Omphalos

by Gerald Lynch

  Randome?… He would rule no one out, and certainly not such a high-profile candidate. But Ewan a suspect? Highly unlikely, likely impossible, and not only because of reliable Kelly’s worshipful estimation of Dr. Randome but also from his own direct experience, his recent therapy. Dr. Ewan Randome was just too odd, too obviously weird, too gentle, and such a lousy liar (Ewan couldn’t even help smiling small or raising his eyebrows when he thought he’d sold Kevin on some psychobabbling bullshit). And could anyone that in love with the old Beatles be a criminal psychopath?… Well, there was Lennon’s murderer. He would rule no one out, not even the good and gentle Ewan Randome — never at the starting point of a case. Or the reboot, actually.

  Kevin smacked the top of the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. Shit. If DeLint’s murderer — if the Widower — thought he could position Dr. Randome as decoy, then the Widower was never an Omphalos insider. He’d have known that he could not successfully position the powerful shrink as a believable suspect. If the Widower had ever been an insider at Omphalos, he’d have known Ewan Randome as Kelly had, as a wholly unconvincing decoy. Shit.

  Who else! Who else!… Patience. Mind receptive. Eliminate no one at this point, not even the impossible Ewan. This was a test. The Widower would know too that I’d suss out Randome as a wild goose of a decoy. And know that I’d know he knew I’d know?… Patience. Let the web weave its warp and weft. Do the grunt work first. Induction, not deduction.

  But… If he wanted to work from a most likely, then this: Eugene DeLint had been the Widower, and the murderer had done what Kevin failed to do.

  Avoiding the crowd blocking the Laurier Street Bridge, he took the private ramp and arrived under the bridge. But there was still crushing activity near the security barricade to the underground garage. No one looked mournful, just excited and ugly, as at any public entertainment. The plentiful police recognized the Crown Vic and swept it along as they kept back the brown-patched crazies who extended their botched faces and bulbous catareyes for a look.

  For over a year now Kevin had been wishing that he’d got into just the second lobby of Omphalos, and here he was heading to the top floor in a high-security elevator. LED banners identified the levels: BAS, where he’d got on, and below it SUBAS. First floor: PSYWEL, Dr. Ewan Randome’s official home suite.

  At the third floor, AFRICHAL, a middle-aged black man got on. Hefty in an expensively tailored blue suit, yet emanating a certain delicacy, he looked at Kevin and with the side of his forefinger drew a line from the tip of his nose to his chin dimple.

  He spoke softly: “Good afternoon, Detective Beldon.”

  “Yes.” As with the waiter at the Pavilion Restaurant, Kevin hated being recognized. It was like sensing someone beyond the shower curtain when you’d just lathered your hair.

  “Sam-Man Bantry,” he smiled, showing unbleached teeth but not extending a hand.

  Kevin liked that he wasn’t tickling a communicator or tab. West Indian, the soft ahs, and the French accent, Sahm-Mahn. Haiti?

  “Not such a good afternoon for you here at Omphalos, Sam, I would think.”

  “Sam-Man. But oh, it is a tragedy all right, tch-tch, no question about that.” As with many West Indians, everything seemed to strike him humorously.

  “The whole place must be in shock.”

  “Not where I am heading.”

  “And where’s that, Sam-Man? To top up your employment insurance?”

  He laughed, the real risky thing from the belly. “No-no, sixteenth floor. A colleague is leaving, first one in over a year.”

  The man was safe, no time to waste. “Did you know Eugene DeLint, personally, I mean?”

  He continued smiling but shifted the knot of his tie. “Personally, yes, that was one of Mr. DeLint’s many qualities.” (No question: that was said ironically.) “You are right, though, Detective: we could all be leaving sooner than we had planned. Eugene DeLint is Omphalos. Or was rather. But since we had organized this little send-off weeks ago, and, well… Do I need legal counsel, Detective Beldon?” He laughed.

  “Yes.” Kevin smiled and reached to the panel, careful not to touch the red LED, and paused the elevator. They were already at fifteen: OMREC.

  The man looked at him openly, grinned fearlessly. “But it is not nice to speak ill of the dead now, is it, Detective?”

  “Speak ill already, Sam-Man. Everybody’s a suspect anyway. Our crime computer will already have ranked every employee, but, seriously, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Ah yes, the famous MYCROFT, almost as famous as Detective Inspector Kevin Beldon himself. It has shock value nonetheless, saying it: DeLint is dead. We have been whispering it to one another all morning, like that song: Ding-dong, DeLint is dead! But you are joking about us all being suspects, mais oui?”

  “Mais non. Tell me: why would anyone want to leave this centre of global activity and power?”

  Sam-Man again touched his forefinger’s padded tip to pursed mouth, and turned away to face the steel doors. “I expect you will keep the elevator sitting here at our Recreation Hall until I satisfy you. All right then: despite what the world believes, Omphalos is viciously a top-down organization, worse than the Vatican.”

  “Does everyone here think like you?”

  “New people go through a honeymoon phase, thanks to PsyWel’s month of orientation. But despite Dr. Ewan’s expert help, eventually everyone must come to his or her own terms with what Mr. DeLint truly is, or was rather.”

  “And that is, or was, rather?”

  Sam-Man leaned forward, whispered in peppermint: “Permit me to put it this way, Detective: if not for Dr. Ewan, I am confident that the Omphalos suicide rate would surpass even that of Aqua Cop.”

  He reached for the elevator’s resume button: “I exaggerate, of course, Detective, for those water wars in the Southwest have been taking an increasing toll on our law-enforcement brothers and sisters. Tch.”

  “Right. But what you say about Eugene DeLint is true for any big organization. It’s long been known that sociopath could be part of a CEO’s job description. No call to kill the boss, especially when the company’s thriving?”

  “Do not be putting the words into my mouth, Detective Beldon: I want nobody killed. But step out with me here on sixteen, and we shall see the cream of Omphalos in mourning for its presidente, if you have a moment and are so inclined.”

  Kevin didn’t have a moment but was always so inclined — when on a case — despite knowing that Chief Frank Thu would be having conniptions waiting one floor above, and despite his own eagerness to get to the murder scene. But he followed his rule: when on a case, never refuse serendipitous invitations.

  The layout of the whole sixteenth floor, GLOBISTRATION, was open concept. He had to pass through a security halo and could proceed only so far, even with Sam-Man and one of the armed guards accompanying. Women in the signature Omphalos dark pantsuit were congregating, some sitting on the edges of desks, others with their hair still clumped from recently being shaken out, a few with their square-heeled clogs dangling as provocatively as any stiletto. Most men were still hanging back, stretching and yawning in nervous nonchalance, though a few had already approached the women. Some things would never change. The room had the atmosphere of an old-time Christmas office party just getting going — and this on the day the founder and president had been discovered gruesomely murdered just above their heads?

  Kevin was casing. There was only one closed space, a small office in the far corner to the left, lit up behind walls of frosted glass. He indicated it with a nod:

  “Who’s having the private party?”

  Sam-Man had to interrupt his beaming about like a searchlight. “No one, Detective. That is Anna Kynder, DeLint’s executive assistant. Auntie Anna, we do not call her to her face.” He was still not looking at Kevin. “Poor Auntie Anna. I hear that when the
news broke, she shut herself in and will not answer her door.” He clued in. “Should we be concerned, Detective Beldon?”

  “Yes, and you especially, Sam-Man, because I’m charging you personally with her care. She may need medical attention, so call Dr. Randome right away. And I want you to give me a full report on her status as soon as you know.”

  The big man seemed to shrink. “I think Dr. Ewan is still away. But you are joking again in any case, am I not right, Detective?”

  “You are not right, Sam-Man, on either count. I spoke with Dr. Randome this morning. I’m going to write down your name and communicator code…and give you my number. Consider yourself officially delegated. If you don’t call me this afternoon with a report, you’re going straight to the top of the, uh, interrogation list.”

  Kevin reached into his shirt pocket, smirked, and gruffly asked his companion for a piece of paper. He was handed a small lime-green pad, and then had to check his own pager number. He returned the pad, and Sam-Man continued staring at him as Kevin resumed casing.

  One man sat alone, upright before a monitor in the corner by the closed glass office. Some effort had been expended to make private a public space: his desk was angled slightly into the corner. On the wall above was a familiar poster of a champagne flute of invisible water set against a blue sky — OMPHALOS TOASTS THE PLANET’S HEALTH! — and behind him a small end table held a large cactus like a guard. Staring at the monitor, the man had his hands clamping his head, fingers fixed in his cropped fair hair. They swooped down and keyed, they hovered, then again found his head. Repeat.

  At police college they taught that it was no longer necessary to waste time and energy on the material details of a scene. Bots and scans and probes would provide all that, and more, much more. Forensics was doing a better job than ever, thanks to the latest versions of deployed MYCROFT scanbots and evolving versions of SCENEREC. Think, recruits were instructed. Observe people and relationships. Use your whole brain, the college instructors insisted, sticking an index finger like a handgun’s barrel to their own temples. That potential is what’s gonna keep us human beings most unique…at least for a while longer. Ha-ha.

  “Who’s the loner in the corner?” Kevin asked his companion.

  Sam-Man came out of his reverie. “Oh…that is just Don McNicol, Eugene DeLint’s head secretary. I expect you will be getting to know Don, Detective Beldon. He is probably the only person who really knew Mr. DeLint. I mean, he and dear old Auntie Anna, after Mother’s death. And Dr. Randome, of course. I will call Dr. Randome about Auntie Anna. If you are certain that he is returned from the conference in Florida.”

  “I am.”

  “Already you’ve interrogated Dr. Randome?”

  “No.”

  “I expect poor Ewan has been devastated by this news.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Thank you, Sam-Man.”

  Sam-Man walked off loosening his tie, his smile beaming up. His co-workers were cheered at his arrival.

  Kelly, too, had mentioned Anna Kynder and Don McNicol. The loner in the corner, McNicol, continued keying commands then raking fingers through his retro dirty-blond spike-cut. He glanced repeatedly at the glass office, leaning towards its door, but always deciding against and returning to his frustrating task.

  Kevin took a mental picture of the corner scene and turned back to the elevator.

  He pushed seventeen and went nowhere. He remembered Frank’s instructions: there is no functioning pad for seventeen; the dummy button simply alerts security that someone is trying to go there. So he held the CLOSE pad with his thumb and tapped seventeen three times, and the elevator rose smoothly.

  WELCOME/BIENVENUE TO/À THE OFFICE OF/DE

  EUGENE DELINT

  WHERE

  ♥ CHARITY IS OUR BUSINESS ♥

  Frank had kept the site crew waiting under the sign opposite the elevator. Only personnel essential to securing the site would have been permitted the briefest access to DeLint’s office before Kevin, and then only to deploy the SWISS (Secure Weapons-Intelligent Service System) guards and MYCROFT scanbots. The waiting personnel still required by collective agreement was worse than redundant: not only a pathetic anachronism but a potential contaminant.

  As Kevin stood staring down the long hallway, one of the idling crew roared in heavy French accent, “Beldon, tell your old chum that it’s against the procedures, and goddamn union regulation, to keep first-line security waiting since all this time! We’ll jolly well be a-grieving, you can bet your top monies!”

  Without looking, Kevin recognized Otto Parizeau. More than his beer belly, Parizeau’s hatred of les anglais, racism, misogyny, and raging anti-Semitism had earned him the nickname “Big Ot.”

  Kevin glanced at the group — no women — and touched his crotch: “Grieve this, Big Ot.” He immediately regretted it, the coarseness, the nervousness that had caused it, despite the returned laughter, the loudest of which had sounded…high-pitched!

  Chief Frank Thu came barrelling down the echoing hallway, his right hand extended: “Kevin!”

  Otto Parizeau shouted, “Frank! Frank! You had better let us in there since goddamn now” — he lowered his voice — “Chief Charlie Chan.”

  With his arm around Kevin’s waist, Frank turned him away and they walked a few steps.

  Someone called, “Welcome back, Detective Inspector Beldon!”

  A woman’s voice. Shit. Must be the one with the helmet of dark hair who’d been half-turned away…touching her face? Make-up. Taller than Parizeau. How was he to know? Some great detective.

  “Why’s it freezing up here, Frank? Do you realize that Omphalos people are partying just one floor below us? Can we get into DeLint’s Button?”

  Frank removed his arm. “Slow down, Kevin. Eugene DeLint was your typical much-hated much-loved man, as MYCROFT has been reminding us. And you are not even to think about accessing the Dome. That order comes from the very top.”

  “Where is the very top on this, Frank?… Okay-okay. Why so cold?”

  “As MYCROFT also could tell you, the chilled office was one of Eugene DeLint’s many prickadildos.” He waited, got a snort from Kevin. “That’s why the maintenance guy”— Frank checked a note — “Jake Shercock, came up to check. DeLint had complained that his A/C wasn’t working properly. But it was. And just as well for us, as the cold helps maintain organic evidence.”

  “Sure-cock? Wasn’t that your high-school nickname?”

  But Frank had stopped playing. “Communicator records confirm the maintenance guy’s story, and he had the sense not to go too far into DeLint’s office. Or what he saw from the doorway scared him off.”

  “Maintenance guy found him — check.”

  Frank took a step, tipping his head for Kevin to follow: “Come on then.”

  Otto Parizeau hollered after them: “Come on yourself, Frank! Let us be in, Chrize-jeez! It’s Sunday since, let us be doing our jobs and go home to our love ones! Beldon’s not even active-duty roster! We’re gonna be a-grieve for sure, Chief Fu Manchu! Tabernac!”

  Chief Thu shouted directly ahead of himself: “Detective Beldon was activated half an hour ago, Sergeant Parizeau! Professionalism please, that’s an order. And one more racial slur, Big Ot, and I’m coming over there and personally kicking your Québécois ass up to your shoulders, pulling your filthy tongue through it, and snapping you back to Gatineau.”

  Compact Frank, a potpourri of genes, with Asian dominant, was built like an old-time wrestler, even unto the close brush cut. He let go of Kevin’s elbow and stomped ahead along the hall, slightly bowlegged. But after only a few paces he relaxed and half-turned.

  “How’ve you been keeping, Kevin? Sorry, I’m a little antsy today. News of DeLint’s death has been public only a few hours, and already the N-A dollar’s off two basis points — on a Sunday? Yuan and yen’re way down, too. Euro’s worse. Omphalo
s is big business.”

  Kevin halted and sniffed the air. “I smell blood, Frank. From here? Was he done in by puking vampires or what?”

  Unsmiling, Frank again turned away and stomped onward.

  Kevin squinted and sniffed some more, frowned and hurried after. “And what’s that, was there a fire too?”

  Frank stopped before DeLint’s office door and turned back to meet Kevin. With a dawning smile he again took his elbow. “That is some nez, that Beldon honker.” Then all business: “We’re not sure yet exactly what it is or how it worked, as you’ll soon see. The preliminary scans are reporting traces of some acid-anaesthetic compound. Very odd. I’ve allowed deep access only to MYCROFT bots and the SWISS guards. It should be okay now for you to go in; I’ll double-signal the SWISS that you’re officially on the case with highest clearance. I wouldn’t let anybody but a MYCROFT techie observe from the door till you’d been in, Kevin. Happy?”

  “I’m giddy, Frank.” Kevin pinched his nose and slid the fingers downward in a swipe.

  Continuing to cup Kevin’s right elbow, Frank took his hand in a shake, his tilted face showing a warmer smile. “I’m so relieved you’re here, Kevin. Every police force on the planet is already on my case — Mounties, CIA, EuroPol, even UNSecure — everybody wants in. The Mounties are the worst. I had a call not fifteen minutes ago from the superintendent, who’d been called by Prime Minister Rexdale himself, who’d been called by the U.S. president! Omphalos has its tentacles in everything. The building’s been sealed to all but essential personnel.”

  Kevin pointed two forefingers at his feet: “Booties?”

  “Not to worry,” said Frank, stepping aside. “MYCROFT already owns the floor. But take care all the same. I mean of yourself, old friend. Remember, you’ve been away a good while. It’s pretty ugly in there.”