by K. C. Sivils
It couldn't be avoided, so I pressed the contact list and hit send. I heard the link connect and the sound of Kilgore doing something.
“Major, got a second?”
“Inspector, yeah, I got a second.”
“Just got the official autopsy report.”
“So did I. Just haven’t had a chance to read it.”
“Don’t believe a word in it,” I said softly.
Silence filled the link while Kilgore read the report.
“Sounds about right,” he said a little too loud. “Cause of death, kinetic round wounds to the chest and one to the head. Death occurred almost instantly.”
"Someone in your office," I asked in an even softer voice.
"Yeah, I agree. I'm starting to think my SP was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Inspector. We arrested two black marketers this morning who were in possession of Marine property."
“I see,” I replied in my normal voice. “Can you hold them for me till I can get there tomorrow?”
“You can’t come today?" Kilgore asked firmly. We needed to talk face to face, but it was going to have to wait.
“Got another murder. Might be related, or at least my Sergeant Detective thinks so.”
“Another one,” Kilgore barked.
"Yeah, I'm about to head up to the spaceport. There was an accident in the rail yard, and a conductor was killed. That same conductor was in charge of the train that had three container cars hijacked yesterday. The one you sent my Sergeant Detective back on."
“Really, tragic,” Kilgore said in a non-committal tone.
“Yeah. The kid shot one of the perps. No sign of the body or the three cars when we got people on the scene. This accident smells. So we’re going to take a look.”
"That's strange," Kilgore told me, using the same voice. "Are you sure your guy is sure about that?"
“I’ll contact you later,” I replied, hoping he caught my drift. We couldn’t talk with someone in his office. He broke the link. I pocketed my comm and tablet and tossed some hard credits on the table, enough to cover the lousy food and a tip for the even worse service.
Stepping out in the cold, I checked my chronometer. I had sufficient time to stop by Bones apartment and still get to the accident site to meet Josephson at the time we’d agreed on.
It was a short walk to the underground station. I was glad to feel the warmth as I descended the steps downwards to catch my train. I had a feeling it would be the first of many trips before I got home.
---
Kilgore looked across his desk at the Colonel. Despite his best efforts, the officer had resented him from the minute he'd arrived. She'd gotten along well with his predecessor, so he didn't think it was an interservice rivalry issue.
“May I ask who that was?”
“A civilian police Inspector. He is investigating the death of one of my Shore Patrol officers that took place off base.”
“Isn’t that a bit unusual, Major Kilgore?”
“Yes, Colonel, it is. But I have my reasons.”
“Does it possibly have anything to do with the pair of black marketers you mentioned?
“Colonel, I cannot comment on an open investigation.”
“Of course, Major.”
The officer stood, and Kilgore stood as well, quickly covering the two strides it took to reach his door and open it for her.
"I will expect your report by the end of the week, Major,” the officer reminded him, her tone cold, hard and unfriendly.
“You’ll have it no later than 0500 at the end of the week.”
He watched the woman walk away, strolling in a most unmilitary fashion as she moved down the corridor. Kilgore shivered in disgust with himself for watching appreciatively.
Of all the officers at the base, the redheaded colonel was the only one he despised.
---
Markeson shook the seldom-used comm. The link finally went through. He’d have to replace it. Within a few seconds, the tiny screen displayed two faces on a split-screen image.
“Governor. Mayor. Sorry to interrupt your busy schedules.”
He watched as Rankin smiled his polished, practiced politician smile and said nothing. Mayor Xue, a nervous little Earth Asian, didn't smile, quietly nodding in acknowledgment.
“Gentlemen,” Markeson continued, “I believe we need to meet. An opportunity has presented itself that is too good to pass up.”
“We agreed to lie low,” Xue whined. “Until we were certain it was safe. I still have anxiety attacks after the fiasco with Long.”
Rankin leaned forward, his expression indicating interest.
“Xue, stop sniveling. You knew there would be risks. Captain Markeson dealt with the various issues quickly. If the Captain says this is an opportunity we must consider, then we will consider it.”
Xue made a face but said nothing in response.
“We need to meet soon. Tonight. We have to move quickly if this is going to happen,” Markeson informed the pair of corrupt politicians.
“Agreed,” Rankin said, smiling. “The usual place. 1900 hours.” Markeson could see the Governor counting his share of the credits in his mind as he broke the link. Xue made another face and broke the link, ending their session.
---
The Colonel sat at her desk fuming. She should have listened to her old Sergeant. He'd offered to take care of the situation with the conductor, and she'd declined. The fools had botched the job. Somehow Sullivan had made the connection to the heist.
She thought back to her first meeting with Markeson. He'd told her Sullivan was good. She'd taken his statement too lightly. A mistake that would not happen again. Markeson was proving to be cagier than she thought.
A smile crossed her face as the Colonel recalled their passionate tryst in her suite in Capital City. It would be a shame to finish Markeson when the job was done, but the operation had to be cleaned up when completed.
Her comm buzzed, drawing her attention. A quick glance indicated it was a brief message from none other than the Captain. He would have word for her late that night.
The Colonel deleted the message. Time was of the essence. The product had to be moved off planet soon.
---
Nobody noticed him, which of course was exactly what the man wanted. He was proud of his ability to move unnoticed in a street full of people and to avoid the CCTV cameras that were always watching, recording.
Ahead the tall man in the black clothes walked slowly, stopping occasionally to talk with someone. He even crossed the street once to help an elderly couple cross to the side the man had been walking on.
The watcher shook his head. The boss man was right. This guy was going to be a problem. He slipped into a small store and looked around for a few minutes before stepping back into the cold.
It took him less than a minute to find the troublesome priest. This time the man was helping a delivery man carry some boxes into another of the small retail stores. Suppertime couldn’t come soon enough. Surely the priest would be hungry and go home.
After a day of being a do-gooder, the priest had to be hungry and tired the man thought. He was worn out just from watching the man. He noticed the priest had stopped and was looking about.
In all probability searching for more people in need of help.
As the priest’s gaze continued to take in the area, the watcher stood still, facing the display window for a women's clothing store. In the window's reflection, the watcher could see Father Nathan clearly. He saw the priest's gaze stop and stare directly into the store's window.
The watcher simply walked away, not looking back. If the priest followed him, he would contact the boss man by comm and see how the situation was to be handled. If the priest didn’t follow, he’d be back soon enough. Either way, he’d learned a lot that day about the priest’s habits.
After several blocks walk, the watcher stopped and glanced back. The priest was nowhere in sight. He smiled at his skill, how he could slip away and
vanish from sight. The watcher didn't spot Father Nathan standing inside a sandwich shop across the street, watching the invisible man slip away.
---
I watched Josephson as he stood still and slowly turned around in a complete circle. He’d done it twice already, just looking. I nodded my approval when he glanced at me. The pup was getting a little better at “seeing a crime scene” and taking in as much information as possible.
The Railroad Police, that strange breed of policeman, had already marked off the accident scene, photographed everything and talked with the government's safety inspector while Josephson observed things.
The Railroad Police didn't care. They'd done the critical work. If they played their cards right, they could fill up the entire duty shift and not have to do anything else.
I’d done a quick survey of the scene and was waiting for Josephson to finish. Then it would be time to see what the Railroad Police and the government guy thought about the accident. I disliked the problems that came from one policing agency taking over a case from another force that believed their jurisdiction was being poached.
Josephson finally stood still, thinking. I watched him carefully pick his way through the various numbered markers on the ground and make his way over to me.
“Well?”
“I think the conductor slipped and fell under the locomotive switching the cars.”
“That would be the obvious cause of death,” I said simply.
"The railroad workers all wear boots designed to grip the ladder rungs or steps, even with ice. The gloves they wear will grip the grab irons in any weather. Their union is very big on work safety rules, and so is the management of the railroad."
“Is this one of your hobbies,” I asked, fighting back a grin
I watched his face flush red as he looked down at his feet. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I ordered. “A good detective tries to be as knowledgeable as possible about a wide range of things.”
The pup looked up at me, still embarrassed, and nodded.
“Go ahead,” I ordered.
“Conductors have to pass a series of tests and have seniority before they rate for that job. The union insists on it and management is picky about it. It’s a job that requires railroading skills and thorough knowledge of operating rules and management procedures. The conductor is responsible for the operation of the train, seeing to it the freight gets delivered where it's supposed to go, empty cars get picked up, and all the paperwork is kept straight for billing."
“Your point?”
“See the blue piece of steel hanging on the freight car he fell off?”
“I noticed it.”
"Inspector, that's an indicator railroad workers use to show that freight car is under repair. The locomotive should never have tried to couple onto it."
“He didn’t slip and fall then?”
"I would think not sir. More like pushed in front of a moving locomotive."
“You have a problem there, Josephson.”
I watched as the pup turned and pointed again, this time at a large metal device with green and red indicator signs. It was evident the device was meant to operate the switch to the track the damaged freight car was stored on.
"See the gray box on the side of the switch stand?"
“Yes,” I answered, focusing with my cybernetic eye and snapping a still image.
“If you have the right codes, you could hack that. The switch can be thrown manually or automatically.”
“There’s hope for you Josephson. Spell it out for me.”
“Someone hacked the controls, threw the switch while someone else shoved the conductor in front of the locomotive. Murder by a 100-ton locomotive. Now the switch crew has to deal with this. What do you think, sir?"
“Same as you. Just didn’t know some of the details like the blue men at work sign or how the switch stand could be hacked.”
I strolled over to the waiting Railroad Police and the government rat. I didn’t smile. They didn’t smile back.
“Murder,” I announced.
The Railroad Police nodded silently in agreement. The government rat began to protest, citing the weather conditions and the fact the engineer operating the switch engine was undergoing training when the accident happened.
“Murder,” I repeated. “Do I need to call the Governor?”
The mention of the chief rat silenced the inspector but didn’t stop him from making strange faces and turning a variety of shades of red.
“There is no need to duplicate good police work,” I announced. "I'll need everything, images, your reports, the interviews of the crews, everything. The coroner will do an autopsy. If I need anything else, either my Sergeant Detective or I will be in touch."
Surprised at not having their case taken over, the two Railroad Policemen graciously offered to take Josephson and me for coffee. I declined for both of us and gave them the numbers to send the reports to with a reminder to keep the evidence under lock and key and make sure the chain of custody paperwork was done properly.
Josephson and I made our way back toward the hovercar the pup had arrived in. The government lackey followed, protesting the heavy-handed manner in which I had overstepped my authority.
I ignored him.
As Josephson drove off, I glanced back at the government man. He was on his comm reporting to whoever held his leash.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Northwest Capital City was nice, much nicer than the southern half of the city. Better even than the northeastern quadrant, hindered as it was with the spaceport, rail yard and other industrial buildings. It was Markeson's favorite part of town.
Sitting in the traffic with other high-end hover cars, Markeson noted the street crews had done their job well. Each morning, city workers cleaned all the snow and ice from the streets in the northeast quadrant of Capital City. Except for the pedestrians dressed in their heavy coats and boots, on a sunny day, it was possible to imagine Beta Prime possessed a pleasant climate.
Today was one of those days. Markeson looked forward to lunch. Good steak, a couple of drinks and a cute waitress. The company could be better, but Rankin and Xue were his partners in crime, and as such, he needed to meet with them from time to time.
This was one of those times.
For their part of the smuggling operation to succeed, he would need documents from the two men clearing the path for the illegal goods, whatever it was the Colonel was smuggling off planet, through Security and Customs. Xue would handle Security and Rankin would keep the notoriously corrupt Customs officials at bay.
Today was the first time Markeson missed Devereaux since the billionaire’s “suicide” after Sullivan’s botched hearing. Normally the arrogant businessman’s shipping empire handled these things. It was enough for Markeson and the two politicians to simply find the customers.
He pulled into the circular hoverway of the Argentina, the best steakhouse on Beta Prime. Real beef, not tank grown protein slabs, a place where men could be men, smoke cigars, tell off-color jokes and flirt with cute waitresses. It was also swept for listening devices twice a day, making it a good place to conduct business of every kind, legal, illegal or political.
Handing his keys to the valet, Markeson adjusted his tie, ran his hand through his slicked back hair and smiled at the doorman, an old-fashioned custom dating back centuries, and entered the restaurant. The maître de greeted him with a smile; he better smile Markeson thought, given how much I pay the man, and led the detective back to his preferred table.
“Miss Jasmine will be serving you today, Captain Markeson,” the maître de informed him with his too perfect smile, bowing slightly as Markeson seated himself in the booth. The man vanished, leaving Markeson alone.
Within seconds the chocolate skinned Jasmine appeared, one of the exotic beauties that worked as waitresses at the Argentina. She smiled, displaying her dazzling white teeth, expensive perfection and set a tumbler of whiskey before him.
Markeson leered back at the Earth African beauty.
“Will you be expecting guests today,” Jasmine asked politely with her silky smooth voice.
“Yes, I’m afraid I will,” Markeson groused.
"Some of your esteemed friends?"
He tossed another leer in her direction. “They think they’re important.”
She smiled again and left, vanishing from his sight to await the arrival of his guests. The radiant smile disappeared from her face the instant Jasmine turned her back to the lecherous detective. As Jasmine passed the maître de’s station, she gave him a look that could kill only to receive a shrug in return.
“He tips well, Jasmine.”
“He doesn’t try to put his hands all over you,” she snarled back.
---
He looked at the comm in his hand, feeling the blood pressure spike in his temples as his cheeks began to feel flush.
“If this job didn’t pay so well, I’d just walk away,” the mercenary said, just loud enough for the others in the room to hear.
One of the mercenaries sitting at the table, cleaning his weapons, frowned and asked the leader, “bad news, Captain?”
“That so-called Sergeant of hers, just reamed me out for how we handled the conductor. Seems he got a tip the cops have decided it was murder and not a work accident.”
“Why didn’t he handle the job himself then,” the other merc asked. “We were good enough to hit the train, and that cost Buck his life. Can’t get paid if you’re dead.”
The Captain shook his head in frustration. “We’re not hit men. We’re soldiers. Taking on the train, reasonable job. Taking out someone with a sniper. No problem. Next contract, I’m going to spell things out in more detail what we will do and what we won’t.”
His men nodded in agreement. Killing for hire in combat situations or pulling off a job was one thing. Murder for hire was another. They might be mercenaries, but they had standards.
