The Suspect Genome (greg mandel)

by Peter Hamilton

  “Really?” Amanda was wondering if he was going to let any gossip loose when her cybofax bleeped. Denzil's face appeared on the screen with an indecently malicious expression. “What?” she asked cautiously.

  “The saliva is Claire's. The skin under the fingertips is not.”

  “Oh bugger,” she groaned. Even so, some part of her was glad Claire had possibly been cleared. Although she was still convinced the girl was hiding something. “Run a match through the central criminal records at the Home Office.” She didn't even consult Mike Wilson with that one.

  “Already running,” Denzil said. “Plot getting thicker, huh?”

  “Yeah, right.” She ended the call.

  Wilson was looking up at the top of the stairs. “So what do you think? Skin scrape from whoever pushed him.”

  “Looks that way. One last desperate grasp as he started to fall.” She walked over to the red outline of the body on the terra-cotta tiles, and turned a full circle. “So what else have we got? No sign yet of a forced entry, which implies either the security 'ware let them through or it was a professional hit and they could burn through the system without a trace.”

  “Pushing someone off the top of the stairs isn't a widely used assassination method. It's heat-of-the-moment. Which fits.”

  “Fits what?”

  “Someone turned up just after Claire left. A friend, or someone he knew. He let them in. There was an argument. It would also explain the air-conditioning. If it was a professional hit, then whoever did that wouldn't need to confuse the time of death, it wouldn't matter to them. For some reason, our murderer still cares about messing with the time.”

  “Still doesn't fit. If it was a friend, then the security 'ware would have an admissions record. There was nobody.”

  “We'd better have it checked very thoroughly, then. Get into the base management program and see if there's any sign of tampering.”

  Amanda nodded. “You have somebody who can do that?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “While they're at it, make sure they enhance the surveillance picture of the Ingalo when it left, I'd like to confirm no one was inside along with Claire.”

  “Fair enough. What else do you need?”

  She gestured out of the window wall. “Unless it was a real professional who yomped in over the fields, the only way to get here is to drive through the village. And believe me, that's not so easy. Bisbrooke is small, and confusing. The villagers would know all about strange cars. I want a door-to-door enquiry asking if any of them saw anything that night, any cars they didn't recognize, as well as full interviews with the neighboring apartments.”

  “That's a lot of labor-intensive groundwork. Could we just wait and see if the DNA register comes up with anything first?”

  “Okay. We need the other angle anyway. This will give us some time.”

  “Other angle?”

  “The motive, Mike. Personal, or financial, or professional jealousy, what-ever…We need to start the good old-fashioned process of elimination. So, you get your expert here to examine the security 'ware, and I'll get back to the station and give Alison a hand with Tyler's finances.”

  It was late afternoon when Alison slapped a hand down on her terminal keyboard with a disgusted sigh, canceling a search program. “He doesn't have bloody finances, you've got to have money for that. All Tyler has are debts.”

  Which wasn't strictly true. Amanda glanced at Tyler's bank statement again. To think, she always worried about her monthly salary payment arriving in time to satisfy her standing orders and credit-card bill. Some people obviously operated on a higher plane. Although he owed close to quarter of a million New Sterling, the banks just kept extending his credit limit. Why he didn't pay it off she couldn't understand. His cashflow was more than adequate. Of course, neither she nor Alison could track down where half of the money actually came from, and in most cases where it went. One account at a bank in Peterborough was used just for withdrawing large sums of hard cash.

  Amanda looked over at Mike Wilson who was studying some of the details himself. “I think we might justifiably request a qualified accountant at this point.”

  He ran a hand back through his hair, looking at a twisting column of numbers in one of the cubes with a perplexed expression. “I think you might be right.”

  Denzil came in and grinned at the blatant despondency in the room. “Having fun?”

  “Always,” Alison said sweetly.

  “I have a positive result.”

  Amanda sat up fast. “What?”

  “The skin scrape is definitely nobody we know of. No record of that DNA in the Home Office memory core. I even squirted the problem over to Interpol. They don't have it either. And before you ask, neither does the FBI.” He gave Wilson an affable smile. “You'll get the bill tomorrow.”

  “I live for it.”

  “You want me to look elsewhere? Most countries will cooperate.”

  “I think we'll have to,” Amanda said. “After all, that DNA is our murderer. Mike?”

  “I agree. Although, I'd like to suggest widening the search parameters.”

  “How?”

  “Organizations such as Interpol and the FBI simply store the DNA of known criminals. If it were a professional hit, I'd say search every police memory core on the planet. However, we favor the theory that this was a heat-of-the-moment killing, do we not?”

  “I can go with that,” she said.

  “Then our murderer is unlikely to be listed.”

  “It was always a long shot, but what else can we do?” She pointed at the cubes full of financial datawork. “If we can find a motive, we can track the murderer that way.”

  “Crescent has a DNA-characteristics assembly program. I suggest we use that.”

  Denzil whistled quietly. “I'm impressed.”

  “I might be,” Amanda said. “If I knew what you were talking about.”

  “The genes which make us what we are, are spaced out along the genome, the map of our DNA,” Mike Wilson said. “Now that we know which site designates which protein or characteristic, like hair color or shape of the ear, it's possible to examine the genes which contribute to the facial features and see what that face will look like.”

  “You mean you can give me a picture of this person?” Amanda asked.

  “Essentially, yes. We can then ask Tyler's friends and acquaintances if they recognize him…or her.” He waved a hand at the busy terminal cubes. “Got to be easier than this, quicker, too. Crescent can also run standard comparison programs with the visual images stored in our data cores, and with the security departments of all the other companies we have reciprocal arrangements with. I think you'll find they're considerably more extensive than the criminal records held by governments. For a start, between us, the insurance companies have copies of every driving license issued in Europe. And we already decided the murderer drove to Bisbrooke.”

  Amanda studied him. This was suddenly too easy. Something was wrong, and she couldn't define it…apart from an intuitive distrust she had for the corporate machinator. And yet, he was helping. Solving the crime, in all probability. “How long will it take?”

  “If we courier a sample of the DNA over to Crescent's lab in Oxford this evening, the program can crunch the genome overnight. We can have the picture by morning.”

  “Okay. Do it.”

  Amanda hated working Sundays. No way around it this week, though. And maybe, just maybe, she might get overtime, courtesy of Crescent.

  When she arrived at the station there was an unusually large crowd of people in the main CID office for the time and day, uniform division as well as detectives. Alison gave Amanda a wry smile as she came in.

  “The scene-of-crime team found something interesting,” she said in a low voice, suggesting conspiracy. “No shortage of volunteers to go over this lot for us.”

  “What?” Amanda asked. She edged through the group to look at the flatscreen they were all absorbed with. It was a split
-screen image, three viewpoints of the main bedroom in Byrne Tyler's apartment. Tyler himself was on the bed with a girl, their naked bodies writhing in animal passion.

  Alison held up a carton full of memox crystals. “There's a lot of them. Over sixty.”

  “Okay.” Amanda walked over to the AV player and switched it off. “That's enough. This is supposed to be a bloody police station, not a porno shop.”

  They moaned, one or two jeered, but nobody actually voiced a complaint. The group broke up, filing out of the CID office with sheepish grins and locker room chuckles.

  “They found three cameras in there yesterday,” Alison said. “Quite a professional recording setup. Looks like Tyler was something of an egotistical voyeur.”

  “Was he recording Wednesday night?” Amanda asked sharply. At least that explained why he didn't have a top sheet on his bed, she thought.

  “No. Or at least, there was no memox of it. The AV recorder the cameras are rigged to was empty.”

  “Pity.”

  Alison rattled the carton. “Plenty more suspects: all the husbands and boyfriends.”

  The little black cylinders rolled about. Ten-hour capacity each. Amanda found herself doing mental arithmetic. Assuming they were even half-full, Tyler had been a very busy boy. Popular, too. “Is there an index?”

  “Yes.” Alison flourished a ziplock bag containing several sheets of paper. “In ink no less—I guess he didn't want to risk this list getting burned open by a hotrod. Mostly just first names, but he got some surnames as well; and they've all got dates. They go back over two years. There's quite a few personalities I recognize.”

  “Okay, scan the list in to your terminal and run the names through a search program. Then see if a visual-characteristics recognition program can identify the girls we don't have full names for. I want to know where all of them live, if they're married or have long-term partners, parents of the younger ones, that kind of thing. Oh, and check to see if the crystals are there.”

  Mike Wilson walked in past the last of the uniform division. His expression was bleak. “What did I miss?” he inquired.

  “Tyler liked to record himself in bed,” Alison said. “We found the crystals.”

  “Oh, shit. We'd better keep that quiet.”

  Amanda frowned. Not quite the response she expected. “I was planning on it,” she said. “How did the DNA characteristics assembly go?”

  He flipped open a shiny chrome Event Horizon executive cybofax and gave it an instruction. A young man's face appeared, light brown hair, greenish eyes, a thin nose, broad mouth. There was a small digital read-out in the corner of the screen saying: 18 YEARS. It started to wind forward. The man began to change, aging. Wrinkles appeared, the cheeks and neck thickened; the hairline receded, gray streaks appeared. The display finished at eighty years, showing a wizened face with shrunken cheeks plagued by liver spots, and wisps of silver-white hair.

  “Denzil was right,” Amanda said. “That's impressive. Just how accurate is it?”

  “Perfectly accurate.”

  “You sound unhappy.”

  “There was no positive match.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, we got hundreds of people who share eighty-five to ninety percent similarity. We just captured an image from every five years of his life and the computer ran a standard visual comparison reference program for each of them. In total we have access to pictures of two hundred twenty-five-million Caucasian males. Can you believe it? Nothing over ninety percent.”

  Amanda couldn't work out if she was disappointed or not. Mike Wilson had sounded so sure this was the solution, and now for all the astonishing technology and corporate data cores they had to revert to humble police work. “Give us the top twenty off your list, and we'll start to work through them, check if they knew Tyler, alibis, the usual. English residents to start with, please.”

  “Okay,” he acknowledged the request with a subdued nod. “Who the hell did this? The only way this murderer could elude our programs is with major plastic surgery, changing his appearance.”

  “Someone in showbusiness, then,” Alison said brightly.

  “The percentage is a lot higher among celebrities than the rest of the population. They're always improving their appearance.”

  “Could be.” Uncertainty was a strong presence in his voice.

  “Alison, that can be your priority,” Amanda said. “We'll turn Tyler's finances over to a professional accountant. That'll free us to interview friends and colleagues, see if any of them recognize this picture.” Her finger tapped the cybofax screen. “I'll start with the Sullivans. You concentrate on his fellow celebrities.”

  Amanda was just going out the station door when she caught sight of a silhouette in the reception area, a man talking to the desk sergeant. “Greg?”

  Greg Mandel turned round. His eyes narrowed for a second, then he grinned. “Amanda Patterson, right? Detective sergeant?”

  She shook the hand he offered. “Detective, now.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. So what are you doing here?”

  “Checking on a vehicle accident. One of Eleanor's family was hurt.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry. Any luck?”

  “None at all.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how the police force works. Traffic doesn't get the highest priority these days. Want me to pull any strings?”

  “No. That's okay, thanks. I guess CID's pretty busy with the Tyler case. I saw it on the news.”

  “Yeah. It's my case, too.” She glanced from Greg back to Mike Wilson who was standing waiting politely. Asking never hurt, she thought, and she'd had a reasonable relationship with Greg during an earlier case when he'd been appointed as a special adviser to Oakham's CID. “Look, Greg, I realize this probably isn't the best time to ask you, but the Tyler case is really a ball-breaker for me. We're hitting a lot of stone walls.”

  “Uh huh.” Greg's expression became reluctant, trying to work out how to extricate himself.

  “Just sit in on one interview, Greg, that's all I need. I've got a suspect I'm not sure about. How about it? You can cut straight through all the usual crap and tell me if she's on the level. We can even pay you a fee. Mike here is from Crescent Insurance, they're picking up the tab for Tyler.”

  Greg and Mike eyed each other suspiciously.

  “What exactly is your field?” Mike asked.

  “I have a gland,” Greg said mildly.

  Amanda enjoyed the discomfort leaking over Mike Wilson's face. She'd endured the same feeling the first time she met Greg; every guilty memory rushing to the front of her mind.

  “I thought we'd cleared Claire?” Mike Wilson protested.

  “She was at the apartment very close to the time,” Amanda said. “And I know she's holding something back. That's why I need a psychic, to see where I'm going wrong. If I knew the right questions to ask her I bet we could take some big steps forward.”

  Mike Wilson clearly wanted to object; just didn't have the nerve.

  “Detective's intuition, huh?” Greg asked.

  “Must be catching,” she told him spryly.

  He consulted his watch. “Okay. I can give you an hour. But I'll have to call Eleanor first, let her know where I am.”

  She couldn't resist it. “Under the thumb, Greg—you?”

  His smile was bright and proud. “Certainly am, I have two women in my life now. Christine is six months old.”

  “Oh, I didn't know. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  Amanda and Mike Wilson took it in turns to brief Greg on the case as they drove out to Uppingham. Just before they got to the roundabout with the A47 at Uppingham, Greg said: “I'd like to take a look at the apartment first.”

  “Why is that necessary?” Wilson asked.

  “It's best if I can get a feel for the event,” Greg said. “Sometimes my intuition can be quite strong. It might help with the interview.”

  They pulled up in Ch
urch Vista's courtyard. Greg got out and looked round, head tilted back slightly as if he was sniffing at the air. Wilson watched him, but didn't comment. There was a police seal on the door to apartment three, which Amanda's card opened.

  Greg went over to the red outline at the foot of the stairs. “What was the result from the security 'ware?”

  “As far as we can tell it's clean,” Mike Wilson said. “If it was tampered with, then whoever did it covered their tracks perfectly.”

  “Hmm.” Greg nodded and started to walk round, glancing at the coffee table with its spread of glossy art books.

  “We've collected statements from all the neighbors now,” Amanda said. “None of them heard or saw any other car arriving or departing that night. It was only Claire and the Ingalo. And we've received the enhanced images from the security camera by the gates. She was the only person in it coming in and out.”

  “Well, I can appreciate your problem,” Greg said. He was walking along the wall, examining the pictures one at a time. “Circumstances make it look like a professional hit, but pushing Tyler down the stairs is strictly a chance killing.”

  “Tell me,” Amanda muttered. “We know there was someone else here, we even know what they look like. But everything else we've got says it's Claire.”

  “Can I see the image you assembled from the genome data?”

  Mike Wilson flipped open his cybofax and showed Greg the image while it ran through its eighteen-to-eighty lifecycle.

  “Doesn't ring any psychic bells,” Greg said. He stopped beside the smallest painting on the wall, a picture of a hill with a strange object in the air above it. “This is a bit out of place, isn't it?” The pictures on either side were colored chalk sketches of ballerinas clad only in tutus.

  “Is that relevant?” Wilson asked as he slipped the cybofax back in his jacket pocket. He was beginning to sound more positive, overcoming his apprehension of the gland and its reputation.

  “Probably not,” Greg admitted. He led them up the stairs into the bedroom. The crime scene team had tagged the three cameras that were discreetly hidden within elaborate picture frames, the units no bigger than a coat button. Slender fiber-optic threads buried in the plaster linked them to an AV recorder deck in a chest of drawers.