Forests of the Night

by S. Andrew Swann

  At the length this guy spoke, that wouldn't give Nohar much. "When did Johnson die?"

  "I am given to understand the time of death was placed sometime in the middle of the week of the twentieth—"

  "July twentieth?"

  "Of course."

  "When was the last official contact with Johnson?"

  "As we have informed the police, he attended a political fund-raiser Saturday the nineteenth. He didn't come in to work the following week—"

  "Didn't this strike anyone as odd?"

  Thomson was undoubtedly irritated by Nohar's interruptions, but he hid it well. "No, it is an election year. It's common for executive officers to be pulled away from the desk for trips, speeches, press, and so on. Johnson was the chief executive under Binder, he often did such things on his own initiative—"

  "Do you know what he was doing?"

  "No. If it wasn't dealing with the media, it was not my department. Now, if you don't mind, the time—"

  It didn't feel like ten minutes to Nohar. "One more thing."

  Nohar thought he heard Thomson sigh. "What?"

  "About the three million dollars the police believe was stolen from the campaign—"

  Thomson interrupted this time. "I am sorry, but I do not have the authority to discuss the financial details of the campaign."

  Ah, Nohar had finally run into the brick wall. "I am sorry to hear that. You see, I have conflicting information. I simply want to know if the three million was physically in Johnson's possession, in cash—"

  "I said, I can't discuss it."

  Try another tack. "Who has access to the campaign's financial records?"

  Thomson was shaking his head. He even grinned a bit, showing a gold tooth that had to be decorative. "Me, the legal counsel, the campaign manager and his executive assistant, and the finance chairman, of course."

  "Thank you."

  Thomson chuckled. "I'm afraid they can't help you. No one but Binder has the authority to release confidential financial data. Except, of course, disclosures required by law."

  "Or a subpoena," Nohar muttered.

  "I would call that a disclosure required by law. Now, as I said before, my time is limited. I really must go."

  "Thanks for your help," Nohar said, nearly choking on the insincerity.

  "You're welcome. It's my job," Thomson replied, just as insincere, but much more professional.

  The line was cut and Nohar was left staring at a test pattern.

  Nohar ran through the record of the conversation a few times. It irritated him that Thomson was right. Nothing was in the conversation he wouldn't be able to get from the police record or the news. Reviewing the tape didn't tell Nohar anything more, other than the fact Thomson lived in a ritzy penthouse overlooking downtown—Thomson's home comm faced a window.

  The comm told him it was fifteen after. It was time to call Manny down at the pathologist's office. Nohar wanted to set up a meeting for tonight. One he hoped would be more fruitful.

  Chapter 5

  During the night, the rain turned into a deluge. Nohar didn't feel half as uncomfortable under the sudden thunderstorm as he had in the misting drizzle in the cemetery. The dark violence of it suited him.

  Coventry suited him.

  The three block area was a ragged collection of bars close to the East Cleveland border. It was far enough away from the heart of Moreytown to see the occasional pink in the area. As always, there were two patrol cars, the riot watch, one on either end of the strip. Nohar passed one of them at the intersection of Coventry and Mayfield, and, while it was too far for him to see it, he knew its twin was parked in the old school parking lot, three blocks away.

  Like Nohar's neighborhood, Coventry was blocked off from car traffic by three-meter-tall concrete pylons left over from the riots. Graffiti wrapped around the rectangular blocks, as if the strip were trying to escape its arbitrary confines by oozing through the gaps.

  The rain hadn't slowed things down. Ten-thirty at night and the street was packed with the backwash of Moreytown. The downpour couldn't remove the omnipresent smell of damp fur.

  Nohar made his way down the center of the old asphalt strip. He passed canines, felines, a knot of rodents in leather vests and denim briefs—he avoided the slight scent of familiar perfume—an unfamiliar ursine, a loud lepus shouting at a rapt vulpine congregation. The people around him only made the briefest impression. A few shouted greetings. Nohar waved without quite noticing who they had been.

  His destination, Watership Down, was one of the few bars on the Coventry strip that was actually owned and operated by a morey proprietor-—Gerard Lopez, a lepus. The reason Nohar chose to frequent this particular bar, out of the two dozen on the strip, was the high ceiling. This was one of the few places he could get fully toasted and not end up bashing his head into a ceiling fan or a light fixture.

  Nohar entered the bar, shook some of the rain out of his coat, and took his regular seat, a booth in the back that had the seats moved back for people his size. The table was directly underneath a garish framed picture someone had once told him was an original Warner Brothers* animation cell. It was a hand drawn cartoon of a gray bipedal rabbit in the process of blowing up a bald, round-headed, human. Lopez had mounted a little brass plaque under the picture. It said, "1946—Off the Pink." Even if it was a joke, Nohar was glad that most humans didn't come down to Coventry.

  Manny was waiting at the bar. He bore down on Nohar's booth carrying two pitchers of beer. Alert black eyes glanced over Nohar as the quick little mongoose put the pitcher on the table. "Nohar, you look like hell."

  Nohar's mind had drifted off the case and on to Maria. He was at once irritated and defensive. Manny was the only real family Nohar had. The mongoose had come to America with Nohar's parents, and had been there when Nohar's mother had died. When he was younger, Nohar had resented him. It was still hard for Nohar to accept Manny's concern with good grace. It had taken finding his real father to allow Nohar to appreciate Manny.

  "Maria dumped me." Nohar poured himself a beer and downed it.

  Manny slid into the opposite side of the booth and chittared a little in sympathy. "That's hard to believe. After the last time I saw you two together, it looked like you finally found the right one."

  "I thought so myself. Always do."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "I want to talk to an M.E., not a psychiatrist."

  Manny gave his head a shake and poured himself a beer. "Are you sure you want to talk business right now?"

  Nohar glared down at Manny. "I didn't ask you to meet me for a counseling session." Nohar reined in the outburst. "Sorry. Been a tough day. Did you bring the database?''

  Unlike Nohar, Manny couldn't form a smile, but between them a nose-twitch on Manny's part served the same purpose. Manny took a notebook-sized case and put it on the table and flipped up the cover. There was a pause as it warmed up.

  "What happened to your wallet computer?"

  Manny gave a brief shrug. His voice held a tone of resignation. "The Jap chip blew. It was a prewar model, so the county couldn't replace it. So, I got this new bug-ridden Tunja 1200. Soon we're going to be back to manual typewriters and paper records ..."

  Manny's head shook, accompanied by a high-pitched sigh. In a few seconds, the screen began to glow faintly and the keypad became visible. "I updated it from the mainframe after you called. Do you have a name for the stiff you're looking for?"

  Nohar poured himself another beer. "Yes, but this isn't a normal case—"

  "But you want records for a stiff, right?"

  "The name's Daryl Johnson."

  Manny's whole upper body undulated with a momentary shrug. "Off hand, I don't remember that name. What species?"

  "Human."

  Manny froze; the sudden absence of motion was eerie on the mongoose. "What?"

  "I need the complete forensic record on the murder of a man named Daryl Johnson."

  "What the hell?"
r />   Nohar could see him tense up. He could almost see the vibration in Manny's small frame. Nohar could smell Manny's nervousness even over the smell of the beer. "You can access those records?"

  "Nohar, you said human, you said murder."

  "I said it wasn't a normal case."

  Manny was silent. His black eyes darted from Nohar to his little portable computer and back. Nohar was a little surprised at his reaction. They'd worked together and had shared information ever since Nohar had gotten his license.

  But then, until now, it had simply consisted of Nohar making sure the moreys he'd been hired to find hadn't ended up in the morgue.

  After nearly a full minute of silence, Manny finally spoke. "Nohar, I've known you all your life. You don't ask for trouble anymore. You've never interfered with a police investigation. You've never messed with pink business."

  "You slipped, you said the 'p' word." Nohar regretted it the instant he said it. Manny had to work with humans. He was one of perhaps a half-dozen moreaus in the city with medical training, and they would only let him cut up corpses. Only morey corpses at that. Manny was always open to the accusation of selling out, being pink under his fur. Nohar just rubbed Manny's nose in it.

  "Forgive me if I don't want to see you mixed up in something that might hurt you."

  "Sorry. It's just a case. An important one. I'm trying to find out who killed him."

  Manny closed his eyes. His voice picked up speed. "You are trying to find out who murdered a human? You know what'd happen if word got on the street? You know what happens to moreys that get too close to humans—"

  "I still need your help."

  Manny made an effort to slow down. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I? I'll call up the file, but first—" One of Manny's too long hands clasped Nohar's wrist. "Remember, my place is as far from Moreytown as you can get."

  Nohar nodded.

  Manny held Nohar's gaze for a brief moment. Then Manny looked down at his computer and started rapid-fire tapping on the screen. For a terminal with no audio, Manny handled it very efficiently. His hands were engineered for surgery, and their gracefulness permeated every gesture.

  He did, however, have to hit the thing a few times to get it to work right.

  Manny's nose twitched. "I don't believe it. The file's inactive. It's barely a week old."

  "The police are under pressure to drop the investigation."

  Manny looked like he was about to say something, but apparently thought better of it. "Fine, well, we have the autopsy report, list of the forensic evidence, abstract of the scene of the crime, a few preliminary statements from the neighbors, as well as the witness who found the body, etcetera. Pretty complete record. Compared to most I’ve seen."

  One of Manny's lithe hands dove into a breast pocket and pulled out a ramcard and slid it into the side of the computer. Nohar briefly saw the rainbow sheen of the card reflected in a small puddle of beer on the table. "I'm running off a copy. Do me a favor and make a backup. Occasionally they do monitor access to the database."

  Nohar nodded when Manny handed him the card. Nohar slipped it into his wallet, next to the as yet unexamined card from his camera, the pictures from Johnson's funeral. "Could you tell me how Johnson died?"

  "It's all on the card I gave you. He was shot in the head. Through his picture window. Splattered his brains all over his comm—oh, that's interesting ..."

  "What?"

  There was the hint of what might have been admiration in Manny's voice. "Are you familiar with Israeli weaponry? Thought not. The forensics team found the remains of two bullets, from a Levitt Mark II, fifty-caliber." A slight whistle of air came from between Manny's front teeth.

  "So?"

  "Came out of Mossad during the Third Gulf War. It was designed for a single sniper, and, like most designs they came up with, it's made to keep the sniper alive. The bullets are propelled by compressed carbon dioxide. It can't be heard firing by anyone farther away than fifteen meters or so. The ammunition is made from an impact-sensitive plastic explosive impregnated with shrapnel. It's intended as an antipersonnel weapon. I haven't seen an impact wound from one of these since the war. The Afghanis favored them for night raids—Nohar, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

  "I don't know."

  Nohar knew Manny was tempted to try and talk him out of it. However, Manny wouldn't try. Nohar hated when Manny got into surrogate-father mode, and Manny was too aware of that feet.

  Such meetings usually ended with them spending a few hours discussing innocent bullshit over too many beers. This time they finished the pitchers in relative silence. Nohar wanted to reassure Manny he wasn't in over his head. But it would have been a lie. Nohar had trouble with lies, especially with Manny.

  So, at eleven-fifteen—an early night for them—they walked to the south end of the strip, and the lot where Manny had parked. The rain had intensified, finally chasing the moreys inside. The abandoned trash-strewn asphalt reminded Nohar of pictures of the Pan-Asian war. It was the view of a city waiting for a biological warhead.

  They rounded the pylons on Euclid Heights Boulevard and Nohar caught sight of the other cop on the riot-watch. Nohar wondered what it would be tike, to come to work each day, to sit and wait for something to explode. The cops would have to be on rotation. Someone on permanent assignment would go nuts.

  The cop looked at them as they passed, two unequal-sized moreys huddling through the rain. There was a flash of lightning, and Nohar saw the cop's face. The pink looked scared. In that instant he saw a man, a kid really, no more than twenty two—young for a human that was, most moreys who made it into their twenties were well into middle age. The pink kid would have no idea what he would do if Nohar and Manny decided to do something illegal. He could imagine he sensed the smell of fear off of the kid, even with the car and the rain between them.

  They passed the police car and walked into the parking lot of the old school. Nohar couldn't help but feel sorry for the cop. No one deserved to be placed in that kind of situation unprepared.

  They stopped at the van and Manny spoke for the first time since they'd left the bar. "I can't talk you out of this, but my door's open if you need it."

  "I know." Nohar was uncomfortably reminded of last night.

  Nohar told himself that there was no reason to except things on this case to go bad like that. Hell, he'd been paid a hell of a lot up front, things couldn't go that badly this time.

  At least it didn't look like he was going to be stiffed again.

  Manny got into his van, another Electroline. In the dark of the storm, away from the streetlights, the van reminded Nohar of the frank in the graveyard. Both vans were the same industrial-green, the same boxy make, and had the same pneumatic doors on the back.

  The only difference—Manny's van had a driver's cab and "Cuyahoga County Medical Examiner" painted on all the doors. As Manny drove back toward downtown, Nohar supposed the van's markings had a deterrent effect on car thieves.

  * * * *

  "I said, a fifteen by fifteen grid with times three magnification!"

  "Instructions unclear."

  Nohar almost shouted something back at the comm. Instead, he took a deep breath and stroked Cat a few times. There are few things, he thought, more fruitless than getting angry at a machine. Shouting at it was just going to overtax the translation software.

  "Display. Photo thirty-five. Grid. Fifteen by fifteen. Magnification. Times three."

  This time the comm did as it was told.

  Photo number thirty-five was a good, panoramic shot of the seated parties at Johnson's funeral. It was the one picture that had a full facial on everybody. The haze had helped by diffusing the July sun. The indirect lighting eliminated stark shadows, and would help in making the attendees, especially those to the rear, under the tent.

  He had enlarged it enough. Most of the faces were clear, which was good. Nohar did not want to wait half an hour while his cheap software enhanced the pictu
re.

  Now for the grunt work. "Move. Grid. Left five percent."

  One box on the grid now enclosed a face.

  He told the program to print it and a portrait of a funeral attendee started sliding out of the comm's fax slot. One down, forty-nine to go.

  Nohar spent two hours getting identifiable portraits from the one picture. Most of them, he knew, would offer no useful information. However, the procedure calmed him. It was something he had done hundreds of times before. The routine was so automatic that his mind kept traveling back to Johnson's murder.

  According to the autopsy, the time of death was somewhere between 9:30 p.m. on Tuesday the twenty-second, and 10:30 a.m. on Wednesday the twenty-third. The body was discovered by a jogger who noticed the broken window around noon on the twenty-fifth. There was a violent thunderstorm Thursday night, washing away a good deal of evidence. Presumably, this was why no evidence was found of the party or parties who allegedly stole the three million the campaign finance records said should have been there. Well, that wasn't quite right. The police thought the finance records said the three million was there. However, before the cops folded, they only had a brief perusal of the campaign finances over the weekend. Apparently the records never left Binder's headquarters.

  The autopsy also said Daryl had been having a good time before someone slammed a mini-grenade into the back of his head. Nohar read at the time of death Daryl had a good point-oh-two blood alcohol, traces of weasel-dust in his nose, as well as a few 'dorphs lying undigested in his stomach. To top it off, he'd shot his wad into somebody in the twelve hours previous.

  Seems he died happy.

  Nohar pictured him at the comm, riding his buzz, watching some party film or other, air-conditioning going full blast. Daryl might be giggling a bit. Then the sniper takes up his position. The sniper is hiding somewhere. The ballistic evidence gave an approximate trajectory giving a field of fire at the back of Johnson's head. Five houses across the street fit the bill, all occupied, no witnesses. Perhaps the sniper uses a driveway between those houses across the street.