Chapter 1

He couldn't understand the sense of apprehension passing through him as he sat transfixed, staring at the ringing phone on his desk. It was Monday morning just before 7:00 a.m., and most of the cubicles in the squad room were occupied. He took a quick glance around to see if anyone else was paying attention to the ringing. Finally, deciding to ignore the odd emotion that had come over him, he reached out and picked up the receiver.

Gibb Bohannon was the only child of a Japanese mother and a Scottish father, who spent the first fifteen years of his life in Glasgow, and learned early on to make certain that when people made wisecracks about what was left of his Scottish brogue, or racist remarks aimed at the hint of Asian background in his appearance, it only happened once. It was an attitude that sometimes got him in hot water, but also provided an easier life path.

"Here's your coffee," said Terry, as he plunked a cup on the desk in front of Gibb, then turned and headed off toward his own cubicle.

"Better not get too comfortable, partner," Gibb said, as he hung the phone back on the cradle. "Apparently, we caught a case."

"I thought Robinson and the new guy were next up," Terry said.

"Yeah, well, you're not going to believe this, but somebody just called 911 and said they committed a murder and wanted Detective Bohannon to be notified."

"Seriously, the killer asked for you by name?"

"Evidently. I'm as puzzled as you are, believe me. The body's in a townhouse on Gerrard, just up the street from the Jarvis intersection. Staff says he'll have Dispatch text us the location details."

"Well, this should be interesting," Terry commented with a chuckle. "I can hardly wait to check this out."

"Let's be careful what we wish for," replied Gibb, heading for the elevator, with Terry close behind.

Terry Weber had been Gibb’s partner for about thirteen years now, and their on-the-job relationship couldn't have been any tighter. Off the clock, Gibb’s lifestyle tended to be a little too much for Terry, who was happily married, with two teenage kids. While it was fairly common for the two of them to get together for the occasional end-of-shift drink, after a single beer Terry usually headed to the ’burbs. With no immediate family in the Toronto area, Gibb was grateful Terry and his wife Joanne often included him as part of their clan for holiday functions.

Gibb felt a twinge of déjà vu as they headed toward the Gerrard and Jarvis intersection, which was also the location of the Jarvis Street Baptist Church on one corner and “Hooker Harvey's” across the street. The area had always had a night-time reputation, where sex workers could earn as much as three hundred a trick, as compared to crack addicts or those in “Trannytown,” who earned as little as twenty bucks. But Gibb knew the flesh-for-sale business brought with it more than its share of issues, and this area held a lot of memories for him.

"You're awfully quiet," Terry said. "Thinking about past events near the Jarvis Street church, by any chance?"

"Yeah, sorry," Gibb replied. "I know it's pointless to dwell on the past like that. There’s certainly been a lot of water under the bridge since then. But I can't help how anxious I feel whenever we catch a case in this neighborhood. And now, with somebody requesting a command performance…”

He left the statement unfinished as he pulled the car to the curb in front of a row of townhouses, and behind a cruiser with lights flashing. The nine rowhouse units seemed a little out of place in what was typically a commercial neighborhood. Nonetheless, they looked very well-kept for the most part. The fronts of the first eight were painted in a common color, intended, no doubt. to make them blend together. There was wrought-iron fencing around a small, grassed area in front of each unit, each with curtained windows, all of which displayed a pride of ownership.

The unit at the end of the row, however, stood out from the rest and showed none of the trappings evident on the other eight. The red-painted bricks were peeling, plywood had replaced glass in two of the upper windows, and the front steps were badly spalled and disintegrating. The fact that a squad car was parked in front only reinforced Gibb’s first impression that they had arrived at the correct address without having to check.

Jimmy Fairview, one of the videographers with the department, and more often than not the one assigned for downtown murders, had just arrived and was exiting his vehicle, camera in hand. "Morning, guys. Am I to understand the Bohannon-Weber team got a personal request to this dance?"

"Not me, Jimmy," said Terry with a chuckle. "My name did not appear on this dance card."

"Nice to see you, Jimmy. Been a while,” Gibb called out, giving a wave over the squad car. "Yeah, this personal request thing is bothering me more than a little.”

"Yeah, I can imagine it is Gibb. It certainly creates a few questions that need answers,” Fairview replied.

"So, what do you say we go find some of those answers?” Terry suggested as he headed off toward the crumbling steps, with Gibb and Fairview right behind him.

When they arrived at the front door, a uniformed office a Constable Russert, according to his name tag was just coming down a winding staircase from the second story and advised that all the rooms were clear. He said it looked like no one had been inside the townhouse in months, except for the carnage in the room just to the left of the doorway. He also said the coroner had already left, but his examination of the body was complete, and the scene had been released for investigation. Something about an additional investigation he had to get to, and that he was to tell the detectives, when they arrived, that the time of death was between 3:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m.

With nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement at having received this information, and probably distracted by having been invited, Gibb ignored the news that the coroner had left and never thought to ask why Russert was at the scene alone, without a partner. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he walked through the doorway and was instantly hit with the obvious smell of blood.

 The condition of the townhouse inside made the exterior seem not all that bad. There was garbage everywhere, holes in the drywall, broken trim, doors off the hinges, and the unmistakable odor of human excrement was almost overwhelming. The place had probably recently been a flophouse for some of the seedier members of society, thought Gibb, an observation that seemed to contradict Constable Russert’s earlier comment. A few feet farther down the hall, an archway led into a smallish space that opened to a galley kitchen at the rear of the townhouse. The area was devoid of any furniture except for an overturned stool and a set of three straight-backed chairs.

To suggest the scene was disturbing was a gross understatement, Gibb thought, as he stood staring from the doorway. His focus went right to the center of the room, where a nude body hung from ropes attached to three ceiling hooks. The victim had a slight build, with shoulder-length, blood-soaked hair, and it wasn't until after Gibb saw the vic’s genitalia that he realized they were looking at a young male, who looked to be in his early twenties.

 One rope was attached to each wrist, holding the arms wide apart, as in a crucifixion, and a third, attached to the center hook, which was loosely looped around the vic’s neck, was wrapped with razor wire. He knew the amount of blood was not always an indication of the size of the injury, but this was more than excessive. Blood spray covered every wall of the room, an obvious result of violent thrashing.

Doing an initial walk-through, Gibb obtained verification from Russert that no one had moved or touched anything before he and Terry arrived. He was now visibly annoyed at the coroner's absence and made a mental note to follow up on this serious breach in procedure.

As Terry proceeded to examine and identify specifics for the crime team, which would be along shortly to tag, log, and package any potential evidence, all of which would find its way to the crime lab, Gibb focused on providing Fairview direction for his video.

The sequence of events was beginning to become clearer as Gibb took in the whole room. It looked as though the victim had been standing bound on what had been a four-legged stool, with one of the legs sawed in half. Someone could likely balance like that for two or three hours, he reasoned, but once the stool tipped, the razor wire would quickly tighten, and the ensuing flailing would have sliced through the carotid almost immediately.

While Gibb knew it was virtually impossible for a criminal to carry out a crime without leaving traces of his presence, this crime scene was over-the-top. There clearly had been no attempt by the killer to limit or hide evidence. With multiple footprints on the floor and several bloody handprints evident on the wall, it was as though the killer had purposely left his signature. At first glance, it also looked as if there might be sperm samples on the floor near the straight-backed chair, which had been placed directly in front of the victim’s stool.

It certainly takes a sick bastard who needs this kind of violence to pleasure himself, thought Gibb. Considering the staging of this bizarre scene, the unabashed spread of evidence, and the personal invitation for him to attend, he had a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew just who the killer might be.

Eager to get a closer look, Gibb instructed Russert to use one of the three straight back chairs in the room and assist with getting the victim down. After some difficulty with the knots, the ropes were finally untied from the three hooks, and the victim was carefully lowered to the floor, facedown. Gibb and Terry turned the dead man onto his back, revealing that his eyes had been covered with tape, and suggesting he’d been debased by the murderer, who’d avoided eye contact. The blood-soaked hair that was matted across most of his face still obscured some of the duct tape covering the mouth.

"Here, Jimmy, zoom in here," Gibb instructed uneasily. "There's something written on the tape."

Leaning closer, so he could make out the writing, Gibb used his pen to move the hair aside and abruptly turned and stared right into the camera.

Printed on the tape were the words memento mori.

"I can't believe it. That son of a bitch is back.”

The words were barely out of Gibb’s mouth when Terry, who had been kneeling, came crashing face-first on top of the victim, blood from a gash on the back of his head splashing across Gibb’s face.

As Gibb instinctively reached for his gun, Constable Russert took a swing with his Glock, striking him on the side of the head, and sending Gibb’s gun flying across the room. Stunned, Gibb looked up to a flash, a horrendous noise, and the visual of a 9mm hole in the videographer's forehead as he, too, crashed to the floor.

"Get up slowly, Detective, and stand against the wall."

Trying to take it all in and make sense of the last thirty seconds, Gibb was still foggy from the blow to his temple. Without warning, Russert's boot caught Gibb in the ribs, sending him sprawling.

"I said get up," screamed Russert, his semi-automatic inches from Gibb’s face.

Still disoriented from the blow, his ears ringing from the blast that took out Fairview, he gradually got to his feet and staggered backward toward the wall as directed, trying to focus.

"You piece of shit, I looked everywhere for you for years. I hoped you might have crawled into a hole somewhere and died," said Gibb.

"Well, Detective Bohannon, as you can see, I didn't die. You should be flattered. I orchestrated this little get-together just for you. Made it special too, what with the ceiling hooks and all. I was a little concerned initially that you might recognize me. But I've always known the trick to the art of disguise is to hide in plain sight, and once again my makeup artistry seems to have done the job.

 Too bad about the medical examiner, and the real Constable Russert and his partner. They're just over there in the kitchen, and the camera guy, of course unfortunate collateral damage. I'll leave your partner here, though, as a parting gesture, and someone left to do the important work, like tell my story. That’s of course, if he survives that gash on the back of his head. I thought about dragging this out some. You know, as a reward to me for putting an end to the great Gibb Bohannon.

It's something I should have finished up years ago, like I always said I would. So, I came back to right a wrong, so to speak. But before you go, you should know, I have been doing a little travelling for the past twelve years since we last saw each other, mostly in the States. This guy at your feet brought my total to forty-nine, and like I told you years ago, one day I'll probably stop. And that day was going to be today, with you being my fiftieth. Now your friends here that I placed in the kitchen have messed with my numbers a little, but I guess I can live with that."

"So, you want what from me, congratulations?"

"Congratulations? No. I want you to die. I'm not going to screw up another opportunity to kill you. I baited you right into my parlor, just as I said I would."

Wiping the blood from his eyes, Gibb leaned forward with a look of defiance. "Fuck you."

He saw the beginnings of a flash as the bullet crashed into his chest, driving him into the wall .... and then nothing.