text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, superhero]
  
  Under the cover of night, the Fallen traveled across rooftops. His prey kept to the streets, dodging between buildings like a rat scouring the sewer for scraps of food. Much easier to track rats from above. Silent, like a whisper shared between lovers, he leapt between buildings, landing softly, absorbing the impact through his leg muscles, allowing the momentum to carry his next steps.
  
  They feared him. He knew they feared him. Many months had the Fallen been at it. Someone had to enforce the law. The city watch sure as hell wasn't. Half of them are paid-off by crimelords and guildmasters. No, if the appointed lawmen weren't going to do their job, the Fallen would pick up the slack.
  
  His target tonight, a brigand by the name of Nils Forthan. Wanted in several cities, Nils made the mistake of arriving at Sheol's Passage, to the home of the masked demon. Nils might not know it, but his current location would be his final destination. That's the problem with success. One can escape from the law, getting away with murder (quite literally), and it goes to his head. Success made a man feel invincible as if nothing can touch him. Wise men knew success is temporary. Each situation presented an opportunity for failure as well as success, a lesson that Nils would soon learn.
  
  Nils, walking with his hands stuffed into his pockets, turned down one of the Passage's winding roads. This one in particular led to Gilly's Bathhouse, open late for activities other than bathing. Towel optional. The Fallen watched from above. A hunter learned through observation. Often, prey had certain routines that they liked to keep. It's safe. Their habits hadn't gotten them caught so far. Might as well keep the same ones. A mistake. Routine has a way of putting one's self exactly where another wants them. Across a few more streets, Nils would arrive at Gilly's. He turned down another and ran straight into a masked figure.
  
  The figure wore a dark faceplate, four slits carved into the mask, the edge running above the man's chin, tracing the edge of his jaw. Dressed in a black half cloak reaching to his waist, which one might mistake for a cape, his features underneath blurred together in a swirl of darkness. White teeth shone behind the mask, a warm smile like the way two old friends would greet one another.
  
  "Nice night for a stroll," the Fallen commented, his voice perfectly articulate, although not as rugged as his exterior would indicate.
  
  "I know who you are, freak," Nils replied back, attempting to hide his surprise with aggression. "The others say you're a spirit, a demon escaped from the underworld. Me? I think you're just a freak in a mask."
  
  "And those two are mutually exclusive?" the Fallen pondered, bringing one hand to his chin in thought. "Hmm. Not necessarily. Most likely, yes. Mmm, interesting to think about."
  
  "Outta my way, and I'll forget you interrupted my journey," Nils said, taking a step forward, although clearly stepping around and not through the masked figure.
  
  The Fallen stepped to his left, putting himself directly in Nils' path. Nils then changed direction, moving right. The Fallen followed.
  
  "Strolling and dancing. You and I would get along together nicely," the Fallen spoke. "I wonder what's next on the agenda. A drink, perhaps? I myself am a fan of a good wine. Nothing light, however. Red. Dark red. Full-bodied, with notes of blackberries. What about yourself? You strike me as a warm ale type of fellow."
  
  "I...uh..." Nils started, at a loss for words at the Fallen's line of questioning. Is this really the demon the others spoke about?
  
  "Yes, you, uh," the Fallen cut him off mid "sentence." "I can tell you're not one for small talk. Any talk, really. Someone of your...demeanor is better suited to put on a mean face and act tough. It is a mean face you got there. Bet it scares off lowly criminals. Any woman with half a brain too. Shame. I was really looking forward to our little chat. Seems we'll just have to move past the talking portion and on to the business part."
  
  Nils, finally recovered from his stammering, said, "That's enough. One step closer and I'll have to knock that pretty mask from your face. I am a bit interested to see who lies beneath. There are rumors who could be underneath."
  
  "Oh! Do tell, please," the Fallen answered. "I love rumors."
  
  Realizing he may be playing into the Fallen's game, Nils ignored the prodding. Instead, he focused on more threats. "That's enough, freak. Now move, otherwise you'll be eating your next meal hand-fed at the loony bin."
  
  The Fallen seemed to blink from existence for a brief second, a blur, as if his body was displaced before returning back to its original position, his smile still spread across his face, though shrouded by the mask. Two old friends reuniting. Nils, in front of the Fallen, frozen in place.
  
  "I do hope," the Fallen said, striding forward to Nils. "That they serve a good roast." The Fallen circled Nils, eyeing the knife placed in Nils' spine. "I love a good roast. Even more so than rumors." The Fallen's head turned slightly, gazing at unseen thoughts in the air. "Yes, a good roast isn't appreciated quite enough." The Fallen pulled the knife from Nils' spine. The brigand collapsed to the street, dark stains starting to appear through the back of his shirt. "I am quite famished now. Thank you for the conversation. I think I'll enjoy myself a good roast tonight."
  
  The Fallen turned to leave, but then stopped. "Ah, I almost forgot," he said, reaching inside of his half cloak. A parchment appeared in his hand, quill in the other. "Let's see, here. Hmm. Yes, there it is. That'll do nicely."
  
  He placed the parchment on Nils' unmoving body with his knife, like planting a flag into an unclaimed territory. On it, written in Nils' blood, it read, To my dear friends reading this. One evil man down. Another one you owe me for. It's ok, though. I'm not keeping score, at least officially I'm not. If I were, the total would be at 27. The longer you keep allowing evil men to roam freely, the larger your debt grows. Some help would be appreciated. Oh. The body is Nils Forthan, a wanted man worth 200 pieces. Please address the writ of payment to "justice." Oh. And this is the Fallen if you didn't gather that already. Not the name I would have chosen, but alas, we find ourselves here. Until next time.
  
  > Gambling den
  Games of chance. They delighted men. How fortunate for Kan'balar that he could monetize the thrill, the anticipation of chance. It was minor stuff, really. Though, it played a big part in the heart of a man. Here, in his establishment, Kan'balar sold true experience without risk. Without physical risk, that is. The option to lose a man's life savings was always present.
  
  Unlike dens of similar games, Kan'balar didn't provide credit. There was no dipping into imaginary gold. What good is that? They either had it or they didn't. More often than not, Kan'balar ended up with it, whatever the good patrons of his fine establishment filled their pockets with. Besides, credit was too messy. Kan'balar would have to hire extra muscle, keep track of what's owed or not, get his hands dirty. Too pesky to deal with. Better to deal with cool, hard coin.
  
  The thrill, the anticipation of uncertain outcome. It spoke to a man. It made him truly live. The monotony of life, the pure unexciting daily grind of work has no place in Kan'balar's den. Life should be an adventure. It should bring a unique passion and desire to experience. That's what Kan'balar sold. Not the games, not the drink, not even his half-naked servers who would indulge in...other services.
  
  No, Kan'balar offered true living to his patrons at the cost of potential monetary loss, a payment that many gladly took in order to feel. The unspoken agreement was that it's a temporary fix, a field tourniquet to a bleeding wound. Sometimes that's the best healing a man could get. If that didn't work, Kan'balar's spice would do the trick.
  
  It was the best spice on the street. Finely ground, pure, potent. Yes, there was no competition. Sure, it cost almost double of the average rate, but Kan'balar found people were willing to pay for quality. You get what you pay for, and Kan'balar offers top quality at top price.
  
  From his view in the balcony overlooking the den, Kan'balar sipped at his cup of brandy. Top quality, top price. The tables were packed tonight. The den, dimly-lit, had a certain feel to it, like being a young lad and sneaking in the middle of the night to meet a lass. Kan'balar designed it that way. Between games, he wanted the patrons to have the thrill of discovery, as if they were trespassing in an area they weren't supposed to visit.
  
  Another burning sensation filled Kan'balar's throat, the sweet taste from the distilled wine finding a place after the strong flavor. From nothing, to operating this place. It still felt like a dream to Kan'balar, one that he'd never admit out loud. The night was only just beginning. Kan'balar had money to make.
  
  > City Lord Harken
  City Lord Harken gazed over the city before him. His city. Sheol's Passage. Cool night air lightly touched the top of Harken's head, sending his wavy hair into small movements, like leaves rustling in a tree. From his balcony in the city keep, he could view the entire Passage. Stretched out like a snake, the city expanded from the east in a series of winding roads, most of which interconnected with one another. Once, it had been a key pathway through traversing the Sheol Mountain range, hence the name.
  
  Many lights shone from the Passage, cutting through the night air, spread out as if mirroring the stars above. Yes, Harken would miss this place. Duty called. It's a man's responsibility to fight for king and country. The High King, a distant cousin, called on him personally to aid in the nation's defense. Their neighbors to the south were marching on the High King's land. As if the pesky Verithians could overtake the High King. Verith wasn't known for producing scholars. Still, it's Harken's duty to answer the summoning.
  
  It was about time his younger brother stepped up. In Harken's absence, his brother, Harriam, would act as temporary City Lord. Harken shook a negative thought from his mind. Harriam wasn't known for doing much other than building a hefty tab at the local tavern. But Harriam never had the opportunity to prove himself. Second-borns didn't receive many chances while the first-born still breathed. Both brothers received the same instruction as they grew into men, so Harken quickly replaced his negative thought with a more positive one: he was doing the High King's bidding, and Harriam would have the chance to prove himself.
  
  Harken would miss this place. It truly was one of a kind. Despite its winding, serpent-like roads, the Passage still offered sizable buildings, and it boasted the largest cathedral in the High King's land, minus the one in the capital city, that is. All mountain travel flowed through the Passage, and with it, people from every corner of the nation, a lot of which happened to settle down in the Passage. Harken didn't blame them. The city has a certain feel to it. Something adventurous about it, while still holding the benefits of a major metropolis.
  
  As City Lord Harken walked back from his balcony overlooking the city, he mentally prepared himself for the next day. He would be on the road with the bulk of his guard. Harriam would need to hire more security. Harken entered the main chamber of his living quarters, where a map of the city took up an entire wall. Little scribbles and notes on different places were placed on top. The City Lord liked to be well-aware of the happenings in his city.
  
  One image in particular caught his eye, as it always does. Long had The Fallen escaped him. The masked figure was more trouble than he was worth. Barely. The vigilante was deadly effective in murdering criminals, but often that extended to Harken's guards as well.
  
  Some seemed to view masked "demon of the underworld" as an ally; however, an ally doesn't hide his identity. Sure, he stopped criminal scum in their tracks, but Harken would see the man locked in chains. No one was above the law.
  
  The crude sketch on the wall was the fear of thieves and cutthroats. A shroud in the night, the only sense of humanity peering through four thin slits, two for the nose two for the eyes. The shape of the mask curved just above the Fallen's jawline, traveling along the edge. Always wearing a black cape, armed with nothing more than a few daggers and knives.
  
  City Lord Harken would leave in the morning to meet the Verithians. The Passage would need to rely on his brother to survive in his absence.[Themes: mystery / thriller, mystery, socially important, true story]
  
  You are a detective.
  
  All your life you have wanted to help other people; to do things that make the world a better rather than a worse place. Becoming a lawman seemed a natural way to do this and you diligently worked your way first onto the force and then steadily up the ranks. Assignment to the city of Rochester in New York put you on the front lines against the Mafia, drug dealers and gang warfare. You thought you had seen the worst that the dark side of human nature had to offer.
  
  You thought wrong and one gloomy autumn day you hear the words that will change your life:
  
  "We have a missing child."
  
  Thus, began your involvement with the chilling Alphabet Murders...
  
  [Author's Note: The clues are always there, it is just a case of searching and thinking hard enough... Continuing my experimental grim and gritty approach to detective stories I've scribbled this real life mystery. Written in the style of Hunting the Ripper it is worth mentioning this story is based on true events and people (some of whom are still alive) with about 90% accuracy and as it concerns the hunt for a serial child killer and rapist obviously it is not suitable reading for some, though I have tried to deal tactfully with some of the more unpleasant subject matter. Disclaimer over. As always, thankyou for taking the time to read my stories.]
  
  > Begin
  Your nondescript partner Detective Paul Richards fills you in on the call as you drive.
  
  "Mrs Guillermina Colon called at 7.30pm to report her ten-year-old daughter Carmencita Colon had not returned home from a trip to Jack's Drugs, the local drug store. Apparently, Carmen volunteered to go out and pick up groceries at about 4.15 and she should have been back within half an hour. Around 5 Mrs Colon began to grow concerned and went to the drug store to look for Carmen. The store owner confirmed the girl visited the drug store but had left with groceries at about 4.30. When she couldn't find her daughter, Mrs Colon began phoning family, friends and neighbours. None had seen Carmen but some helped Mrs Colon search the neighbourhood and eventually she called us."
  
  "There are two places worth going to Richards," you tell him. "The Colon household to interview the mother and the drug store where the girl was last seen."
  
  > go to the Colon home
  Arriving at a small and rundown block of apartments you find a group of Hispanics clustered around a young and attractive, but grief-stricken, Hispanic lady. This lady turns out to be Mrs Colon who struggles to hold back tears as she repeats largely the same account of Carmen's disappearance that you have already heard.
  
  "You have to find her," she tells you when she is finished, twisting a handkerchief between her hands as she talks. "She is such a dear, beautiful little girl. She hasn't had the easiest life: her father Justiniano and I separated a year ago and she hasn't adjusted well to my new partner, Justiniano's brother, Miguel. She's been struggling in school and finds it difficult to make friends but she's a good kid – she always wants to help out. We go to Mass every Sunday and she says her prayers to God every night. You have to help me find her, please. Please."
  
  Tears run down her cheeks and she drops into a crouch, covering her face with her hands as her body shakes with sobs. You lick your lips, a lump in your throat and as Mrs Colon's friends and relatives cluster round her you walk back to your car. "I got a physical description from a neighbour," Richards tells you as you climb in. "Carmen has black hair, brown eyes, dark skin, perfect white teeth, is slim and slightly below average in height."
  
  > go to Jack's Drug Store
  You drive to Jack's Drug Store, a big and bustling business on West Main Street. The bell tinkles as you walk in the door and after you identify yourselves the store's owner Jack Corbin comes out to talk to you. He is a big, beefy man of about forty with an honest and forthright manner.
  
  "Carmen came in here about 4.30 this afternoon to pick up some prescription medicine for her grandpa. She's been coming in a couple of times a week for years – sometimes with her mum, sometimes with her grandparents and sometimes on her own - so we all know her pretty well. We told her that her grandpa's medicine wasn't ready yet but if she could wait a few minutes we'd make it up. She shook her head and seemed in a hurry. "I got to go," she told me. "I got to go." She left the store, got into a car waiting on the curb outside and drove off."
  
  You and Richards glance at each other. "Did you recognize the car?" you ask Corbin.
  
  "Well sir, to tell you the truth I didn't pay much attention to it," Corbin tells you. "We were busy with customers at the time. All I remember is seeing her getting into a car outside. The colour? I couldn't tell you, I'm sorry. Did Carmen seem scared or anything? No sir, she just seemed in a hurry to go. I guessed she had something she had to go and do and either she'd come back or someone else in her family would come back and pick up the prescription later in the day or later in the week."
  
  Retracing Carmen's steps out of the store you stand outside and look up and down the street. It is a busy street and cars zoom by up and down the street. It occurs to you if Carmen got into a car directly outside the drug store she would have been driving directly away from the direction of her home and in fact heading out of town. "Leads up to Interstate 490," Richards tells you, following your line of sight. "Heads west across New York State all the way to Le Roy."
  
  There is nothing else to be learnt here.
  
  > join the search for Carmen
  By now hundreds of policemen and civilian volunteers are combing Rochester and expanding the search out into New York State but no trace of Carmen is found that night. All of the next day and well into the second day the search continues until the devastating news arrives. Carmen's body has been found by two teenage boys riding their bikes next to a gully that runs alongside a small dirt road, which in turn runs between Interstate 490 and the small community of Churchville.
  
  A police cordon has already been set up at the scene by the time you arrive – police officers interviewing the boys confirm they were riding their bikes along the road when one of them spotted Carmen's body in the gully. You descend the steep sides to the bottom: during your descent you notice Carmen had clearly been dumped at the top of the gully and her body naturally rolled down its steep side before coming to a rest at its bottom.
  
  The sight is a troubling one. The little girl lies sprawled spread-eagled on her front at the bottom of the gully. Her long black hair covers her face but she is only wearing a white polo shirt, white socks and black shoes, all muddied. Livid red marks around her neck indicate how she met her end. "Her coat, trousers and underwear are all missing," Richards tells you quietly.
  
  > search the surrounding area
  You and Richards carefully explore up and down the gully and along the road at the top. You walk in brooding silence but your diligence pays off when you spot something blue stuffed into a muddy culvert at the top of the gully next to the road, about three hundred feet away from Carmen's' body in the direction of Interstate 490 and on the same side of the road as someone driving back towards that highway. Fishing it from the drain you find it is a smart blue coat identical to that Carmen was reported wearing when she vanished. Her name, pencilled in by her mum, is still visible on the tag.
  
  "I figure whoever dumped her was driving back towards the highway, probably to get back to Rochester, when he realised Carmen's coat was still in the car and decided to get rid of it," Richards tells you. "We are still missing her trousers and underwear though." You nod thoughtfully as you examine the coat: apart from the mud there are no traces of blood visible. You report your discovery to your fellow officers and then accompany Carmen's body back to the hospital for further examination.
  
  > The autopsy
  Dr Saqib Church is your very experienced and highly trained pathologist and he completes Carmen's autopsy in well under an hour while other officers carry out the sad duty of informing Carmen's relatives of the discovery of her remains. When Dr Church is finished, he invites you and Richards into his office and goes over his findings with you.
  
  "Carmen died of manual strangulation, that is to say from hands rather than from a ligature or other instrument," he tells you in a flat tone. "She has a fracture to her skull and one of her vertebrae has been cracked, possibly from a blunt weapon or possibly at the hands of a strong adult as she is of a slight build with little strength of her own. In addition to this she has fingernail scratch marks on her arms, chest and legs. She has been raped. All of these injuries were inflicted prior to her death."
  
  Church sighs and briefly runs the fingers of both hands through his short grey hair. "You are looking for a violent paedophile, detectives, one who may or may not have a previous criminal record but, I would hypothesize, is very likely to commit more crimes in the future, possibly of a similar nature. If you do not find the perpetrator of this crime it is my belief that he will strike again." "Let's get to it then," you say grimly to Richards, thanking the doctor and leaving his office.
  
  "I have made a list of three potential witnesses to interview," Richards tells you, flipping open a notebook. "Justiniano Colon is Carmen's father, separated from Carmen's mother Guillermina he has only sporadic contact with Carmen. Miguel Colon is Justiniano's brother, he started a relationship with Guillermina after she and Justiniano separated. Finally, we have been contacted by one Tahmina Kay who reported seeing a child matching Carmen's description trying to escape a man in a car on Interstate 490 on the evening of her abduction."
  
  > talk to Justiniano Colon
  You drive out to Justiniano Colon's home in a poor part of town and are met at the door by a skinny, unshaven and bleary-eyed young man. "I don't know what to say to you," he tells you inviting you into the living room of his untidy apartment strewn with empty beer bottles and cans. "Carmen was a sweet girl, she never wanted to do anything except help people. After Guillermina kicked me out I only saw her once a week; she didn't even tell me she was missing until the day after she disappeared. I was working in my taxi cab at the time she was taken – your officers have already confirmed this."
  
  You cock an eyebrow and glance at Richards who nods. Thanking Mr Colon for his time you begin to head towards the door. Justiniano follow you, chewing his lip before suddenly stopping you. "Maybe you should talk to Miguel," he tells you finally. "Guillermina mentioned he left town the day Carmen's body was discovered and, as far as I know, he hasn't come back since. There might be nothing in it but you can't trust that two-timing son-of-a-bitch an inch so you might want to look into it."
  
  > talk to Miguel Colon
  You go back over to the household that Carmen shared with her mother Guillermina and her uncle Miguel but now only the grief-stricken Guillermina is there. She seems to have aged ten years since being informed of her daughter's murder and sits listlessly in the small living room attended on by sympathetic relatives. When you ask her if you can speak to Miguel her relatives hiss curse words in Spanish and exchange dark looks.
  
  "Miguel's gone," Guillermina tells you in a detached way. "He said he'd done something wrong in Rochester and needed to leave town." You and Richards exchange glances. "Do you know where Miguel went?" you ask her. Guillermina shakes her head. "New York? I don't know. He took a taxi. He left his car in the car park downstairs – the keys are on the hook if you want to look into it. Maybe you should. I don't know." "Mrs Colon, do you know where your husband was at the time that Carmen was abducted?" "No," Guillermina says tonelessly. "He told me he went for a drive when he came home around 10pm."
  
  "Issue an all-points bulletin that Miguel Colon is a person of interest in our investigation," you tell Richards quietly. "Start with the NYPD and our own men here in Rochester. Try the taxi companies and see if you can identify which one he took." Richards nods and hurries off to issue your alert over the car's radio. You glance back to Guillermina but she is staying fixedly at the black wall across from her, overwhelmed by the sudden destruction of the life she knew.
  
  > investigate Miguel Colon's car
  You make your way out to the car park and approach Miguel Colon's car, the keys jangling in your hand. The car is a new-looking brown Ford Pinto, a small (two-seater) but fairly smart-looking car. Opening the trunk first you are hit with a strong smell of disinfectant which, in fact, is prevalent throughout the car: someone has thoroughly cleaned its interior recently. Your heart pounding you unlock both car doors and search inside.
  
  The first thing you find is a small cute doll of a little Hispanic girl in the glovebox. On the doll and also around the car are long black head hairs. You pick up one of them and examine it closely, it will need to be tested but they look the right length to be Carmen's.
  
  "They are Carmen's," a voice confirms behind you. Turning with a start you see Guillermina has come outside and is standing a short way off watching you work. "The doll and the hair are both Carmen's." she tells you. "Me and Miguel often gave her lifts to school and back in this car." You point to the trunk. "Did you clean this car recently Mrs Colon?" you ask. "Miguel did," she tells you. "Soon after my daughter was abducted Miguel cleaned the car."
  
  "Mrs Colon," you ask her quietly as Richards re-joins you. "Do you believe that your partner Miguel Colon may have abducted and killed your daughter?" Guillermina lowers her head and stares fixedly down at the ground. "I don't know," she says quietly. "I issued the alert," Richards mutters to you. "Have the car inspected by our boys as well," you tell him, slamming the doors shut. There appears to be nothing more to learn here.
  
  > talk to Tahmina Kay
  You drive out to Tahmina Kay's apartment, a flat in a poorer part of town. Tahmina, a middle-aged African-American lady, talks to you at the door of her home while three children play in the living room behind her.
  
  "I might have seen this child you all were looking for, the one that got killed," she tells you. "I was driving down Interstate 490 around 5.30pm the day that girl was taken. There was a car parked up on the verge there and this little girl jumped out of the car and ran towards the traffic waving her arms. A man got out of the car, ran after her, grabbed her round the waist and pulled her back towards the car. That's all I saw."
  
  "You didn't stop to help?" Richards asks incredulously. Mrs Kay glares at him. "I had to get back from work and pick up my kids. I didn't have time to go interfering in some other peoples' problems! I thought it was just some family argument, they happen all the time. The other day my youngest opened the door on the freeway when I told him he couldn't have a McDonalds, was going to jump out as we drove by, till I yelled at him. Don't you think if I could have done something I would have?"
  
  "Are you sure this girl was Carmen?" you ask Mrs Kay, shooting a warning look at Richards. Mrs Kay nods. "Yep. She was a slim, little brown-skinned girl with black hair, just like the one in the newspaper pictures." "Can you describe the car she got out of or the man who followed her?" you ask her, focusing closely. "Sure," Mrs Kay replies. "The car was a dark-coloured Ford Pinto. Didn't see the man much, I'd already driven by when he got out. He wasn't black though."
  
  "You are sure the car was a Ford Pinto?" Richards asks, making notes in his notebook. "You again?" Mrs Kay flares up. "Didn't I just tell you it was? You think I don't know cars – for your information my brother brought a Ford Pinto last month. Exact same make and everything." "Alright, thankyou for contacting us Mrs Kay, you've been very helpful," you tell her quickly. "Well I just hope you catch him that did it is all," she tells you. "Them that goes around raping and killing little girls – death's too good for them." She slams the door.
  
  > wrap up this part of the investigation
  You finish your investigations and drive back to the police station to talk the case over with Richards and other officers in your unit. At this early stage two possible suspects have emerged. James Barber is a known sex offender living in Rochester: he served a prison term for raping a young girl and fled Rochester around the same time Carmen's body was found. Miguel Colon, Carmen's uncle, has similarly left Rochester for reasons unknown. Preliminary investigations reveal that Barber has probably gone to Ohio, where he has family, while Colon may have gone to New York City. At the moment these men are your two main suspects in Carmen's murder.
  
  > Pursue Barber to Ohio
  Following the address of Barber's family to Columbus, Ohio you and Richards knock on the door of their house. It is opened by a tired-looking old lady dressed all in black who looks unsurprised to see you. She identifies herself as James's mother Paula Barber. "You're here for Jim I suppose," she says wearily. "Well he's in his bedroom upstairs, you can go right on up." You and Richards glance at each other and cautiously you enter the house with one hand on your pistol.
  
  "Mr Barber?" you call out. "We are detectives with the Rochester Police Department. We'd like to talk to you." "He can't hear you," Mrs Barber tells you. "You can just go right on up." Something is wrong here and unsure what it is you and Richards carefully ascend the stairs and enter the small bedroom at the top of the stairs. James Barber, the man you are looking for, is lying motionless on a bed in the corner of the room. He is dead.
  
  "Jim's heart gave out during the night when he was sleeping," Mrs Barber tells you, following you into the room. "Always had a bad heart and all the drink and drugs he took didn't help. Doctors been already, waiting for the undertakers to come now. I think it was the stress that killed him from what happened to that little girl in Rochester. Jim turned up yesterday, told me that a little girl had been raped and murdered in New York State and he was sure police would finger him for it because of his record. Swore to me he never had anything to do with it and was working at the time that girl was taken."
  
  "Did you believe him Mrs Barber?" Richards asks. Mrs Barber glances at him. "He was my boy. I know he did terrible things but he is still my son and I am st