by Sean Parsons
“Correct.”
“Why there?”
“You’d have to ask the engineers who designed the station. But I’m assuming it’s because the lower levels have the biggest population; therefore the most deaths. They must have wanted to reduce transit time for corpses, to lower the risk of infection. That make sense?”
Interesting, Erin thought. “And the hospital is on – which floor again?”
“56th.”
“That’s near the admin levels?”
“Correct.”
“Why so far from the biggest population?”
Rickard shrugged, uncaring. “You’d have to ask the engineers.”
Erin suspected he already knew why. Because they didn’t give a damn if the sublevel residents died. But he was getting off track.
“So who do you think killed Susan Grior, Mr. Rickard?”
His formal tone took Rickard off guard. But he wasn’t put-off for long. “I think the same as anyone else here. Sledgehammer.”
“What?”
“The head of the drug cartel that operates on the sublevels. He goes by the name Sledgehammer.”
Erin’s eyes narrowed. He was getting somewhere at last. “Who is this Sledgehammer?”
“We don’t know. There’s very little information about him, and what little we have is from the pushers we brought in last. They’re cooling their heels in the cellblocks on the lower levels.”
“I’ll go see them next. So you can’t tell me anything about him?”
“He’s been the head of the cartel since he killed the last guy, five years back. He’s a real tough nut. Doesn’t brook any disloyalty from his men. They refused to say, or claimed they didn’t know, what his race, colour, or creed is. He’s an enigma; just his reputation for violence is known. By all accounts he owns the sublevels, but I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Because, detective: we here on Eden are multicultural in our law-breaking. There are three major ethnicities down there who would do anything sooner than agree with each other. None of them would take orders from the other for long. Sledgehammer is the head of the biggest cartel, but not the only one. There are wars down there all the time.”
“How do you know, if the cameras and patrols have stopped?”
Rickard leaned forward. “Every couple of months we get an influx of corpses to incinerate, and people dying of bullet wounds or electrical burns. That about answer your question?”
Erin stood in the hallway outside of the security office and caught his breath. Rickard was a handful, no doubt about that. He had some issue with Erin, probably with all authority. Erin didn’t care. His job was to investigate a murder. He had no tapes, no witnesses and no suspects. He would have to do this the old-fashioned way, which mainly meant a lot of guesswork. He also didn’t like the sound of this Sledgehammer; he might throw a spanner in the works. If this was a professional hit, executed by a drug cartel leader, it would be untraceable, and Erin would have no authority to go to the sublevels and arrest Sledgehammer. He had to knock a hole in the wall of silence he expected to come up against.
He rode the elevator tube to the prison level. As soon as he stepped off he felt the heat of the furnaces, one level below them. The ventilation system was barely coping with the heat given off. A security officer was waiting to show him around. He was a portly black fellow in the standard blue security uniform. He was sweating profusely in the heat.
“We have a thousand cells here,” the fat man said, mopping his brow, “each holds one individual. We usually only have a few cells occupied at a time, but the size of the cells allows for more, just in case. They’re small, only designed to hold one man at a time, and packed tight against the bulkhead of the station. We keep the temperature regulated and the air conditioned and flowing – though it sure does struggle, as you can see. Food is put in through a slot, like a standard prison.”
“Why do you usually only have a few prisoners at a time?” Erin said. “I thought with all the gang violence there might be more?”
“Naw,” the man said, “the gangs mainly kill each other. The furnaces down here are always busy, as you can tell. Our current guests are all here courtesy of Mr. Grior’s anti-drug operation. They’re a charming bunch, which you’re sure to find out if you interview them.”
“That’s what I’m here to do.”
The guard shrugged. “Well, good luck to you.”
He led Erin through the dirty, hot, winding halls of the prison level to the first row of cell doors. Each was solid steel, with a tiny slot for food.
The guard looked at Erin. “You want to interview them in their cells or take them to the interview room?”
“I’ll use the room.”
Erin thought they might warm up if they got to come out of their cells for a few minutes.
He was showed to the room. It was featureless, with one wall-length, one-way mirror. There was a table and two chairs.
“We use this for our interviews,” the guard said, gesturing around the room, “but we don’t have much luck. Those guys all look out for one another.”
Erin went in and sat down. “Go get the first man Grior arrested.”
But before the guard left Erin said, “Wait, do you have a pack of cigarettes?”
The guard grinned. “Yes sir. Don’t get many opportunities to smoke them, though.”
“Give them to me,” Erin said, and the guard tossed him the pack. “I’ll buy you more.”
“They’re expensive up here, detective: more than a hundred dollars US, per pack.”
Erin swore. “That’s fine; I’ll get my captain to reimburse me.”
The guard went out chuckling. “Reimburse you for cigarettes. That’s a good one, sir.”
Erin waited five minutes before the prisoner was brought in. He was a scrawny Chinese man named Li. He took the seat opposite Erin and eyed the cigarette packet longingly.
“Go ahead and take one,” Erin said.
Li took a cigarette from the pack, and the guard lit it for him. After he had smoked for a few minutes and calmed down, he looked at Erin.
“You a detective?”
“Yes.”
“Well I been in jail for two years. I couldn’t have done anything.”
“Right. Who’s Sledgehammer?”
Li smiled and blew out a puff of smoke. “Sledgehammer? Never heard of him.”
“I’m told he’s the kingpin on the sublevels. He runs the biggest gang down there. What gang did you belong to?”
“I wasn’t in no gang,” Li said. “They arrested me for possession.”
“Who sold it to you?”
“A white man named Keel.”
“Do you know where he is?”
He smiled again. “Sure. The sublevels.”
“I need to speak to Sledgehammer. A woman’s been killed. He might know something.”
Li shrugged. “You go down to the sublevels cop – they find you. Only, once they find you, you wish they didn’t.”
Erin could see he wasn’t going to get any further with Li. He sent him away and the guard willingly obliged. The threat in Li’s words was obvious. All the reports suggested the sublevels were no place for the authorities to go safely. But it was beginning to look like Erin didn’t have a choice.
He didn’t learn anything else from the other prisoners. The name Keel kept turning up; but other than that he was a white man, Erin didn’t find anything else out about him. He was obviously one of the contacts for a drug cartel, possibly Sledgehammer’s. Erin needed to see Keel, and the only way to do it would be undercover. He prayed the sublevels hadn’t got wind there was an investigation going on. Any new face would be treated with suspicion as it was; but if there were rumours going around about a detective on-board, Erin might be killed outright, rather than risk it.
He checked his watch and saw it was 3pm. He was hungry. He thought he should eat something before going down to the sublevels. He had to be prepared for any
thing, and he had no idea how long he would be down there for. He bought a sandwich and a coke from a restaurant on the upper levels.
He was on his way to the sublevel elevator tubes when he got a page over the station intercom from Doctor Cho.
“Page for Erin Bradley. Please see Dr. Cho on the hospital level immediately. Repeat –”
4.
Back at the hospital Erin waited around for Dr. Cho, but he didn’t appear. He asked again at the reception desk and they told him the doctor was running late. He took a seat and checked the time. He was anxious to get back to the investigation. Then he heard a woman’s voice saying his name and he looked up. She was slim, with dark hair and eyes, and naturally tanned skin. She said his name again and he detected a slight, unfamiliar accent.
“Erin Bradley?”
“Yes?”
She held out her hand and he took it, standing up. Her hand was soft, and she smelled of perfume.
“My name is Rachel Laurent. Doctor Cho asked me to speak with you. He was called to surgery at the last minute. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Of course,” he said, and she led him over to a water cooler, currently deserted. He took a drink.
Rachel Laurent surveyed him with her cool brown eyes. “I have the toxicology report,” she said, patting a folder she carried at her side. “The results were negative for introduction of substances prior to expiration.”
Erin nodded. Felix Grior would be glad to hear that. “So she was already dead?”
Rachel nodded. “Yes.”
“Thank you, Ms. Laurent. Tell Dr. Cho I appreciate his help with the case.”
He turned and started to walk away, when she stopped him.
“Mr. Bradley?”
He turned back. “Yes?”
“You’re a detective, right? For the New York police department?”
“Yes.”
“I have a matter to discuss.” She hesitated, looked around. “It is sensitive.”
He picked up the urgency in her voice. Instinctively, he knew it related to the case.
“I don’t want to discuss it here,” she said. “Have you had lunch?”
He told her he had.
“How about dinner?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It is urgent, however. Can you meet me at 6pm, at Le Canard? It is on the restaurant level.”
“Of course,” he said. “What is this about, Ms. Laurent?”
“I cannot say here,” she said. “Only, before you go anywhere else, you must speak with Diane Cour, the resident chief of psychology. Her office isn’t hard to find. Ask her about the staff psychological testing. Please. 6pm, tonight.”
And she turned and walked away, without another word.
He watched her leave. This was a strange new development in the case. He decided he really had no choice but to follow up on it, before he went down to the sublevels and risked his neck. He headed to the reception desk again.
The receptionist pointed him the way to a series of quiet hallways at the back of the hospital. They were carpeted, and deserted. The office doors had windows with names stencilled on them. He found Diane Cour’s office and knocked.
An imperious female voice said, “Come in.”
He entered and found Diane Cour sitting at her desk, going over papers beside a flickering computer screen. Her office was cluttered with neat piles of books. She looked at him levelly over her glasses.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m detective Erin Bradley. I’m here investigating the murder of Susan Grior.”
“I see. Take a seat.”
He sat in front of her desk.
She put down her work and looked at him thoughtfully. “Susan was a lovely woman. It’s such a shame what has happened. I don’t know how much help I can be though. I didn’t see her at all yesterday. We were particularly busy.”
“I was told to ask you about staff psychological testing.”
“Oh yes,” she said, raising her eyebrows and sitting back. She swivelled slightly from side to side in her chair, but she never broke eye contact with him. “We are required to analyse staff on a regular, weekly basis, to ensure their mental health is up to the task of administering this facility.”
“What sort of tests do you do?”
“We do Rorschach tests, stress tests, even IQ’s. The main method, however, is a simple interview.”
“Who conducts the interviews?”
“I do,” she said.
“So you interviewed Susan Grior, once a week?”
“Yes.”
“How did she do?”
“She did well, if you want to put it that way. She tested negative to any debilitating conditions, her mental health was good. I assume you’re asking because it might have a bearing on the case?”
Erin shrugged. In reality, he was asking because he was told to ask. “It may well be important. It’s clear now that she didn’t commit suicide or OD. I’d like to know if she was depressed at all; anything that might have contributed to her fraternising with someone dangerous, that sort of thing.”
“No. Susan was healthy, and more importantly, happy in her job. She loved her work. She had some difficulties at home, however.”
Erin’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of difficulties?”
Diane returned his gaze. “It’s a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality – but you are a detective, after all.”
“Yes I am,” he said.
“The director, Felix Grior, has been testing unusually for weeks. Nothing major at first, but the results were getting steadily more serious. He was showing an increased tendency to crack under pressure, a growing moroseness. Something might have been bothering him, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was, and there’s no way to know now.”
Seeing the look on Erin’s face, she explained.
“After the trauma he’s been through, there’s no way to get a clear reading on him now. Any symptoms he exhibits will likely be a result of his wife’s murder, and not of whatever was bothering him before. Therefore, unless he directly tells us, which isn’t likely, I won’t know what was going on.”
“You said Susan had trouble at home,” Erin said. “Did she tell you what was happening?”
“Not in detail, no,” Diane said. “She simply said Felix was getting more and more difficult and argumentative. He was irritable. But, again, he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong.”
Erin thought about this for a minute. “How accurate are those tests?”
“It depends,” she said. “Some subjects are more resistant, some more compliant; some have serious underlying conditions, some don’t. I have found the interview to be the best method for assessing a patient’s wellbeing.”
“And Felix Grior was unwell?”
“Yes. It is my professional opinion he was, and still is.”
An idea struck Erin, but he didn’t want to discuss it with Diane. So, instead, he said, “I’ve never held much to psychology, Ms. Cour; all that Freud and Jung crap. The field strikes me as inherently unreliable.”
“Is that so?” Diane said. “And what are you basing that on?”
“Personal experience, as a policeman and detective. Sometimes the most unlikely person winds up committing the crime. But then again, it’s usually the guy you thought it was all along.”
She smiled. “I notice you say ‘guy’.”
“Most crimes are committed by men, statistically.”
“Why do you think that might be, as a detective?”
“I get the feeling you’re making fun of me.”
She continued to smile and said nothing, so he went on.
“I think a lot of men can’t control themselves. It’s nothing more complicated than that.”
“Do you know why that is?”
“You’re psychoanalysing me now,” he said.
“Maybe,” she said. “Answer the question.”
“It’s usually too much discipline, or not enough.”
“Is
that all it comes down to?” She said.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
She sat back and put her fingertips together, readying herself to give a lecture. “Have you ever heard of classical conditioning, detective?”
“I think so. Pavlov’s dogs, is that it?”
“That’s correct. Pavlov trained his dogs to salivate at the sound of a bell, by giving them food after they heard it. After several weeks of this, he took the food away, and the bell alone was enough to make them salivate. This might be expected from a psychological point of view. If you were fed constantly after the sound of a bell, you would consciously expect to continue getting food afterwards, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded.
“Well, that’s actually not what’s going on. On the fundamental, cellular level, a chemical reaction is being stimulated by the sound of the bell. You see, when a dog hears a bell, then gets some food, his brain comes to associate the two – rewiring itself, if you will. A dog is a simple animal, and all of its behaviour is governed by chemical sequences that are released by the brain, like a computer running a program. The bell becomes the signifier to the dog’s brain to release the salivary program, in expectation of food. Have you ever been around a drug addict, detective?”
“Yes. Many.”
“Then you’ve probably guessed where I’m going with this. The dog becomes dependant on the sound of the bell, or at least, directly influenced by it on a chemical level. That is exactly what happens to a human drug addict when they see drug paraphernalia. Except humans will often defecate.”
“Defecate?”
“Yes. It’s automatic, they have no control. The same is true of the dog. In reality, he is addicted to the sound of the bell, and his salivation is a learned, chemical response. That’s the power of rewards: in the dog’s case, its food; in the drug addict’s case, drugs.”
“So you’re saying rewarding criminals is better than punishing them?”
“It’s been shown to be better, by numerous studies. But I’m really talking about handling the behaviour of children better, so they never grow up to be criminals. It might sound strange to you, but you can teach a child to become addicted to good behaviour. Or, alternatively, you can teach them to seek out bad behaviour. Paradoxically, violent punishment often reinforces the bad behaviour, rather than correcting it, as we used to think. Again, there are numerous studies proving this.”