by Dan Stout
Ajax whistled. “Our killer’s a pro.”
I flicked a finger against the breast of my suit coat, a dull thunk sounding as I struck the badge hidden inside.
“Or a cop,” I said.
He stared at the ground, processing what I was saying.
“Luckily,” I said, “I happen to know someone who’s both.”
“Oh?” Ajax looked up. “Is this something you’d share with your partner?”
He unwrapped his lunch, and I turned away. Nothing helps my thinking as much as seeing the people of the city go about their business. And nothing distracts me more than having to watch a Mollenkampi eat.
“You ever hear of a cop named Flanagan?” I said over my shoulder.
“Sounds familiar.”
I grunted while chewing. “Bad cop. Got busted a few years back. Probably while you were in college.” I swallowed. “Real asshole. He was shaking down every criminal who crossed his path for a piece of their action, and killing the ones who didn’t pay for protection.”
“So he’s in lockup.”
“Not anymore. Case against him fell apart. Witnesses recanted. Prosecutor admitted hiding evidence, then fled for parts unknown.”
The driver of a passing car leaned on the horn and the continual flow of pedestrians in the crosswalk parted slightly to let the vehicle pass. Ajax grunted.
“Seems like a lot to happen all at once.”
I nodded. “Some would call it unbelievable.”
I could hear him chewing and kept my eyes on the street. A street performer wailed on a saxophone, far enough away that the notes that reached us were broken and disjointed. A fitting soundtrack for the city.
“And now this Flanagan’s off everyone’s radar?”
“Not mine,” I said. “Never from mine.” I closed my eyes for a short breath, gathering my thoughts. “And wherever he is, he’s keeping a low profile. But if you were a psychopathic killer and needed money, what kind of work would you be doing?”
I made the mistake of looking over at Ajax.
His mandibles flexed as he chewed, like spider legs spinning a web. With quick, jerky movements, they tapped and repositioned the bites of sausage in his biting mouth until it was ground up and covered with saliva from his nasal cavity.
I’d looked at the worst possible moment and saw one mandible impale a round ball of mashed sausage and bun, then bring it down to the opening above his collar. There, with a delicate touch, the inward-curving needle teeth of the eating mouth pulled the mashed sausage off the claw of his mandible.
Ajax looked thoughtful as he swallowed. “A killer who won’t get caught.” A napkin was tucked into the top of his collar, protecting his shirt and tie from any accidental spills. I didn’t care how tidy he was. Watching a Mollenkampi eat was still like watching someone play with their food after they’ve been chewing it.
“Anything link him to this mess?” he asked.
“Other than a crime that would take a pro’s expertise to pull off?” I shook my head. “Not yet. We can pester Kravitz for forensics when they’re available, tell him we’ve got someone in mind. But Flanagan’s got the skill set and complete lack of a conscience required to do the job.”
I kept my eyes on the pedestrians, and away from the finger-sized sausage being torn apart by those imposing teeth. It didn’t bother me to see a Mollenkampi drinking, or eating soup. Liquids simply pour into their eating mouths, same as humans, though Mollenkampi prefer glassware that tapers at the lip, to accommodate their smaller mouths. Glasses and utensils in Titanshade use this design by default, since humans can use them just as well. But the chewing . . .
“The divination officer said she was going to take another stab at it,” said Jax. I could tell he was still eating because his voice didn’t have the musical dual tonality while his biting mouth was full.
I stood up and tossed my napkin in the trash. “I’d like to be there for that.”
The foot traffic had lightened, though the sidewalks were still packed. The crowd was a mixture of humans and Mollenkampi, with the occasional Gillmyn in the mix. Most of the pedestrians dressed in layers, though a few wore thin, almost sheer clothing. People of all colors and castes were represented. The city was a mixture of immigrants. Other than the original Therreau religious settlers, we were all the children of newcomers, dreamers who’d hoped to strike it rich in the oil business one way or another.
Ajax pointed at a pair of especially lightly clad pedestrians carrying shopping bags with high end labels printed on their sides.
“Never saw anything like that where I grew up,” he said. “Still throws me. That and the sulfur smell.” He looked around as if he could see the odor of the thermal vents.
“Rich folk didn’t flaunt their money in Kohinoor?”
“No,” he said. “Assholes are everywhere. I mean the lack of cold weather gear. Right outside Titanshade it’s colder than anyplace else on Erekusu, but here in the city center people dress like it’s a resort town.”
“The city’s a strange place,” I said. “Lots of people, lots of secrets. Learn how it operates and it’ll open right up to you.”
Ajax said, “I’ll file that one away.” But there was some thought in his voice, like he might mean it.
We sat in silence for a long stretch. I could tell he was getting ready to circle around to the day that had put my photo all over the newspapers for the first time. Finally he got on with it.
“This Flanagan. He was SRT?”
“Uh-huh.” The Special Response Team was often called in to deal with potential shootouts and hostage situations.
“Was he there when you . . .”
“Yeah,” I said. “He was.”
Jax seemed like a good kid, but if Bryyh had assigned him to keep an eye on me, then maybe he’d also been prepped to probe my mental state.
“The shrinks tell you to ask me about that?” I said.
“Nope.”
“They tell you to report back if I talked about it?”
He didn’t answer.
I turned from the trash can and faced him. He was wiping off his tusks with the napkin. I took a sip of coffee.
“Well, you can tell them that I acknowledged the trauma and confirmed the ongoing struggle of an officer’s duty.”
“I’m not entirely sure that’s what you said.”
I cleared my throat and said in a loud, clear voice, “I acknowledge the trauma and confirm the ongoing struggle of an officer’s duty.”
“Okay, now I can report what you said in good conscience.”
I belched, and Ajax tsked.
“You’re gross, Carter.”
His eyes wrinkled and his mandibles shook with amusement at his joke. I was working on a witty retort when our pagers buzzed simultaneously. Code 187. Homicide.
We chucked the last of our meal into the trash and headed for the car. Killers never have the decency to let cops work on one case at a time.
7
WHEN WE ARRIVED THE HOUSE was already cordoned off. Crime scene tape the same crimson as the patrol’s uniforms marked the perimeter, easily visible to anyone passing by. Part of the parade and activity around a crime scene is always a show. It’s there to let the public know we’re present and that all will be well. Judging from the anxious faces on the crowd of onlookers, we were falling more than a little short of that goal.
It wasn’t the number of people in the crowd that bothered me. There will always be a mix of concerned passersby and gruesome lookie-loos hoping to catch a glimpse of a corpse. But this crowd was more intense. Restless. I made a mental note to check what the papers had been saying about the Squib killing.
The patrol cops recognized me and lifted the tape as we approached, allowing us to slide under it like boxers entering the ring.
The house was a cute two-story thing typical of midd
le-class neighborhoods this distance from the Mount. The neighboring homes were full of white-collar folks with jobs as accountants and dentists. The kind of people who hide their crimes below the surface rather than pinned to their sleeves. The home looked well built, but with signs of neglect. Paint was beginning to flake, and the garden gate showed signs of rot that had been ignored rather than repaired. A patrol cop walked by and I flagged her down.
“Any detectives here yet?”
“You’re the first. There’s a bunch of techs here, though. They’re in with the bodies.”
I shook my head. As first responders we’d be assigned the lead on this case. Just when we were needed on the Squib killing. I stalled, hoping someone else would show up and take responsibility.
Pointing to the house I asked Ajax, “What do you know about plants?”
He rolled his eyes. “Why are we out here?” he asked. “The dead people are inside.”
“Always scope out the perimeter first. Get an establishing shot. You can learn a lot at a distance.”
“If you say so.”
I rubbed my forehead in an exaggerated kids-these-days motion.
“How ’bout this,” I said. “If we can get a potential motive by just standing here, looking and thinking, you write up the full report. Deal?”
Ajax eyed me for a moment. He had the look of a man who knows he’s being set up but can’t rein in his curiosity.
“Deal,” he said.
“Great.” I pretended to crack my knuckles. “I understand you went to college. Maybe did some studying about the Southern Crossing. You know anything about plants?”
“Political science classes don’t really drift into botany.”
“Yeah, well stretch your intellectual muscles, okay? Look at the landscaping.”
He took a breath and scanned the exterior. Land was too valuable in Titanshade not to be split up as tight as possible, and the yard consisted of a narrow strip of cement separating the home from its neighbors. But sections of that strip had been broken out. In those spots lush, leafy plants clustered alongside the house.
“What am I looking at, exactly?”
“This neighborhood is called Old Orchard. You know why?”
“There used to be an orchard here?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “We’re surrounded by ice plains with three feet of permafrost on them. There haven’t been native trees here since the continents were still separated. The neighborhood’s called Old Orchard because people like to dream about what they don’t have.” I pointed at the greenery by the home. “So where do you think those plants in particular came from?”
He took a long look. Finally he said, “They’re tropical.”
I nodded, encouraging him to proceed.
“They must have been imported,” he said. “Mail-order seeds.”
“Nope.” I pointed at the front of the home. “That siding looks about six or seven years old. Any seedlings in that section would have been trampled when the siding was installed. Those plants and trees are newer than that, and if they’re that size . . .” I trailed off.
“They were bought grown,” he said, catching on. “Which is expensive.”
I waved a hand at the surrounding houses. “More expensive than this neighborhood warrants. Whoever lived here had enough money to purchase and routinely water tropical plants. And people with that kind of money generally use gardeners. Look over there.”
At the side of the house a small shovel and dirty pot sat tucked against the foundation. Finger extended, I drew an imaginary circle around them. “But they have their own gardening equipment. No gardener.”
“Some people like to garden,” he said, still skeptical.
“Look closer.” I spiraled the invisible circle tighter, centering his attention. “Those are cheap tools. No love for the work, just necessity.”
I gave him a beat to take it all in before I continued.
“So all this makes me think—” I stopped using my finger as a pointer and tapped it against my temple. “There had been a gardener when the plants were purchased, they out-spent their neighbors, and now they’re cutting back. Certainly the owners are low on cash. And so we’ve got a possible motive—overdue debts. Could be an insurance money issue or crossed loan sharks.”
Jax looked at the building with its expensive tropical decorations, then at me. “Okay, fine. You win.”
“I told you at lunch,” I said. “Know the city and it’ll open up to you.”
Ajax harrumphed. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not disputing that you’re smart, kid. Your education needs to be broader, is all.”
He crossed his arms and didn’t speak, but one mandible scraped at a tusk in sudden, irritated bursts.
“Okay,” I said. “You’ve got a poli-sci degree. Great. But you need a degree in these neighborhoods. You gotta know that a kid wearing a T-shirt in the Borderlands is slumming, and that a Mount-side preppie is the best pick if you need someone to roll on a bookie.”
I rubbed my chin, which was covered with enough stubble that it rubbed back.
“It takes time to learn the rhythms of the city. There’s no class for this, no syllabus with reading assignments. You gotta learn by living here, by being one of us. The cops who see themselves as separate, they’re the ones who burn out. Or go rotten.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Know the city, know the victims.” I swung my hand at the onlookers nearest us like a model unveiling a new car. “Know the victims, and you’ll know the killer.”
The crowd had a surprising number of angry faces looking our way. It wasn’t the kind of thing normally seen at murder investigations. At least, not before we started asking uncomfortable questions.
Ajax sighed. “Speaking of victims, can we go inside now?”
I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out a woman who stood on this side of the scarlet tape, talking to a member of the patrol. She was shaking and looked on the verge of hyperventilation.
“Tell me, college kid, what do you think her story is?”
He looked her over and ventured a guess.
“I don’t know. Friend or family.” He looked from her to the crowd on the other side of the caution tape. “She’s wearing similar clothes to the onlookers, so she’s probably from this area. Maybe she showed up and they let her through, maybe she saw something.”
I tugged my lower lip. “She found the body.”
He didn’t ask how I knew. I liked that. I watched his eyes move up and down as he studied her, taking in her posture, her light tan jacket, her nervous gestures, even—
“Her shoes,” he said. He looked at me sideways. “There’s blood along the sides of her shoes.”
I felt the urge to smile. “There’s no way the patrol would let a civilian into a homicide scene, so that means . . .”
“She was in there before they showed up,” he said. “She must’ve let herself in, so she’s a friend of the family.” Jax stared at the woman. Her hands were clasped over the lower half of her face and she looked around with red-rimmed eyes. “Or family herself.” His voice trailed off, maybe picturing himself stumbling on the bodies of people he cared about.
“We’ll need to talk to her,” I said. “You up for it?”
Ajax’s mandible clicked against a tusk apprehensively.
“Look, guessing about motives based on the size of the bushes—” I shrugged. “It’s a parlor trick that helps set the stage for real detective work. Talking to people, understanding where they’re from.” I pointed at the woman with blood on her shoes. “Wading through emotion to find facts that can be proven. That’s what breaks cases.”
“I was a cop before I came here. You know that, right?”
I waited.
Jax sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
I ga
ve him a soft punch to the shoulder. Better him than me.
“And you?” he said. “Are you going to keep stalling out here while you hope someone else shows up to claim the case?”
That was a little too close to accurate for my taste.
“I’ll meet up with you inside,” I said, and walked toward the front door. Halfway there I turned back and called to him, “I’ll take good notes. It’ll make it easier when you do the write-up.”
I crossed the threshold and saw techs already scrambling around. I did my best to ignore them as I looked over the house. It was a standard home for that distance from the Mount. The furniture was a few years old, in the pragmatic style that had been fashionable the last decade or so, with lots of long, straight lines crossed by graceful curves. To me it always looked like a sine wave. I looked away before I got flashbacks to my grade school geometry teacher. The tables and couches showed the wear and tear normal for a house with children.
I approached a dark brown end table and examined the clutter on top of it. An empty candy dish with a few peanut husks still lying at the bottom, and two framed photos. Both pictures were facedown. I turned to the mantel over the fireplace. A carved wooden sign that spelled H-O-M-E was untouched, as was a small guidepost sign, but a framed picture was facedown as well. Fumbling in my overcoat pocket I pulled out a pair of latex evidence gloves and put them on.
I lifted the photo on the mantel. It was of a family of five. I wondered if they were the victims I was about to see. I returned to the end table and turned up those photos as well. The children were older in these pictures.
Family photos turned over. The killer didn’t want to see the family’s faces? That could indicate he knew them, possibly felt guilt.
A steady stream of techs moved up and down the stairs leading to the second floor. I paused at their foot, fingers hovering above the handrail. Whatever had happened in this home would be found up there. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my legs, I climbed the stairs.
On the second floor I walked past a hall bathroom and pushed the door open with two fingers. The hand towel lay crumpled beside the sink basin, blooms of red staining its fabric. Above the sink the vanity mirror was covered with what looked like bath towels, probably pulled from the cabinets below. I stepped back into the hallway.