behind for the baby's sake. They were prepared to offer her pretty much anything she needed or asked for.

Sadly it didn't work out that way. Julie did indeed decide to accept their offer, but before the paperwork could be completed and she could make the wisest choice of her life, she suffered a miscarriage and lost the boy she was carrying. She was in Jersey Shore University Medical Centre for some six hours of torment, screaming all the while for the frantic doctors to save the baby even if it meant her own life. They failed, and barely managed even to save her.

The NYPD still don't know where the Bloods got the unlicensed Smith & Wesson .357 she used to very thoroughly blow her own head off two nights later in a fit of post-traumatic depression, and they weren't telling, closing ranks even more tightly than usual.

Nor do they know how the Bloods determined who the rapist was, since he raped her from behind, she never even saw his face - and the NYPD were unable to secure any DNA evidence because Julie refused to cooperate, so they couldn't even tell her who he was. But they (or someone) must've done just that, because he later turned up dead in the middle of their turf.

The very first thing a rape victim wants to do, if the rapist lets her live, is to try to wash herself clean inside and out; it's almost instinctive, a need to rid herself of the raw sensation of filth, both physically and symbolically, from the violation she's suffered.

It's also the very worst thing she can do, of course. What she should do is to go immediately to the nearest police station and submit herself for medical examination, to obtain sperm samples and document bruises and other physical trauma.

Yes, I know that's easy for me to say because I'm a man, and all that. I know it isn't that easy - especially the internal exam; most women hate even regular gynaecological exams when it's essential for their health, and I don't blame them. Even when the victim is a female cop and knows the proper procedure inside out, sometimes the police still don't get any admissible evidence because the poor woman quite understandably forgets all that in her trauma and succumbs to that same instinct.

In any other situation you'd expect the victim to report the rape to the police and allow a medical exam, but the Bloods possessed the typical maddening gang reticence when it came to dealing with cops and Julie was no exception. She told them she'd been raped, told them when and where, but that was as far as she was willing to go. To his credit, the captain tried to play it smart by sending only young, female officers into Blood territory to try to reason/plead with her, but she and the Bloods just weren't having it - and after a day or so it was too late anyway.

But when one Ron Mallory, a suspect in a different rape case, turned up dead on the Bloods' turf, subsequent DNA analysis of his corpse turned out to be a match for Julie's dead baby, which proved they'd got the right man (if indeed they were responsible). NYPD Ballistics proved he died by the same weapon...but whoever killed him - and dammit, we don't know it was the Bloods! - showed no mercy to him whatsoever...not that he deserved it. No, they blew his balls off - one at a time - and let him bleed to death.

The gun was never found. I doubt it ever will be. It's never been used in any subsequent crime, at least not in New York.

Was it justice? Again, there's a legal, procedural answer - of course not, there's no place for vigilante 'justice' in modern society - and a human answer: weeeeelll...

"Just like Julie?" she asked in a small voice I'd never heard from her, and it was only then that I remembered the rest.

Streetcat was the only member of the Bloods the hospital security staff would allow entry, and then only because they knew she wasn't armed. I heard she'd held Julie's hand throughout her ordeal, crying, alternating between begging the doctors to help her and threatening them if they didn't. Had Julie not pleaded with them to let Streetcat stay she would've been thrown out.

I don't know if there's any truth to the stories that Streetcat and Julie were lovers and there's no way in hell I'm ever going to ask her, but they were certainly closer than sisters and, frankly, I could well believe it. From their past experiences neither had any reason to trust men, so why not? You take love wherever you can find it, I always say.

(As a cop, I suppose it's true that Julie and Streetcat had no business having sex as they were both under 17, and New York doesn't have a 'Romeo & Juliet' close-in-age exemption. As a reasonable human being I had no intention whatsoever of bringing that up. We should have that exemption; other states do. Frankly we have better things to do than bust two people for doing nothing more than taking love where they could find it; there's no evidence it does the kids any harm if they're close in age.

I doubt there's a cop anywhere in New York who'd arrest two teenage girls just for making love, especially if they were in a relationship. The main objective of the age-of-consent law is to protect girls from unwanted pregnancy and abuse - in a lesbian relationship neither one can get pregnant, of course, and I'd hardly define making love as 'abuse'. Which girl's being abused? How?)

I could also well believe Streetcat murdered Julie's rapist - there was means in the form of the .357 (wherever it went), there was definitely motive, and no shortage of opportunity since the late unlamented Mallory also lived on the streets - but of course belief isn't proof. And again, I'm never going to ask.

Even though, by rights, I should.

"Yes," I answered, calmer now, "like Julie."

She sighed. "Well, that's different," she conceded, but frowned. "But what the fuck's she want with me?"

"She never got a chance to know Billy," I answered softly. "You did. She wants, needs, to know what he was like as a person. Was he bright, smart, funny, curious? These are all things his mother never had a chance to learn, but you and the Bloods did." I sighed. "Please, 'Cat, help her out. She's come a long way hoping to regain custody of her son, only to find he's been butchered without anyone even knowing why. She needs this. Help her. Be kind."

That was reaching, I knew; Streetcat and the Bloods knew very little of kindness. Not much of that on the streets. But again I'd underestimated her; she only briefly looked unsure, but sighed again. "You so owe me for all this shit."

"I've got people looking into it," I assured her. "We'll need everything you can tell us, when you're ready, and we'll pay you back in full."

No fourteen-year-old girl should ever bear such a vengeful glare on her face as Streetcat's did then.

"Only payment I want," she stated in a grim, low tone, "is to see that fucker lyin' dead in your morgue."

"We'll do our best," I swore. "The Commissioner gave me a free hand. He ordered me to get that maniac off the streets and he doesn't give a fuck any more about how we do it." I growled. "Neither do I. His lying dead in the morgue totally works for me." I exhaled. "Thanks for this, 'Cat. I mean it."

She nodded. "Okay."

Her face jumped in surprise when Violet hesitantly entered. Despite what I'd told her, she still wasn't prepared to be faced with a woman of only 21 who looked as if she should be out clubbing, the streaks of tears on her cheeks notwithstanding. She turned to me, confused. "She's Billy's mom?"

I nodded. Violet introduced herself and politely asked, "What's your name?" As Streetcat started to reply, Violet shook her head and insisted, "Not your street name - your real name. Please."

That, I knew, was taking a risk; the girl might well clam up, because her real name was a reminder of the past she wanted to forget. But somehow Violet hit just the right note; for the first time since I'd met her, she very quietly allowed "Marie," to pass her lips.

"Thank you, Marie," Violet nodded.

"Seems they got old-style manners in Denver," Streetcat - Marie - observed in a non-committal mien.

Violet actually smiled. It was a pretty smile. "I'd like to think so. Should we sit?"

Abruptly I realised what Violet was doing. She'd immediately recognised that Marie quite understandably wasn't accustomed to politeness and courtesy, and so the girl was off-balance - and Violet was taking advantage of that. But it seemed to be working, so I decided to stay out of it, at least unless and until they crossed into traumatic territory. Yes, Violet was in pain...but dammit, so was Marie. She'd suffered enough.

They both had.

Once sat, Marie just stared at Violet for a while. Showing perspicacity unusual in someone of her age, Violet didn't rush her, knowing it would be a mistake, letting the girl set her own pace. Finally she hesitantly reached out and touched Violet's smooth cheek. "Damn, you're so young...never imagined Billy's mom would be so young."

Violet smiled sadly and gently took Marie's hand. "Well, I never expected to be playing with a real baby instead of a doll at age twelve, but it wasn't really up to me." She sighed. "An older boy took something I wasn't willing to give him, because I didn't really understand what it was he wanted."

"What they all want," Marie opined bitterly.

But Violet shook her head. "Not all men are like that, sweetheart. Most are decent enough if you give them a chance." She realised Marie was about to object to this on the grounds of her harsh street experiences, and allowed, "Maybe it's different on the street, I honestly wouldn't know and it's not for me to judge. But there truly are men in this world who are kind and thoughtful and would never dream of mistreating a woman like that." She smiled again. "Like Kelly here."

To my mild surprise, Marie smiled back. "Yeah, he's okay." She sobered. "He never gave the Bloods a hard time, even when he was still in the Blues. The NYPD," she expanded, guessing Violet wouldn't know the nickname.

Violet saw her opportunity now that Marie had raised the subject of the Bloods herself. "Marie, how did Billy come to join your gang? How did he even get to New York?"

"Railroad, he told us," she answered simply. "No Change had a thing for trains, so one night we were just hangin' by Penn watchin' 'em go by. Night watchman saw us, saw we weren't doin' nothin', so he let us stay. Then this cargo train was passin' an' we saw a kid jump out. Guess he thought he'd gone far enough. So we called him over an' he came." She shook her head. "God, he was filthy, so first thing we did was take him to the Y for a shower an' a change of clothes, then we went to Tino's for pizza."

"How'd you pay for it?" Violet asked curiously.

"Didn't," Marie shrugged, then looked defensive. "Hey! Didn't steal nothin', the Bloods were better'n that! No, we had a thing goin' with Tino: sometimes we helped him out with deliveries or movin' stuff, an' he paid us back with pizza, maybe a Coors or two. Every new Blood, though, got his first pizza for free. See, Tino used to be in a gang, long time ago. He met a girl with money, she liked him, talked him into leavin', but he ain't never forgot where he came from, you know? He's solid."

"Street lingo," I put in, "means he's reliable, trustworthy."

Violet was fascinated, and amazed her little boy had had the fortitude to travel over seventeen hundred miles (she'd Googled it out of sheer curiosity) by railroad.

"One thing I don't get," Marie puzzled, "if you gave a fuck about Billy - an' it's a pretty good bet you did - why'd you give him up?"

Violet looked bitter at that. "If you only knew just how often I've asked myself that same question...! I was twelve years old," she sobbed anew. "I did want to try, truly I did, but there was so much pressure...you can't imagine. You aren't allowed many choices at age twelve, Marie, even in a loving family like mine. Dad was all for it, actually, but Mom didn't really believe I could cope, what with school and everything, and a baby is a full-time job, believe me.

"Mom convinced me it was for the best, and I honestly believe to this day that she believed that. If I couldn't take care of him, he should go to another family who could. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, and it hurt even more than his birth did, but in the end I agreed. I met them, the Johnsons; they lived on a farm, a beautiful piece of land."

"Ain't never seen a farm," Marie, a lifelong city girl, murmured wistfully, but then she, frankly, astonished me by adding, "but the Big Apple's beautiful, too, in its way, 'specially at night. You should see it from the top o' the Empire State."

Well, dip me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians, I marvelled, never knew 'Cat was a closet aesthete. What else don't I know about her?

"Well, maybe you could give me a tour before I go home," Violet suggested brightly, "Denver's the only big city I've ever seen. But I'd love to see Central Park, I've heard it's lovely."

She would've been a good mother, I mused bitterly, if the way she's connecting with Marie is any indication. Her mother was wrong. I bet Violet would've coped, even at twelve. Her parents could've helped out.

Then again, I wasn't there, I mentally sighed, so who am I to judge?

"Yeah, sounds cool," Marie nodded, but then she sobered. "Gotta wait 'til the Unit takes that motherfucker down first."

Now, I knew, we were getting down to it. Violet knew it too. She very quietly asked, "Please tell me what happened, Marie. Why did this man kill a little boy like Billy -?"

"Wasn't no man!" she spat, startling us both.

I began, "Wait, you're surely not saying a woman -"

"Fuck, man, I don't know what the fuck it was!" she almost screamed. "All I know is IT WASN'T NO FUCKIN' MAN!"