In her experience, it was pointless even trying to talk about such things to non-psychics, more so when the non-psychics in question were other Judges. Teks, Med-Judges, Street Judges: the members of the other divisions of Justice Department were simply too well grounded in everyday reality. The Academy of Law trained them to be that way. Their worlds were different. So different, at times it felt to Anderson like there was an unbridgeable gulf between her and the Judges around her.
Not that she fooled herself that her fellow Judges cared much about that divide. In the end, all most Judges expected of a Psi-Judge was for them to show up, do their psychic mumbo-jumbo, and leave - preferably without causing too much trouble in the meantime. Sometimes it seemed to her that other Judges looked at Psi Division in the same way as a wealthy citizen might regard a badly house-trained pet. Sure, they can do some cute tricks, but do you really want them let loose in the house where they might soil themselves on the living room rug? Either way, most Psi-Judges learned early on that at some level there was a wall of mutual incomprehension between psychics and non-psychics. Whatever burdens came with the job of being a Psi-Judge, the psychic had to bear them alone.
Whew, you sure you're wallowing in enough self-pity there, Cass?
The thought helped Anderson to restore her balance. Having overcome the emotions she had brought back with her after scanning the dead woman's lingering psychic traces, she now felt centred once more.
I mean, what's all this stuff about "gulfs" and "burdens"? Sounds like you're allowing a small thing like experiencing a murder from the victim's perspective to let you get a little bit maudlin.
Opening her eyes again as she returned her attention to the matter at hand, Anderson saw that she and Noland had been joined in the kitchen by the Tek-Judge she had met earlier, as well as a Street Judge she didn't recognise. They were all watching her intently.
Probably waiting to see if the mad psychic woman is going to do something crazy, she thought, amused despite herself. After all, I've already started screaming for no apparent reason. Now, they're probably expecting a big finale like you see from the psychics in the Tri-D movies: my head doing a complete three hundred and sixty degree turn, maybe, or my mouth suddenly vomiting up ectoplasm like synthi-pea soup.
"It's all right, boys," she said, smiling. "No need to worry. You're safe. The soup's off."
Confused, they stared at her in silence. Well, that one went down like a lead balloon, she thought. Talk about losing your audience. I'd better get back to business before they decide I must be speaking in tongues.
"Never mind." She sighed and shook her head. "The scream you heard was me channelling the victim's pain. She tried to scream after her attacker cut her throat. I didn't realise I was doing it." She shrugged. "It's just something that occasionally happens when you read the psychic traces of a murder. Sometimes, the whole experience can be a little too vivid."
"You're sure you're all right, then?" Beside her, Noland seemed concerned for her welfare, while the Tek and the Street Judge stood quietly looking at her askance, as though they were still expecting another strange or unruly outburst. Nice job, Cass, she told herself. Now you've gone and frightened the locals. At times like these I get to wondering whether I should put more work into my people skills. Then again, we're talking about a Street Judge and a Tek. They probably don't like other people to begin with.
"I'm fine, Noland," she said. Turning to the Street Judge, she addressed him directly. "I take it you must be the primary on the investigation - first Judge on the scene and all that?"
"That's right," he said. He was tall and thin-faced, but with big shoulders and a lean and athletic build. It was hard to guess his age underneath the helmet, but she would have put him at pushing forty: a twenty-year veteran, at least. His manner was terse and brusque, his mind cold and hard. A man shaped by his years on the streets. The name on his badge read "Weller". "I'm the one who called you in." His lips pursed in disapproval, as though what he had seen from her so far was enough to cause him to regret the decision. His tone was business-like, but there was something concealed behind it. Disdain, she thought. We've known each other for all of one minute, and already the guy doesn't like me. "All right, so you've done your psi-scan. What have you got for me?"
"The killer was wearing a Synthi-Flora uniform," Anderson said. "He was carrying a bouquet of synthi-flowers and a heart-shaped box of mock chocs. A delivery from a secret admirer, that's what he told her. That's how he persuaded the victim to open her door to him. Male. White. Medium build. Average height. Brown hair and blue eyes. Age-wise, maybe in his mid-twenties. And I can confirm the doc's theory." She nodded towards Noland. "The weapon was a Bowie knife." She paused. "In some ways, the info I got from the scan was limited. The victim didn't know her killer, and I didn't pick up any psychic traces from the perp himself." She shrugged. "So I guess if you were hoping for his name and address, I'm going to have to disappoint you. I can only tell you what Brenda Maddens saw. That's all I've got. Except..."
She paused again. She thought for a moment about the smile she had seen on the killer's face as he approached Brenda with the knife. The smile was calm, confident, self-assured; the smile of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
"It wasn't his first time." Realising she was thinking aloud, she focused on Weller and the others once more as she tried to explain her line of reasoning. "The perp, I mean. Brenda wasn't his first victim. He was way too sure of himself for that. He's killed before. Several times at least, I'd say. It could be, if we look for recent killings with a similar MO, we'll find he's working to some kind of pattern."
There was another pause while the three men in the room digested her words. Then Weller spoke.
"So you're telling me the killer was a delivery man in a uniform, and carrying flowers and a box of candy?"
"I'm telling you he was wearing a uniform," she said. "I couldn't tell you whether he's really a delivery man or not. Could be he got the uniform from a costume shop. Or maybe he used to work for Synthi-Flora and kept the uniform after he left them. Maybe he's even a dab hand with a sewing needle and he knocked one up himself. All I know is that's what the victim saw him wearing."
"Uh-huh." For a moment Weller regarded her coolly. "All right." He began to turn away. "We appreciate your efforts. You can go."
"Uh-huh?" she echoed him. "That's it? That's all you're going to say. Not wanting to seem like I'm looking for your approval here, but it sounds like you don't believe me. Like you think pretty much everything I just told was a complete load of dreck."
"Yeah, well there would be a reason for that." Beneath his helmet, Weller's mouth was tight. "I wasn't going to say anything, Anderson. But since you ask, I know for a fact that most of what you just told me about the perp is wrong. The delivery man, the flowers, the box of candy - it's all wrong, Anderson, all of it. To borrow your own words, it's all "a complete load of dreck".
"And, what's more, I can prove it."
THREE
SHADOWS OF THE CITY
"They put chemicals in the water!" Standing on an upturned crate to the side of Kesey Plaza, the old man roared at the top of his lungs as a small crowd gathered briefly to hear him. A street corner prophet, he raised his arms to shake his fists at the heavens, the words spilling out of him in a confused and angry torrent. "Then they steal our rain! The Judges are in league with the Venusians! They're trying to dehydrate us to control our minds! It's a conspiracy, I tell you!"
Spraying out a mouthful of spittle with every sibilant, the old man's sermon continued. Standing among the knot of listeners, William watched the performance with interest. The old man's soulshadow was a broiling haze in battling shades of sickly yellow and bruised violet, edged with black thundercloud lines of rage. Having seen similar patterns in the past, on those rare occasions when the doctors in the institution had allowed him to mix freely with his fellow inmates, William knew what to expect next. There was a pressure inside the old man building inex
orably towards a climax: a storm waiting to happen.
"Move it along! There's nothing to see here!" Turning at the sound of a commanding voice behind him, William saw a young male Judge push his way forward through the crowd. The Judge's soulshadow was different from the old man's. Its colours were cold blue tinged with flecks of brownish amber; stable and unyielding where the shades of the prophet's aura changed colour and squirmed in the air about him with wild abandon. "Move it!" The Judge pulled out his daystick, slapping it against the palm of his hand to show he meant business. "You've all got exactly one minute before I start handing out cube-time for Loitering."
As the crowd began to disperse, the Judge advanced on the old man standing on his makeshift pulpit. As the Judge approached, the movements of the flowing shades of the old man's soulshadow increased in tempo and became more agitated.
"You wanted an audience, Gramps, you should have joined all the other blowhards down at Speakers Square," the Judge told him. "One count of Public Speaking Without a Licence. You just bought yourself sixty days in an iso-cube."
"The cubes?" The black lines of the old man's aura became thick and jagged, pulsing wildly. The storm was about to blow. "You want to lock me away from the rain?"
"Weather Control doesn't have any rain scheduled in this sector for another three days, old man." As the Judge spoke, William saw thin, black fault lines of annoyance appear in his soulshadow like cracks in a block of ice. "Now, get off that crate before I add Creating a Public Obstruction to the list of charges."
"No!" the old man screamed, the colours of his aura flaring to a sudden incandesence. "You won't make me miss the rain! You won't make me drink your drokking chemicals!"
Shrieking, he leapt off the crate with his hands splayed out like claws. Sidestepping the attack easily, the Judge swiftly brought up his daystick to hit the old man in the stomach, and followed it with a second blow to the back of the neck that sent him sprawling to the ground.
"Congratulations, gramps," the Judge said as he pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt and secured his prisoner. "You didn't want to be drinking chemicals in the water? You just got yourself five years for Resisting Arrest, plus a thirty day spell in the psycho-cubes for observation. They got plenty of chemicals in there. They call 'em tranquillisers."
Hauling the dazed old man to his feet, the Judge began to frog march him towards a holding post. Then, his eyes narrowed as he saw William standing nearby, watching him.
"You deaf, citizen?" the Judge glared at him coldly. "Or are you looking for some cube-time as well? You were ordered to move on."
"Oh, I intend to," William replied pleasantly. Inwardly, he found himself vaguely surprised the Judge had even noticed him at all, so few people did. Still, it hardly mattered. He had to be about his business anyway. Mentally, he consulted the next name and address on the list he had memorised. "Though maybe you can help me? I'm looking for Mary Kelly Block?"
"I look like a tour-bot to you?" The Judge's expression hardened, his hand wandering to the daystick he had replaced on his belt. "I ordered you to move."
"Yes, you did." Smiling at the Judge, William concentrated on keeping his voice polite but firm. "But first, I asked you a question. Answer me. Where is Mary Kelly Block?"
For a moment, the Judge stared at him as though dumbfounded. Then, abruptly, he turned to point towards a pedway at the other end of the plaza.
"That way," the Judge said. "You follow the Wagner pedway for about a klick or so, and then take the right turn for Grant Square. Another half a klick after that you'll see Mary Kelly on your left."
"Thank you, Judge." William set off at a brisk walk, heading in the direction the Judge had indicated. Pausing as he reached the pedway, he glanced briefly behind him. The Judge had returned to his duties, dragging the old man to the holding post as though nothing had happened. He had probably forgotten their conversation already.
Good, William thought as he resumed his journey. Inside, he felt a familiar sensation of anticipation rising within him as he followed the Judge's directions to his destination. The same sensation he had felt as he stood at Brenda Maddens's door.
Soon, he told it, soon.
"There was no delivery man," Weller said, his voice stern and confident as he stood facing her in the kitchen. "Nor even anybody dressed like one. After I arrived here and had a chance to inspect the scene, one of the first things I did was check the available surveillance footage. Unfortunately, the cameras inside the block have been offline for the last three days for maintenance, but the exterior cameras covering the block entrances and exits are working fine. I requisitioned the footage and had it sent digitally to PSU for analysis. I told them to concentrate their initial efforts on checking for any visitors to the block who might have had outwardly legitimate reasons for being here - block maintenance crews, repair men, delivery men, that kind of thing. PSU confirms that - aside from ourselves - the only people who have entered this block wearing any kind of uniform within the last six hours are a couple of plumbers who came to fix a broken wet shower on the fifty-third floor. That's it, so much for your phantom delivery man."
"All the same, I know what I saw," Anderson said. "There must be some explanation."
"I'm way ahead of you there," Weller replied. "I had MAC, the Justice Department mainframe, run a background check on the victim. Brenda Maddens was a member of three different Tri-vid rental clubs, with her membership records showing she mostly rented romance movies. Probably what you scanned from her was a romantic fantasy she half-remembered from some movie she'd seen, spliced together with her memories of the killer. That being the case, the results of your psi-scan are next to useless. There's no way for us to know which parts were true and which were false."
"No," Anderson shook her head. "You forget that I've been doing this a long time. If her psychic impressions were that far off-kilter I would have sensed it. Right now, I can't explain the discrepancy between the surveillance footage and what was in Brenda's head. What I can tell you is that I saw what she saw, or what she believed she saw, at least."
"You see any bouquets of flowers around here?" Weller's tone was sarcastic. "Any petals dropped during the struggle? Do you see any boxes of mock chocs, heart-shaped or otherwise? I'll have PSU run a pattern recognition search to see if surveillance shows anybody entering or leaving the block carrying anything like that, but I won't be hold my breath. What about you, Noland?" Turning, Weller fixed the Med-Judge with a challenging glare. "You find any residue in the blood to indicate our victim was under the influence of hallucinogens or any other kind of psychotropic?"
"Well... Of course, I'll have to wait to get back to the morgue before I can do a full tox-screen." As though embarrassed to find himself caught in the middle of the argument, Noland shifted uneasily. "But no. So far I haven't found anything like that."
"There you go then," Weller said as he turned back towards her. "There's no evidence to suggest the victim was seeing things. This delivery man business was just some lingering fantasy, which either you or the victim got mixed up with what really happened. I hear psi-scans can be unreliable that way. If they weren't, the whole Justice Department would be run by Psi-Judges, and Street Judges like me would be out of a job. Either way, I'm sure your talents are needed elsewhere. Me, I've got a killer to catch."
It was there again. Even as Weller talked, Anderson could feel his disdain for her radiating off of him in bitter, spiteful waves. Abruptly, she sensed his aversion went beyond the vague mistrust some Street Judges occasionally felt towards psychics. This was more than a simple turf war. There was something eating at Weller, something dark and malignant burning deep inside him. It almost felt like hate. For a moment, she was tempted to call him an asshole and tell him to go drokk himself. Granted, such a violation of inter-departmental protocol would probably earn her an official reprimand, if Weller or either of the other Judges present chose to report it. But it wasn't the risk of censure that stopped her from giving voice to the w
ords straining at her tongue. It was the thought of Brenda Maddens, dying alone, unable to speak or scream, terrified as the blood sprayed from her slashed throat to stain the apartment walls around her. And afterwards, even as her body began to go cold, the killer wasn'tdone with her. Her eyes straying to Brenda's mutilated corpse still lying on the kitchen table nearby, Anderson was reminded of the words of one of her psi-instructors at the Academy. "We aren't like the other Judges," the instructor had told her. "All they care about is whether or not the Law has been broken. It's different when you're a Psi-Judge. Always remember: we speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves. We speak for the dead. We speak for the victim."
We speak for the dead, Anderson told herself. She was not a religious person by nature, but it felt like a prayer. We speak for the victim. And, tonight, that means I speak for Brenda Maddens.
"You needn't worry yourself about where my talents are most needed," she told Weller. "This is the case I was assigned to, and until I hear different from Control or Psi Division..." She paused, letting her words hang in the air for an instant before she finished the sentence.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Red Shadows Page 6
