by Gerald Lynch
“Shit.”
“I’m too old for field work anymore. Luckily Omphalos security has been watching her, and they’re better than us anyway. Let’s move.”
“What about Dr. Randome?”
“No problem there, Kev. The good doctor was at a medical conference in the Florida Keys the whole weekend, or what’s left of the Keys. Communicator records confirm. Nothing amiss according to MYCROFT, who trusts no one.”
“No,” said Kevin, “I mean, do you have a tail on him, especially now that he’s resigned from Omphalos?”
“No need for surveillance; Randome’s been highly visible and cooperative, counselling Omphalos workers, forthcoming on every matter. But we better get a move on — vite vite!”
Ertelle headed for the mobile washroom. “Just give me a second to freshen up a bit.”
Kevin and Frank waited in uncomfortable silence, uniquely so for them. When Ertelle returned it was obvious she’d splashed her face and combed her hair.
Kevin sniffed twice. “Me next for a sec. And Frank, didn’t you tell Sergeant Ertelle no scent?”
Brigid laughed nervously: “No scent? More like no choice! I’m rank, and so are you, Beldon, like somebody pissed in an ashtray. And this weak scent’s the kind that’s supposed to react with one’s own pheromones to disintegrate bacteria.” She pointed the small body-spritzer at Kevin, grinned impishly, and dispensed a teasing squirt.
Frank was unaffected, or impatient only. But Kevin grinned hugely as he turned towards the mobile. “I won’t be responsible, Ertelle, for how my, uh, pheromones react!”
Frank stared after Kevin like he’d seen a familiar ghost, and his face drooped.
When Kevin returned a minute later, he didn’t pause but headed for the door, asking, “Frank, what’s the state of Omphalos finances? DeLint’s own? He leave a fortune?”
Frank looked relieved to break his mood. “Not as much as you’d think, old partner. In fact, there’s no capital reserve. Omphalos is in deficit financing; in fact — surprise-surprise — it has been so almost since its incorporation. And unless MYCROFT finds funds stashed in off-shore accounts, DeLint could have filed for personal bankruptcy a year ago.”
“But that’s impossible!” Ertelle said, bringing up the rear. “Scuttlebutt says he and Mother lived lavishly off Omphalos money; think of the palatial, ridiculous, Casa DeLint in Rockcliffe.”
“Maybe not impossible,” said Kevin, in the hall and turning left for the elevator. “Not if virtually all the money had been going elsewhere. We now know, thanks to MYCROFT, that only token amounts went to charitable works, for show, meaning for taxation purposes. It looks like charity really was DeLint’s business, and my money’s on Haiti and those inbred Duvaliers as his most heartfelt investment-slash-donation. Minus what they allowed him for his living expenses. But when Mother died, DeLint lost his chief negotiator.”
They waited for the elevator, ignoring the grins of security.
Brigid said to the changing numbers panel: “If Pyongyang National was the laundry, we’ll never know the truth. Unless, that is, our chief has access to a couple of those outlawed Duner worms?”
Frank was having none of the banter. He was again stone-faced, dead-eyed.
So they rode the elevator down one floor in silence. It pained Kevin to feel Frank’s secret pain. Even if Frank turned out to have been — to be — a bad cop, he was still a good man, an old friend, family friend. But how deep in was Frank? Could he be saved? And if his complicity in any way had contributed to Cynthia’s death, did Kevin want to save him or kill him?
Kill him.
Save him.
The sixteenth floor was nothing like the festive scene Kevin had found on Sunday. It was all but abandoned, though the private corner office of frosted glass, Anna Kynder’s, was still shut up and as brightly lighted as before. He was planning to shock a confession out of the executive assistant before Frank could stop him — proof positive that DeLint had been the Widower. Immediately ask: What was DeLint’s connection to Judge Johnson Mender?
First, Kevin asked the guard at the security halo, “Were you on duty when Mrs. Kynder came in today?”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. Mrs. Kynder was already in when I got here. And I’m telling ya, it smells none too —”
“Attention all!” Kevin startled the guard and the handful of people idling about. “Has anyone seen Mrs. Kynder since Sunday?”
They all looked round at each other, smirking and shrugging.
Kevin strode past the protesting guard towards the corner office, a loud pulsing alarm set off. Without breaking stride he kicked in the door. Ertelle and Frank were on his heels, just ahead of the guard and the few others.
The lighting was overexposing; if the scene were a movie set, the buzzing flies would have been overdoing a cliché. But no vid could capture the eruption of warm rotten air that blew back their breath and stopped them. It smelled worse than the outside world by the day of monthly garbage pickup.
She was naked, the plump Anna Kynder, and lying on the beige carpet along the front of her desk. She was very white-skinned, though that could be seen only from the patches that showed through the flaking dried mud-like matter that covered her head-to-toe. It was those dried feces, in which hundreds of pinkish pistachio shells were embedded, that exclusively interested the flies.
He glanced at Ertelle and was disappointed to see she didn’t have to look away. He did want her to be a great detective, but still. He himself was shocked at the display but already only mildly surprised to find Anna Kynder dead. He felt guilty about not having acted sooner, so wasn’t too loud when he barked at the small gathering crowding in at the door,
“Back, everyone back!”
Only the guard didn’t obey. Then the handful of workers began edging forward again.
Kevin stepped outside and, after Ertelle and Frank stepped in, pulled the door shut behind himself.
Frank moved gingerly forward. “Dear God, dear God, how did this happen? What have I been dealing with? What a goddamned stink!” With his left hand he cupped his nose and with his other fingers picked the monogrammed “From the Desk of Eugene DeLint” stationery from the corner of Anna Kynder’s desk. He read it then handed it to Kevin, who merely glanced before passing the printed message to Ertelle. Kevin didn’t cover his nose. He kept his eyes on Frank, who now had his forehead clamped in his hand.
Ertelle let out her breath and quietly read aloud: “He was never going to make an honest woman of me. He couldn’t, though I am an honest woman! He used me just like all those other poor women. I am sorry only that I waited so long and myself used Don to do the dirty deed. Please forgive me, Gene. I wanted only to kill that monster inside you. Forever your motherlover, Anna.”
Again with his right fingers like pincers, Frank picked from the desk an open silver container bearing the biohazard symbol. He sniffed it distantly, and actually seemed to brighten some.
“What great detective wants to bet a pint of Harp that this isn’t the remainder of the concoction that soaked DeLint’s nuts? And what about that all those other poor women, and the monster! Looks like Eugene DeLint was the Widower! You were right all along, Kevin, about the connection between Omphalos and the Widower!” Frank gestured at the suicide note Ertelle still held: “I’d say that constitutes some pretty hard evidence, Mr. Justice Johnson Mender! As always, my old friend, I’m impressed, most impressed indeed. This is another Beldon case for the college textbooks — that is, if they’re still using books!”
Kevin wasn’t impressed. “Why so pleased, Frank? This isn’t what it’s been staged to look like, a suicide. Anna Kynder didn’t write that note, or type it, and that it’s printed is in itself a sure sign of intent to deceive. From what I’ve seen of her in vids and heard from others, she was a humourless fuss-bucket. She’d never have made that honest woman crack. Let me see, Brig
id.” He read the note for himself. “For Christ’s sake, there’s an exclamation mark after woman! And dirty deed? I don’t think so, Frank. Whoever murdered DeLint murdered Mrs. Kynder too.”
“Hmm…okay. Then it’s McNicol, the auteur, a double murderer; he did it Sunday before he offed himself, thinking you and Ertelle had come to arrest him. MYCROFT will confirm Kynder’s time of death. And I’ll also bet that there’s more in that key piece of evidence Detective Beldon took into his personal possession than his naked eye could detect.”
Kevin said, “I expect you’re right, Chief. Mea culpa. Though McNicol talked about Kynder — I think Kynder — like she was still alive. Anyway…”
Frank, a changed man now, was on his communicator and ordering the site team.
“Everybody out,” he said to Kevin and Brigid, shooing them through the doorway. He shouted the same command at the whole room. The workers obeyed, grimacing and waving hands in front of their noses. Only the guard at the halo refused to leave, but he was ushered out by the instant arrival of Frank’s top squad of site security.
Again the three of them stood awkwardly. Kevin broke the silence in feigned weariness: “If it’s all right with you, Frank, I’m gonna go home to get McNicol’s manuscript. I agree, it’s now key evidence in what’s become a double murder and suicide. Maybe MYCROFT can do something with the fonts and source the printers. You can come with me or send someone along. Though I’m taking a shower first, especially after this.”
“What is going on here?” Ertelle demanded.
Frank smiled. “Just fetch it, Kev. I’ll say I forgot that you put the evidence in my car, a miscommunication.” He puffed magnanimously. “You should take a break and go home too, Sergeant Ertelle. Stop on the way and have a shower down at HQ in my office, all the water a woman could want. It’ll take time to deploy the MYCROFT scanbots here. Then I want you both back in the O-R for final debriefing. Kevin, we may be closing the Widower case today — think of that!”
Kevin dropped inside himself for a brief spell, came to a decision and put a hand on Frank’s tense shoulder. His grin was convincing. “Watch yourself, Brigid, there’s probably a Frank-cam hidden in the shower nozzle.” Only this mattered: disarming Frank, acquiring real hard evidence making DeLint the Widower. Material evidence, Dome access. Only the rule of law mattered, all he had left now. Not this convoluted plot Frank was cooking up and thickening.
Frank guffawed and pushed Kevin towards the elevator. It was Ertelle now having none of the old-boys banter. “I still don’t get —” But with a patronizing guffaw Frank shoved her into the elevator after Kevin, and the doors closed.
Kevin and Brigid took the ride down in freighted silence. In the underground garage, fairly vibrating, she could restrain herself no longer.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Kevin? What about everything you said before? Why are we leaving the scene? This is crazy!” She fairly hissed, “What about Frank himself?”
“We both need to restore ourselves for the work ahead, partner.”
Too angry to register his answer, she spoke sarcastically: “And I suppose that sick prick McNicol was the Widower? Or was Anna Kynder, covered in who knows whose shit, the Widower? I’m going back up, you go home if you like.”
She made to turn away but he held her with his composure: “Eugene DeLint was the Widower. McNicol and Kynder collaborated to kill DeLint, MYCROFT’s scans of the scene finally postulated a male and a female murderer, which Frank conveniently failed to tell us. But we still need evidence, not forged suicide notes… And other answers. Such as why: why was DeLint butchered so? Why did my wife have to die? But if we hang around now, we’ll lose our one chance to get into the Dome.”
She was so taken aback that her head actually withdrew. “We’re still breaking into the Dome?”
“I don’t mean to keep blindsiding you, partner, but the poison that killed DeLint and Anna Kynder was concocted by my son, Bill, who’s a biochemical engineer. The next surprise will be his DNA all over that biohazard container. I don’t know why yet, but DeLint used my son and my daughter to get to me. This is still all about me and the Widower, me and DeLint, however madly narcissistic that must sound to you. DeLint the Widower caused my wife’s death. Since Sunday morning I’ve been matching wits with a big fat ghost.”
“Your son? When did your son come into this? How do you know all that? And why would McNicol and Kynder kill DeLint and then themselves?”
“Like I said, I don’t know yet. It could have been some powerful post-hypnotic suggestion that kicked in on a pre-set trigger. Maybe it was arranged by DeLint as a sort of insurance policy in the event of betrayal. For McNicol I suspect the trigger was the name Beldon. Remember, you called my name to him just before he shot himself? I expect we’ll discover when we subpoena Dr. Randome that Ewan was forced to teach DeLint the most powerfully effective post-hypnotic techniques. As for my son Bill…”
Calmer, she set a resolved mouth. “But all this is just more reason why it’s the very worst time for us to be leaving, Kevin. Let’s at least go back to Psychiatric Wellness and pretend we’re looking to interview Dr. Randome. Frank won’t know, then we can try breaking into the Dome.”
“You’re right, Brigid. You saw the same vids I did, the Dome holds the answers, best hope for the material evidence we need. But we have to wait for things to settle down here. Right now what we both most need is a shower and a meal, or we’re no good to anybody. I’ll meet you back in the operations room as soon as I talk with Kelly and Bill, in an hour or so. Frank will soon be shutting us out of Omphalos and MYCROFT. So make it an hour exactly.”
“But what about Frank? And, uh, Kelly?”
“Frank is in deep, I’m afraid. Kelly must have played right into DeLint’s hands starting about seven years ago, and never guessed he was the Widower. But she must know by now that she’s the one was used, and Kelly’s a proud girl.” As he continued, he fought a rising anger: “But if she took a dive on the search warrant last year… If she involved Bill and her mother…she will have to answer…”
Brigid saw a need. “But like you said, we have no real evidence of any of that, just those damaged vids, and vids can be doctored. Back here, then, one hour. Then into the Dome we go, or die trying.”
She left him staring after her. He turned and headed for the only constant in his life, his maroon Crown Vic. Well, it and Brigid now. But it took a number of complaining tries before the old girl turned over; he was overdue for a trip to Syracuse. When the engine caught and idled, he slammed the steering wheel with the heels of both hands. He rested his forehead on the pea-green serrated wheel. The world could suffocate in its own shit and go to hell. What did he care anymore?
He cried quietly for a spell. Stupid old man. He pressed on his closed eyes till they hurt, and swore to himself that nothing would ever make him cry again. He might even gouge out the vile jelly.
Chapter 19
In the end Kevin neither showered nor ate. For a bad half-hour he’d been sitting at the maple table. He put a hand to his forehead and found it clammy. In a repeated sequence he touched the rough plastic envelope containing McNicol’s manuscript, the pimply black The Near Future, and the pager — it shocked him lightly, warm and buzzing again. Its display told him that Frank had lost faith; he was on his way. Frank must be avoided. He had to get back to Omphalos, into the Dome.
DeLint had been the Widower, all right, the murderer of all those women, of McNicol and Anna Kynder too. DeLint the Widower had used hypnosis — suggestion, voodoo, drugs, whatever — to make Cynthia take her own life. He’d touched her and she swooned. There was the call from Omphalos the morning of her death — from DeLint, it had to be, who would have spoken the trigger word…literally. It was some relief to know that Cynthia’s death hadn’t been a suicide. But he needed stronger proof, material evidence, explicit answers. And more than ever he needed the rule of law
— at whatever cost to Kelly and Bill, and himself.
Bill. He must find Bill and arrest him. Then he would blow the whistle on Frank. Kelly, with much to answer for, would be a prime witness at Bill’s trial. Then he would kill himself and join Cyn, wherever, whatever. Life was suddenly simple. Such relief.
He placed his bony hand flat on the cover of The Near Future. How could he even think of making an entry?… He could, he would, his last. For Dr. Randome, for the book itself. Closure.
But he couldn’t think of a thing. Then opened the book and wrote:
Life is never simple, old fool.
He must first go to the old home, where Kelly and Bill were refusing to answer their communicators. He would get some answers, then do what must be done. Then back to Omphalos and Brigid. What could be simpler?
He hesitated with his fingers on the push bar of the building’s front door, turned and jumped the three stairs to the lone basement apartment. With his forefinger at the doorbell, he paused again.
What was Pant-O-Mime’s problem anyway? It was already as cool down here as A/C. Or had the weather turned?
The door was pulled open, but only inches on a chain.
“You’d better leave, Beldon. I’ve called the police.”
Kevin smiled, and not only because Pant-O-Mime’s voice, that of a two-pack-a-day trucker, always made him smile but because of the irony. Could he not know?
“I am a police, Pants. I just want to have a chat. No trouble, promise.”
“I know you, and I want nothing to do with you.”
“You have my vote, okay? Have the building air conditioned; but only if it costs me nothing.”
The door shut, there was rattling, and it opened. Without his whiteface, the mime looked too vulnerably human. He even looked a bit like Bill Beldon: the round face, the jumpy eyes. He smiled something like Bill, too, pretending to know more than he did.