Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Taking it from her, he opened the folder, immediately feeling his chest constrict. Noting three repeating vid-images on the sheet, he tapped on the top one. Now playing, it showed a fresh crime scene video. One that, he suspected, had neither been moved, nor altered, in any way.

  “Who took this?”

  “A Frontier Marshal, named Phil Hough. Know him?” she asked.

  “Yeah . . . I know him. Knew him back on Earth. He’s all right; certainly not the worst of the lot.”

  “Hey . . . that’s the same lot you’re a part of,” Tori added.

  “Who called him to the scene?” Gallic asked.

  “Another rancher’s wife. The woman vic’s best friend. She found them.”

  He continued to watch the top video as the Frontier Marshal, Phil Hough, walked the crime scene’s inside location. It was an expansive, one-level, log cabin-style home. So far, Phil hadn’t viewed the actual room where the crime took place. The video ended just as he entered the home’s family room. He tapped on the second video, feeling Tori’s eyes on him.

  Two undefined bodies lay on the floor, although the camera quickly moved past them. Perspiration formed on Gallic’s brow, and he felt the small cockpit start to close in around him. In his inner consciousness, he heard the soft rumbling of vermin on the move.

  “Was Phil able to approximate TOD?”

  “Not from a scientific . . . pathological . . . perspective. He doesn’t have the right equipment for that sort of thing. Plus, we don’t want the crime scene messed-up by anyone else—amateurs. Anyway, the mother and daughter were last seen two days ago. They’d been horseback riding and were later spotted in a field . . . a quarter mile away from the cabin.”

  Now the panning camera was documenting the blood splatter on the light, fawn-colored, timber walls. There was a lot of it—most likely arterial spray, Gallic surmised. Phil had been thorough, chronicling the actual murder scene. The progressive panning movement suddenly halted then zoomed in. Gallic found he was unable to swallow. He stopped breathing, staring at the scene that came next. It was the woman—attractive, in her mid-thirties. Full frame now, her face stared upward, her eyes shut. On her eyelids could be seen the heads of nails. Her eyelids had been nailed closed. One hand covered her mouth, which was tightly secured to her cheek by another nail. Her other hand had reached across the hardwood floor to another, smaller, hand—her daughter’s. Grasped tightly together, they held hands. The girl, Gallic guessed, looked to be about twelve. Her eyes were open. Nailed open. The hand her mother wasn’t holding was covering her mouth. Both faces had been cleaned of any residual blood from all the nailing.

  “Has the ME looked at this?”

  “Of course.”

  “The hammered-in nails . . . post mortem?”

  “Yes. Every indication is they were already deceased.”

  Gallic’s pulse rate momentarily spiked. After so many years had the murderer struck again? Although he tried to feel empathy for the victims, his only concern was catching the son of a bitch.

  A new crime scene meant new evidence . . . new leads. This time he wasn’t going to be locked out. Captivated by what he was viewing, he was equally aware of his personal, self-centered, reaction to it all. Yet something was wrong. Sure, things seemed to pretty much match the crime scene of his wife and daughter—but . . .

  Gallic said, “I seriously doubt it’s him, probably not the same guy.”

  Tori leveled her gaze on him. “How can you say that? It’s . . . identical, or incredibly similar to . . .” letting her words drop away.

  She didn’t know what he knew. “The one who did this . . . atrocity . . . was certainly a sick fuck. But until I see the actual crime scene, I can’t rule out a copycat.” Gallic tapped on the last video, which showed deep lacerations on both vics’ ankles and necks. The source of all the blood. Yes—it seemed close; everything perfectly staged. But there was one important aspect that had never made it into the official file. He needed to get to the crime scene. Only then would he know if this was the work of the hammer-and-nails murderer: Clair and Mandy’s killer.

  Chapter 7

  Deep Space — D-22 Star-cruiser Cockpit.

  Warm, morning breezes inwardly billowed the sheer bedroom curtains. Clair wore a snug-fitting, baby-blue T-shirt and nothing else. His eyes roved down the taut soft cotton material—revealing small, erect nipples underneath it. Straddling him, her long straw-colored hair hung forward, touching his face. It was Sunday morning. This was their time. No work demands and Mandy was either asleep or watching cartoons downstairs. He gazed up at her, her bottom lip seductively captured between upper and lower front teeth. She leaned down to kiss him, when suddenly a commotion came from downstairs. Someone was knocking on the door. A dog, three houses down, began to bark. Mandy yelled something from the bottom of the stairs, and the intimate moment was gone. Clair gave up and laughed out loud. He rolled her over onto her side and tickled her, which made her softly scream. She hated to be tickled. Trying to sound angry, she chided him to knock it off, but losing control, she laughed hysterically. He tried his best to keep ahold of her flailing arms as she wiggled to free herself. Gyrating her legs, she kicked him hard in the stomach, but upon noting his pained reaction, she regained her position atop him. “You’re in so much trouble, Mister . . .”

  A rapid jostling motion awakened him.

  The ship was coming out of FTL. All too quickly, those treasured, heartfelt images began to fade away, returning once again to wherever one’s lost hopes and dreams resided. Where they would wait—somewhere in the stillness of time and space—until again returning to torture a man’s soul; to someone like Gallic, who had lost everything that mattered.

  He rubbed his face in his hands and looked out the forward window.

  Tori glanced his way. “Anything you can tell me about this planet before we get there?”

  Gallic yawned and sat straighter in his seat. “Gorman’s not a hell of a lot different from Muleshoe, at least from a geographical perspective. It has a far larger population, and there’s a bit more water on this planet. A milder climate too; it’s where the hoity-toity ranchers prefer to live.”

  “I need to ask you one more time . . . you going to be okay? The crime scene being so similar, and all?”

  “You need to stop worrying about me. I’m a big boy. Look . . . I was a homicide investigator when your biggest problem was deciding what shoes best matched your dress for your high school senior prom.”

  “I didn’t go to my senior prom,” she said flatly.

  Gallic wasn’t surprised to hear that. “I’m actually more worried about you,” he said. “The crime scene’s sure to be ripe by now, with the house closed up. What’s it been? Thirty hours? It’ll be ghastly.”

  Gallic watched her face, the effort she made not to show any concern. No matter what Danbury had conveyed to him, about Tori being one of his best, was pure bullshit. You don’t send out your best investigator to remote territories. Gallic pictured a handful of Danbury’s inspectors standing around in the D-22 break room, kibitzing and laughing about Tori’s big assignment to the remote territories. He suspected that she, although somewhat more seasoned now, was still a walking-talking cluster-fuck.

  He asked, “Can you tell me more about the woman vic . . . Catherine?”

  “It was in the file I showed you. Instead of sleeping, maybe you should have been reading.”

  “I read the entire file. I’m talking about her personal life. Who were her friends and what did she do with her time? Where did she typically go during the day? What’s the situation with her husband? Were they solid . . . or having marital problems?”

  Annoyance crossed her face. “The husband’s not a suspect. Was away on business. He’s on his way back from Earth, as we speak.”

  “Come on! The husband is always a concern. Unless he’s dead . . . you investigate that angle first. Eight times out of ten, the killer has a personal relationship with the vic. You do know that .
. . right?” Gallic asked.

  “Of course, I know that. But he wasn’t anywhere near here . . . and we’re fairly certain this is the work of that same hammer-and-nails killer.”

  Gallic gave a half smile. “That’s a pretty strong assumption, since you haven’t visited the crime scene yet. Let’s hold off speculating on that until we know more.”

  Tori’s cheeks flushed, her mouth narrowing to a thin mean line.

  “Who will be there . . . to open the house?” he asked.

  “Phil Hough and Linda Cugan. She’s one of the neighbor’s and was the vic’s best friend. She found the bodies.”

  Cugan? He’d read her name in the file. He wondered if having the same last name as Larz Cugan was a coincidence. “What do you know about Linda?”

  “I know enough that she’s not a suspect!”

  “Is she married?”

  Tori, bringing the star-cruiser into high orbit around the mud-colored planet, answered, “Yes, she has a daughter, Juaquin. Twelve, she’s the same age as the dead girl, Tami. Also, an older son—Larz—who’s in his mid-twenties.”

  Quite a wide age-spread between the siblings, Gallic thought.

  * * *

  Quickly descending out from blue skies several thousand feet up, Gallic took in the landscape below. The word picturesque came to mind. Green pastureland, like velvet, reached out to the far horizon. Occasional shimmering ponds, and several sprawling, timber ranch-style homes—each with an adjoining stable—shared white, split-rail fences and large, red, white, or timber-colored, barns. A cluster of white moved below and then another—a herd of several hundred sheep. Three hovering drones herded them toward a group of men on horseback. Ranch hands, Gallic figured.

  As Tori maneuvered the cruiser toward one of the further-off ranches, she said, “So here live Gorman’s super-rich.”

  Gallic saw the unmistakable profile of Phil Hough’s ship: A U.S. made Gallivanter-Series 3 transport truck. Fairly large, about half the size of the Hound, his vessel was also a decade newer. Four smaller vehicles were parked in front of the home. Two were spacecraft, while the other two looked to be personal hovercrafts—expensive—and probably from neighboring ranches. He saw a handful of people milling around the front of the house.

  Tori engaged the landing thrusters and brought the cruiser down near Phil’s Gallivanter. She queried Gallic, “Help me with the equipment?”

  “Sure.”

  Reaching across him, Tori put an open palm on Gallic’s chest—pressing him backwards into his seat. “And remember . . . you’re an observer here. Don’t even think about fouling up my crime scene. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Gallic said, keeping his outer demeanor neutral. Within he felt anything but, needing to remind himself that it wasn’t Clair and Mandy inside the house. Feeling intense uneasiness, which could easily turn to paralysis, it took all his willpower to clear his mind. You need to detach . . . disconnect.

  Tori slapped a button on the dash and both hatch doors released, opening at the same time. Gallic, after climbing out, stood and stretched and rolled his shoulders. He joined Tori at the back of the cruiser, where she’d opened a cargo hold. She handed Gallic a satchel—marked Processing Kit—then handed him a toaster-sized metal box, which had a cone-shaped sniffer on one end. Gallic had used similar FDS units—Field DNA Samplers—more times than he could count. Gone were the days of taking fingerprints; of swabbing and scraping and collecting. The FDS unit did all that, and with far more accuracy, along with specific, real-time 3D relational crime scene correlation down to the micron-level. The data collected by the FDS unit would enable the forensic geeks, back at D-22, to recreate a simulated—virtual—crime scene. From the amounts and locations of organic matter, DNA would be determined. With such sophisticated equipment, getting away with murder in the twenty-second-century was highly unlikely. But not impossible. Especially out here—almost ten light years distance from Earth.

  Straps over both shoulders, Tori carried three satchels as the two headed for the house. The first one to greet them was Phil Hough. Gallic remembered Phil, who had about ten years on him and looked it. Wearing a paisley, snap-down western shirt, dappled with an assortment of food stains, along with scuffed cowboy boots, he wore his graying hair long and slicked back. Two, or three, days’ growth of a grisly beard completed his unkempt demeanor. Someone, obviously, who didn’t give two bits what others thought of his appearance. Gallic instinctively liked the man and accepted his outstretched hand. His firm handshake, along with steady eye contact, reminded Gallic that here was a man he knew he could trust.

  “Hey, Phil . . . how’s it hanging these days?”

  “A bit to the left . . . mostly,” Phil answered with a smile. “Been a while, huh? You doing good?”

  “I’m all right,” Gallic said.

  Phil went to shake Tori’s hand, but they were still full. “I’m Phil Hough . . . and don’t believe a word this guy’s told you about me. Unless it was something good.”

  Tori returned a perfunctory smile, moving toward the house.

  Gallic’s attention was then drawn elsewhere. He could see one of the pristine vehicles parked on the property’s front driveway was a brand new Hausenbach L35T. If he wasn’t mistaken, the ship was the same 5T he’d recently dropped off with Polly Gant, at Imperial Bail Bonds & Repos.

  “What the hell’s he doing here?” Larz Cugan asked, stepping out of the harsh, mid-day shadows, running along the side of the house. Minus the white jacket and ascot, he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday. The young man must have gotten a ride—hightailed it to Rawlins City, paid his delinquent billings, then returned on the 5T to Gorman, arriving ahead of them. Gallic knew the 5T was one fast vehicle . . . but that was impressive! Johnnie, minus Donnie, was with him, wearing a tucked-in, red flannel shirt. His blue jeans, worn ridiculously high, covered his protruding belly.

  Larz took a final drag on a cigarette butt then flicked it away. With Johnnie in tow, he quickly approached Gallic—his eyes narrow and full of malice.

  Phil said, “Well, I see you two know each other. Let me make some introductions. This is Linda Cugan, the vic’s . . . um . . . sorry . . . Mrs. Bower’s neighbor and close friend. She was the one who discovered the bodies.”

  Linda Cugan looked to be in her early forties, though possibly older. She was nicely put together, wearing both designer jeans and hairstyle, and with makeup done just so. Her exposed tanned arms were wrapped about her, and she looked like she’d rather be anywhere than here. She glanced toward the house and shuddered.

  “You the one who took my boy’s 5T?” she asked.

  “That, I did, Ma’am,” Gallic said.

  She didn’t comment to that. Head down, she maintained the same sour expression then asked, “Can we just get this over with? I need to get back home.”

  Tori came over to them after dropping her bags at the front porch. “Mrs. Cugan . . . I’m Sergeant Tori. An Inspector for the Colonial Police—Space District 22. I’ll be the one speaking with you today.” Tori gave Gallic a dismissive glance. “First of all, I’d like to say how sorry I am for your loss.”

  Linda widened her eyes and exhaled, conveying she didn’t want to hear it.

  Tori made a series of taps on her ComsBand, then asked, “I’ll be recording both questions and answers, so there’s an official record. Is that all right?”

  Linda Cugan shrugged her thin shoulders. “There’s not much to tell. I walked in . . . I found them dead. I screamed . . . and got the hell out of there.”

  “Which door did you enter through?”

  “The front. It was unlocked.”

  Gallic asked, “Is that common . . . for you to enter without knocking?” He ignored Tori’s annoyed expression.

  “We never knock. Catherine and I . . . and the kids . . . are like family. Closer than family.”

  Larz and Johnnie were now at Linda’s side. Once close together, it was easy to see they were mother and son. Gallic looke
d off to the horizon and asked, “Where’s your home in relation to this property?”

  Larz answered for her: “It’s right over there, butt-wipe. We’re next-door neighbors.”

  “Don’t be rude, Larz . . . I won’t stand for it,” Linda scolded.

  Gallic suspected the distant ranch was hers—twice, maybe thrice, the size of this one. He then suggested, “What do you say we talk to you later, Mrs. Cugan. Being here must be uncomfortable for you. Would it be all right if we drop by, say in an hour or two?”

  Tori looked as if she were about to blow a gasket. Giving a be patient expression at her, he turned back to Linda.

  “Yes . . . that would be much better.” For the first time, she looked up at him and held his gaze for a second—thanking him with her eyes.

  As she turned and walked away, she said over her shoulder, “Larz . . . take me home.”

  Larz flipped Gallic the bird before hurrying after his mother. Johnnie, staying still, said, “I’m not going to forget what you did to Donnie. You and I have unfinished business.”

  “Whatever. But you first might want to ask Donnie how that worked out for him,” Gallic said.

  Like Larz, Johnnie too flipped him the bird then waddled off after them.

  Phil looked confused. “I see you still have a good way with people, Gallic.”

  Tori, waiting for the other three to be out of earshot, exclaimed, “Damn it! That was exactly what I told you not to do. I wanted to question her here . . . at the scene.”

  “No, you don’t! You saw her. All hunched over . . . wound up tighter than a spring. She’d be useless here. No . . . let her go home. Have a Manhattan . . . maybe two. Talking to her at her home, she’ll be far less guarded . . . far more revealing. And one other thing. . . .”

  Annoyed, she shook her head. “And what’s that?”

  “We need to take a good look inside her house. Can you think of a better way to do that?”

  Tori pursed her lips for a second then said, “No, I guess not.”