“Good to see you,” Marcus answered. “Sorry I was late. I was reviewing reports from Mr. Wright’s team. Shall we begin?”
“Right this way.” I led the technicians to the entrance. Taylor, the digital specialist, plugged into Vile’s comp to examine the data screen and verify that the systems within MMC were still isolated. Meanwhile Swanson, the engineer, examined the door seals to make sure they were secure as well. Later she would examine the seals on the other entrances.
Nick had been right, of course: fighting the fire had seriously compromised the investigation. But Nick was also wrong, in a way, because in the past he had not usually performed criminal investigations. During our Initiative service, we had investigated accidents, cover-ups, and incompetence, but seldom crimes for a court. A compromised chain of evidence was normal for arson, where safety and containment were the first concerns. There were so many ways that the chain of evidence could not be established, with so many people rushing through the facility without regard to investigations. Circumstances gave you no choice; you just did your best and sealed the area afterward. Any evidence you found might not survive a court challenge, but you could only do so much. Attorneys and courts would argue the rest.
Once Taylor and Swanson were satisfied that the scene was contained, I used my access code to unlock the entrance. The group stepped forward, but I held up a hand. “Not yet. Videos and inspection first. We need to capture the scene before you start to work. The rest of you keep studying the exterior.”
“Studying for what, Ms. Morais?” Swanson asked.
“If we knew that, we would be done already.”
The videographer, Priest, stepped forward, followed by the DPS inspector. Marcus joined them. I had not mentioned him, but I was not up to arguing. This was his team. If he wanted to accompany them, that was his decision.
We entered the facility, and I guided them through the areas we had examined the day before. Donihue, the inspector, led the way. He wore a backpack remote sensing package: a thermal imager, a focused sonograph, a terahertz scanner, multiple chemical sensors, a micro EMP projector, a lidar unit, and a spectrophotometer. It was a lot for one package, but light enough in Martian gravity. With these instruments, Donihue probed ahead, looking for stressed metal, hot spots, hazardous chemicals, or any other danger. I set the course, but Donihue cleared it. Priest followed behind, capturing complete video, from IR to UV and at multiple magnifications; and his fleet of scan bots swarmed through the air around us, building a rich 3D model of the environment. Marcus brought up the rear, dictating notes, as I guided us through the factory and the offices.
It took most of the morning for us to record the facility as is. Then Marcus called in the rest of the technicians. O’Neil, the field investigator, led them in gathering samples and evidence. His work on surface science expeditions had prepared him well for the rigorous standards of forensic evidence. I made a few suggestions here, a few warnings there. I answered questions and reminded them of proper procedures. But on the whole I was pleased with O’Neil and their team. Their examination was thorough, and their documentation was meticulous. Nick could have done better, but this team had potential.
And I was . . . well, not pleased with Marcus, but relieved. At ease. He was even pleasant, almost the man I remembered from before. He had none of the sullen anger he had fallen into after I had broken our engagement, none of the withdrawal that had followed. Maybe the tension I feared was all in my head.
The investigation continued on all through the day, well into second shift. I stepped out a few times to get outside the digital containment so I could check my messages. Things seemed routine, and my command squad had things under control; yet the sheer volume of reports kept me busy with follow-ups and approvals. So I found myself answering questions both from the forensics team and from my squad throughout the day.
It was after 2000 by the time the team was done for the day. There was still more work, but they had convinced me that they could carry on without my help. I ushered everyone out. “Good work, everyone,” I said. “Pick back up tomorrow.” Then I turned to reseal the facility.
When I turned back, the technicians were gone, but Marcus was still there. “Quite a day, ma’am.”
I straightened. “A good day. For a team so hastily assembled, they did good work.”
“Not that hasty.” He smiled. “Mayor Holmes and I have been reviewing candidates for a while now. They’ve been doing online coursework. We hadn’t gotten to arson techniques yet, but they’re good people. They learn quickly.”
“I am glad,” I said. “We need them. And you.” I sighed. “What have I gotten myself into? Trying to build a police department from nothing. And all under the eye of the media in the middle of an election.”
“We’ll make it,” Marcus answered. “Mayor Holmes is a smart administrator. He has a good plan, and we’ll do our parts.” He looked at his comp. “It’s pretty late, and we missed lunch. You hungry?”
I checked my own comp. 2011. And plenty of messages. But none from Nick. He had to have eaten by then.
“Yes. Very. Let us get some dinner.”
We settled on Zeb’s. We both had reports to file, so it made sense to dine on the Concourse. Marcus’s office was right across the dome, and mine was in the back room.
We placed our orders—rice and gravy for me, andouille for Marcus, a glass of wine for each of us—and discussed the day’s investigation while we waited. When the waitress set down our plates, Marcus leaned over his and inhaled deeply. “Ahhh, meat . . . A big change from Phobos Base, eh, Rosalia?”
“Hey, we had meat on Phobos! Vat-grown, but so is this.”
“Yes, but we didn’t have Zeb.” He smiled as he speared a slice of sausage. “We didn’t have a lot of things there. Or here, for that matter.” Marcus waved his fork in a circle. “Mars has really changed since then.”
I tried my rice. “Oooh . . . spicy!” I drank some water. “It has, but so gradually. It is hard to remember how it used to be. I never spent much time on the surface then.”
“I did,” Marcus answered. “After . . .” But then he stopped, stuffing a large forkful of sausage into his mouth.
I suddenly found my rice fascinating. I knew what he had not said: After we broke up. He had put in for a transfer to Fort Hudson. I had understood: it was as far away from me as he could get at the time. If he had stayed at Phobos, we would have served months in the same cramped base before he might get a reassignment and transportation back to Earth–Luna space.
So instead he had transferred to Mars. I eventually transferred as well, back to Earth orbit for a prime post in traffic control—the post I eventually sacrificed to protect Nick from the Admiralty’s machinations. So Marcus might have found his way back to Phobos. Instead, after his tour had ended, he chose not to reenlist, and instead applied to emigrate to Maxwell City. The city had needed doctors then—still did—so they had courted him heavily. He had been accepted immediately. Perhaps it had been an easy way for him to avoid me, serving in the Admiralty, and Nick on the Aldrin.
And then our careers had crashed, and we had landed on Mars. And from there it was only a matter of time before Marcus and I found ourselves dining at Zeb’s.
We ate in silence. I glanced occasionally at Marcus, while he remained focused on his food. It was ridiculous that two adults could not have a conversation just because of matters years past. How would we ever work together?
Work. That was the key. I cleared my throat. “If it will not . . . spoil your dinner . . .”
I paused, and Marcus looked up from his food. “I’m a doctor. My stomach’s pretty strong.”
I half smiled. “So . . . what have we learned about Manuel Ramos? Do we have a cause of death?”
Marcus swallowed a last bite of sausage, and he shook his head. “Not yet, but close. He . . . It appears he was stabbed. Repeatedly. The damage to his lungs shows he was still breathing when the fire started. So it’s a toss-up: Did he ble
ed to death or asphyxiate? We should have the lab results tomorrow, and then I can sign off on the cause of death; but either way, it was murder and arson.”
“Clumsy arson,” I replied. “Trying to hide the murder, but they did a poor job of it. They left easy signs for a professional investigator to track down.”
Marcus looked down at his empty plate. “And lucky for us, we have a professional.”
“Marcus . . .”
He looked up, waving his hand. “I’m sorry, Rosalia. That was over the line.”
“Marcus.” He looked at me. “Is this going to be a problem with us? We could not work together on Phobos, but that was over eight years ago.”
“I . . .” He paused. “No, there’s no problem, ma’am. I slipped up, and I’m sorry. It’s the wine talking.”
I doubted that. Marcus was a big man; one glass of wine had never affected him. But it gave him an excuse, so I let it pass.
Instead, I tried for a conciliatory tone. “That is good. We need you.” His eyebrows rose. “Maxwell City needs you. As a doctor, and as a coroner, you are the best we have.”
“And we couldn’t ask for a better police chief.” He smiled; and for an instant I saw the old Marcus, the man I had been engaged to, before Nick had . . . had what? Stolen me away, Marcus would say, but that was not correct. Nick had tried to break up our engagement with a grand romantic gesture; but in the end, I had made the decision. And I did not regret it.
“Thank you, Marcus. But this police chief has work still tonight and an early day tomorrow, so I had better get moving.”
13. GRAFT
Nick was still up when I got home, but I was in no mood to discuss the case with him—and certainly in no mood to discuss Marcus. My silence seemed fine with him. He barely grunted at me as he worked at his station. I sat, going through my notes on my comp.
Finally, Nick turned to me. “Well, Ms. Morais, you wanted to know what I found out, so here it is.” He pushed a report to my comp. “It’s been going on a lot longer than we realized. Only it took this long for São Paulo Mutual to put the pieces together. Accident payout rate and crime payouts are all in the high end of average, nearly a standard deviation up. Not quite enough to flag their alerts; but finally it added up to enough payouts that somebody noticed. This has been going on for almost three years. Somebody’s been milking them.”
I looked at the file. It was as thorough as ever. I could not fault Nick for shoddy work, but that did not put me in a better mood. “This is a pretty wide range of reports.”
“I know,” he said. “And some of them are likely legitimate, but we can’t really be sure which ones. We’re going to have to go back and reopen every one of those.”
I looked at the report. “It is a long list.”
“Yeah. It’s by no means just MMC, although they’re one of the biggest culprits.”
“So you think someone there got greedy?”
“Greedy, or a guilty conscience,” Nick said. “Maybe Ramos knew something and someone didn’t want it getting out.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “All right. I shall work with my team to put together a citywide investigation into this.” I looked at him. “Thank you, Nick.”
“Just following orders,” he said. But he was still tense. He did not show his anger easily, but I could tell he needed some time to come around. So I went to bed.
When I woke in the morning, I found Nick’s side of the bed undisturbed. He had slept out on the couch and was gone before I woke.
Going through two-year-old insurance claims—even with the help of the best computing technology in the city—was a time-consuming process. I sent my command squad out to all the other squads to lead the effort and report to me directly. The problem was that the evidence, such as it was, was all statistical, circumstantial, making it difficult to press anybody involved in any of the claims.
And then it got worse when I got a call from Mayor Holmes. “Ms. Morais,” he said, “I’ve received some complaints that the police force is harassing businesspeople in the community.”
I sighed and looked at the screen. “Mr. Mayor, this is a delicate matter. We probably should not discuss it over a comm channel.”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you in my office. Five minutes.”
Anthony did not look angry, but he did look on edge. So I made best speed to his office. He was waiting for me at the door. Alonzo stood behind him, fidgeting. I came in and sat down, and I explained what Nick had uncovered. Anthony stared into space for a few seconds, and then he looked at me.
“This is pretty bad, Rosie.”
“I know. But it is solid. You know Nick. He would not bring it up if it were not.”
“I know. But some of the people were upset. They’re already whispering.”
Alonzo added, “Some of them were already leaning toward Grace in the campaign. This is pushing them further her way.”
I almost lashed out; but instead I held back and asked very carefully, “Mr. Mayor, am I supposed to find the truth, or am I supposed to support your campaign?”
Anthony winced. “I hear what you’re saying, and I want the truth, of course. But the timing is lousy.”
“I know. I shall ask my people to be extra polite, but statistics say something is there. We just do not know where.” I looked back and forth between the two. “We are on a fishing expedition, Anthony, we have to be. And fishing expeditions make waves.”
“All right. Should I talk to these people and try to calm them down?”
“Oh, hell no!” I answered. “It would not do you any good, and it would only alert them to what we are up to. I assume that if any of them are actually involved, they have figured that out already; but still, let us not make it obvious.”
“So what do you know so far?”
I had been asking myself that question already, looking over the reports. And I had not liked what I had seen. “This is bad. Really bad. Whatever is going on, it involves more than just the people filing the reports.”
Alonzo’s eyes widened. “How so?”
“The reports are too good, if that makes any sense. The paperwork, everything. Whoever did this knows how to work the system. It is too professional . . . meaning, I do not know yet. I have suspicions . . .”
Anthony grinned. “But you’re just like Nick: you don’t guess, you find out.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “And until then, any guess could give too much away.” I leaned forward, gripping the desk. “You wanted a police force, Mr. Mayor. This is what a police force does.”
Alonzo frowned. Anthony sighed and said, “All right. But let me know more as soon as you can.”
I did have a guess, of course, a pattern I was starting to see. But it was not clear enough yet. If I was wrong, it was going to cast suspicion on good people who did not deserve it. The only person I could trust to discuss it with—and not get ahead of themselves and run with it—was the person who was not talking to me right then, space it!
So I went to my office and started going through the reports again from a different angle. And the more I looked, the more I was sure this was an inside job. Inside where? was the question.
I needed to get out in the city, see if I could observe anything to support my hunches. Every member of my command squad was still out attached to other squads, driving the data-gathering operation. I had given them Anthony’s instructions to soft-pedal as best as they could; but space it, I had to have the facts! Now I wanted to see what was going on in those offices, so I made my way through the city.
I started with the farm district, where Wagner was busy collating data from his investigations. I pulled him aside and looked at it myself. He was doing pretty much the work I would do—making some mistakes, which I pointed out, but he seemed to be on the right path.
Next was Ammon in the port district. When I stepped into her office, she shut the door and said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Morais.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
“For getti
ng in a confrontation with the founder. I shouldn’t have made a spectacle of the whole thing.”
I smiled and patted her on the arm. “Nick does that to people, Ammon, it is not your fault. I cannot count how many times I have wanted to pop him one myself.”
At that she grinned, and then she giggled and said, “Really?”
“Thought it once or twice. We have a long history with plenty of our own ups and downs, so do not worry about it. Next time try to keep it cooler in public, but I do not blame you for it. So show me what you have on the insurance situation.”
We went over her reports—which were not as good as Wagner’s. She was trying, but he was more thorough; so I pulled down a copy of his for her to look at as an example.
I moved on to the manufacturing district, not too far from MMC, where Vile was overseeing the investigation. She was nowhere to be seen. A couple of officers were manning the place, Brooks and DeHaven. They stood to attention when I came in. “Good afternoon, Ms. Morais,” said Brooks.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “Just dropping in.” They were used to it, of course. I made enough regular inspections for that. “Carry on.”
I went back to Vile’s desk and saw a pile of virtual papers showing on the display screen. I also saw an envelope next to it with a hand-lettered label. Lieutenant Vile, Private, it said. Private. That raised my curiosity, but I did not open it. I was unsure whether I could make a case for that or not. It was on police property during police hours; but still, privacy rights were pretty strong in Maxwell City. The Initiative thought otherwise, but the populace wanted their rights to privacy respected.
I stuck my head out into the main office. “Any idea when Vile is supposed to be back?”
Brooks checked her comp. “Soon, about ten minutes if she’s on schedule.”
“I will wait, thanks.” I sat and went through my notes, and I pulled up Vile’s work history at DPS. Not long after, she came rushing in.
The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries) Page 10
