by Carrie Patel
“One hundred and fifty marks,” she said. “Not pocket change for him, but not enough to warrant becoming an enemy of the city-state. Anyway, he meets with his appointed lawyer once before the trial, even then accompanied by a contingent of city guards. He is under strict restraint at all times and makes no statements. He does not speak or explain himself because he is mute… and he cannot communicate to anyone in writing because he is illiterate. From the time of his arrest, all statements on his behalf are made by his lawyer, who is selected by the Council and paid, we can both agree, handsomely. The five judges unanimously found him guilty and approved the death sentence.” She’d paused and stopped pacing, turning to face Sundar. “Does this sound procedural to you?”
“About as procedural as Dominguez’s indefinite appointment.” Sundar had scratched his chin. “The Council really, really wanted to make sure that he was convicted.”
“More than that, they wanted to ensure that he couldn’t talk. So to speak,” Malone had said. “But what were they worried he would say?”
“That’s the question. Do you think a guy like that was really a threat after he was already locked up?” He’d rested his back against the shelf behind him, leaning into it.
“If so, it would certainly explain the lawyer’s payment. And the other terms of his contract.” Malone had scowled, the sharp lines of her face standing in hard relief against the galaxy of dust swirling around the room. “A year’s income on one case in exchange for his silence and complicity with extreme terms. It would appear that fifty thousand marks were enough to buy Edmund Wickery.”
“That, or a concern for his family’s safety. If the Council wanted Stanislau’s conviction so badly, do you think they wouldn’t have applied a little pressure?” Sundar’d asked. When Malone had looked back at the door to the office, Sundar had continued. “Fine, Junior didn’t think much of him as a father, but does that mean Wickery didn’t love his family?” Sundar’s eyes softened.
Malone had been a breath away from asking Sundar more, but something about the territory felt too personal. Instead, she’d said, “They may have threatened him, and that’s a troubling possibility.” Malone cleared her throat, briefly turning her attention to the dust motes. “So why eliminate Stanislau? What did he know, what had he done, that they wanted him silent and dead? If the Council wanted to avenge the Satos, they shouldn’t have worried. There was no shortage of evidence and prejudice against him, so why silence him?”
Sundar had looked back at her, his eyes softer still. “Maybe he was innocent.”
She’d shaken her head. “No. The Council wouldn’t knowingly condemn an innocent man.” Whatever else she might have believed or felt about the Council, that was one step too far.
Sundar had tapped his temple and frowned. “Unless they needed a scapegoat.”
Malone had frowned. “Why this man?”
“Because they could silence him and no one would doubt his guilt. The five judges who delivered the ruling apparently didn’t.” He’d set the file aside, resting dusty hands on his thighs. “You don’t kill a councilor and his wife over a pocketful of valuables, and you don’t worry over the fate of a man who’s presumed guilty before his trial begins.” His voice had sounded rusty and tired, and two ghost handprints had stood out on his dark slacks as he shifted again.
Malone had tasted a sharp bitterness as Sundar had laid out his suspicions. “Are you suggesting that Stanislau was framed?”
“That, or hired. I used to think the councilors were locking down because they feared for their safety. Now, I think they’re trying to hide their guilt.”
If he was correct, the problem was much worse than they had feared.
“If that’s the case,” she’d said, “how is it that we’re reading these files now?” She’d looked back in the direction of Edmund Jr’s office.
He’d followed her gaze, a somber curve haunting the corners of his mouth. “They don’t seem like a pair that talked much.”
Today, she and Sundar had planned on visiting the judges who’d ruled on the murder case. The city kept a pool of scholars educated in law, ethics, forensics, and logic, and for any given trial or arbitration, five were selected at random to hear the testimonies and provide a ruling. Plenty of safeguards, including handsome salaries and a meticulous selection process, were in place to prevent the bribing of a judge or any other variety of dishonesty, but Malone’s faith in the system was dissolving as her investigations progressed.
The inspectors had copied the names of the judges from the case file in Wickery’s office the previous day with the reasoning that the judges might be able to point out any anomalies in the proceedings. And if they didn’t, their reticence would be more telling. Unfortunately, only one of the five was still practicing. Malone hoped that their luck from yesterday would hold and that the other four would be living and locatable.
Sifting through her notes, Malone was vaguely aware of morning’s advance by the increased foot traffic. She had been sitting at her desk for roughly an hour when she heard a rapid tapping at the door.
“Police courier, madam.”
“Come in.”
A man in a bright sash popped in, dropped a sealed message on her desk and, bobbing his head in a truncated bow, retreated as suddenly as he had arrived. Listening to the quick cadence of his footsteps, Malone broke the wax and unfolded the paper.
It was a map showing terrain and features between Recoletta and South Haven. It looked old, although a few scribbles were smudged and fresh. Someone had circled a spot east of a blue thread of river and written, in hurried hand, “He is watching me”.
Jane had not signed the note, but Malone recognized her handwriting from her last message. She left the note in a drawer and rushed to the chief’s office. The judges would have to wait.
Rounding the corridor and turning into the main hall, she approached Johanssen’s office at a brisk pace. Farrah was visible at her desk from the doorway, and, looking up at Malone as she caught her eye, she slowly shook her head. Malone stopped twenty paces from the office and watched the secretary. With a discreet glance in the direction of Chief Johanssen’s office, Farrah tapped her extended forefinger on the desk and stared absently at a pile of papers.
Malone took the cue and withdrew to the corridor, waiting in shadows. She brewed a cup of tea in the service room and swirled it in one hand as she waited. After a few minutes, Farrah came out and found Malone around the corner. Her voice was edged with cool urgency.
“You’ve got to get away. There’s a pair of guards with Captain Fouchet in the chief’s office.”
The cup stopped swirling. “Fouchet, here? Why?”
Farrah hid neither her surprise nor her ire. “For you, of course. They’re going to arrest you for treason. For your interference.”
Malone nearly dropped the teacup. Captain Fouchet was the head of the Guard and a man with no love for the Municipal Police. A longtime critic of Chief Johanssen, he regarded the Municipal Police as the Guard’s rival for martial authority in Recoletta. His reputation as the Council’s ruthless enforcer was well known, and if he was here in person, Malone knew he did not intend to end the day without her arrest.
She and Sundar had kept their investigations discreet. Not even Chief Johanssen knew the details, which was a very good thing, she reflected, as now he could truthfully deny any knowledge of their involvement. They had been careful to keep a low profile and operate under plausible cover, but Malone had suspected that it would be only a matter of time before the Council rapped their knuckles again. The question was how hard.
Malone didn’t need to ask how Johanssen had managed to delay them, nor did she need to ask why Farrah now regarded her with such undisguised resentment. Their beloved chief’s neck now hovered near the noose, and it was her fault. But she couldn’t keep one heated question from her own lips.
“And you were going to warn me when?”
“I couldn’t disappear in the middle of the interv
iew, could I? I had to wait until one of those apes asked for a drink. Just thank your lucky stars that they were too lazy to start with a sweep. Now, do you really want to be standing around squabbling about this when they come to arrest you?”
Malone snorted. “They can’t have anything substantial.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Farrah said. “The chief’s been arguing with them for the past twenty minutes, but they’re not going anywhere. Now, go while you still can.”
“Go where?” Malone asked, gripping the saucer. “And for how long? I can’t do much good hiding in a smuggler’s den and waiting for the Council to forget about me, can I?”
“Figure it out, Malone. You can feel sorry for yourself when they catch you. In the meantime, do what you can for as long as you can. You owe the chief that much.”
Malone felt as though Farrah had slapped her across the face, and she was oddly grateful. “And Sundar?”
“No word on him. They’re after you right now.”
“I have an important lead. I need you to–”
“Don’t tell me. Just get out of here before they start searching for you, and lay low. Don’t go home, either.”
Malone nodded. “If Sundar shows up…”
“He’s got a smuggling case waiting for him. Don’t worry about him, just take care of yourself and let Chief Johanssen smooth things out. With any luck, this’ll blow over soon enough.” The tone of her voice did not convince either of them.
Farrah glanced over her shoulder toward her office. Malone pressed the teacup into her hands, and Farrah nodded her thanks, turning back to Johanssen and his inquisitors. As Farrah left her, Malone headed in the direction of a back route, watchful for guards. She followed the hall around its slow curve to the point where it converged with an entry hall, and she saw other inspectors and clerks passing her at a hurried pace, looking over their shoulders. Their agitated murmurs revealed what she should already have guessed: guards checking the exits. These were not the actions of a Council that was only moderately interested in her arrest.
She did not think at this moment that her run-in with the Council would “blow over” any time soon. But later, when there was time to review the events of the past weeks, she would reflect that Farrah was more right about this than either of them could have known.
For now, it was enough to have an idea of what to do next. Turning back down the hall, she set out for the coroner’s office.
Malone passed the pooled offices of the younger inspectors, the desks clustered together and their occupants huddled in conversation. She saw no sign of Sundar. Malone could not afford to wait, nor could she risk leaving him a detailed message. Pressing on, she had to trust that Farrah would take care of him when he arrived. With any luck, he would manage to stay out of trouble and talk to the judges on his own.
After a quick pass through the supply room for traveling equipment, she ducked into the coroner’s office where Dr Brin sat, hunched over his desk. He blinked owlishly when she entered.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Inspector Malone.”
“I have a favor to ask, Doctor, and there isn’t much time. If you’re willing to help, know that you may spend the next decade in the Barracks if we’re caught. If that sounds like too much, then carry on as if you never saw me.”
He rose, the pale light of the office’s torches shining like a halo on his balding pate. “Inspector, insofar as I can help you, you may assume that I am brittle, ill-tempered, and decades past my prime, but you may not assume that I am a coward. Not another word except for your instructions.”
Malone explained that she needed a way past the guards and out of the station. Brin tapped his shining head.
“Just the thing. Follow me.” He led her out of his office and to a long room lined with metal tables under bright, low-hanging radiance stones. As they crossed into the mortuary, Brin’s left hand darted behind him and shoved Malone back into his office with surprising force.
“David! What are you doing here? Have you any idea what time it is?” Brin’s voice carried all of the hard authority of a schoolmaster, and the unseen David responded to it.
“Sir, I just wanted to get an early start on the examination.” Malone heard a startled quaver in his voice, and she could picture the speaker clearly: young, diligent, and clean-faced, a shock of tousled hair forever obscuring his glasses.
“You know that I cannot concentrate with you banging around in here. Give me an hour of peace, and then you can have as much time as you’d like. Agreed?” Brin’s voice softened as he finished, and David stuttered an apology and retreated to the hallway at the other end of the mortuary. When they were alone, Brin looked back at Malone.
“I dislike scolding him, but I like less the idea of his complicity in this if we’re caught. Now, you’ll go into that cart.”
Sitting in the middle of the room, as if awaiting their purpose, stood a well-worn gurney the length of the tables on either side of the room. Malone pulled a long, white sheet from the top and gazed at the cold metal surface below.
“Not onto it, Inspector, into it. But first, you can help me with the cadaver.” He wheeled the cart next to the nearest table, and she helped him ease the body of an older woman onto it. She felt heavy and strangely unyielding as they settled her into place.
Brin pulled the long shroud over the woman’s face. “And now it’s your turn.”
As Malone climbed into the storage space just above and between the four wheels of the gurney, she reflected that, by comparison, resting on the metal bed above would not have been as uncomfortable as it first seemed. Stretched in the compartment with her pack resting over her hips and an assortment of shrouds and sheets covering her, she was safe as long as no one decided to search.
Fortunately for Malone and Brin, no one did. The trickling currents of people in the station parted at the sight of the gurney, and Malone did not feel their progress slow until they reached the exit.
“What’s this here?” a voice above her asked.
“A cadaver. We’re sending it for cremation.”
“Is that so? Pull back the sheet, then.” In a soft rustle overhead, Malone heard Dr Brin expose the face of the dead woman.
“Satisfied?” Brin did not quite keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Now that you mention it, no. Let’s see what’s underneath.” A little more light reached Malone’s eyes through the screen of sheets as Brin lifted a corner of the shroud on top. “Cremating your laundry as well, old man?”
Malone felt a spike of adrenaline, but her nerves cooled at Dr Brin’s commanding tone. “We’ve used these linens to cover, handle, and clean cadavers showing signs of dysentery. So, yes, of course we’re going to burn them, but, if you really want to dig through them first, be my guest,” he said. “I suggest that you use gloves.”
The shroud dropped back into place, and the guard sounded like he had discovered one of the sheets on his own bed. “That will be all. Move along.” Malone felt grateful for Dr Brin’s imagination, but she nonetheless tasted a hint of bitterness rising in her own throat.
The next time they rolled to a halt, it was in a quiet passage several minutes from the station. Brin pulled back the sheets and looked at her through his bottle-thick spectacles.
“You’d better get out here. Unless you really do want to visit the crematory.”
“Not today. I can’t thank you enough for your help, Dr Brin.”
“Don’t mention it. It isn’t often that I get this much excitement before ten. Good luck with the rest of your day, Inspector Malone.” With that, he wheeled the gurney down the empty tunnel, a spring in his step and a meandering tune on his lips.
Shouldering her pack, she set off in the direction of Recoletta’s main train station, almost due south. Avoiding public transportation and keeping an eye out for patrols, she calculated that she could reach the station in an hour.
When the gilded arch of the station swung into view overhead, she glanced at
the clock in the center: a quarter to ten. Fairview lay almost halfway between Recoletta and South Haven. With any luck, she could find a train bound for the latter and book passage out. She passed under the arch and into the fog of steam and smoke that, despite Recoletta’s sophisticated ventilation, still managed to choke the train station.
In fact, because of that haze, she did not realize that she had been caught until she was standing in front of the ticket counter, reserving a seat on the steam engine leaving in the next forty-five minutes. She heard a familiar and unwelcome voice.
“Going somewhere?”
She whirled around to see a phalanx of guards already surrounding her. In the middle stood Dominguez, as sickeningly smarmy as ever. In an instant, Malone realized that she almost would have preferred to surrender in Johanssen’s office than face arrest by Dominguez. “Captain Fouchet has issued orders to arrest you on sight for treasonous interference, and here you are at the train station. A coward as well as a fool, then?”
“If you’re going to arrest me, you’ll need some charges to go with your new rank, Interim Director.”
Dominguez reddened. “Which part do you not understand, Inspector: the treason or the interference?”
“The evidence.”
“You received an ultimatum less than two weeks ago, that under no circumstances were you to continue your investigations of the Vineyard murders.”
“So?”
“You questioned Roman Arnault in the hospital…”
“Following up on an assault. It’s standard procedure.”
“…and dug around the Wickery office in the same day. It’s almost like you were looking for attention.”
“Those cases have been closed and filed for ten years. Is there a connection?”
Dominguez began to purple. “Inspector Malone, please. Don’t be so coy.”