Curiosity and murder.
"Drokk. What is this place, the Grand Central Zoom Station?"
As Anderson approached Apartment 56-C, she saw a harassed-looking Tek-Judge emerge from inside it.
"A Psi-Judge, huh?" He regarded her with a sour expression. "You'd think if they were sending another Judge to trample all over my crime scene, somebody might've mentioned it to me at least. I'm still working the blood evidence on the carpet in the apartment hallway, so be careful of what you tread on." Jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the apartment behind him, the Tek-Judge began a familiar refrain. "The crime scene's in there. I warn you though-"
"If I've eaten anything recently I might want to give it a miss?" Anderson said. After the tetchy way he had greeted her, she found the startled expression on his face priceless. Evidently, she had guessed his next words correctly. "What? You're surprised I took the words right out of your mouth?" Smiling cheerily at his confusion, she pushed her way past him. "Haven't you heard? I'm psychic. I'd have thought the Psi Division uniform would be a dead giveaway on that one."
Leaving the Tek-Judge grimacing in ill humour behind her, Anderson moved into the apartment. Finding blood spray splashed against a wall halfway along the hallway, and a set of bloody footprints and drag marks on the floor leading to the kitchen, she paused to inspect them. Killer must have struck the first blow here, she thought, and then dragged the victim into the kitchen. Satisfied with her reading of the evidence, she followed the line of footprints towards the kitchen.
Inside, she was forced to concede that the Tek-Judge had been right in trying to warn her as to what lay ahead. As crime scenes went, it was a bad one - worse even than the blood-soaked living room she had seen in Frank Assisi Block earlier in the night. Standing in the doorway of the apartment's cramped kitchen, Anderson found she was staring at the mutilated body of a woman lying spread-eagled on her back on the kitchen table. The woman's throat had been cut open and her blouse torn away, the latter revealing a torso peppered with stab wounds, while her ribs were exposed by a long ragged incision that had peeled back the skin, either side of it from her collar bone to her groin. Like the Assisi crime scene, there was blood everywhere. Though to Anderson's mind, the most gruesome sight of all was the large, round piece of red-brown flesh lying incongruously on the draining board of the sink, beside a haphazardly stacked pile of dirty dishes.
"You're looking at the victim's liver." A Med-Judge stood over the dead woman's body, minutely examining the wounds with a mediscanner. Raising his eyes from his work, he followed the direction of Anderson's gaze as she stared at the draining board. "The killer removed it post-mortem, along with a length of her small intestine. There's a mass of blood and tissue clogging the outflow pipe for the waste disposal unit in the sink. Looks like the killer tried to use it to dispose of the intestine. Could be he was planning on getting rid of the rest of the body in the same way, until the unit became clogged and he was forced to abandon the idea. Of course, strictly speaking, deciding exactly what was in the perp's mind is more your area than mine." Turning to face Anderson, the Med-Judge extended his hand and offered it to her. "The name's Noland. You must be the Psi-Judge they assigned to perform a psychometric scan on the crime scene?"
"Anderson." Looking down at his proffered hand, she saw it was covered in blood. "Not to seem squeamish, but do you mind if we don't shake hands? I don't like to get blood on the uniform unless I absolutely have to."
"What? I... No..." Looking to his own hand for a moment, he shrugged and smiled in embarrassment. "Sorry about that, occupational hazard. I'm on permanent attachment to Forensic Pathology. When you spend as much time as I do delving around inside dead people's guts, it gets so you don't notice the blood any more."
"Yeah, I can see how that could happen." She joined him beside the kitchen table. "When you were talking before, you used the word 'he' to refer to the killer. I take it you think our perp was a man?"
"Well, I can't entirely rule out the possibility the killer was a woman," Noland said. "Given the depth of some of these stab wounds though, and the general level of violence." He indicated some of the dead woman's wounds. "Extensive post-mortem mutilations of this kind are rare in female-on-female killings. Then, there's the matter of the throat wound. She was killed by a single slash wound that severed the right carotid artery and jugular, and still had enough force to cut into the spinal vertebrae. It takes a lot of strength and rage to inflict a blow like that. All of which makes it highly likely we're looking at a male perp." Noticing that Anderson was staring down at the woman's face, he turned towards her. "At least it would have been quick. Once the carotid was severed, the loss of blood to the brain would have caused her to lose consciousness within seconds."
"What else can you tell me?" Anderson asked. The woman's eyes were open and vacant, whatever had once moved them to joy or sadness was lost in the finality of death.
"You want to hear it from me?" Noland asked. He nodded down at the victim. "She was the eyewitness, after all. I thought you'd do the psychometric scan on her first, find it all out straight from the source."
"No. Not yet." Anderson shook her head. "When you read a murder victim the psychic impressions can be confusing, even contradictory. It's better if I hear what you've got, and then do the scan. It'll help put any psychic impressions I see into context."
"Okay. You know your job better than I do." Laying the mediscanner down on the table beside the body, Noland pulled a handheld comp-unit from his belt and switched on the display screen.
"All right then," he said as he checked his notes. "The Tek outside has already taken the victim's fingerprints and a DNA sample. Cross-match with the Justice Department database confirms her identity as the apartment's registered tenant, Brenda Gladys Maddens, DOB: 2nd of March 2084. Forty years of age. Unmarried. No known dependents. No convictions. As I said before, she was killed by a single slash wound to the throat - with the other wounds and mutilations inflicted post-mortem after the killer had dragged her body to the kitchen. From the angle of the wounds, the killer was most likely right-handed. Assuming he inflicted the stab wounds on the victim's body with the same knife he used to cut her throat, I'd say we're talking about a blade somewhere between twenty-five to thirty centimetres in length, and maybe five centimetres wide at its broadest point. The wound characteristics indicate it to be single-edged, though the first few centimetres of the back edge behind the point may have been sharpened as well. My best guess would be it's something like a Bowie Knife, though I could be wrong there, so I wouldn't take it as gospel. I'll know more when I've had the chance to perform a full autopsy back at the morgue."
"Seems like you know plenty already," Anderson said. "You found all that out from a preliminary exam, some fingerprints and a DNA swab?"
"Technology takes most of the credit." As he spoke, Noland reached out his hand to place it on the mediscanner lying on the table. "These new 3000 series mediscanners are a pathologist's dream. X-ray, ultrasound, infra-red, magnetic resonance, bio-chem, genetics. They can perform just about every kind of scan and test you can think of, and the internal comp-unit analyses the results." His hand sitting proudly on top of the compact shape of the mediscanner, for an instant he looked like a child with a new toy. Then, remembering the serious business before them, he continued. "Anyway, that's pretty much what I've got so far on our perp. Hope it's of some help."
"Yeah, it should be." Her attention still fixed on the victim's body, Anderson said the dead woman's name aloud. "Brenda. Brenda Gladys Maddens." She took a deep breath, turning to look at the Med-Judge for a moment as she pulled off one of her gloves. "All right then. I guess that about covers everything. You might want to give me a bit of room, Noland. It looks like it's time for the main event."
It was just another night. A quiet night in. Her body curled under a blanket on the sofa and a world of entertainment at her fingertips.
"A world of entertainment": that's what the salesman had called it
when he'd sold her the new Tri-D set. Restlessly, she used the remote control to search through the channels. Images appeared before her in staccato bursts as she skipped the commercials and skimmed her way from station to station. Channel 25 was showing an all-night marathon of classic Aeroball games from out of the archives. She hated sports. Channel 38 had a game show featuring contestants dressed as sperm, their costumes complete with wriggling tails, desperately trying to find the secret entrance hidden in a giant plasteen egg that would lead them to the ten-million credit jackpot. She switched again. On Channel 56 she saw a vid-clip compilation showing members of the public caught on camera as they did stupid things: endless shots of people tripping, falling, walking into doors, getting their hands caught in drawers. She didn't find them funny. In the Justice Department-approved crime drama on Channel 73, the heroic Judges of Sector House X had just foiled an organ-legging gang whose sneering leader reminded her of the old man who lived in Apartment 52-B down the hall. "There are four hundred million stories in Mega-City One", the voiceover said as they cut to a commercial; if the last one was anything to go by, Brenda didn't want to see the other three hundred and ninety-five-odd million. Channel 96 was showing Oldsters Say the Dumbest Things. Channel 115 had I'm A Celebrity - Irrigate My Colon! On Channel 189 they were repeating old episodes of the dating show Putting Out For Prizes.
It was just another night. A night alone in her apartment, her only companions a selection of diet drinks and no-fat snacks laid out on the table beside her.
Sighing, she continued to flick through the channels. Cookery shows. Makeover shows. Home improvement shows. Reality shows covering everything from the daily life of the city's heaviest fatty, to a wealthy businessman setting a series of demeaning challenges to a group of eager contestants desperate to win his favour. "Is Bryan really going to be willing to clean the toilets in the executive washroom with his tongue in order to get the job at Trumble Construction MegaCorp?" She decided she did not particularly care to find out the answer. Through habit as much as inclination, her finger pressed the channel selector switch again, her eyes barely registering the titles of the programmes as they flickered past her: When Priests Attack!, Mega-City One's Dumbest Perps, 'Simp My Ride, 'Juve Box Jury.', 'Celebrity Autopsy.'; a thousand different channels and not a single thing to watch.
It was just another night; a night with no one there to love her; a night for her to be lonely.
Dispirited, she finally settled for the romantic drama playing on Channel 706. It did not have too many surprises. It felt like she had seen the same story a million times before. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. The only problem is he's from Leonardo Di Caprio Block while she's from Clare Danes - two blocks with a bitter history of rivalry. Their parents disapprove of their romance. A Block War looms on the horizon. Inevitably, the boy and the girl find themselves on different sides of the conflict. Matters reach a climax as the Di Caprio blockers launch a sneak attack. One of the girl's brothers is killed. Crying over his body, she vows vengeance. Joining her fellow Danes blockers in an all-out assault on the enemy stronghold, she is transformed from the shy young girl at the start of the drama to an avenging fury. Suddenly, in the midst of the battle, she finds herself fighting hand-to-hand with a Di Caprio blocker wearing a riot helmet. Using a judo throw she learned in self-defence class, she throws her opponent to the ground and closes in to finish him with her knife. But just as she is about to bury the blade in his chest, his helmet falls away to reveal a familiar face.
It is the boy.
Shocked, they stare into each other's eyes for long moments while the music on the soundtrack segues to a love theme. Abruptly, the girl throws away her knife and helps the boy to his feet. Her decision is made. The theme music swells to a crescendo. They kiss - two star-crossed lovers, reunited in a passionate embrace as the war rages on around them. The message? In the end, love conquers all.
As she watched the end credits roll, her mood darkened. Intentionally or not, the drama's subtext seemed to mock her. She was forty years of age, single, and it had been three years since her last serious relationship. In her experience, love was a myth. And romance? In real life, there was no such thing as romance.
The doorbell rang.
Surprised that someone would come to her apartment unannounced, never mind so late at night, she threw off the blanket and went to answer it. Afraid the visitor might leave before she could get there, she called out as she crossed the floor towards the door.
"Who is it?"
"Synthi-Flora delivery," a male voice called back from the other side of the door. "I got a delivery. Flowers and candy for Ms Brenda Maddens in Apartment 56-C."
"A delivery for me?" Looking through the spyhole in the door, she saw a man in a Synthi-Flora uniform standing in the hallway outside, a large bouquet of synthi-flowers in one hand and a box of mock chocs in the other. All the same, the habits of city life were ingrained deeply enough that she was still suspicious to see a man she had never met, bearing gifts on her doorstep. "Who's it from?"
"There's no name on the card," the delivery man said. "It must be from a secret admirer. You'll have to open the door. I need you to sign for it."
For a moment, she paused uncertainly. Then, the thought of some stranger being moved from afar to make a grand romantic gesture proved too deliciously intriguing. Sliding the security chain into its slot, she opened the door.
"Pass it through to me," she said. But even as the delivery man told her the gap was too small and she would have to open the door wider, she knew she would accede to his request. Her cynicism of earlier was forgotten. Someone had sent her a token of their affection. She wanted it now!
"You said there were flowers?" As she removed the chain and opened the door to him, she saw the delivery man was looking at her strangely. She felt a vague sense of misgiving, a troubling and undefined unease. It was as though, deep inside her, there was a note of warning. As though, despite a sense of excitement that almost made her feel giddy, something was wrong. "Flowers and candy, you said, from a secret admirer?"
Smiling, he held up the flowers and candy for her to see them. The mock chocs were in a pink, heart-shaped box. The flowers were a bouquet of all her favourite blooms; a dazzling arrangement in delicate shades of red, light blue and purple. While she looked entranced at the gifts before her, she heard him say something about synthi-caf. Abruptly, she realised she was unbearably thirsty. Synthi-caf. That was just what she wanted. Synthi-caf would be nice, delicious. Hardly listening to the delivery man, she looked over her shoulder at the interior of her apartment. For a moment she felt torn. She was standing talking to a delivery man when she could be putting the kettle on in the kitchen. Synthi-caf. She wanted some synthi-caf. Then, the answer to her dilemma occurred to her.
"Would you like to come in for a cup of synthi-caf?" she asked.
With the delivery man following close behind, she turned to head towards the kitchen. She heard him close the apartment door behind her. Quietly, she heard him call her name. He told her there was something he wanted her to do. Puzzled, she turned back towards him and saw a strange and frightening expression come over his face. The unease she had felt earlier returned to her. Something was wrong. The feeling grew stronger, becoming a nameless presentiment of danger.
"Look at me," he said, a previously unnoticed edge of harshness entering his tone. She was frightened. But there was something in his voice, something compelling. Something that made her obey him.
"Good," he said, smiling as he moved closer to her. "Now, lift your chin. That's it, Brenda." The bouquet of flowers and box of candy in his hands were gone, replaced by something that glinted coldly with the metallic gleam of reflected light. She wanted to run, to cry out. But even as the panic grew wild inside her chest, she found she could not resist him.
"Higher, Brenda," he told her. "Higher. There's a good girl. Just a little bit higher and soon it will all be over."
From the corner of her eye she saw the b
lade lash out. Seeing a spray of blood - her blood - hit the wall, she opened her mouth and tried to scream. But, no matter how hard she tried, the scream would not come...
A scream, she heard a scream...
Opening her eyes, Anderson found herself standing by the kitchen table with her hands laid on Brenda Maddens's head. Breaking the contact, she searched for the source of the scream. Standing in the kitchen around her, she saw a group of Judges staring at her with startled expressions. Noland, the Med-Judge, was the closest. His face registering alarm, he hurried towards her as she realised, to her embarrassment, exactly who had just screamed.
"Anderson? Are you all right?" Noland asked. "You were in the middle of your psi-scan when you suddenly started-"
"Screaming," she said. "I screamed." The sensations of Brenda Maddens's death still clung to her like a shroud: memories of fear and panic, the pain as the knife parted her throat, the horror as the world went black and she realised she was dying. "Believe me, if you were inside somebody's head when they died, you'd-" Finding an uncharacteristically bitter note in her voice, she cut herself off. "I'll be fine. Just give me a minute. Okay?"
Closing her eyes, Anderson took a deep breath as she tried to regain her equilibrium. Reading the last moments of a murder victim's life was one of the hardest things a Psi-Judge ever had to go through. It could be a gruelling experience: the immediacy of the victim's suffering, their terror, the despair, the sense of loss when one was face to face with the utter inescapable finality of death. Was it any wonder Psi-Judges sometimes found it hard to keep a handle on their emotions? What was it Noland had said to her earlier? "When you spend as much time as I do delving around inside dead people's guts, it gets so you don't notice the blood any more." Psi-Judges lacked the luxury of such detachment. They experienced death as a visceral process. Up close and personal. Close enough to see the glint of Death's pearly whites as he claimed his victims. It could be a heavy burden.
Red Shadows Page 5
