We came to an actual screeching halt in front of the station. Because we were in a police car, we got to pull right up front. The Wood Street police station looked like a fortress built entirely of blocks of white stone. There were a few windows, and a big set of brown wood double doors with a crest sculpted into the stone just above—two lions snarling at each other over a shield. Two old-fashioned lamps, ones that looked like converted four-sided gas lamps with the word POLICE on them, provided the only light or identification.

“How exactly are you going to get him to talk to you?” Callum asked as he unbuckled himself.

“We have ways,” Stephen said.

“We? I am part of that we. I don’t know our ways.”

They got out and continued their conversation outside of the car, but I couldn’t hear it that well. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I was in the back, and I was dressed in my alligator pajamas. Getting out seemed like the logical idea, but the door didn’t open. Stephen came back and released me. The three of us marched into the station. At the front desk, Stephen asked for Sergeant Maybrick in such a firm and entitled way that the front desk officer raised an eyebrow. He looked at Stephen, then at Callum, and finally at me. I seemed to be the weak link in this overall picture.

“And you are?” he asked.

“Just ring him.”

“He’s quite busy at the moment.”

“This has to do with the Ripper case,” Stephen said, leaning over the counter. “Time is somewhat of the essence. Pick up that phone.”

The word Ripper really had an amazing effect on people. The desk officer picked up the phone instantly. A minute later, a man emerged from the elevator down the hall. He was at least an inch or two taller than Stephen and probably twice his weight. There were sweat marks under the arms of his white uniform shirt, and the epaulettes on his shoulder had a lot more stripes than Stephen’s.

“I understand you have some information for me?” he said.

His accent, I now could recognize, was Cockney—serious London.

“I need you to tell me everything you remember about the deaths of the six officers at King William Street in 1993,” Stephen replied. Even to my ears, this demand sounded ridiculous.

“And who are you exactly, Constable?” the sergeant said.

Stephen took a notepad from his belt, opened it, scrawled something, and passed the paper to the sergeant.

“Ring this number,” he said. “Tell them you have Constable Stephen Dene with you. Tell them I need you to give me some information.”

Sergeant Maybrick took the paper and stared Stephen straight in the eye.

“If you’re wasting my time, son—”

“Ring the number,” Stephen said.