CisLuna_Hard-boiled Police Procedural_Murder Mystery

by Ejner Fulsang

  “And you told me the helium crews all deployed before Colaprete landed?”

  “That’s right. And there have been no landings since.”

  “Is it possible he never got on Colaprete?” Higgins asked.

  “You mean he put his name on the manifest as a red herring?” I looked upward rubbing my eyes and sighed, “Yeah, that’s possible.”

  “Do you think he could have grabbed a lunamog and skipped out to the boonies on his own?”

  I nodded.

  “What, you think he might be hiding out in a cave somewhere waiting for you and your team to get bored and go home?”

  I nodded again.

  “That’s easy enough to check out. We can check the lunamogs to see if any are missing. We can also get a headcount from each of the helium teams to see if they have any new guys.”

  I shook my head, “he could be wearing a mask he made from one of the crew—long shot. But the best way to tell for sure is to call them in one by one and ID them by DNA.”

  “Or send you guys out to rendezvous with the helium teams one by one. How many of those DNA sequencers do you have?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Okay, it’s late. Let’s turn in and revisit this idea after tomorrow’s search.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Mess Hall

  I let the team sleep in until the first shift lunch meal. They needed the rest and I needed them sharp.

  Each shift ate by work crew. And as it turned out, there were six work crews numbering between six and ten people, and twenty-six individuals working solo positions. Mostly the shifts were down for three meals per day, but I was told it was common for someone to come in for a sandwich between the two off shifts. That meant this technique wasn't going to be completely leak proof, but it would be pretty tight.

  I had each group gather in a circle with their helmets off. Then I’d scan each face with the video on my communicator, pausing at each face so they could say their name and date and place of birth. If I needed to recheck a work crew, I could line them up again and check the count with my video record. The crews were cooperative. Word had gotten out about the murders and they didn’t like the idea of losing a team member to some psychopath any more than I did. I asked Higgins if this was going to put a crimp in his production schedule. He said yes.

  “You don’t seem all that bothered.”

  He showed me a text from Hank Larson, ‘Do whatever absurd thing Detective Stone asks for as long as he asks it. Set aside production quotas until he leaves.’

  “These production quotas—they gonna be hard to make up?”

  “They’re just quotas. Set by some suit in an Earthside business office.”

  “What are they for then?”

  “Somebody needed a number to establish how big an operation we needed down here. So they came up with a daily quota.”

  “How do you know that’s enough?”

  “We send LH2 shuttles topside and the CisLuna stations get first dibs. The excess goes to the space port at Lagrange point 2 where it’s used to fill the Mars rocket. We also try to keep up with the production of disks on the hub. So far we can fill them faster than they can build them.”

  SpaceCorp was sounding more and more like the Army all the time.

  This day was long but shorter than yesterday. We finished the last of our face-to-face searches by breakfast of the third shift. I audited the show-and-tell presentations—I didn’t get them all, but I got most of them.

  Unless Rogers turns up something, this wily bastard will have given us the slip once again.

  * * *

  Rogers showed up after breakfast of the third shift. I could tell from his expression that he came up dry, but I asked him anyway.

  “Any luck?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Mak came down from flight ops for some coffee.

  “How’s the manifest modification business?” I asked.

  He showed me his tablet. “Colaprete is supposed to depart in three days and the same thirty names are on it.”

  “What about the LH2 shuttles?” They had been held up while production was halted.

  “Nothing there either. The same crew members were kicking back in the pilot hooch. We surprised them with an onsite DNA visit in between breakfast and lunch the same day we did the rest of the surface crew.”

  It was becoming intuitively obvious to the casual observer that the son-of-bitch was never here.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Albert’s Bar, SSS Albert Einstein

  “You guys seem kinda quiet. Mind if I join you?” Joe asked brandishing a fresh bottle of Scotch.

  Sam looked at me and I looked at the bottle.

  “That a single malt?”

  “Of course.”

  “I guess we can be bribed,” I said as I pulled a chair out.

  After Joe serviced all the glasses, he rapped his knuckles in a short riff on the table top. “So, what’s the haps?”

  “‘The haps?’ Man, I haven’t heard that expression since… shit, not since I was maybe ten years old!”

  Joe blushed a little, “Been reading an old mystery novel. Thought I’d pull it out of mothballs, see if it still floats.”

  The table went back to being quiet again.

  “Should I put some music on? What I gotta do to liven this party up?”

  “Find me some new leads so I don’t have to go back Earthside tomorrow?”

  “Sorry. But, hey! You probably put the fear of Satan in his pants. Bet he snuck onto the first shuttle he could find to get back to Earth! That possible?”

  Monica jumped in, “Actually, Joe, the favorite theory is that the knife wound he got from Roy perforated his bowel and he crawled off to die a miserable death somewhere.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. A switchblade! That was some kinda action, Roy!”

  I tilted my head toward him to show him my scar from the pry bar.

  “It coulda gone either way. If Monica hadn’t shown up when she did—”

  “You got it on you?”

  “What, my blade?”

  “Yeah, I’ve never seen one except in really old movies. That’s the really cool thing about being up here. The movies and all. They don’t make ‘em anymore Earthside.”

  He was right. The Hollywood studios had all been bought out by Bollywood. And that killed the American market since Bollywood couldn’t see fit to service a market of only 600 million. I pulled my knife out and flicked the blade open.

  “Which movies had switchblade scenes?”

  “Couple. Chinatown. My favorite scene was that one from Prizzi’s Honor.”

  “Oh yeah, Jack Nicholson! He throws it when she tries to shoot him.”

  “Yeah, skewers her to the wall.”

  “Okay!” Monica said, “Time for a new subject.”

  We all laughed.

  “Can you do that?” Joe asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Throw it.”

  I looked at him evenly. “Nah, not very well. It’s mostly a close-in weapon, faster on the draw than a revolver. I use a .357 for anything beyond arm’s reach. That is until the weapons clerk at Edwards confiscated it.” I leaned my forehead toward Sam and raised my eyebrows.

  “Don’t you go lookin’ snaky-eyes at me! I don’t want no damn guns on my station!”

  “Yeah, well, if I’d had my Smith, we’d have our murderer either dead or in custody by now.”

  “Smith?” Joe asked.

  “Smith & Wesson, my snub-nosed revolver.”

  “Why a revolver? Seems kinda old-fashioned. I woulda figured you for a Glock or something.”

  “Not when I’m in a hurry. With my revolver, I just pull the trigger and it fires in double action—one step. Doesn’t need a safety to fuss with. The ten-pound trigger pull is the safety. I tried a Glock once. Never could bring myself to trust their so-called ‘Safe Action Trigger.’ Your instinct in a situation is to immediately put your finger on the trigg
er. With a Glock, that’s as good as firing the weapon. So I never carried it with a round in the chamber. Had to pull the slide back before I could shoot. Slow, noisy. Two steps to get a round off. Anyway, I could have had that perp, if I’d had my Smith.”

  “You just said your blade was better for the close in stuff,” Monica said.

  “Yeah, normally. But he still got away.” Monica might have been intrigued with the gun-talk, but the captain was getting bored. I shrugged. “Nah, you’re right. I guess I just miss my piece… I feel kinda vulnerable without it.” I suddenly realized that Chick hadn’t come through on his attempt to get me a firearm up here. That realizations gave me a chill. I tossed back the last of my Scotch. “Is it hot in here?”

  Our little party broke up shortly after that. Sam and Monica went off to their respective cabins. Joe offered me another Scotch. I considered it but declined. I still felt a faint buzz from the shot I’d just had. I don’t mind a little buzz. Hell, if I did, I’d never drink at all. But, well, you just never knew.

  * * *

  A month had gone by with no new murders. The killer was presumed dead, body not found, case closed pending further developments.

  I was about to get on an interstation shuttle that would take me to Borucki, the main travel hub up here in CisLuna. If you were going to the Moon, you caught your shuttle at Borucki. If you were going back to LEO, you caught another kind of shuttle that spent its life going to and from CisLuna and LEO. The only flights from LEO to Earthside were like the unscheduled one I’d come up here in, SLS John Marmie. Normally, LEO shuttles only fly from Earth to LEO and back again. But the extra LH2 propellant they carry to maneuver around LEO can just as easily be applied to continuing on to CisLuna in a pinch. They carry enough internal LH2 to manage the deceleration needed for docking at whatever station they’re aiming at. All in all, I was looking at about a week’s transit time. Connections are scheduled to get the most payload for a load of propellant, not for individual passenger convenience.

  I’d already said my good-byes to Mak and Lijuan. Sam was tied up in some kind of captain’s meeting, so she said. I think the real reason was that she was tired of hearing my endless theories of why the killer was still alive and waiting for me to leave so he could pick up where he left off.

  Meanwhile, big beautiful musclebound Monica, bless her heart, was there in person to see me off. At least that’s what I preferred to think. The real reason was probably that Sam ordered her to make sure I got on that shuttle and off Einstein. That theory also tracked with Rogers meeting me in person on Borucki. He was supposed to be my escort for six hours while I was waiting for my LEO shuttle. I smiled at Monica.

  “You don’t suppose—” I was interrupted by the announcer calling for boarding. I gave her one last hopeful look.

  “Go home, Roy. Make love to your wife.”

  PART IV

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Passenger Terminal at Edwards

  We touched down at Edwards at 1105 hrs., almost a week exactly since I’d departed Einstein. I’d been gone over three months. Monica had given me sound advice. It would be good to get home to Emily.

  The space suit technician told me the suit belonged to me now. He had a bunch of forms for me to fill out so I could pick it up next trip to space. Meanwhile, it would go in for refurbishment and cleaning—good to go in about three days. Fine by me, but I didn’t think I’d been that hard on it. I’d soiled it a bunch of times, but the diaper worked flawlessly so there was no odor or stains. I guess the refurbishing part made sense. You didn’t want those things to fail when you’re three hours from Earth and three hours from CisLuna.

  That part of my arrival went pretty smoothly. The next part, picking up my sidearm from the weapons locker, did not. It seems the clerk in charge of the weapons locker only believed in working an eight-hour day and would not be back until tomorrow at 0800. I wasn’t about to hang around all night waiting for him. Besides I had a snub nose .38 that I kept at home as a spare. It would do for a few days until I got a chance to retrieve my .357.

  Meanwhile, a crew chief from a chopper informed me that that they were ready for take-off as soon as I got on board.

  Good old Chick! If I could have found a car at all, driving would have taken me five or six hours to get home.

  * * *

  The chopper blades were spinning as I boarded. The crew chief politely shoved me inside and made sure my harness was fastened before fastening his own.

  I got out my communicator to text Emily. Chick had arranged for the chopper to drop me off at police headquarters where I could pick up a squad car and drive myself home. I told her I expected to be home between 1:30 and 2 a.m. I waited a moment but got no answer.

  I put my communicator away figuring she was probably asleep.

  * * *

  I walked into police headquarters and was met by the desk sergeant, another transplanted New Yorker named Lynch—good name for a cop. Lynch knew exactly what I wanted and shoved me an envelope with a set of keys in it.

  “Take your time getting the cruiser back to us.”

  I said thanks and went outside to find the squad car. It was an electric, but it had a full charge. There was a bottle of single malt on the passenger seat. I opened the note. It was from Chick.

  “Nice work! See you Monday.”

  Monday. I had to look at my communicator to see what day it was. It was barely Wednesday. No problem. Even if I slept all day today, that still left me four days to goof off.

  As I pulled into our driveway, I noticed the lights were on. Maybe Emily got my message after all. Better be quiet just in case.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Living Room

  When I walked in my front door the first thing I saw was Emily. Her nude body was hanging upside down from the ceiling. I just stood there looking at her.

  She had duct tape across her mouth and her hands were secured behind her back with surgical tubing. I couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead, or just unconscious. She had dyed her hair back to blond, but the ends of it were dipping into a bloody pool underneath her. She had a neck wound that was still bleeding down the side of her face.

  I looked around the room and saw Devil lying in a heap beside the easy chair. His body was very still and there was a red mark where his blood had soaked into the carpet. Then I felt a thump above my right ear.

  I woke up when I felt Emily kicking next to me. I was kneeling next to her with my face against her. I don’t know how much time had gone by. I had to fight to maintain consciousness. I managed to rise up on all fours.

  The duct tape was gone from Emily’s mouth, and when she saw me, she started screaming, “Roy, don’t!”

  She was wiggling violently causing the blood to spurt from her neck wounds. I tried to tell her to hold still but I couldn’t talk because of some obstruction in my mouth. I tried to feel what it was and pricked my finger on something sharp that was sticking out of my mouth.

  I struggled to my feet to go over to a mirror we have hanging in the living room. Fangs! I tried to pry them out but they were stuck fast. My face and shirt were covered with blood and my mouth had a weird taste in it.

  I wobbled back to Emily who was still kicking. I didn’t know how much blood she’d lost and I was worried that what little she might have left she needed for her brain. If I cut her down her remaining blood might rush back into her torso and legs and she’d die immediately. In a do-something-even-if-it’s-wrong panic I reached for my knife but it was gone. I pulled the phone from my pocket and called 911. The operator answered but I couldn’t speak clearly with the damned fangs in my mouth. I tried anyway. I knew protocol required them to dispatch a squad car and a paramedic van as a precaution, so I hung up and texted Ciccolella to come to my house ASAP. I took a picture of Emily and texted that to him. Then I took a selfie of my bloody face and shirt and texted that as well. Hopefully, he’d figure it out.

  I went back to Emily who was now unconscious. She was
still losing blood from her neck wound so I tried putting pressure on it with my fingertips. But then I worried that the pressure would stop vital blood flow to her head. Her eyes came open briefly and she looked at me. I shook my head and tried to mouth the words, ‘Not me! I didn’t do this!’ Then her eyes closed again. I tried to get a pulse from her wrist. I thought I might have gotten a faint one, but I wasn’t sure. I knelt by her side and tried to cradle her head in my arms.

  Some minutes later two cops and a couple of paramedics banged on the front door. I ran over to let them in. The paramedics rushed over to Emily, then stopped, frozen by the absurdity of the scene before them. The cops suffered no such hesitancy. They tackled me and wrestled me face down onto the floor. I felt a heavy knee between my shoulder blades as my hands were cuffed behind me.

  I struggled a bit because I wanted to see what was happening to Emily. I wasn’t even sure she was alive at that point. From what I could tell they had cut her down. I heard one of them yelling for an IV and saline solution. Somebody wheeled a gurney past me. Shortly after that the gurney went back outside. Eventually I heard an engine rev and a siren trailing off into the distance.

  Ciccolella must have showed up before the paramedics took off with Emily. He seemed to know what her state was. He took one look at me and his mouth dropped open, “What the fuck?”

  I tried to talk but he could see I couldn’t form intelligible words because of the goddamned fangs. He tried to pry them out with his fingers, but they wouldn’t budge. Whatever held them in was strong stuff.

  By then forensics was here. Chick asked the guy if he could get the fangs out of my mouth. The poor guy seemed confused about not wanting to disturb the evidence, namely my mouth, and wanting to get me to talk.

  Chick told him, “Look, you’re gonna lose valuable evidence if you don’t get those things out of his mouth. Can’t you clip off the fangs and bag them for later?”

  The guy ran off. He came back with a pair of dikes having raided my toolbox in the garage. I held still while he clipped them off. At least I was relieved of that damn overbite. I still couldn’t close my mouth properly because of the plastic bridge that was still stuck in there. But at least my words were somewhat intelligible.