PRESIDENT: And here you were, all the while. In Whitechapel, at the very heart of the murders. (to Ratski) Brad.
RATSKI: Mr. President.
He opens up the file. Reads from here and there.
RATSKI: John Anthony Dyson, born December 7th, 1982... Single, both parents deceased.
That elicits a mournful scowl from Dyson.
PRESIDENT: I’m sorry, John. Go on, Brad.
RATSKI: Joined the Metropolitan Police Service in 1999... First stationed at Stoke Newington... Shot twice in an armed robbery in 2014... (smirks) Investigated by Internal Affairs for breaking the nose of a convicted pederast during interview.
PRESIDENT: Bravo.
RATSKI: Spent four months undercover with the Area Drugs Squad in Leeds... Eight weeks undercover in Glasgow, Scotland... Moved to Whitechapel detective’s department in 2016 when the new station opened... Received a total of twelve commendations.
He snaps shut the file.
PRESIDENT: Quite a career.
RATSKI: (begrudgingly) Quite.
PRESIDENT: Of course, what the file doesn’t mention is that you’re running your department at the moment, since your superiors’ alleged involvement with certain underworld characters.
Dyson gives him a questioning glance.
PRESIDENT: We did our research.
He downs his scotch. Asks the 64 thousands dollar question:
PRESIDENT: So, will you do it?
DYSON: But what about the guys Ratski here killed? How do I explain that?
PRESIDENT: I don’t condone the use of execution squads. Their deaths are regrettable, but given the nature of their profession, an expected hazard you might say. Bury the case, John.
DYSON: Bury... But I can’t do that. Your man here screwed up. He left evidence.
Ratski takes a step forward in protest.
RATSKI: I screwed --
PRESIDENT: Leave it, Brad. (to Dyson) As difficult as it is for me to suggest, I’m sure that evidence can be misplaced, if need be. I can’t imagine the good people of this city shedding too many tears for them. It’s a small price to pay. (beat) Will you do it?
DYSON: You’re asking me to solve one crime, but leave another unsolved. I’m a cop, I... I don’t think...
Ratski glances at the President. Steps in.
RATSKI: Detective Dyson, you’re missing the point here. We have a time machine. We can fix the deaths of these men if that’s what it takes to appease your conscience.
DYSON: It’s not about conscience, Ratski. It’s about right and wrong.
PRESIDENT: Your integrity’s unquestionable, I like that. But if that’s what it takes, then you can go back and stop Brad here from killing this Dennis and Richards. But first...
He flashes his best vote-winning enamel, the passion growing in his spiel.
PRESIDENT: But first, let’s get Jack the Ripper. Let’s finally put this one to bed, huh? Let’s discover if he’s prince or pauper, surgeon or patient. Let’s end the years of theory and speculation. 130 years, John. Let’s end it. Tonight. What do you say?
Dyson hesitates for a moment, looking at the President and Ratski in turn. Then he nods, a smile breaking across his face.
The President rushes forward and almost hugs him.
PRESIDENT: There’s an old warehouse in... Where is it, Brad?
RATSKI: Colbart Street, Mr. President.
PRESIDENT: Colbart Street, that’s it. We’ve assembled the machine there because it’s empty and --
DYSON: Was empty in 1888 too.
Impressed, the President grins broadly.
PRESIDENT: Shall we say eight o’clock tonight?
Dyson manages a nod, still somewhat dumbfounded. The President guides him to the doors and ushers him out with a handshake.
DYSON: Who do you think he was, sir?
The President thinks for a moment...
PRESIDENT: I truly don’t know. Jack the Ripper has become what we’ve made him. What we want him to be. A poster boy for the depraved, a zeitgeist for the inhuman suffering of that era, a demon that lurks within our darkest shadows. But as to who he was... I’ve learnt as a politician never to speculate. But I do know this much. (deliberate pause) In a little under twelve hours, you will be the man that apprehends him. Crime detection changes tonight. Goodbye, John.
Dyson likes that. His grin grows even wider as the door gently closes on him.
The President switches off the smile and rushes for the oxygen tank. He begins to gulp down air, turning back to the scornful gaze of Ratski.
RATSKI: You should’ve let me go.
PRESIDENT: No, I wanted a cop. I wanted Dyson. Besides, what you’ve done already is more than I could ask of any man.
A moment of silence as they share their surreptitious exchange once more.
INT. DETECTIVE’S OFFICE, POLICE STATION - DAY
Dyson bounds in energetically, nearly collides with Sarah coming the other way. He dances round her, still smiling from ear to ear.
SARAH: What’s got into you?
DYSON: Rhythm, baby!
Sarah watches him incredulously as he bounds over to his desk.
SARAH: I tried running the CCTV images from last night, but the system’s down for an update or something. I’ll try... again... Are you okay? Where’ve you been?
Dyson slips out of his jacket. Shakes off the rain.
DYSON: Out?
SARAH: Any luck?
DYSON: With what?
SARAH: Dennis and Richards?
He stops dancing. Pulls an awkward face.
DYSON: Yeah, about that. I don’t wanna be wasting too much manpower on them.
SARAH: What?
DYSON: We have a murder, three rapes, an armed robbery, a child abduction, plus two dozen more bullshit cases we’ve yet to even open. I’m just not prepared to assign the whole department to couple of career criminals who knew what they were getting into when they sold their first eighth. (beat) Somebody did us a favor if you ask me.
She places her hands on her hips, eyeing him up suspiciously.
SARAH: Okay, what’s going on?
Dyson shrugs innocently.
SARAH: What happened to the Dyson mantra: ‘Murder is murder is murder’?
DYSON: Maybe it’s time for a new one. ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword.’
SARAH: (shakes head) Incredible. A complete character transplant. What will they think of next. You do know Khan’s downstairs. The boys brought him in. You told them to.
DYSON: Let him go. We’ve got nothing on him.
SARAH: Let him go? No, he’s demanding to see you. He wants the organ grinder not the monkeys. His words.
Dyson heads for the exit.
DYSON: Fine. I’d better not keep him waiting then.
SARAH: This... you, Mr. Couldn’t-give-a-shit. This has something to do with the guy in your office, doesn’t it?
Dyson stops at the doors for a moment, before heading off. Sarah follows, out into the --
CORRIDOR
SARAH: John?
Dyson doesn’t stop.
SARAH: John! Have you even called MIT, about Dennis and Richards?
But Dyson’s gone, leaving Sarah alone in the corridor.
SARAH: I’ll phone them then, shall I?
INT. INTERVIEW ROOM, POLICE STATION - MOMENTS LATER
The product of a mixed race communion, FRANKIE KHAN, 45, sits at a table. A vicious crime lord, and Dyson’s nemesis, his thick body is wrapped in the most expensive of Italian suits.
His lawyer, NAZIR SINGH, 40’s, sits at his side. A faithful dog of law.
The door opens and Dyson enters. Khan looks up and scowls, speaking with an abrasive Cockney growl.
KHAN: Well?
DYSON: I’m good thanks. You?
KHAN: No, I mean... I’ve been sitting here for four hours, picked up over me breakfast. On your orders.
DYSON: Only fo
ur? Well I did wanna ask you about Dennis and Richards, but I’ll be frank, Frank, I’ve got bigger fish to fry now.
Khan’s features cloud innocently. He shakes his head for effect.
KHAN: Dennis and Richards?
Dyson sits opposite as the lawyer begins to bark.
SINGH: Mr. Khan is distraught at the treatment he’s received here today. We haven’t even been offered a hot beverage. Rest assured, I will be filing a complaint.
Khan holds up a pair of shaky hands to halt him, every finger wrapped in tacky but expensive gold sovereign rings.
KHAN: S’okay, Nazir. I’m only happy to help the detective here. We all have to do our bit. Play our part for the community, huh? (to Dyson) Who are... Dennis and Richards?
Dyson sighs.
DYSON: They worked for you, Frankie.
KHAN: They did. (to Singh) They did?
Singh shrugs, wearing his best poker face.
SINGH: I have no knowledge of any such individuals on your payroll.
DYSON: You must remember them... Eager to please, low-level scumbags, probably prepared to blow up a couple of cops to climb the ladder?
Nothing. Not a flicker from Khan or Singh.
DYSON: No? Oh well. They were murdered last night.
Khan stiffens at that. Evidently news to him.
KHAN: And you think I had something to do with it?
DYSON: No. Actually for once I don’t.
SINGH: My client’s an honest businessman. I would strongly resent any accusation that he’s implicated in any nefarious activities.
DYSON: They went there to buy Columbian, Frankie. I’ve got it on good source.
KHAN: (shakes head) Dunno what you mean. Nothing to do with me.
DYSON: So I guess that wasn’t your money in the car?
SINGH: (to Khan) You don’t have to answer that.
KHAN: Shuddup. (to Dyson) What money? No, course it weren’t. As me brief says, I’m an honest businessman.
Dyson hunches over the table toward Khan.
DYSON: Anyone ever lived long enough to testify against you, you’d be the most honest businessman in whatever five star excuse for a prison they put you in.
KHAN: That’s a dangerous statement, John.
DYSON: These are dangerous times, Frank.
Beat. The cop and the crook eye each other up... It’s Khan that breaks first. He sneers madly, his honest businessman veneer slipping away to reveal something altogether more unsettling.
KHAN: (scoffs) Who d’you think you are? Look at you. Detective Inspector, Detective Sergeant -- whatever you are. You’re a two bob fucking pig out of his depth. That’s what you are. Oink, oink. Remember that.
Singh looks at his watch and leans over the table too.
SINGH: Detective, do you intend to charge my client with something, or are you merely using him as a tool to vent bravado and male testosterone?
DYSON: No, not today. He’s free to go.
SINGH: Good.
Khan and Singh stand. Make for the door. But Dyson grabs Khan’s arm, pulling him back.
SINGH: Assault!
DYSON: I will take you down, Frankie. One day. That’s a guarantee. Nobody’s untouchable. (to Singh) And you can stick that in your complaint.
KHAN: New sheriff in town is there?
DYSON: For now.
Khan laughs as he shakes free of his grip. He straightens his suit. Opens the door.
KHAN: Always a pleasure, Johnny boy.
He swaggers from the interview room, Singh hot on his heels. Dyson leans against the door until it snaps shut. A smirk crawls across his face as he repeats the President’s earlier line.
DYSON: Crime detection changes tonight.
EXT. COLBART STREET, WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT
Rain pounds down on the deserted side street. A beat up sedan whizzes into view, pulling up outside of the metal-shrouded warehouse.
Dyson hops out into the rain and dashes to a side door. He gives the protruding big rig’s nose a quick once over and enters.
INT. WAREHOUSE, COLBART STREET - CONTINUOUS
Two US Secret Service AGENTS pounce, pointing automatics at Dyson.
DYSON: Whoa! Easy. I am expected.
He glances past them at a hastily erected wall that reaches floor to ceiling. Built up and over the trailer of the big rig.
One of the agents turns away, tapping an earpiece and saying something unheard. He motions Dyson over to the wall and punches a code into a keypad. A door slides open the wall.
AGENT: Go on through, sir.
Dyson nods and enters, immediately shielding his eyes from the glare of floodlights.
Ratski hops over a mess of thick cables strewn all over the floor toward him.
RATSKI: This way.
DYSON: Where’s Bob?
He follows Ratski along the side of the big rig’s trailer until the warehouse opens up.
RATSKI: The President had to return to the United States. He sends his best wishes and has asked me to -- Watch your step! -- brief him regularly. I’m in charge here now.
He stops and turns back to Dyson.
RATSKI: That acceptable with you, Detective?
Dyson doesn’t answer. Instead, he stops dead. Open-mouthed at the sight before him.
In the center of the warehouse stand four huge metal claws that curve in toward each other. A tangle of cables and pipes runs from each.
DYSON: What the hell are they?
RATSKI: That’s classified.
Dyson looks over at him with a raised brow.
DYSON: Yeah? Then how about I re-classify my commitment to you and go home instead?
RATSKI: You wouldn’t do that. You’ve dreamed your whole life of finding out who Jack the Ripper was. You’re not going to walk away now.
DYSON: I’m not? I have a tray full of current cases. More than enough to keep me busy. Besides, maybe we shouldn’t know who he was.
They’re inches apart now. All glares and raised testosterone until Ratski slackens his stance. Gives a sharp nod.
RATSKI: Very well, Detective. In terms you’d comprehend... you stand between them and we send you back.
Dyson runs a hand over the shimmering surface of the nearest claw.
DYSON: What are they made of?
RATSKI: It’s a fragile metal. Highly conductive, able to withstand temperatures higher than the surface of the sun, but more brittle than glass. It shatters like -- (clicks fingers) -- that. The scientists named it Venezuelium, on account we mine it somewhere where we shouldn’t be.
DYSON: You seem to do a lot of things in places you shouldn’t be.
He looks up at a large window in the expanded trailer, where half a dozen white-coated TECHNICIANS work away silently.
DYSON: How do you power all this?
RATSKI: There were two localized power outages early this morning?
DYSON: So I heard. I was kinda busy clearing up your mess.
RATSKI: (proudly) That was us. We’ve tapped into your National Grid.
He gestures at a deep hole in the floor (made earlier by the man with the laser cutter) to where a thick black cable is spliced onto another one in the ground.
RATSKI: It’ll take the authorities an absolute age to trace the cause. No advancement is without its costs, Detective. The reactor’s only powerful enough to handle the computers and preliminary systems that run this thing, so we need a boost.
DYSON: This thing has a reactor?
RATSKI: Well of course it does. Now what we plan to do is send you back for the duration of the murders, giving you the time to build your case.
DYSON: Wait a minute... That’s two months. I can’t be gone for two months.
Ratski scoffs at Dyson’s innocence.
RATSKI: You’ll only actually be missing for approximately an hour from 2018. They have to shut the machine down, run checks on the system. It’s all very thorough. Takes about an hour her
e, but you’ll be 1888 for two months. Time is a beautiful thing, Detective.
He motions to a small portable building in one corner.
RATSKI: Follow me.
DYSON: Where to?
Ratski looks Dyson’s clothes up and down.
RATSKI: Wardrobe. You honestly think we’re going to let you loose on Victorian London dressed like that?
MOMENTS LATER
Ratski stifles the urge to laugh as Dyson shuffles before him, dressed like an extra from ‘Oliver’, complete with cloth cap and worn carpet bag.
RATSKI: You look very, um... Victorian.
DYSON: Funny, huh?
RATSKI: And you can assure me you haven’t taken anything now with you? Last thing we need is you screwing up the timeline, leaving a damn cell phone there or something.
DYSON: I won’t screw up, Ratski.
RATSKI: Make sure you don’t. You’re there for the Ripper. Nothing else.
DYSON: I know what the job is.
RATSKI: Good. Everything you need is in the bag: additional clothing, basic toiletries, money, etcetera. All lovingly recreated or borrowed from the Smithsonian.
He holds out a piece of chalk for Dyson.
RATSKI: Mark an X or something on the floor. You’ll suffer some disorientation when you get there, the chalk is just for you to remember where exactly you arrived. And you are clear on the return time?
Dyson takes the chalk and slips it into his pocket.
DYSON: Midday, November 9th. I think even a stupid cop can remember that.
RATSKI: Let’s hope so.
He turns toward the big rig’s trailer. Dyson remains rooted to the spot, a sudden thought chilling him.
DYSON: What if... what if something did go wrong? I mean, let’s just say I was late?
Ratski turns back. Smile ready in place.
RATSKI: Do we leave you there to die?
Dyson resists the urge to nod.
RATSKI: Not even the United States Government is quite that callous. You’d create a lot of problems back here, but there’s a small tracking device in the heel of one of your boots. No one would ever find it because no one in 1888 would ever know to look for it. Obviously we can’t track you from here, but we can send someone to find you. In short, no, we wouldn’t abandon you. (beat) Are you ready?
DYSON: (nods) Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s do it.
He moves toward the claws. Ratski grabs his arm, leaning in and lowering his voice.
To Kill Again: Episode One Page 3