Webster City

by Peter Menadue

CHAPTER FOUR

  Citizens of Webster City were not allowed to watch most movies made before the Great Plague. However, Davidson had watched many in secret and was struck by how vibrant 20th-century American cities looked. They had stunning buildings, abundant consumer goods, wealthy citizens and racial diversity. Everybody looked happy.

  Webster City was very different. Most buildings were either crass civic monuments or crumbling concrete apartment blocks. Citizens worked long hours for low pay they could only spend on a slim range of poorly made consumer products. There was no racial diversity because Alexander Webster only had time to vaccinate residents in a white area.

  The cultural life of the city was just as bland. The television stations spewed out Government propaganda or narcotized viewers with game shows and sports coverage. A Morals Squad ensured all bars and restaurants were closed by ten o'clock. There was no live entertainment and the cinemas usually showed bio-pics about Alexander Webster or action films in which City troops slaughtered hundreds of hapless Freedom Alliance fighters. A few artists produced sterile paintings and a few novelists wrote thrillers about ridiculously upright heroes who saved the City from disaster.

  Most movies and books made before the Great Plague were banned. However, proscribed movies circulated secretly on VHS tapes. That was why a good VHS player often cost more than a car. Banned books also passed quietly from hand to hand and were hidden in the nooks and crannies of homes.

  Not surprisingly, many citizens were disillusioned with the City and had retreated into their own little worlds. Drug abuse and violent crime were rampant. People spoke with their eyes rather than their lips.

  Sector 7 was a typical residential area: exhausted concrete apartment blocks were neatly arranged along grid-pattern streets. However, every so often there was a vacant lot where a shoddily erected block had collapsed. The television stations never reported such collapses. Citizens just heard rumors about how many had died.

  Davidson left the expressway and drove through the sector until he saw a couple of police patrol cars and a forensics unit truck. A crime scene tape was strung across the pavement. Just beyond it was a large blanket which obviously covered a body. About a dozen neighbors gawked at the scene while shuffling around to fight the cold.

  Davidson's black Cadillac screamed "Internal Security Bureau". So the neighbors looked apprehensive as he parked against the curb. They looked even more worried when they saw his black uniform. He strolled towards the body and they stumbled out of his way.

  A tubby uniformed sergeant and a lean patrolman stood in front of the crime scene tape. Davidson approached the sergeant. "Good morning, I'm Major Davidson from the ISB. I've been assigned to investigate this death."

  "Morning, Sir. I'm Sergeant Whittaker, from the Sector 7 Police Unit. I heard you were coming. It's a bit unusual for ..."

  "... the ISB to investigate a death?"

  "Umm, yes."

  Davidson didn't want to tell this cop anything. But if he got snooty, the guy might withhold information. "The deceased worked at the CDC, so his death may - I repeat, may - have security implications. Or it may not. I'm here to find out."

  "Understand."

  "Who found the body?"

  "A man walking his dog, just after dawn. He called Emergency Services. Paramedics turned up and found he was already dead. They called us. We got here about 90 minutes ago and established this crime scene."

  "I was told a security officer from the CDC is coming here. Has she arrived?"

  "Haven't seen anyone from the CDC."

  "OK. Show me Meredith's body."

  They stepped over the crime-scene tape and the Sergeant peeled back the blanket. Robert Meredith was in his mid-thirties, with blond hair, delicate features and a spidery build. He lay on his side, as if asleep. The only evidence of impact were two streams of dried blood running from his nostrils. Davidson imagined the pain his mother would feel when she heard of his death.

  He picked up the arm. Lots of rigor mortis and pooling of blood. Meredith had been dead for many hours.

  He stared up into the overcast sky. The building had about 25 floors. Each floor had two apartments, each with a balcony.

  "Which floor did he come from?"

  "His apartment's on the twenty-first. A long drop."

  "Have you been up there?"

  "No, I was waiting for you."

  "Got a key?"

  "Yes. Got it from the building supervisor." The sergeant extracted a key from a trouser pocket and handed it over. "It's for Apartment 211."

  "Thank you. Where's the supervisor right now?"

  "Scuttled back into his apartment on the ground floor. Want me to get him?"

  "Not just yet. I'll inspect the apartment first."

  "Want me to go with you?"

  "No, stay here. Tell the forensic team to start examining the body."

  "Will do. What if the officer from the CDC arrives?"

  "Send her up."

  Davidson strolled into a small, dark and dank lobby, pushed the elevator button and waited almost three minutes while the elevator clanked down from the fifteenth floor. A woman got out, pushing a pram. She glanced at Davidson's uniform and pushed harder.

  Davidson replaced her in the elevator and spent several minutes watching the indicator climb to "21". He stepped out into a narrow passage with two doors. After donning a pair of thin rubber gloves, he carefully examined the door frame of Meredith's apartment. No sign of a forced entry. He unlocked the door and found himself in a small living room with a faded yellow carpet and functional pine furniture. A large cathode-ray television sat in the corner. There had been rumors for a long time that the television factory was about to manufacture flat-screen TVs, but nothing happened.

  The room was neat and tidy. The only splash of color was a large bunch of flowers in a vase on the wood-laminate coffee-table. He couldn't name the flowers, but at least knew they were fresh.

  No sign of a struggle.

  The glass doors that led to the balcony were wide open. He strolled onto the balcony and inspected the metal railing. No scuff marks or scratches to suggest Meredith resisted being thrown off the balcony. He looked down at the cluster of shrunken people gathered around the body, including the forensic team, and shuddered slightly. Quite a drop.

  He strolled back through the living room to reach a bedroom just as neat and tidy. Even the bed was made. Sitting on a small desk next to the window was a thin notebook and a book found in every home in the City: Saving Mankind, the Autobiography of Alexander Webster. Like most Websterites, Davidson could recite large chunks by heart.

  He opened the notebook and found a jumble of mathematical and chemical formulae written in pencil. However, the last notation, about two-thirds of the way through the notebook, was very distinctive. Meredith wrote in pencil "EBOV and Variola antigens" and circled it several times.

  The front door squeaked. Footsteps in the living room. Who? The woman from the CDC?

  Davidson already had a bad feeling about this investigation. He sensed he wasn't given the full story and might be hung out to dry. So he decided to keep this evidence to himself, in case it was important and could be used to his advantage.

  He slipped the notebook inside his tunic and strolled into the living room, where he found a tall blonde woman crossing towards the balcony. She wore the uniform of a CDC Security Officer - all white, except for a red sash and red belt - and a big pistol on her hip.

  "Hello."

  She turned, startled. "Hello, umm, Major Davidson?"

  "Call me Carl. You're from the CDC?"

  "Yes, Helen Watkins - I'm the Deputy Chief Security Officer. I was sent here to assist you."

  And monitor his investigation, obviously. "Thank you."

  "Umm, why're you handling this, not the Homicide Squad?"

  "In case there's a security angle. The CDC is an important organization that must be protected. That's what I was told, anyway."

  "You’ve searched the
apartment?"

  "I'd just started when you arrived."

  She strolled onto the balcony and looked down at the clump of tiny people below. He stepped up beside her and she faced him. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with a handsome, almost craggy face and thick eyebrows. Her unwavering gaze seemed to push him back. Women in Webster City rarely had much authority. She must be bright or well connected - probably the latter. "Sheesh, long drop. Any idea what happened?"

  "You mean, did he jump or was he pushed? No idea. I was hoping you had some clue."

  She shrugged. "I don't know much about him. I glanced through his personnel file before I came over here. Aged 34. Single. Got a degree in biochemistry from Webster U; graduated summa cum laude. Joined the CDC five years ago."

  "What did he do there?"

  "Worked in the Vaccine Testing Unit. It makes sure serums are suitable for human use."

  Websterites were frequently vaccinated against disease. Indeed, every year the CDC organized an Immunization Week during which all citizens were inoculated against the latest bugs floating about. The next such week would start in four days' time.

  "Sounds dull. Did he have any reason to commit suicide?"

  She shrugged. "Don't know. But, like I said, I don't know much about him, yet."

  "Can you think of a reason why he might be murdered?"

  "You think that's a possibility?"

  "Of course."

  She shrugged again. "Afraid not."

  "There are no signs of a forced entry or struggle. So maybe he decided life was a burden and hurdled over the balcony. If we're lucky, we might be able to put this one to bed fairly quickly."

  "I hope so. What do you want to do? Search the apartment?"

  "Yes. Shouldn't take long. This guy lived like a monk."

  They stepped back into the living room and she noticed the flowers. "Nice bunch."

  "What are they?"

  "Peonies. They look quite fresh."

  "Most single guys I know don't have flowers in their apartments. Maybe he was trying to impress someone."

  "A woman?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe. Or maybe the single guys you know are emotionally stunted."

  He enjoyed that jab. "Hah. That's possible."

  They spent thirty minutes searching the living room, bedroom, kitchen and dining room together, without finding anything of interest. Robert Meredith obviously had an austere lifestyle. The last thing Davidson checked was the inside of the fridge. It was fairly bare. Just a bottle of milk, a few TV-dinners and a small blue plastic box that looked like it contained medicine.

  Back in the living room, she looked at him. "Should we talk to the neighbor?"

  "Good idea."

  They went outside and he knocked on the front door of the apartment next door. No answer. He banged again and heard someone shuffle towards the door. A bird-like woman in her 70s, with a once-elfin face and several big hairs on her chin, opened the door and nervously eyed their uniforms. "Hello."

  "I'm Major Davidson, from the Internal Security Bureau; this is Helen Watkins from the Centre for Disease Control. We're investigating the death of your neighbor. Did you hear about that?"

  "Umm, yes. I saw the commotion from my balcony and went downstairs to find out what was happening. Poor Robert. Terrible news."

  "Did you hear him go over the balcony?"

  "No."

  "Did you hear any unusual sounds last night?"

  "No. Robert was always quiet - an excellent neighbor. I heard nothing."

  "You're sure? No yelling? No struggle?"

  She grabbed the door, as if about to close it. "Nothing."

  "Can we chat in your apartment?"

  She looked at his black uniform, understood that wasn't a request and nodded reluctantly. "Please, come in."

  The apartment had the same layout as Meredith's, but was far messier, with books and clothes piled everywhere. The smell of cat piss hung in the air.

  The old woman pushed some unfinished knitting to one side and sat on a couch. Davidson and Watkins sat in creaking armchairs facing her. He noticed, on the side-table next to him, several battered Hemingway novels she could be arrested for possessing.

  He pulled out a pen and notepad. "Your name?"

  "Ruth Singer."

  "You still work?"

  "No, I'm retired. I worked at the Motor Vehicle Registry for 45 years, behind the counter."

  "You live on your own?"

  "Yes. My husband died a few years ago. In fact, the Housing Authority is trying to make me move - says I don't need all of this space - as if I'm in the lap of luxury." An imploring look. "Will you help?"

  He didn't intend to get involved. "Yes, if you co-operate."

  She had small, darting eyes. "Of course I will."

  "Good. How well did you know your neighbor?"

  A mangy cat trotted up and jumped onto her lap. She stroked its neck. "Hello, Snuggles." She looked back at Davidson. "Robert? Umm, not well. We bumped into each other sometimes, but I never went into his apartment, and he never came in here. He was a bit of a loner, I think. So am I."

  "When you bumped into him, what did you talk about?"

  "Not much: the weather, problems with the building. Like I said, he kept to himself."

  Helen Watkins interjected. "When was the last time you spoke to him?"

  "Oh, a couple of days ago." A smile. "He asked me about flowers."

  "Flowers?"

  "Yes, he asked what sort of flowers women like. I asked if he was going to give some to a woman. He said: 'No, she's coming over to my apartment.'"

  Davidson said: "Did he name her?"

  "No. But he looked happy - romantic."

  "You're sure about that?"

  A frown. "Of course. I wasn't born aged 75, you know."

  "Did you see the woman?"

  "No."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he have many women in his apartment?"

  "I don't know. I didn't see any and he didn't look like a ladies' man. But I didn't stand outside his door watching who went in."

  Davidson got to his feet. "Alright, thank you for your help. Where can we find the building supervisor?"