Burnside's Killer_Extended Version

by Timothy Ellis

  The droids hoisted the men and left, presumably to the station's brig.

  "That was impressive," I huffed.

  It took me a few moments to get my breath back, but the two women looked utterly calm.

  "Of course it was," said Janet. "If I couldn't handle a pair of unarmed thugs, I certainly wouldn't be entrusted with Jon Hunter's safety."

  I turned to Jane.

  "Thanks for trying to fake them out like that."

  "I was trying to de-escalate the situation," she said, with a scowl. "You're lucky everyone in this bar doesn't know who you are now. Your actions were extremely ill-advised."

  "Maybe," I said, flexing the pain out of my fist. "But they sure felt good."

  She shook her head, and turned to face Janet, who was suggesting to the woman who'd been serving our drinks that she forget what just happened at our table.

  I couldn't actually see it, but I got the distinct impression the young captain was rolling her eyes at me.

  Twenty Three

  I slept like the dead, and woke the next morning feeling better than I had in days. My hotel suite was as comfortable as any I'd ever stayed in, and I couldn't help thinking, if this was what Hunter's places were like before they were in order, I'd have loved to see one he'd actually had time to work on.

  A set of fresh clothes had been delivered to my suite at some point while I slept, Janet's doing I assumed, so I tried them on after my shower. They were a perfect fit, which begged the question of how the hell they could get tailored clothing without ever measuring me. Just another of the talents Janet and her maybe-sister Jane seemed to possess.

  A text message on my PC told me to head straight to Janet's office when I was up and about, so that's what I did. I was getting good at this diplomacy stuff, outside of starting a punch-up at the bar of course, after realizing for the most part, it consisted of doing what I was told. I'd made a career out of doing the opposite of that, but here, where the law couldn't reach, I was finding a whole new perspective on things.

  And damned if I didn't like it, too.

  I kept to the shadows as much as I could on my way to security, keeping in mind the very real possibility that our killer had arrived overnight. But none of the few people I encountered gave me a second glance. Most of them seemed to be focused on their daily work, which I imagine they were just happy to have, given what Speck had said, and what had happened to the station over the past several months.

  Janet was engrossed in a hollo screen as I entered her office.

  "Your suit fits," she said without looking up.

  It wasn't a question.

  "Like a glove, thanks. How did you manage to get it made so quickly? And how did you get my measurements?"

  "There's a tailor shop on the fourth level, with droids available around the clock. As for your dimensions, I have eyes, so I used them."

  All right, then. It seemed talents I didn't possess were commonplace here in Midnight System. It was all starting to give me the beginnings of an inferiority complex.

  "Sleep well?" I asked.

  She ignored the question.

  "We've had five dozen people arrive since you got here," she said. "Thirty-three of them are female, though seven are over the age of fifty, which takes them out of the demographics for our killer."

  I sidled up to her, and took a look at the hollos over her shoulder. There were scans of every ship which had docked, including screens of their cargo bays, along with manifests, and other paperwork. Beside each was a still photo of the occupants taken from cams in the airlocks.

  "It's possible the IDs they've presented are fake," I warned.

  "It's not just possible, it's probable," she said in a tone that reminded me of a teacher. "Fake credentials are the first investment most smugglers, pirates, and bounty hunters make in their careers. Without them, they wouldn't be able to earn a living. But most of these are genuine traders in my opinion. I'm still waiting on confirmation from down-spine on most of them, so we can't be sure."

  The sense of being out of my depth was really starting to get under my skin now.

  "All right, then," I grumbled. "If that's the case, how do you know how old they really are?"

  "The same way I knew your measurements."

  I couldn't argue with that, so I didn't try.

  "I've compiled a list of potential suspects here," she said, pointing to a section of the hollo. "Obviously we'll add to it as more people arrive. Word has gotten around about the upcoming celebration, and we're expecting quite a few at the party."

  "And you're still not worried?"

  "No, and if you bring it up one more time, I might be tempted to just confiscate your yacht, and put you on the next public transport back to Earth System."

  "Okay, okay." I held my hands up in surrender. "I'm just putting it out there our killer might not be the only assassin looking to take advantage of Jon Hunter being in a confined space for a while."

  "Most assassins know better than to take on such a ridiculously difficult contract," she said. "It's well documented what happened to the ones who've already tried. Even if they could get close enough to Jon to kill him, they would know they couldn't get back off the station alive."

  "What about a suicide mission? Kill Jon, leave the money to their family, or their guild?"

  She turned to face me for the first time since I'd entered the office, and again I was reminded of a teacher.

  "I know I'm young, Detective," she said.

  "Dick," I interrupted.

  "Dick. Fine. As I said, I may be young, but trust me, I have analysed every angle of the situation. So has Jane. We're taking the best possible course of action to ensure Jon's safety, and capture your killer for you. We'd both be grateful if you'd keep your concerns to yourself."

  My eyes narrowed. Be diplomatic, Burnside, I scolded myself.

  "I certainly didn't mean to imply you two aren't good at what you do. But I've been a cop for a long time, and I've developed what I like to think are pretty good instincts."

  "And we appreciate them," she said. "If you have suggestions, we're happy to listen to them. In fact, your cooperation is crucial to the success of the plan. But I'm getting tired of repeating the fact that Jon Hunter will be fine."

  "All right," I sighed. "Message received. Hunter's safety is not my business. So what exactly is the plan from this point? And where is Jane?"

  Janet went back to studying the hollos.

  "Jane is on assignment for Jon, and won't be back for a while. As for the plan, I called you here to run through the list of people we've created, and pare it down to the most probable suspects."

  "That much I can do," I said, taking a seat next to her.

  A few moments later a butler droid brought a coffee service, and placed it on a table near us. I noticed Janet didn't partake. Fine with me, I'd help myself to her share. Coffee is proof of God's existence, as far as I'm concerned.

  "We can eliminate twenty of the twenty-six women on the list, right out of the gate," I said.

  "How so?"

  I took a sip from my cup, and pointed to the manifests.

  "Only six of them originated from anywhere near the Avon system. The rest had been on longer journeys."

  "Manifests can be faked," she said.

  "Jane told me a conventional ship wouldn't have been able to get here for at least six hours after we arrived, which was," I checked my PC, "about a dozen hours ago. So anyone who arrived before six hours ago can be eliminated from the list."

  "Good point," she said. "Maybe I won't put you on the next transport."

  I grinned.

  "Lucky me. My gut is telling me the killer wanted to get here early. The last murder went off the rails, and she took a huge risk by using the victim's computer to search for details about Hunter's Redoubt. To me, that suggests that she's on a timeline. Normally, a killer would have simply rabbited from the scene, and holed up, waiting until the heat was off before planning her next kill."
/>   "If we go by your assumption, then only three of the women on this list fit the profile of our suspect."

  She pointed to photos of three women, all of whom were listed as freighter captains. Two brunettes and a blonde. Beside each photo was their credential information, which, even if it was fake, would allow us to keep track of them. The first brunette was named Charlotte Colter. The second was Lindsay Thayer. The blonde called herself Ingrid Blakstov.

  "Freighter captain would be the perfect cover," said Janet. "With the amount of cargo traffic on the station, security wouldn't look twice at them. Under normal circumstances, of course."

  Something else I'd missed. How was the killer moving around without being noticed? Freighter captain would make it almost too easy. A classic case of hiding in plain sight. Crews go down planet a lot while ships are offloaded, and loaded up again. Nothing at all surprising about it, and a killer would just be lost in the crowds. I brought my attention back to Janet, who pointed to the first brunette.

  "Ms. Colter looks physically formidable, suggesting someone who'd be able to match James Patterson in terms of strength."

  She was right. Colter was built like a wrestler, with wide shoulders, and narrow hips. But she was also wrong.

  "There were no signs of struggle," I said. "None of the evidence points to any physical altercations of any sort."

  Janet was quiet for a moment.

  "All of the victims were found in bed, except for one of them was on the dining room table, correct?"

  I nodded, marvelling at her mental abilities, just as I had Jane's.

  "Arnem Heissman, yeah. That one always puzzled me."

  "Heissman's autopsy report listed his weight at one hundred and seven kilos. It would have taken considerable strength to lift him onto a meter-high tabletop."

  "My working theory was she had an accomplice."

  "Why do you assume that?" Janet asked, arching an eyebrow. "Wouldn't it make more sense she was simply strong enough to lift him herself?"

  "It would," I nodded, "except for one important thing. Heissman was well-known for preferring submissive women. His wife was a patrician bitch who emasculated him at every opportunity. All Intel suggested his many girlfriends were mousy, and did anything to please him. My gut told me he was afraid of powerful women, which made it unlikely that he'd allow one of them to get close enough to kill him."

  Janet processed that for a moment.

  "Your gut again," she said. "I have to admit it makes a certain amount of sense. All right, then, what does your gut think about the other two?"

  I examined the photos of Lindsay Thayer and Ingrid Blakstov. Both were attractive, fit, and looked to be in their late twenties, or early thirties. I could see either of them with the victims. I know it's stereotyping, but even now, in the 27th century, men like James Patterson have a type, especially when they're picking them up in a parking lot after a Cornerball match. If only the vid footage from the stadium had given us a clear shot of the killer, we could just follow whichever of the suspects looked the most like her. Assuming the woman from the stadium was even the killer, of course. That wasn't a guarantee. Nothing in this case was a guarantee.

  But all that had been visible in the vid, was a patch of green hair, and it could easily be changed in a matter of minutes. So it did almost nothing to help me in this situation.

  "My gut is saying I need breakfast," I said finally. "So I guess we're going to have to keep an eye on both of them for now. I assume neither of them brought weapons on board?"

  Janet shook her head.

  "Scans of them both revealed nothing. Blakstov was wearing an outfit so skin tight, you could practically see her moles protruding from under the fabric. There's no way she had a weapon."

  "Unless…" I said, grinning.

  "Unless what?"

  "You know…"

  "I don't know."

  I sighed. Guess I had to spell it out.

  "Unless she had the weapon concealed in, ahem… a prison wallet."

  She stared at me, uncomprehending.

  "You know," I said. "An orifice."

  She shook her head again.

  "Impossible. Anything resembling a blade would have shown up on our scanners, regardless of where on her body it was. Even inside." She glared at me. "Also, ick."

  I shrugged.

  "It's my job to look at all angles, even the ones that aren't pretty."

  "Well, that's definitely not pretty."

  "In any case, it reinforces the theory she's going to have to procure a weapon here on the station."

  "Again, highly unlikely. Bladed weapons are tracked while on board. If anyone tried to pass one to her, we'd see it, and take note."

  I rubbed my chin. She was strangely certain, in spite of telling me there were gaps in the coverage. Belatedly, I wondered what she wasn’t telling me. And why.

  "What about a hospital? A scalpel would do the trick, and I assume you keep track of them."

  "We don't need to," she said. "The only scalpels are surgical lasers, and they're connected to the sick bay apparatus. They can't leave the room, and still work."

  "It's possible someone brought a blade on board at some point in the past, and left it for her, say, in a suite. From what I gather, you can only track weapons you're aware of, right?"

  "Yes, but you're presuming someone was able to smuggle a blade on board without us noticing. That's not possible."

  "What about before Hunter took over the station? Back in the Pompeii days?"

  "The station was thoroughly swept a long time ago. Again, Dick, I don't know how many times I have to say this. This station is secure. Period."

  The more I thought about it, the less sense the whole situation made. Obviously Jon Hunter was the most profitable target in the galaxy for a killer, but he was also the one who would be the most difficult to kill. Was the killer planning to change her MO for this one hit? It didn't make sense to spend so much time and effort perfecting it, just to turn around and abandon it.

  Then again, necessity was the mother of invention, and if she really wanted to kill him, she would find a way. History had shown she was not someone to underestimate.

  "I need to eat," I said finally. "Neither of these women can do anything until Hunter gets here, so we have plenty of time."

  I rose to leave, intent on heading to the nearest restaurant, stuffing myself with breakfast food, and charging it all to Hunter, but Janet held up a hand to stop me.

  "You'll have to order in," she said. "Your face can't be seen around the station, remember?"

  Shit. That was going to take some getting used to.

  "All right," I sighed. "I guess I better make myself comfortable here." I glanced around the room. "Or as comfortable as I'm going to get in this place. It looks like it was designed for droids, not humans."

  It didn't occur to me then, but it was actually a lot like the description of Jane's ship. But I'd have occasion to recall that fact soon enough.

  "It's a work in progress," said Janet. "I'll have someone bring in a more comfortable chair. That should help a little."

  I thanked her, then ordered breakfast from a place called Dorado's. Janet declined an offer to order for her.

  "I have a lot to do," she said. "Security chief is just one of my jobs, remember. There are a hundred tasks that need doing to get the station in proper order, and now there's a celebration to prepare for on top of it all."

  She gave me a basic primer on how to use the surveillance equipment, so that I could monitor my two suspects, and keep an eye on any other incoming vessels which might be ferrying the killer to Hunter's Redoubt. I thanked her, and watched as she headed out of the office into the station.

  Then I settled in for what was really just the equivalent of a stakeout. I sighed as I realized how quickly I'd gone from being a man of action, ready to kick ass and take names, to sitting around waiting for things to happen.

  Again.

  Twenty Four

  Detec
tive work is ten percent chasing bad guys, and ninety percent staring at evidence in the vain hope something will jump out and say 'here's your answer'.

  I'd been following the screens for the better part of three hours, and nothing had jumped out. Someone had come by to retrieve the breakfast dishes from the hallway outside the office, and drop off my chair, but other than that, nothing of interest had happened since Janet left.

  Lindsay Thayer had been in her ship basically since arriving. Not that there were cams in there, in a place like Hunter's Redoubt, surveillance of that sort would put you out of business instantly, but according to the security vid system set up throughout the station's public areas, she hadn't gone anywhere. Her manifest said she was scheduled to pick up another load of cargo, already on the way from Sydney, and depart for the British Sector in about three days' time.

  Ingrid Blakstov, meanwhile, was making the rounds at the station's bars, chatting up some of the locals, and generally looking like she was taking full advantage of her layover. Watching someone drink after I'd just finished breakfast was a bit strange, but I'd been in enough spaceports to know time was relative everywhere, and your morning was someone else's happy hour. While stations all kept the same Earth time, everywhere, it didn’t mean everyone did.

  I kept a close eye on her, if only because she was coming into contact with others, and Thayer wasn't. I knew it was impossible for a weapon to change hands without being detected, and none of Blakstov' companions had been armed, but again, I did what my gut told me. Around my lunch time, she packed it in, and went to her quarters. Her own manifest didn't list any outgoing cargo just yet, but that didn't mean she wasn't trying to drum up business while she was here. Even I knew freighter captains hated to deadhead anywhere without cargo, because it means they're not getting paid for half of their trip.

  I sighed heavily, and leaned back in the chair. It was thick and high-backed, far more comfortable than the hard, moulded seat Janet used. I had to accept the fact Blakstov and Thayer were both acting exactly how you would expect someone in their position to act. So either one of them was an excellent actress, or neither one of them was my killer.