by Ilsa J. Bick
“Right. We were here.” Joey indicated a swatch of trammeled grass and then pointed east toward a field of taller meadow grass. “Then, you know, we started to run to get to our bikes, only we got all turned around. We were pretty scared. Anyway, we had to double back. We got our bikes and then . . .” He faltered.
They waited a moment, then Ketchum said, “Then?”
Joey’s eyes slid to a spot in front of his toes. “I, uh, I’m not exactly sure what happened next.”
“Why not?” Ketchum ground out.
“Because,” Joey gulped air and then looked up, “because I got on my bike, and I took off. I told Noah and Troy to come on, but Troy’d lost his glasses and couldn’t get his bike up and . . .”
“And what?”
Joey’s Adam’s apple bobbled. “Noah wouldn’t leave without Troy. That’s why he got shot. I heard the shots, but I didn’t see anything.”
“How many shots?” Ramsey said, as much to forestall Ketchum as nail things down.
“Four. Three close together and then nothing, then one more time. I think it was when he fell.”
Ketchum and Ramsey looked at one another. “Brass,” Ketchum said. “Think he came back and picked them up?”
“I would.” To Joey: “What happened to Troy’s bike?”
“Troy said he’d go back Saturday and get it.” Joey flicked a quick look at his father. “I was grounded, so I don’t know if he did or not. I bet he did but he’d have to find a way to get here.”
“That could explain the other bike in those junipers,” Ketchum said. “Noah was shot up and probably couldn’t handle getting Troy here.”
“We need to talk to this kid, this Troy Underhill.” Ramsey touched Joey’s shoulder. “You’ve done good. Now show me this tree house.”
* * *
There were swollen rust-colored buds sprinkled along the maple’s limbs: only a day or two before the tree finally shed its dead leaves, like shaking off a layer of dandruff. Ramsey surveyed the broad, rough stem and arc of branches then inspected the wood slats nailed to the trunk. “This third slat, the one right here”—he pointed—“that break looks fresh. Was that broken the last time you were here?”
Joey’s face pruned in thought. “I don’t think so.”
Ramsey was up on tiptoe. “There’s blood on that fifth slat smeared around where that nail is crooked. Looks like someone got tagged.”
Ketchum looked unhappy. “Did you get a look at the bandage on Old Doc’s left hand?”
* * *
There was more blood and crushed grass where the killer had gotten tangled in Troy’s bike and then a short distance away, a woman’s bike: the killer’s or Troy’s, they didn’t know, but there was no blood.
After the men sent Joey to wait in the patrol car, Ketchum said, “I don’t see this. That hill is a climb. An old guy like Doc taking that at a run, with a bum knee, much less having anything left over when he gets up top . . . I just don’t see it.”
“I was kind of thinking the same thing because here’s what really bothers me,” Ramsey said. “Why would an old guy who has white hair get himself a white wig? And then there’s the makeup. Crime lab says it’s women’s makeup. But Joey knew the killer was a guy, so the killer must’ve done the wig to look like a guy’s hair, or just got a man’s wig. But the makeup suggests that our guy is young and used makeup to look old. Everything points to Summers: the limp, the hair, the bandage on his hand. But it’s too perfect.”
Ketchum was grim. “Unless it is Doc. He’s smart enough to plant enough evidence so we think it’s too obvious and dismiss him. But how about two people? Still might be Old Doc, and somebody else.”
Ramsey chewed the inside of his cheek. “If that’s true and that person wasn’t here, then we’ve got at least two people and maybe more, if Kodza’s right. We got to talk to Troy, and maybe the techs can pull something from those bikes. Speaking of Kodza, she’s probably chewing titanium right now wondering where we are. I would’ve expected dispatch to call by now.”
Ketchum look both embarrassed and defiant. “I told dispatch not to put Kodza through. I mean, hang it, it’s my department. If I wanted to be at someone’s beck and call, I’d work for the government.”
“You do work for the government.”
“Don’t get mean,” Ketchum said. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a deputy—”
“Not Boaz.”
“Not Boaz, and that way, the deputy can go with you to see Troy and his mom. Troy’ll be home from school by now, and his mom will feel better with one of us around. She ought to be . . .” He stopped.
Ramsey waited. “What?”
Ketchum scrubbed his lips with the fingers of one hand. “I was gonna say she oughta be sobered up by now.”
“She that bad?”
“Worse.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” Ramsey said.
“It never is,” Ketchum said.
46
1500 hours
They had their first inkling something was up right before they left the cemetery. Joey sat in his father’s patrol car, and Ramsey and Ketchum were outside, talking damage control with Kodza when Ramsey heard a familiar but totally out of character sound—at least, for Farway. The sound was a distant whopwhopwhop-whopwhop. He knew right away. “You hear that?”
“I do.” Ketchum turned a complete circle. “Sounds like they’re going north.”
“Toward Farway. Hank, this is about those two guys from last night. Reporters covering the police must’ve picked up the story. This kind of scrutiny we don’t need, not with a potentially very pissed-off legate rep.”
Ketchum started for the driver’s side. “What’s done is done. Only thing to do now is go see just how pissed-off she is.”
* * *
Very pissed off.
“I was to have complete access.” Kodza was stiff with anger. Her hands twitched in such a way that Ramsey was grateful she wasn’t near anything loaded. Or sharp. Today she wore a black pinstripe suit with a high neck that made her look like an armor-plated BattleMech, and stiletto heels that could take out an eye. “Instead, I awaken to the wonderful news that Detective Ramsey has mauled two men, one of whom is even now in intensive care. And what about those?” She jabbed a finger at Ketchum’s window. There was a crowd of news hovers, reporters, holomen, and two VTOLS stitching a lazy crisscross pattern across blue sky.
“Reporters,” Ramsey said. Running the gauntlet of reporters had left him cranky. “You know, guys who make up the news.”
“I know who they are! But what are they doing here? I will tell you why: because of you.” She took aim with a well-manicured index finger. “Bad enough what is happening even now in New Bonn, but you have contaminated this investigation . . .”
They let her run on for a good ten minutes. Finally, as she was winding down, Ramsey said, “So did you talk to your people last night?”
“Yes.” She was sweating, and blotting her upper lip with the back of her hand. “I have checked with all the relevant authorities, and they have checked with their superiors. I am assured there is no ghost agent, and I do not care what your DBI tells you.”
“You have any idea why the Bureau would lie?”
“I would suspect that the allure of intrigue is far greater than its reality.”
“Okay.” Ramsey wanted to believe her. Catching the bad guys was hard enough. “I want to believe you. You’re probably lying, but I just don’t have the energy or time to fight you about it. I don’t really care about you, your ghost agent, or your secret missions. They’re all bullshit.”
Ketchum, who’d barricaded himself behind his desk, just rolled his eyes. Kodza said, “Ah. So. Cracking open skulls, this is not bullshit?”
“If you were half as concerned about justice as you are about whatever little secrets you’re playing around with, you’d see it’s not. Ask yourself that question the next time some woman gets her face cut up and half her bones broken because she
said no to a guy. Ask yourself if it’s a load of crap when you go to an apartment and find some kid, all skin and bones, lying in a puddle of feces in its crib because his parents are more concerned with what they put up their noses or in their arms.”
“You are being melodramatic.”
“Hell I am,” Ramsey snapped. “There’s a boy who might die because some asshole shot him. Don’t tell me I’m being melodramatic when there are people dying. Don’t give me that shit.”
Kodza let that hang a few seconds. “You are finished? Yes? Fine.” She paused, inhaled a deep breath and blew out. “Let us start again. If you would be so kind as to tell me where you two have been and what you have found, I would be grateful.”
Squinting, Ketchum stretched his neck like a turtle coming out of a shell. “You actually care who killed Limyanovich?”
“Let us say,” Kodza said, delicately, “that the legate and family have taken a renewed interest. That was also something we discussed last night. The, ah, potential for unfavorable publicity has made the legate quite, ah . . . anxious. In addition”—and now she gave Ramsey a frank look—“it seems that you still have advocates, Detective.”
“What?” Ramsey was confused.
“Someone has put pressure on your behalf on the governor, who has put pressure on the legate, and who is now pressuring me. So, Sheriff, Detective, please, I would like very much to know what is up.”
Ramsey thought about that while Ketchum filled her in. Someone had acted on his behalf? Pearl?
Kodza was saying, “So you believe, perhaps, that this doctor is the killer? Why not arrest him?”
“Because there’re some things we can’t square. Oh, we’ll question him again, get a warrant to search his house, and I’m going to post a deputy to keep an eye on him.”
“Why not tap into his link, or computer?”
“He can’t do that,” Ramsey said. “We’d have to convince someone that Doc’s a serious candidate, and then hope a judge authorizes the tap. But before we do that, we need to get an assistant district attorney or DA involved. If you look at this from a lawyer’s perspective, they’ll poke holes through this thing faster than . . .” Ramsey searched for a metaphor, couldn’t find one, said, “They’ll do it fast. What we got is the word of one boy who saw somebody shoot Limyanovich, but it was getting dark, the shooter was far away, wore a wig and makeup, and the kid was scared out of his wits. What we really don’t have is motive. Why would Summers kill Limyanovich? For that matter, why would anyone?”
Kodza held up an admonishing finger. “You have forgotten. What if this killing is somehow related to this, ah, enmity between your various religious groups? Perhaps then, where Limyanovich was killed is quite important.”
“We thought of that.” Then Ramsey looked away, unfocused, thought, then said, “What if this has something to do only with Blakists?”
“Blakists?” Kodza asked. Ketchum told her the graveyard’s history, and when he was done, Kodza pulled her eyebrows together in a frown. “The Blakists were wiped out, or assimilated back into the existing culture.”
Ramsey said, “I don’t buy that. Religion’s important. Ethnicity’s important, especially here on Denebola. The Neurasians and Zadiposians fought for how long? Years? Needed the Hegemony to step in before they wiped each other out? Some regions in Slovakia, they still speak in dialect. Look at the Sphere and how fast factions like Dragon’s Fury have grown once the HPGs went down. Cultural memory counts.”
Another mental pop: the pendant. Something religious? Amanda thought so: Like what Catholics wear. A heart, maybe, with a sword or cross. But that snake, if it was a snake . . . what was that about?
Familiar, somehow, like I’ve seen it before, only a very long time ago . . .
But instead of saying anything about the pendant, he said, “It’s a theory. Now all we need is proof.”
* * *
Things went better after that. Kodza seemed interested and wanted to come along when Ramsey talked to the Underhill boy that evening.
That triggered another thought. “Hank, we should post a deputy to watch over Noah Schroeder, and his mother might want to restrict visitors. If the killer’s local, he might try to finish what he started. We took Joey out of class, too, and I’ll bet the story’s all over town. You’ll maybe want someone with him, too.”
“For how long? If the killer is local, he can bide his time, wait for things to die down,” Ketchum said.
“I don’t think so,” Ramsey said. “Things are happening. We have a witness, we have a location. If we can find something tying someone here with Limyanovich, or Poly Tech, then this could end soon.”
Ketchum grunted. “From your mouth to God’s ear.”
“Yeah,” Ramsey said, “if God’s listening.”
* * *
Then, another break:
Ten minutes later, after Ketchum had pulled deputies to watch Noah at the hospital, and his son at home, Fletcher, the arson specialist, patched in from New Bonn.
“Got something I think you’re really gonna like.” The arson investigator looked and sounded positively perky, his thin eyebrows bobbing up and down with excitement. “Remember how worried I was that maybe this was ANFO? It’s not. It’s good old nitroglycerine, with some mannite thrown in. Our boy, he’s got guts.”
“Why’s that?” Ramsey asked.
“ ’Cause nitro’s hard as hell to keep from going off so you don’t end up splattered all over the inside of your garage. Your boy rigged nitroglycerin powder it to mix with alcohol. He probably used some kind of booster to spark the explosion, or take out whatever was keeping the powder and alcohol apart. That wouldn’t have to be anything more complicated than a partition rigged with a cap, and that’s when you use mannite.”
“What’s mannite?”
“A sugar. Used in laxatives or for cutting other drugs. But if you nitrate mannite, you’ve got a blasting cap. Here’s the kicker: you can get nitro and mannite only through a medical supply place, or pharmacy.”
“Like maybe in a hospital?” Ketchum asked.
“Absolutely. Theft’s like background music in a hospital. Controlled substances disappear all the time. But nitro and mannite aren’t controlled substances. So either our boy has access to someone who has access to a pharmacy, or he forged a couple of prescriptions and stockpiled. Anyway you cut it, this narrows things down a bit.”
“Oh,” Ketchum said, dryly, and with a glance at Ramsey, “I think that’s an understatement.”
* * *
“Things are starting to pop,” Ramsey said after Fletcher punched out. He had this sense of a mental break in the clouds, the way he always did when a case started to move.
“Like popcorn,” Kodza said, who also looked pleased, an uncharacteristic expression Ramsey would remember later. “Enough heat and first one kernel goes, then another: pop, pop. Yes?”
* * *
More news, another pop:
Dispatch snagged Ramsey just as he and Kodza threaded through the cop bullpen for the door. “It’s Dr. Slade.” The dispatcher’s eyes bounced off Kodza and back to Ramsey. “It sounded a little, ah, personal. Maybe you’d like to take this . . . ?”
Ramsey caught on. “Sure.” To Kodza: “Let me take this, and then we’ll get going.” Without waiting for her approval, he ducked back to Ketchum’s office.
Ketchum looked up, surprised. “Didn’t you just leave?”
Pulling the door shut, Ramsey explained then said, “She must’ve told your dispatch she wanted to talk in private. She’d never do that unless she had something.”
The bruise on Amanda’s cheek was liver-colored, and the holo shimmer couldn’t disguise her fatigue. “Sorry, guys,” she said, forking hair from her face with her fingers. “There’s either something wrong with my technique, or something wrong with my PCR machine, or my gels. Except when I run a few controls, they come out okay.”
“What are you talking about?” Ketchum asked.
Sh
e explained what had happened with the DNA to Ketchum, then added, “So I’m still getting that anomalous peak when I run my gel. The easiest way to think about it is to compare DNA to fingerprints. You have a set of ten fingerprints and you match prints at a scene with what you have on record. But what if your guy has eleven fingers and you didn’t know that? All of a sudden, you’ve got ten prints that say he’s the right guy, and an eleventh that says he isn’t. That’s what this is like. I have a DNA print from someone with eleven fingers.”
“So what’s the eleventh finger?”
“I won’t know until I sequence it. But the down and dirty is that Limyanovich has weird DNA. Limyanovich works for PolyTech. PolyTech does biogenetics. So maybe what I’m looking at is what either PolyTech or Kodza doesn’t want us to find because there’s something else.”
“There’s more?” Ramsey asked.
She nodded. “Remember I told you I was gonna run some mitochondrial DNA? Just to double-check and make sure we were talking about the same guy or at least someone in the same family?”
Ramsey nodded. “I remember. That stuff only comes from the mother.”
“Exactly. So mDNA helps us differentiate everything from, say, prehistoric migration patterns of early man on Terra to teasing out whether a person’s from Buckminster, or Styk, or Sorunda, and even subpopulations within those worlds. But there’s one mDNA marker that no one in the Inner Sphere has except one group.”
“Who?” Ramsey asked.
“Where’s the better question,” Amanda said.
“All right, then,” Ketchum said, “where?”
“Kittery,” Amanda said. She waited with an air of expectancy, but when Ketchum and Ramsey said nothing, she amplified, impatiently, “Kittery, as in the showcase Blakist reeducation camp. Kittery, as in Devlin Stone.”
That rang a bell. “Wait a minute,” Ramsey said. “Wasn’t the resistance involved in something on Terra, right around the election for exarch? I remember that Levin’s office tried to keep that all very hushed-up, but then the story leaked and . . .” A bulb flashed in Ramsey’s mind. “Uh-oh.”