String of Murder

by brett hicks

  “So, I’m going to talk to the ex-husband next, then I have to run by my apartment for a few. I will call to check in with you while I’m there. I assume you will be back to headquarters by that time? I can call you and we can figure out our next move from there.”

  Bobby nodded, but he was curious, and I rolled my eyes.

  “I have a new house-mate, I am just going to check in with her since she is new to the place.”

  Bobby leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Housemate, is that what you gals are calling it now?”

  I snorted and rolled my eyes, then I gently cupped his cheek.

  “Dear, sweet man, not everything is about my sex-life. This is an orphan I found, she’s hurt and alone, so I am trying to help her. Just give me a little room, because she will probably freak if she sees a big detective storm into my apartment.”

  Bobby huffed and crossed his arms.

  “I do not, “storm” anywhere, ma’am.”

  Bobby calls women “ma’am” when they annoy him, it’s something I learned after years of observing his little tells. Bobby was generally as cool as a cucumber, but he did have a few nuances that slipped out when he was angry or just dealing with me. I count as a category all my own because only his wife can rile him up as much as I do!

  Eight:

  After lunch, I went to check on the ex-husband. He worked in a newspaper office on the east side of the city. From what I knew of him, he was a press manager, that was someone who worked at handling the other sources of news and information across Nexus city. His job was to figure out what stories they were on to and how to match their tales. He was also in charge of handling the relationship of Nexus Daily News, with the many other movers and shakers of the city.

  Being a veritable heathen like I was, I did not subscribe to the newspaper. I read them plenty in the department in my downtime, but I hardly needed to go looking for “interesting” stories. My job was full of them, even the ones the press have managed to sniff out. So, in some ways, I was more informed than almost any reporter or newshound.

  While I was not a fan of the news market, I did respect their thorough attention to detail. They were as good as any detective in digging up buried truths and twice as loud about their search. My job requires me to know when to be silent and how to approach delicate situations. My issues with news reporters were simply that they often kicked up a bunch of mud all over cases I was working. That, and they always had photographers with them, even utilizing these new cameras that could be carried around.

  The east side was made up of many business buildings. There were trades of information and business resources. This was also a banking sector, so many bobbies could be seen guarding the various large main bank buildings of Nexus city. All these buildings had skyline access points and they were guarded in the air even more tightly. Several steamships floated lazily above me, all Britannia military police Zepps.

  Say what you would about the British—and trust me I do so on a regular basis—they knew how to secure an area. Several crafty thieves have tried to sneak past the fort-like defenses for a large pay-day, but none have managed to slip the defense net yet. That’s why Nexus City is not known to have any high-end thieves or burglars. There are the street thugs and the orphan’s crews run by Sting, but they all know to stay clear of the larger bobby- guarded targets.

  The crime in our city seems to have come from some new vein. We have begun to call it “Organized Crime,” or “Mob Families.” This new breed of crime is run like a business and it is terribly difficult to gather any evidence on the “family” members to arrest them. With the steam engines and the expanse of the world around us, so too have come innovations in criminal behavior. Criminal enterprises, if you were. Out west there were gangs and orphan crews, but this new organized crime was still foreign to my home city.

  I was shaken from my cloud of thoughts as I parked my steam bike and I was halted by a bobby in a crisp blue uniform.

  “Where you think you’re goin’?”

  I swallowed the sassy remark pleading for a fiery release and I plucked my badge off my shirt and handed it to him. He looked at me, then at the badge.

  “They give these to the wives now, do they?”

  My eyes narrowed into a no-bullshit-stare.

  “I can certainly see why they have you guarding a building without any valuables to speak of, your observational prowess leaves much to be desired.”

  The bobby looked over at my wiggling left fingers as I held my hand out in front of his face. I kept a sly smile intact and I challenged him with my narrowed gaze. I challenged him to make a mess of this right outside a new reporter’s den!

  “I’m what you kind folks like to call a young spinster. Now that we’ve got that cleared up, how about you let me through, sir.”

  My tone was just barely sincere enough that the bobby couldn’t really claim offense or disrespect. Being a law officer, I knew the written laws and I knew the exact breaking points of each law. While citizens were required to treat British forces with due respect, there were small spaces for wiggle-room.

  “I ought to have you drug out to headquarters by yer bloody hair ye bitch!”

  He growled at me and I stood my ground, my imposing height put me a few inches above the man. I looked down into his eyes and I gave him a calm and almost uncaring look.

  “Sure, what’s the charge going to be? I’m pretty sure I can rustle up a reporter and a cameraman who can attest that I have not caused you any disrespect, or any disrespect to His Majesty’s honorable forces.”

  I added just a touch of reverence to “His Majesty” to sound every bit the good Britannia citizen I was not. The bobby huffed, and his eyes darted about as if just now realizing that someone could photo him in the act of bullying a female black badge detective. With the ever-growing divide between the homeland and the Colonial continental denizens, the last thing the Brits needed was more bad press! Even this buffoon with a military badge and a long silver and iron gun-blade sheathed at his side could figure this much out.

  “Get the hell out of here while you can.”

  He growled at me and handed me back my badge. I resisted the urge to sass back again since I knew I was sticking my little toe at the very edge of disobedience as things stood between us. The bobby looked as red as a Spanish pepper. Did I feel proud of myself? Hell, yes, I did! Any chance I could take to snub the bastards in blue was a chance I was going to take without any regrets. Every damn one of them could die for all I cared!

  My scars itched as if reminding me of the cruelty of the bobbies and their abusive command structure. I hated the very sight of their gun-blades. In my personal opinion, they were a pussy’s weapon. Neither meant for a master of swords, nor a master of firearms. The gun-blade was just a brutal instrument of death that took the deadliest aspects of modern and classic battle concept and melded them together.

  I have studied far-eastern martial-arts and weapons training since I was fifteen, so I preferred to keep my guns and my melee weapons separate. I owned several full-length swords of various eastern crafting designs, and I owned dozens of daggers and throwing blades. I kept no fewer than four on me at all times. There were plenty of situations where a nice quick dagger could resolve a situation without any extended conflict. I studied from a master of the Japanese arts of eastern warfare. My teacher had been amongst the soldiers that held the New Mongolian Empire at bay at the shores of Kyoto City. His people fought with such vigor and deadliness that the Mongols had turned their interests elsewhere and offered them a peace treaty of perpetual neighborly friendship and formal recognition of their right to sovereignty. Stories like this made me hope that one day the Colonial continent could be independent of the British. We did not need to win, just make war too painful for them to feel it was worth the effort. The issue with this, was we held so many resources for the British, so they would not likely withdraw from our shores.

  ***

  As I stepped into the massive n
ews building, I was hit with a cacophony of yells and bustling workers. My detective work had never taken me into the veritable heart of the news beast before now, but the business reminded me of running the jails on a full-moon. Chaos and discord seemed to be ever-present, even though everyone was all working to bring the next issue into publication.

  Being inside, watching the constant fluttering of loose-leaf paper in the cubical desks took some of the romanticized imagining out of my mind about how a newspaper ran. The shouting and yelling were inflamed with passion about some very random topics. I had already heard two arguments over the Britannia Governor’s preferences of dessert dishes, for example. Several others were debating the likelihood of a renewed Indian campaign against the westward progressive expedition. Many others were even arguing over colors, or over font types for the daily edition in the works currently. As I said, this place was a damn madhouse! Lucky for me, I was not the jailor here, so I could get in and find my man, then get the hell back to sanity!

  “Hey, you, can I help you with something?”

  A snippy- toned girl asked, she was a few years my junior and she had a nice shiny rock on her finger. She could nearly blind me with the light it was reflecting. I narrowed my gaze on her. She was slim and slender, brunette and had chocolate-brown eyes. I gave her a smile and I held up my badge.

  “I’m Detective Julia Mullers with the Independent Colonial Law Enforcement Department, and I am here to speak with Roger Smithfield. Could you point me in the direction of his office?”

  I thought I managed to sound perfectly polite, but the news girl narrowed her eyes at me as if I had just accused her of murder.

  “What is this pertaining to?”

  I narrowed my gaze further and managed not to huff at her.

  “A matter of an on-going investigation that is relevant to Mr. Smithfield.”

  She looked at me for several long moments.

  “What case is it?”

  Damn reporters! They see a fucking story in the making and they all latch on like pit-bulls!

  “Ma’am you should know the procedure by now since you have your own desk here. I cannot discuss an on-going case with the news, not until we have the culprit in chains.”

  She looked miffed with me and she seemed to take another moment, but finally settled on waving me in the direction of the large lift device.

  “Mr. Smithfield is on twenty-one. He has the corner office overlooking the skyline view.”

  She said this with an edge of envy and longing. I must be about the only person on the planet not obsessed with living off the ground. I like to be able to hit earth when the shit hits the fan, call me old-fashioned if you will!

  “Thank you, that is very helpful.”

  She stopped me as I turned to move towards the lift device.

  “You will tell me what this is about soon, won’t you?”

  She smiled a bright winning smile. That and her doe-like eyes must have helped net her many a large tale in her young career. She was a natural seductress and had apparently figured out that I was gay. She was turning up the charm, but every look at her glaring indication of marital commitment was a reminder to me not to fall for a pretty face!

  “I will do my job and I will keep all the appropriate parties involved once the case has some resolution that can be deemed satisfactory.”

  She looked slightly crestfallen but shrugged and cut me a wide grin.

  “You ever thought of a job working with the department’s press office? You would make a hell of a press consultant with your vaguely proper language.”

  I snorted and rolled my eyes.

  “Please, I would rather stick to getting shot at for a living, thank you miss!”

  She snorted and waved me goodbye as I headed for the lift device.

  Nine:

  Twenty-one building stories above the earth was an impressive height by any standard. Buildings reaching into the skyline were a true testament to the ingenuity and advancement of human civilization. Being up here again only made me slightly curious and mainly long to kiss the dirt once I finally was back on my sweet horse-dropping laden ground level! Don’t misunderstand, I am not afraid of heights, just a natural loathing for the Brits that inhabit the skyline.

  A receptionist stopped me, and I flashed her my black badge. She looked slightly shocked to see a detective here, much less one wearing battle-worthy leathers and a hand cannon strapped to her hip. As I have previously stated, I have adopted much of the Indian Nation ways into my life and my personal mannerisms, even my fashion—such as it is. My momma used to take me into the Native-American Nation often, and she even allowed me to train with the young of the tribes. The captain who oversaw the youths would tell me often that the heart of mother earth was joined with me. He often told me that he saw his brightly toned little blood-kin inside my spirit. Anyone who knows these folks, knows they do not play around with such declarations.

  Typically, my look and my behavior are merit to my job, but sometimes like now, it can be a slight impediment. The woman looked to be about thirty and she held herself with the dignity of a woman born of the motherland.

  “I’m here to speak with Mr. Smithfield, I’m Detective Julia Mullers.”

  She blinked a few times and nodded dumbly and pointed towards his office.

  “He is just having a late tea and biscuit now, Miss.”

  Her tone sounded like it could be York, or somewhere similar in geography. She was a true blue-blood through and through. I flashed her a bright smile and kept my faux-Irish accent in place.

  “Brilliant, thank ye, ma’am.”

  She squinted a bit, and I was almost certain that my accent could hold its own with anyone from the old world, but she seemed to be puzzling me out. That damn woman must be an extreme social type, they can spot such little things. I waved and without a further word, I went off to Mr. Roger Smithfield’s office, finally.

  I knocked and waited as a clattering plate was set down on the other side of the door. A man of about thirty-five opened the door. He was blonde-red mixed of hair and seemed to be of Scotch-Irish mixed descent. His eyes were light blue, like my own. I showed him my badge and I extended my hand like any one of my male colleagues would have done. He took my hand and clasped it without hesitating or thinking me insane to behave “manly.”

  “Mr. Smithfield, I am Detective Julia Mullers with the CILD. I have come to give you notification of your ex-wife’s passing. I’m sorry sir, your ex-wife was murdered this afternoon.”

  I spoke with care in my tone that only presented itself in a few situations, one was with orphans and the other was notifying the family of victims of their death. I studied the six-foot-tall man. His body sagged, and his eyes watered instantly, and he shook his head in denial.

  “No, you can’t mean Donna, she’s safe at her sister’s place!”

  I frowned, his accent was almost like mine, from Westwood City. He was a Colonial, not a Brit. That was perplexing, and he staggered back absently as I walked into his office. He was not messy, nor was he a perfectionist with his office habits. He had some small clumps of papers and other random things like you might imagine finding in a single man’s home or office. His suit was not low quality, nor was it the cottony perfectly tailored jobs you would see on a Brit. He was a man who lived on his paycheck, even if it did afford him a view of the skyline and a higher class of life than most of his Colonial peers.

  I watched him as he wrestled with denial, then he would look up as if to assure himself that he had not imagined my presence. It took me all of ten seconds to rule him out as a suspect. He was in love with his ex-wife, if his behavior was anything to go from, and I did not believe him at all capable of killing the mother of his children.

  “Detective, how did it happen? Why did it happen?”

  I cleared my throat and I turned and closed his door tightly.

  “First, I need to be sure that this will not leave the room. You work in the news and I must keep details of
this case quiet, or the culprit could elude justice.”

  He nodded vigorously and said, “You have my solemn vow that I will not discuss anything we speak of together.”

  Assuming he was not an honor-less sack of shit, that was a man’s bond and a Colonial only had his or her good name so long as they kept their word. Even with all the advances in the world, a verbal bond was something that should never be broken.

  “Very well sir, your wife’s body was found by her sister this afternoon. She had been knocked out by the culprit. We have concluded that she only lives because he did not have the time to kill her before people began to investigate the source of her screams. We discovered your wife strangled with a garrote-device of some sort. She was posed with her arms and legs crossed over each other.”

  Tears as thick as fat raindrops fell from his blue eyes. He sobbed and moaned as though he were mortally wounded by my words.

  “She should have been safe there! How could anyone attack her in the skyline?!”

  I frowned, and I studied him.

  “Mr. Smithfield, did you expect some sort of attack against your wife? Is that why she was estranged from you?”

  He looked at me and blinked tears from his eyes.

  “I’m in the news business and I make many powerful enemies on nearly a daily basis. No Colonial born rises this high and does not become the object of Britannia hatred!”

  I nodded and conceded his point. I did not feel that he was telling me everything- like he was holding something back. He hesitancy and his body language gave him away. He would be an easy mark in a Westwood card game. Still, I would figure out his secrets one way or another, no need to antagonize him right now. He was deeply distraught with his wife’s passing and I would not be the one to further harm him in this terrible process of grief. My instincts were itching with something unsaid, but I could hold off for now. I would like to believe I could measure a man at a glance. My glance had deemed the ex-husband innocent, in fact, he seemed very grieved for a man spurned. I felt there was much more to this divorce than meets the eye. I guess one cannot simply walk away from a woman who has birthed you two children.