Sins of the Father

by Mitchel Scanlon

  "A giant?" Anderson smiled at him. "At least that should make him easier to find. Are we talking about the 'fee-fi-fo-fum' kind, or a friendly one like the green guy who advertises canned synthi-veg in the Tri-D commercials?"

  "I mean he suffers from gigantism, Anderson," Tolsen regarded her closely as though he wasn't quite sure whether she was being facetious. "We were able to calculate his stride-length from the soft impressions of his footprints on the office carpet. That, and the size of the handspan indicated by the bruise patterns on the victim's neck, would put the perp standing at somewhere between two-point-three and two-point-five metres in height."

  "Two and a half metres tall? So he stands out in a crowd. What else?"

  "He's strong. Phenomenally so. He snapped two spinal vertebrae in the victim's neck while he was strangling him. Then, there's the matter of the elevator. This is a high-security building. You noticed you need authorisation to go anywhere above the one hundred and ninetieth floor in the elevator?"

  "I did. So the perp used the stairwells?"

  "No," Tolsen shook his head. "We checked the footage from the surveillance cams inside all the stairwells and came up empty. Instead, I found evidence he had been in the elevator shaft. The walls of the shaft are lined with five-millimetre-thick plastisteel panels and coated with teflon-plus to reduce friction. Somebody has pulled several of the panels apart, bending the edges back so as to increase the gap between them. It looks like the perp rode the elevator up to one-ninety, then made handholds for himself so he could climb up the last ten floors inside the shaft."

  "He bent solid plastisteel?" Anderson whistled quietly. "That makes him pretty damn strong. You sure we're not looking for a robot or an alien?"

  "As sure as I can be." Opening one of the pouches on his utility belt, Tolsen produced two transparent plasteen evidence baggies and handed them to her. Inside each one she saw a few long strands of hair. "We found two samples of hair - one on the wall of the elevator shaft, and the other on the victim's body. You know about hair DNA?"

  "I take it that's a trick question," Anderson said. "Hair isn't made of living cells. It doesn't have DNA."

  "That's right," the Tek-Judge nodded. "If you want to get DNA from a hair sample, it has to have skin tags - little pieces of tissue that stay attached after the hair is pulled off or falls out. Unfortunately, neither of these samples has them. However, after analysing the colour and follicle dimensions, I can tell you it's human and that there's a ninety-nine-point-nine per cent probability both samples came from the same person. Unless somebody else has been crawling around the elevator shafts recently, that means it came from your perp."

  "So he's a brunette and he wears his hair long?" She passed the baggies back to Tolsen. "What about his strength, then? You thinking he's a mutant?"

  "That would be my best guess," Tolsen agreed as he placed the baggies back in their pouch. "Of course it could be he's a cyborg, or that he's taking some kind of adrenal stimulant to boost his strength. But, combined with the fact of his gigantism, I'd say some kind of genetic mutation was the most likely culprit. Either way, he can tear plastisteel apart with his bare hands. When you catch up with this guy - assuming he is a guy - I wouldn't take any chances."

  "You think the perp might be a woman?" Anderson cocked an eyebrow at him.

  "Without a viable DNA sample to identify his gender, I wouldn't rule anything out at this stage," Tolsen shrugged. "In terms of what else the evidence says, I can tell you the perp doesn't wear gloves. We found partial fingerprints on the inside of the elevator doors and on the handle of the door leading to the office. We ran them through the database and came up blank - either the perp is from out of town, or he's slipped through the net and somehow escaped being printed. Also, from the wound angle of the cuts he used to write on the victim's chest, I'd say he was right-handed. Oh, and I sent a Tek-team down into the elevator shaft to track the perp backwards and try to establish how he entered the building. You never know, if we can follow his trail back far enough we may get lucky and find footage of him on an exterior surveillance cam."

  "All right, so I take it that covers everything you can tell me so far about the perp?" Seeing Tolsen nod in response to her question, Anderson continued. "What about the victim? What can you tell me about him?"

  "Now, that's where things get really interesting," the Tek-Judge told her. "Fingerprints and retinal scans confirm the victim's name as James Victor Nales. According to the Justice Department database, he's thirty-eight years of age, and he set up the 'Nales & Associates' company three years ago. Their main business is importing consumer goods and industrial raw materials into the Big Meg from the other city-states. They do a lot of business with Ciudad Barranquilla, but at first glance it all seems to be on the up-and-up. Nales pays his taxes regularly. He's never been in trouble with the law. Everything in his file indicates he's a model citizen."

  "Why do I get the feeling there's a 'but' coming on?" asked Anderson.

  "Well, first there's this..." Moving over to a nearby table, Tolsen retrieved another transparent evidence bag - this time, much larger - and held it up for Anderson to see it. Inside it, she saw a palm-sized pistol, its grip and other surfaces lightly dusted with fingerprint powder. "My best guess is, Nales must have heard what he thought was a prowler and took this gun with him when he went to investigate."

  "It looks like a laspistol."

  "It is. It's a scaled-down Walther Mitsubishi LPK Mark One, Pattern J. You're looking at pretty much the state of the art, as far as handy-sized killing goes. This is probably the only pistol on the market that can match the Lawgiver for raw power, but at less than half the size and weight. They call 'em 'Judgekillers' on the street. Small enough for a perp to hide under his pants waistband, yet powerful enough to melt a hole in a Judge's helmet and drill through the brain inside it. Quiet, too. Somebody could fire one in the next room, and you wouldn't even hear it. Assassins love them. They're light, accurate, and lethal. If Nales had managed to get off a shot with this baby, you have to figure the giant would be one left lying dead on the office floor, not him."

  "Seems a lot of gun for a respectable businessman to be carrying," Anderson said. "Did he have a permit?"

  "No. Naturally, Justice Department takes a dim view of citizens owning this kind of firepower. Even if Nales had applied for a permit, he never would have got one." Tolsen turned to place the gun back on the table before moving towards her once more. "What's more, buying a gun like that on the black market would cost you at least twenty-five thousand credits."

  "So this isn't some anxious citizen buying a cheap gun because he's scared of burglars?" Anderson paused a moment as she thought the matter through. "If Nales laid out that kind of change, it's because he thought he had reason to fear his life was in danger. Which, in turn, means he's probably not the model citizen he appeared to be."

  "My thoughts exactly." Kneeling down beside the victim's body, Tolsen pulled back the sheet and pointed a finger at the dead man's face. "The Med-Judge noticed something as well. You see how taut the skin appears on Nales's cheeks and forehead? Now, look at the side of his head here, where the skin meets the hairline. See these minute creases in the surface of the skin? Apparently, they are all telltale signs that Nales has had a rejuve job - most likely several of them, in fact. And that's not all. Remember, according to our files, James Nales is supposed to be thirty-eight years old. But based on bone density and the state of his inner organs, the Med-Judge estimates he was at least eighty."

  "Eighty?" Staring down at the dead man, Anderson found it hard to believe the Tek-Judge's assertion. "He looks barely forty."

  "On the outside, maybe. But, inside, the organs don't lie. The Med-Judge said he'd be able to tell more once he'd performed a full postmortem, but he was adamant about Nales's real age. He was at least eighty, maybe older. I took a sample of Nales's DNA and forwarded it to MAC, the Justice Department mainframe, to see if it matches anything in the city's genetic database. Bu
t I'm still waiting to hear back on that." For the first time since they had met, the Tek-Judge smiled. "You see, I told you the victim was interesting."

  "Interesting?" Anderson looked at him in askance. "That doesn't cover the half of it. We've got a gigantic perp with superhuman strength, who climbs up an elevator shaft to strangle a man with his bare hands. Then, we've got a victim who probably isn't what he appeared to be, and is forty-odd years older than he looks. Talk about the plot thickening. All we need now is a little old lady with a Brit-Cit accent and we'd have the makings of a storyline for one of the mystery shows on Tri-D."

  Looking down at the body, she sighed and shook her head, then turned to gaze at Tolsen again.

  "Okay, so that's the perp and the victim covered," she said. "Did anything else show up in the forensics that might help explain what went on?"

  "No, that's it," Tolsen replied. "You know everything I do."

  "All right. Not to seem rude, but I'd appreciate it if everyone left the room. I'm going to perform a psi-scan on the victim and there's a higher chance of success if there are no distractions."

  Anderson pulled one of her gloves off and knelt down beside the body. She stretched out her hand towards the dead man's forehead.

  "It looks like there's only one way we're going to get any real answers here. And that's by asking James Nales himself."

  "Psi-Judge Myrna Lang," Vinley said, reading aloud from the Justice Department service record on the display screen of his computer. "Date of birth: 14/1/2100. Graduated from Psi-School and the Academy of Law: 18/3/2126. Specialisation: Telepathy. Current posting: Psi Division, standard assignment..."

  "Graduated 2126?" Anderson cut him off. Staring at the 2-D photo included with Lang's comp-file, she saw a slim pretty young woman with short mousey hair and a scattering of freckles across her cheeks. "She's a rookie Psi-Judge who's been on the streets barely three months and, already, you're thinking of throwing her to the wolves?"

  "No one mentioned throwing her anywhere, Anderson." Vinley pursed his lips in disapproval. "I've explained it all already: we want an experienced Psi-Judge to ride with her on a case and assess her performance. Normally, we'd leave it until her regularly scheduled performance appraisal to make any kind of decision. Unfortunately, there have been complaints."

  "What kind of complaints?"

  "It's all here. See for yourself." Scrolling through the records, Vinley tapped a finger on the screen for emphasis. "Rudeness. Insubordination. Failure to Comply with Judicial Guidelines. Incorrect Sentencing. The list goes on." He raised a hand in admonishment. "And, before you say it, Anderson: I know what it's like out there. I know when Psi-Judges work with other Judges there are bound to be clashes - especially when it comes to working with Street Division. But Lang is setting new records in that regard. In her first ten weeks on the job she's managed to accumulate more disciplinary complaints than the average Psi-Judge could manage in an entire year. Granted, Psi-Judges are a valuable resource, and that sometimes encourages the powers-that-be to ignore our more colourful eccentricities so long as we achieve results." He gave a pointed glance in Anderson's direction. "But this goes beyond that. Frankly, there have been questions about Lang's temperament from the start."

  "How so?" Anderson asked him.

  "Lang was eleven years old before her psychic potential was discovered. Usually, of course, candidates are enrolled into Psi-School at five years of age. And, not just because they have fifteen years of training to go through before they become Psi-Judges. Once you are identified as having that potential, any hope of a normal life goes out the window. A Psi-Judge has to leave his past behind. He has to say goodbye to his family and friends forever, and be willing to let the Law and Psi Division take their place. It's easier to make a break like that at an early age. When you are eleven years old, like Lang, it can be difficult to forget the fact you once had a family. Some people deal with these problems better than others. But not Lang. Her psych-file indicates she shows every sign of what the Department shrinks like to call 'separation displacement'."

  "I've heard of it," Anderson said. "They warned us against it in the Academy. They said it's easy to displace your anger at being separated from your family into a resentment against Psi Division, or Justice Department, or even against your own powers. All the things you blame for taking you away from your old life."

  "That's right," Vinley's voice had become grave. "I'm sure you see how a Psi-Judge who harbours a deep-seated resentment against Psi Division and Justice Department might represent a cause for disquiet. I'm not saying at this stage Lang presents any kind of definite danger to herself or others. It's merely a question of taking precautions. Apparently, her tutors at Psi-School considered her a borderline candidate for full-eagle status, but the city's desperate need for Psi-Judges encouraged Justice Department to override their concerns. Now, Lang's recent behaviour and her sloppiness about her work has caused the same questions about her suitability for the job to be raised once more. And that was before the case she's working on at the moment brought everything to a head."

  "I don't like to say it," Anderson grimaced. "But we are all Psi-Judges here. If there are questions about Lang's attitude to the job, isn't there an easier way to answer them?"

  "You mean, couldn't we simply get another Psi-Judge to perform a deep telepathic scan on Lang and assess her emotional state that way?" When it came to precognition, so far tonight Vinley was hitting the bullseye every time. He shook his head. "No, it wouldn't work. Lang is a telepath herself. She could block off parts of her mind from the scan and the examining telepath might not even notice. Then, there's the problem that such an intrusive technique might actually encourage Lang to resent Psi Division, even if she doesn't already."

  "So we're back with yours truly playing spy." Seeing Vinley about to protest, Anderson sighed and sarcastically rolled her eyes. "All right then, we call it 'mentoring' if that makes you happy. Either way, you're asking me to be the one who potentially wields the axe. It stinks, Vinley. But, yes, I'll do it - no doubt in my own colourfully eccentric way." She paused, then turned directly to business. "All right, so you said the case Lang is working on brought matters to a head. I take it that means I'll be working on it with her. What is it?"

  "A homicide." Vinley scrolled further down through the records on his computer screen and highlighted a section of text. Glancing at it, Anderson could see it was a memo of complaint from the graveyard shift Watch Commander in nearby Sector 45. The screen was too far away for Anderson to read it properly, but it was clear from what little she could read that the Judge who had written it had been seething with anger.

  "At 22.39 tonight, a routine call came in from Sector Control requesting Psi-Judge assistance in investigating a murder at the Franz Kafka Office-Plex," Vinley said. "In accordance with standard rotation, Lang was assigned to the case. The street Judge on the scene needed somebody to perform a psi-scan on the victim's body. But when Lang performed the scan, the results seemed to contradict every piece of forensic evidence that had been collected by the Teks. An argument ensued. When the street Judge called the results of Lang's scan into question, she responded with a number of expletives directed at her fellow Judges - of which, I'm told, the phrase 'go drokk yourselves' was the mildest."

  "That's it?" Anderson asked. "All this because a Psi-Judge lost her temper and used some choice words? It sounds like a reprimand offence, at most."

  "It's not about her language, Anderson. It's about the quality of her work. The results of Lang's scan were so off-kilter it raised questions about her reliability."

  "But the results of psi-scans performed in the bodies of murder victims are notoriously unreliable," Anderson said. "Believe me, I know. You're reading the last moments of a person's life. Their experiences are always distorted by fear and pain. They don't understand what's happening to them. The experience of the point of death can easily get jumbled up with old memories of the past, with desperate fantasies, or incongruous tho
ughts and sensations. It's no wonder you sometimes get all kinds of strange and dubious results."

  "I'm well aware it's not an exact science, Anderson," Vinley replied. "But the results Lang came up with are, frankly, ridiculous. I don't have all the details of the case to hand. However, it is my understanding the killer managed to gain entrance to the top floor of a high-security building to commit the crime. The victim was in his thirties, physically fit, and armed with a pistol. The killer surprised him, strangled him and broke his neck, then mutilated the body post mortem, before making good his escape. Now, I'm sure you would agree, the fact the killer achieved these things is a sign he possesses certain qualities: ruthlessness, physical strength, intelligence, a coolness under pressure, etc. Yet, the results of Lang's scan indicated precisely the opposite."

  "So? Don't hold me in suspense, Vinley. What were the scan's results?"

  In response to the question, Vinley leaned forward across the desk and fixed her with a morose and glowering stare.

  "According to Psi-Judge Lang," he said, "the murder was committed by a child."

  There was a sound from the outer office; the metal shriek of a door lock being forced wide against its will. Acting with a smoothness built on years of experience, his hand went to the top drawer of his desk. The drawer was open and the gun was in his hand without him even needing to think of it. He stood, and advanced quietly to his office door, feeling the protesting groan of his joints at the sudden movement. The face which greeted him in the mirror each morning was so young and new, he sometimes almost forget just how old he really was.

  He listened at the door and heard nothing. For a moment, he considered whether to call for help. He could stay in the safety of his office, take cover behind his desk, and wait to see if the intruder in the outer room decided to risk coming in there after him. But the idea sat poorly with him. Granted, he was an old man, but he had always dealt with such matters directly. Besides, if he left it to others to solve his problems, the rumour might start to get around that he was going soft. In his world, it was a short run from rumours like that to a sentence of death.