by Mark Cain
“Motive, means and opportunity,” he said, as if he were lecturing students in a forensics class. “A good way to dissect a crime or to identify suspects. In my day, we didn’t have the process so nicely codified, but we used a similar sort of analysis. Let’s start with motive, shall we?”
“Sure,” I said, sitting back down.
“You told me that the first person you suspected was Prometheus, since he stole fire from the gods and gave it to man. For now, let’s treat this as a theft, all right?”
“Sure. I mean, it might be simple sabotage, but theft is as good a working hypothesis as any.”
“I think so, too, so let’s use it provisionally. Why would someone want to steal fire?” Allan frowned. “Since we’re in Hell, let’s start with the Seven Deadly Sins. I’ve thought about this before, and the Sins make for a pretty good short list of the reasons why someone might want to commit a crime.” Under Motive, Allan rapidly listed the Deadly Sins:
“Theft could be motivated by several of the sins, though some, like Greed, are more obvious choices than others. For now let’s leave them all on the list.”
“Works for me. Do you know that some of the top dog devils are specifically associated with some of the sins?”
“Ah, you know your Catholic theology. Good man. I was coming to that in a second. But first, let’s hop back to the ‘Suspects’ columns. Let’s assume that whoever did this is a denizen of Hell.”
The chair creaked under my weight, and I grimaced. Allan had probably built the seat himself, and since he was a terrible woodworker, the thing was not very sturdy. “That seems a safe assumption. No one from Heaven is likely to be interested in mucking up things down here, the other theological universes stay pretty much separate from ours, and people on Earth can’t really get here without, you know, getting themselves damned first, which would put them in Hell as denizens.”
“Righto. So let’s put down the classes of Hell’s inhabitants. There are, of course, devils and demons.” He wrote these on the board.
“And humans,” I added. “I guess that’s about it.”
Allan shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
Allan pointed to my winged companion. “Well, there’s BOOH, for instance.”
“SKREE!”
“Don’t get your dander up, my friend,” Pinkerton said mildly. “I’m just giving an example. Bik’s another.”
“Yes, and also Charon and Prometheus and Sisyphus. And Cerberus, though I don’t know how a three-headed dog would have the attention span to pull this off. All he ever wants to do is play fetch with his Frisbee … and eat dog food.”
“That too.” Allan stepped back to the board. “Let’s break these into two categories: mythological beings and magical creatures. Think that would do?”
“Yep.” I scratched my head. “I’m about tapped out. You?”
“We could get more precise, how do you say, more granular than this, you know, arch demons for example, but I think this covers the Nether-inhabitants fairly thoroughly.”
Allan pointed to the word atop the second column. “So, which of these residents of Hell had the means, or more accurately, were capable of mucking up the heating and air conditioning system?”
I rubbed my chin. “I’m trying to decide what it would take to mess up the system.”
“Well,” Pinkerton said, writing as he talked, “I’m no expert, but I think one would need … ”
These he wrote under the “Means” category.
“Well.” I walked up to the board and grabbed a piece of chalk. “I think we can eliminate a large number of suspects with a single stroke.” I drew a line through “humans,” wincing at the loud screech as I did so.
“Hey!” Allan protested. “My chalkboard!”
“Come on. We both can play. Besides, this is how I used to make my living.”
That’s before I was dead, damned and dumbed down to be Hell’s Super. I still liked writing on blackboards, though, screech notwithstanding.
“Fine,” Allan said, slightly peeved. “What do you think about the magical creatures and mythological beings?”
I considered them for a sec. “Some are here just for color, like Sisyphus. As strong as he is, he’s really just a muscle-bound human. I don’t think he could manage it. Some of the others, like Prometheus for instance, are quite powerful, but it seems to me that Satan keeps a pretty close eye on them. Most have 24/7/E jobs in Hell.”
“24/7/E?”
“Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for Eternity. It’s pretty hard to slip away and create much mayhem with a schedule like that.”
“All right,” Allan said. “Let’s eliminate them provisionally from our list of suspects.” I crossed out the two categories. Our list of suspects now included only Devils and Demons.
“I don’t think there are very many demons capable of pulling this off.”
“Why?” Pinkerton asked.
“Well, they have most of the means you listed - many of them are crafty and powerful, though none as strong as the major devils in Hell - but there are only two demons I know who have even a little knowledge of the HVAC system.”
“And they would be … ?” Allan asked, hand poised before the blackboard.
“Digger, who runs the sulfur mines, and his boss, the arch-Demon Adramelech, the so-called King of Fire.” I slipped between Allan and the board, writing their names next to the Demon category.
Allan looked at me dubiously. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, no. They both have the fire connection, and they both know a bit about the HVAC system, and they both are powerful demons … ”
“And they’re both dumb as stumps. Come on, Steve. I’ve known those two simpletons for a century and a half. If you put either one’s brain in a bird, the thing would fly backward. Neither has the cunning to do anything like this.”
“Er, you're right about that.” I drew a line through their names and, after a moment’s reflection, put an x through the entire demon category.
Allan stroked his beard and nodded. “At least for now, that just leaves us with devils.”
I frowned. “I think so. They seem the most likely anyway. And not just any devil. Stealth, cunning, technical knowledge of the HVAC system, and raw power. I’m betting we’re talking about one of the Princes of Hell.”
“You could very well be right.” Pinkerton said, nodding. “And that brings us back to the Seven Deadly Sins and their associated devils.” Allan used his shirt sleeve to wipe the “Suspects” column clean. Then he wrote down the names of each prince, across from the sin with which he was associated. The chart now looked like this:
“We have Satan down twice.”
“Yes,” agreed Pinkerton, “in two of his aspects: Lucifer and Satan. But he’s not likely to be the culprit anyway. I don’t see what he’d get out of it. This is more of a headache for him than anyone.”
“Right, right.” I drew two quick lines on the board.
Pinkerton studied the chart. “Greed, lust and envy could all be motives for this. Someone who wants power, well, the only way one of the remaining five could get more power is by taking Satan down a notch, or displacing him entirely.”
“Do you think any of the other princes would have the stones to take on Satan?”
“Not directly, but perhaps using subterfuge one might try it. I think Mammon and Asmodeus are definite possibilities.”
“But not Leviathan?”
Pinkerton shook his head as he drew a line through that name. “I’ve never heard of him leaving the ocean here on Level Seven, not even when some of the other princes of Hell get together on poker night. He has too much fun playing Moby Dick or the Kraken. Besides, he’s more interested in water than fire.”
“What about Belphegor? You didn’t mention him.”
“That’s because he’s too lazy to try something like this. He’s not only the devil most associated with slothfulness; he
is the laziest creature I’ve ever seen. I also think that of the Seven Deadly Sins, Sloth is the only one that doesn’t work as a motive.” Pinkerton considered a bit longer then drew lines through Belphegor’s name and the word “Sloth.”
“That leaves Mammon, Asmodeus and Beelzebub” I said. “Yet I find it hard to believe that Beezy had anything to do with this.”
“Why?”
“The HVAC system is his baby. He designed it and seemed really upset about it being broken. Also, Gluttony as a motive for stealing fire seems a bit odd, don’t you think? And Beezy’s already the second most powerful devil in Hell.”
“So who better to topple the first most powerful devil in Hell?”
I frowned. “Maybe, but, well, and I know this isn’t a good reason but, I don’t want it to be him.”
“You’re right. It’s not a good reason. Why don’t you want it to be him?”
“Because … I like him.”
Pinkerton chuckled softly. “Me too. I always have. He’s the only devil I’ve ever known to show any integrity. Don’t tell him I said that!” He looked with alarm over his shoulder. “And that includes you too, BOOH!”
BOOH snorted.
“I know what you mean. He’s as cruel as any of them, but it’s an honest cruelty. Like, he’d never sucker-punch you. He’s not a backstabber.”
“No, more of a front stabber.”
I poked Allan in the chest with my stick of chalk. “Exactly!”
“Still,” Pinkerton continued, rubbing the white chalk mark off his vest, “as much as I hate to admit it, he’s probably your best suspect. As you said, he knows more about the HVAC system than anyone, he’s nearly as powerful as Satan, and he could be a Glutton for more power. I think he needs to stay on the list until you can eliminate him.”
Sigh. “Okay, so how do I do that?”
“Ah, that’s where opportunity comes in.” Allan wiped off the crossed-out names and “Sloth” and replaced the word “Opportunity” with another. The completed chart looked like this:
“All three could have motive, all three definitely have the means, and all three have lots of independence down here. But not all three of them are likely to have alibis. That’s how you will solve the puzzle, Steve. Investigate the three, and see if they have alibis.”
Allan sat back down and poured himself another Scotch. He offered me the bottle, but I demurred. BOOH held up his bucket, and Pinkerton topped it off with the gasoline can. We sat quietly while Allan and BOOH finished their drinks.
Another overwhelming task. Hopelessness and helplessness, so familiar to Hell’s inhabitants, sat on my chest like heavy weights. They combined with my profound weariness - an exhaustion that had been a constant companion since being damned - to glue me to the chair. Finally, with an effort of will, I stood. “Bik! We’re leaving. Come take shotgun.” Bik flew down from the ceiling, extinguished his flame and dove into my pocket protector.
“Bye, Allan. Thanks for all your help.” Then I sighed. “Let’s go, BOOH. We need to see Beelzebub.”
Chapter 9
BOOH flew in lazy, ever-widening circles above the endless stretch of sand. Nothing moved on the dunes below, and I was preparing to skip Beelzebub for now and go on to my other suspects.
To think of Beezy as the possible culprit behind the HVAC system’s failure troubled me for reasons I couldn’t entirely explain. Sure, he was my boss, and I felt a certain amount of loyalty to him, even though he didn’t treat me very well. And he did seem honest, at least as far as devils went. Maybe my feelings really just went back to what we had discussed in Pinkerton’s workshop. I liked Beezy and didn’t want to think him guilty of sabotage. Yet, despite my feelings in the matter, in many ways he was the most viable suspect. After all, no one knew more about the HVAC system than Beezy. Shit, he designed and built the thing.
I had decided, at Pinkerton’s, to eliminate Beezy as a suspect immediately, if possible, provided he didn’t eliminate me first in a more, ah, terminal way. Like all devils, my boss had a temper, but unlike some others in Hell’s Management, Beelzebub’s reaction would be immediate and most likely quite violent. My boss didn’t nurse grudges. He acted or reacted and moved on, usually leaving a bunch of bodies in his wake.
Someone - I don’t know who exactly, but I think it was in a Star Trek movie - once said, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Not with Beezy. If he was pissed off at you, he’d grab and skewer you on the spot, or perhaps reduce you to powder with a blast of flame. Or drop a mountain on you. Or squeeze the ectoplasm out of you. Frankly, I didn’t know exactly what he’d do, but he’d do it immediately, no beating around the bush. I only hoped I could survive a really angry Lord of the Flies. Assuming that an existence in Hell really counted as survival in the first place.
Earlier, BOOH, Bik and I had descended on the bazaar that Beezy’s office fronted. The screened-in pavilion that was my boss’s command center was empty, except for the usual assortment of flies and mosquitoes that he’d managed to evade when he made his escape. Beezy often left his office, usually to spend time away from his tiny worshippers. That the Lord of the Flies really hated bugs was ironic, but I guess anything gets old after a while.
Happening to glance at his desk, I noticed a mass of dead flies - Beezy must have squashed them with his flyswatter - on the surface. Their carcasses had been arranged to spell out a short message: “Taking a walk.”
Now, the great Beelzebub can take a walk anywhere he wants, or at least anywhere this side of the Pearly Gates. Although he doesn’t instantly transport himself large distances, the way Satan does, he travels pretty fast, faster than BOOH, even.
Well, I say he doesn’t instantly travel large distances, but I don’t know that for a fact. I know he’s capable of teleportation, or whatever technical term the devils use for it down here, at least over short distances. He had once teleported the two of us through an entire pile of rubble, so I suppose it’s possible that he could move from his home base on Level Eight to, say, Level Three in an instant. I’d never seen him do it, though. Usually he’d make a showy entrance, like coming on the scene in the shape of a nuclear mushroom cloud.
Anyway, my point is that at that moment Beezy could have been taking his walk anywhere in Hell or on Gates Level or even on Earth. (He’d go there sometimes for a baseball game. He liked the hotdogs and beer, though he agreed with me that the game itself was as boring as watching people queued up to get a haircut.) I was counting on the fact that he preferred to stay on Level Eight. The vast desert that comprised all that I’d ever seen down here must have reminded him of his salad days, when he was a god himself.
Beelzebub is a bit of an enigma as far as the Princes of Hell go. There are two different stories about his origin, one that he was a god who got displaced when monotheism came to the Semites, the other that he was one of the angels that fell with Lucifer after the War in Heaven. If the first were true, Beezy might actually be a mythological creature rather than a true devil. Or perhaps both origin stories are true. While different, they aren't mutually exclusive.
But I digress. BOOH and I were circling the desert, hoping for signs of my boss. Just when we were about to give up, the bat gave a “Skree!” He’d spotted Beelzebub. In a second, I saw him too. A creature that looked a lot like a five hundred foot tall Beezy was strolling along the desert, hands in the pockets of his jacket. Occasionally, he’d kick at a dune, rocketing grains of sand into the sky. The sand would get caught in the wind and begin whirling. There were at least a dozen of these, and they seemed to be following Big Beezy across the desert floor.
“BOOH! Fly near his face and try to get his attention.”
That was a mistake. From the perspective of a giant Beelzebub, BOOH, large as he was, must have looked like a big bug, and he reflexively swatted us out of the sky. When my eyes cleared, I found myself lying on the ground, spitting sand from my mouth. Even BOOH looked a bit dazed as he pulled himself to his feet.
I looked down
to my pocket. From inside my pocket protector, Bik moaned softly. “What hit us?”
“I DID!’ said a monstrous voice from above.
Beezy was standing, legs straddled, hands on hips, looking down at us. He began to shrink, until he was his normal size, which was about a foot taller than me.
“Minion, never, NEVER fly in my face. I can’t stand that, remember?”
“Sorry. I forgot.” Getting off the ground, I noticed he didn’t help me to my feet, but then again, he seldom did. Devils aren’t known for their kind natures, you know.
“What do you want?”
“Er, I, uh, that is … ” I didn’t know how to start this. After just having been swatted by my boss, I didn’t relish the prospect of a repeat performance.
“Any progress on the HVAC system?”
“Right, right!” I said, brushing the sand from my coveralls. “I came to give you a report.”
The Lord of the Flies grabbed an insect out of the air - even here in the dry air of the desert, one had managed to find him - and stuffed it in his mouth. “Well? I’m waiting.”
Good thing he hadn’t thought to stuff me and BOOH in his mouth. That would have been unpleasant.
“Orson and I have spent hours checking out the HVAC system. You’re right. There’s no way it could fail.”
Beezy nodded as if he were unsurprised. “Like I said: I build them good.”
“Well,” I said by reflex.
My boss held a finger to one nostril, then sent a blast of air, and no small quantity of snot, out the other one. I found myself, slightly sticky, back on the ground.