by Peter Hartog
I unzipped the duffel bag and withdrew several items—a new shoulder rig that was larger than my old one, a couple of earpieces, another paper file bearing the victim’s name, three bulging evidence bags, and a metal briefcase.
The briefcase intrigued me, so I popped it open first. Inside lay a large handgun, with a short double barrel and wide handle to accommodate bigger ammunition clips. It was designed for dual-action, cycling between semi-automatic and pump-action modes of fire. Nestled beside it was a single ammunition clip. The bullets were arranged by size and color.
“Peashooter my ass,” I muttered. “What did Mahoney think we were going up against? Tanks?”
Deacon didn’t respond.
The gun was one of the Superior Military Armament Retaliatory Tool prototypes. I had read several articles from the R&D Department touting the latest in next generation critical response technology but had never actually seen one. The gun was linked to the user’s DNA so only the bonded person could operate it. There was voice and chip command to load specific rounds, depending on what was available in the clip. I withdrew the weapon from the case and held it up for a moment to admire its lines and sleek design. It was lighter than I expected.
A sudden burning sensation seared my palm. I yelped, nearly dropping the damn thing on my foot.
“Attunement complete,” the SMART gun’s tinny robotic voice stated in my ear. “Access for Detective Thomas Henry Holliday, Special Crimes Unit, confirmed. Await instructions.”
“Uh, safety on,” I said aloud. “Remain on standby.”
“Confirmed.”
“What kind of ammunition do the clips contain?” I asked.
“Each clip contains standard and armor-piercing rounds. Voice or neural command for active round. Safety engaged.”
Demonstrations of the different options cycled across my vision center.
Nice work, R&D Guys, I thought to myself. That’s some heavy-duty shit. Special Crimes was looking up!
A clip was preloaded into the weapon. I took off my blazer, wrapped the rig around my right shoulder, and slid the gun into the holster. It was bulky, so anyone with half a brain would know I was packing something serious. Still, a little intimidation couldn’t hurt. Unless I was surrounded by trigger-happy unfriendlies, in which case I’d better be quicker on the draw.
I was Doc Holliday after all, PhD notwithstanding.
Chuckling, I closed the briefcase, then fit an earpiece into my right ear. I picked up the file and settled into a passenger seat. After scanning its contents, I had EVI replay for me the body cam footage from the officers at the scene. I studied it intently, but the footage was grainy due to the late hour, the rain and mist, and the officers’ flashlights.
I dismissed the imagery, then popped open a slide table from a compartment along the pod’s wall and poured out the victim’s purse and personal effects from the evidence bags. Attached to the table was a rubber glove dispenser, as well as an ePad and a small flashlight device with a cord. I yanked the flashlight from its holder, turned a switch, and splashed violet-white light carefully over the items for several minutes, noting the readout results.
Once finished, I withdrew a thin metal pointer I kept in my shirt pocket and separated the items into smaller piles. I had EVI collate the data for future reference. Our neural connection allowed her to see and hear everything I did, recording the information to the master cloud managed by ECPD HQ. Going forward, I could access everything via imported impulses, although I’d never tried it when my eyes were fueled by the Insight. I doubted EVI could perceive the world in the same manner, but I had no interest in finding out.
“EVI, please contact the decedent’s phone carrier to get a list of her activity for the past three months,” I instructed aloud.
I knew the diagnostic would happen soon, so I wanted EVI to store as much information as possible in the meantime. As if on cue, she announced the start of the diagnostic.
EVI had been a constant companion ever since I received the implant when I joined ECPD. Think of it as if you’re always suffering from hay fever. No amount of decongestant ever helped. I basked in the glorious relief of being alone in my skull for the first time in years.
Vanessa’s crushed phone sat apart from the other piles. It appeared to have been placed in a vice, the display ruined and the command keys useless. I popped open the sleeve containing the tiny Nexus battery and memory chip. Both had been destroyed. The phone was the only damaged item in the lot. The rest consisted of beauty products, a handkerchief, enclave ID, Metro pod card, an ID badge for Hughes Advertising Agency, an electronic passkey to a house or apartment, two credit cards and a prescription bottle for sleeping pills.
I made a mental note to have EVI research and store the online receipts for all her cards, as well as track her Metro usage. For now, I focused on the damaged phone.
“Squashed like a proto-cola can,” I mused curiously, tapping the pointer against the table a few times.
“Random killing?” Deacon asked, swiveling his chair toward me.
“Murders are usually perpetrated by someone they know, or are acquainted with in some way,” I responded while studying the pill bottle. It had been prescribed by a Doctor Tamara Ettelman.
“Start of a serial killing then?” Deacon said ominously.
My brow furrowed at that. I sat up straight to let that thought wander merrily through the darker parts of my mind.
“Maybe,” I said. “We won’t know until there’s another victim. I haven’t heard of anything resembling this coming over any of our internal feeds. A murder like this feels personal, though. Her throat was ripped out, and whoever did this had the presence of mind to destroy her phone, too.”
“I’ve read the official report,” the Confederate said. “Officers at the scene said the killer leapt thirty feet straight up to a fire escape, then disappeared. I reckon something with that kind of strength could crush a phone in its hand.”
“Sounds like cybernetic implants to me,” I countered. “I’ve encountered a few individuals jacked up on illegal implants before. They have three times our strength, and ten times the bat-shit crazy. The officers’ body cam imagery didn’t show much, but did record the killer jumping up and grabbing the fire escape. Unfortunately, they didn’t get enough to make out a face.”
“EMT report stated no blood in or on the victim,” Deacon shook his head. “You ever heard of an implant-junkie capable of doing that? Besides, where’d our killer store the blood? No, this is something else.”
“What, you mean like an actual flesh-and-blood vampire?” I asked lightly. “That’s just what this enclave needs, some nutcase dressed up like Dracula right before Halloween running around murdering people. Forget it. I’m no Van Helsing.”
“You saw that fetch,” Deacon said solemnly. “You can believe that a creature like that exists, yet you can’t accept Vanessa Mallery’s killer could be a vampire? That’s what SCU is all about, Holliday. Taking down the things that go bump in the night.”
“What’s in it for you, anyway?” I asked, changing the subject.
Deacon’s grin widened as he leaned back, clasping both hands behind his head.
“I told you, I don’t work for the Church no more.”
“Have it your way.” I shrugged and placed the phone on the table. I returned to my dissection of Vanessa’s effects.
“What do we know about the victim?” Deacon asked.
“Female, Caucasian, twenty-five, single, five-foot-ten, red hair,” I rattled off absently while examining the beauty products. “Lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. No criminal record. She graduated from ECU a year ago, double-majoring in psychology and business management, and worked as a demographic data analyst for Hughes Advertising Agency for the last nine months. Her parents died right after her birth, leaving her a trust fund administered by her aunt, a Jennifer Watson. The aunt lives in New Hollywood but has been on a tour of the European Bloc for the past month. Apparently, Aunt Jenny hasn’t
returned ECPD’s calls yet. When EVI’s back online, I’ll ask her to take a deeper dive into Vanessa’s background.”
“No prints?” Deacon grunted.
“You see that over there?” I pointed at the flashlight device I’d used earlier. “It’s called a p-scanner. Replaces fingerprint powder, among other things. I scanned every item here. Vanessa’s prints were the only ones to be found. Whoever crushed the phone was wearing gloves, or something that didn’t leave prints. I know Mahoney said the scene was clean, but the file didn’t have anything from CSI either, which is strange. They should’ve done their initial sweep by now. I’ll check with EVI about that, too. The medical examiner will let us know if there are any foreign materials, clothing fibers, fluids or skin debris to be found.”
“What about the witnesses?” Deacon asked.
“Tony Marrazzo and Julie DeGrassi.” I picked up the report and flipped through its pages. It was strange reading from paper rather than via EVI, but I enjoyed the retro feel of it. “He’s a sales exec at Wrigley-Boes Pharmaceuticals. She’s an executive assistant at Wieskampf-Bottleby-Jones Investment Firm. They were partying in the alleyway when they heard screams, then came across the killer. We’ll hit the morgue first since it’s closer, then visit the scene and interview the witnesses after.”
I felt the sudden rush of sinus pressure again and gripped the side of the table to stabilize myself.
“EVI’s back.” I ground my teeth in discomfort.
I accessed my personnel file first. EVI confirmed my reassignment from the 98th as well as my status with Special Crimes (although I didn’t see a pay grade), new badge (even though my badge was blank), and associated permit for the SMART gun (which looked legit).
“Arriving at the Empire City Office of Medical Examiners,” EVI announced over the speaker. “Outside temperature is forty-four degrees, with a slight drizzling rain, and winds out of the south.”
Well, I supposed I was officially official. It was time to kick the tires.
The pod decelerated to a fine crawl, then stopped. Deacon stood by the hatchway as I scooped up Vanessa’s personal effects and returned them to the evidence bags.
“I have informed Doctor Stentstrom of your arrival,” EVI stated.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I replied with a smile.
Deacon arched an eyebrow.
“She’s the next best thing to a real girlfriend, minus the sex of course,” I explained congenially, and gave the interior hull a fond pat. “She’s loving, nurturing, helpful, and courteous; she never argues or raises her voice, and she’ll never break up with you. She’s nearly the perfect woman.”
“Thank you, Detective Holliday,” EVI said, and for a moment I imagined hearing satisfaction in her voice.
Deacon shook his head and disembarked the pod.
The office building was a bland, squat affair made of old brick and time. It sat between an even uglier windowless building and an empty street corner. Its front consisted of two exterior windows and a single glass door reinforced with steel. I pushed through the door and strode inside.
We paused at the front desk to check in with the bored clerk, a young man with too much acne and not enough hygiene. He gave us both a dour look, then swept disinterested eyes over my badge. The clerk spoke in a low voice, paused, and handed Deacon a badge with the word “VISITOR” printed in bright red lettering.
“You’ll need to wear this while inside the building,” the clerk instructed Deacon. “Sub-level two, examination room three.”
I thanked him, and we proceeded to the elevator. A quick ride down brought us to a sterile hallway marred by a single metal trash can standing sentinel to the right of the elevator door. Deacon tossed his badge into the trash can with a satisfied grunt. The hallway ended at a blank wall. Four doors were spaced evenly, two to a side, with the room number etched on a small flat piece of metal at eye level. The air was cool and crisp, and as we strode down the hall I caught the faint strains of classical music.
“Mozart,” I mused aloud. “I thought he liked baroque?”
Deacon gave me an aggrieved look.
I grinned, tried the handle of the heavy door, and pushed.
Willowy music greeted our arrival, as the plaintive sounds of the Dissonance Quartet floated round the large examination room. Opposite the entry were twelve square metal vault doors in neat rows of three to house the recently departed. The lighting was bright and sharp, and I noticed three unoccupied metal gurneys off to my left. To the right was a large workstation, flat and elegant, with multiple ghostly screens floating above it. A very spare man with stringy hair in a partial comb-over sat at the desk. He wore a white lab coat and stared bug-eyed at the displays. His left hand waved synchronically in the air as he hummed in time with the music.
He looked up with a crooked smile.
“Ah, Detective Holliday!” he said. The music dropped to a dull patter. “I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“Doctor Stentstrom,” I smiled, and gripped his hand in greeting. His palm was soft and smooth. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Formaldehyde,” he whispered conspiratorially, giving Deacon a sly wink. “Best batch I’ve ever made! Fuck big pharma and their anti-aging creams!”
“Um, yeah,” I replied, my smile faltering.
I introduced Deacon, who glared at the smaller man as if to dare him to try and shake his hand. The medical examiner sniffed and thought better of it.
Gilbert Stentstrom was the poster child for mad scientists. He had the look down, between the thin eyebrows, lantern eyes, sharp nose, and strong sense of crazy oozing off him like bad cologne. Stentstrom could talk your ear off about human physiology, music, the latest fashion trends, origami, and cooking. And I had never known anyone with such a passion for standard poodles. I think he bred them in a secret underground laboratory. His dogs often placed high in the annual Empire City Kennel Club Classic.
Stentstrom was one of the good guys. I had met him during a field trip to the morgue in my first year at the academy. He’d given me a crash course in human anatomy one gooey organ at a time.
“Protector, eh?” he said, eyeing Deacon speculatively. “You’re a long way from Birmingham.”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot,” Deacon drawled.
“Indeed,” Stentstrom chuckled, then rubbed his hands eagerly together. “So, who wants to see a dead body?”
Chapter 5
Stentstrom directed us to the rubber glove dispenser while he opened one of the metal doors. He pulled out the slab bearing Vanessa Mallery’s body.
The dead never bothered me much, and it wasn’t the cop thing. I wasn’t sure if it was the absolute stillness, or the sheer absence of life. Whatever spark they held was gone. In death, they’re mannequins, empty shells, caricatures of what once was, and now will never be.
Ever since I was a kid, I had this relationship with death that set me apart from other kids in the neighborhood. I grew up in Little Odessa, more commonly known as Brighton Beach. Mom had been a second-generation Jewish immigrant from the Minsk enclave. She was murdered when I was ten. Home invasion. I wasn’t home at the time, but I’ve read the report and stared at the images more times than I can count. As for my dad, he’s Irish Catholic, and piss-drunk most days. Picture-perfect family, right?
We used to live in one of several low-income housing projects along Brighton 6th Street. The bratva controlled everything, so there was always something illicit happening in the neighborhood. Drug trafficking, prostitution, fraud and scams, you name it. The Russians liked to get violent, and when that happened, someone ended up dead.
When I was thirteen, I found my first body beneath a pile of trash at the playground. Valarie Aronov. Multiple stab wounds to the chest, but Valarie’s face was unblemished, brown eyes wide and staring. I felt the horror that clung to the body, her mouth opened in a silent scream of suffering and pain. I knelt beside Valarie, took her hand, and offered up a prayer to whoever was listening. The police arrived a
few minutes later. A nice officer asked me some questions, then took me home. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d ride in the back of a police pod. My teenage years were colorful, too.
McMahon was his name, come to think of it. Officer John McMahon. I never saw him again, but heard he was killed while off-duty a few years later. Bratva again. Bastards.
The cops never found Valarie’s killer, but I had a pretty damn good idea who did it. What happened to her and my mom inspired me to become a cop. I decided then and there someone had to stop the bad guys from hurting innocent people.
Seeing Vanessa lying cold and dead on that slab dredged up a slew of unpleasant emotions. Suddenly, I was thirteen again, holding the hand of Valarie Aronov. With great effort, I asserted my composure and concentrated on the corpse before anyone noticed.
Vanessa had been attractive, with long, straight red hair flowing past her shoulders. She was physically fit judging by the toned musculature along her arms and legs. High, firm breasts rode above a flat stomach. Her eyes were closed.
I wondered idly if they were brown.
Stentstrom’s Y-shaped stitching was neat and tight along both collar bones and down her chest. However, the gaping tear that marred nearly two inches of her neck was gruesome.
“Ghastly, isn’t it?” Stentstrom whispered, his eyes fixated on the body in rapt fascination.
Deacon stood apart with arms folded while he stared at the body. He looked uneasy.
“What do we know?” I asked, bending down to examine the wound.
“As you can see, the entrance wound consists of a two to two-and-a-half-inch diameter, horizontally-oriented slash,” he explained clinically. “There are no traces of any foreign substance or material. Maximal depth of penetration is three to three-and-a-half inches deep.”
Stentstrom sidled over to me and pointed two fingers at the unusually pale neck muscles protruding through the gash.
“The wound track was through the skin, the subcutaneous tissue, intercostal musculature, and through the right carotid artery. Normally, there are approximately two hundred to three hundred milliliters of predominantly liquid blood. However, there was no trace of blood within any organs or on the body anywhere, so actual time of death and lividity could not be readily determined.”
