Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  They passed by a narrow, galley-style kitchen—its sole window peering out to endless miles of what Gallic surmised were stalks of corn. On the counter rested a coffee machine and stacks of now-slumbering vid-sheets.

  “Ugh . . .”

  “You okay back there?” Gallic asked over his shoulder.

  “If you’re asking me if I’m going to spew . . . I’m fine. Maybe.”

  They made their way into the master bedroom, Gallic’s own stomach was protesting at the increased retched smell. At the room’s threshold, the dark carpeting had noticeably transitioned into a lighter beige color. Two bedside tables flanked an unmade queen-sized bed; a TV panel hung on the opposing wall. Two sets of bare feet, lying on the carpeting, extended out from the other side of the bed.

  Being careful where he walked, Gallic came around the foot of the bed and took in the murder scene. He felt Tori’s presence close beside him, her hand resting on her stomach. He heard her swallow. Neither one spoke.

  He looked at them and shook his head. Since the murder of his own wife and child—there’d been a flurry of media attention. Why that one particular double murder had become so popular with so many, both on Earth and beyond, into distant space, Gallic didn’t know. Perhaps because Clair was beautiful, and Mandy—a smaller version of her mother—was also beautiful; and adorable, too. Making their dual murder a heart wrenching, impossible not to take personal, affront to most everyone’s sensibilities. The media explosion—24-hour news updates—then the leaked, gruesome, crime scene imagery of the double murder continued to steal headlines for nearly a year. To Gallic’s knowledge, Clair and Mandy’s killer had not murdered again, although he was still waiting to hear any final evidence conclusion regarding the Heritage Plains’ double murders—of Catherine and Tami Bower. But now it seemed there were more: Melissa Johnson, the mother and Briar Johnson, the daughter. Both were dressed similarly—T-shirts and worn, dirty jeans. No shoes or socks. Mother and daughter were holding hands. Arterial spray had been confined to the lower wall and the bottom of the bed cover. They had died right here. Staring down at their ashen faces, he momentarily tried to visualize them through the murderer’s eyes, then waited for either, or both of the inert corpses, to speak to him. Who did this to you? The scene was similar to the others, as of course it would be. But also, blatantly different, and that made Gallic nervous.

  The mother’s eyelids were nailed shut and characteristically, both their faces were wiped clean. Only this time, Briar, the little girl, had her eyes closed. Stick figure paintings were sketched on the wall, drawn in their blood. “It looks like ancient hieroglyphs,” Tori said.

  Gallic stepped over the mother’s body, careful to avoid stepping in the saturated-with-blood carpeting, “They appear to be images of . . . human figures.”

  “What’s that . . . those lines?” Tori asked.

  “Just that . . . lines drawn through both figures’ eyes.”

  Tori read aloud the smeared, rust-colored line of text: “Keep them blind, keep them blind, only then will we truly see.”

  Gallic had no idea what to think. Obviously, the blind-eyes-text was linked to the nails through the mother’s eyelids. Was it only meant for women with young daughters? Or meant to keep all women blind?

  “It just reiterates the fact that this isn’t a copycat killer, someone taking this kind of . . . um . . . creative liberty with the crime scene.”

  Gallic shrugged. He’d already dismissed any possibility of this being the work of a copycat.

  “Whoever did this is a sexist fuck . . . really twisted,” Tori said.

  Gallic hadn’t thought before about a sexist slant to the murders, but maybe she was on to something.

  “Ready to get schooled now on the latest field forensic tools known to mankind?” she asked, giving him a crooked smile.

  “And the student becomes the master,” Gallic said, welcoming the distraction. “Show me what you know.”

  Chapter 20

  Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Stanford Pride.

  Tori opened the first of the pristine-looking cases marked Processing Kit 1, and Gallic was fairly sure he knew what he was viewing.

  “Pretty much everything is automated . . . things you’re used to doing by hand no longer require that.”

  “Field DNA Sampler?” he asked.

  “Yup. Now called an autonomous field DNA sampler . . . AFDS. This equipment has already been set to the D-22 case number. So, the case specifics, thus far, are already loaded into the equipment, into individual micro-AIs.” Tori lifted the small bug-like unit, with its bulbous, unsymmetrical shape, out of the case. “This uses the latest, reverse-grav technology.” She tapped several prompts on the small touch screen, and the small fist-sized unit took to the air.

  It hovered several feet off the floor for a moment before a funnel, like a mosquito’s proboscis, extended out from what Gallic assumed was the front of the device. “The sniffer?” Gallic asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Without so much as a whisper, the AFDS climbed higher, then flew out through the open bedroom door.

  “It’s already collecting tons of raw data, much more than just DNA, from the rest of the house. Every inch of the house is also being filmed. It’ll do this room last.”

  Tori and Gallic were now squatting on their knees at the vics’ feet. While she readied the next piece of equipment, he studied the two victims, placing his attention on particular details of the scene. One thing struck him as odd. There was very little space below on that side of the bed. Two bodies, lying side-by-side, with hardly enough room for the killer to do his handiwork. “He either had to sit . . . or lie down on the bed.”

  Tori glanced up. “Lying down on his stomach . . . he’d be able to get close and personal.”

  Gallic glanced toward the unmade bed and thought he could just make out a slight impression on the rumpled sheets. Someone had lain across the bed sideways.

  “Here we go,” Tori said. “This next kit provides a series of micro-blading chewer probes.”

  “Chewer? Oh my . . . that sounds fairly disgusting,” Gallic said, making a wry face.

  “I try not to think about it,” she responded flatly. “Assisted by tiny scanners, they perform miniature blood and tissue testing—a whole range of analytical capabilities. We’ll be using several different kinds of probes. Three internally, which will extensively look for an inner cause of death; testing blood for alcohol, drugs, natural and man-made toxins, or poisons, or other kinds of suspicious foreign agents. And two probes for external examination, collecting details on the outer epidermal surface of each body. Also, an external probe will roam around their clothing, looking for trace evidence.” She then held up a metallic injector gun with a blue handgrip for him to see. “We’ll begin with the intravenous chewer probes . . . starting in the brain.”

  “How do you get them into the body. There’s no moving circulatory system . . . no beating heart to—”

  Tori cut him off: “The first submersible drone is inserted, more like fired, into the cranium via a small hole the injector gun makes in the back of the head—into the skull. But first, we need to let the AFDS do its scans right here, on the undisturbed bodies.”

  As if on cue, the hovering bug device reentered the master bedroom, coming to a halt in mid-air.

  “That’s our cue to evacuate the room for a few minutes. Let it collect the rest of its data.”

  Waiting in the hall together, it took less than five minutes for the AFDS to complete its work. Hearing a soft triple beep sound, Gallic stepped back into the bedroom and looked around for the hovering device.

  “Back in its case already . . .” Tori said, throwing a glancing nod toward the still-open case.

  Sure enough, the AFDS sniffer was back, sleeping within its padded enclosure confines. “Cool! I think I like your new toys, so far at least.”

  Gallic watched Tori hesitate, holding onto the injection gun. Her eyes lingered on the two victims, th
en on the unkempt bed where the killer had recently lain.

  “Why don’t you let me take over the next part?” Gallic offered, holding out a hand. “Is there anything specific I need to know . . . like the placement of the injector?”

  Tori hesitated, then handed him the instrument. “The Foramen Magnum . . . at the back of the skull—”

  “I know where that is,” he said, taking the injector from her, then positioned himself sideways across the bed so that his head and chest hung down over the side of the mattress. Now, only a foot-and-a-half directly below him, he could see both victims’ faces. He had to remind himself they were the faces of total strangers. Keep it together. It occurred to Gallic that not so many hours earlier their killer, too, had stared down on their lifeless faces just like now. He didn’t like that thought—that he and the killer shared something in common. Starting with the younger victim first, Gallic used his left hand to turn her head away from the bed. Residual rigor made the process a bit more difficult. He saw where the killer had, most likely, used the sharp point of a nail to carve the same initials into the back of the neck:

  TCW

  He positioned the thin metallic muzzle of the instrument at the back of her skull, where it curved around joining her neck, right into the hollow there—the Foramen Magnum. “Like this?” he asked.

  Tori rose up, inspecting where he’d positioned the injector. “Yeah, that should do it.”

  Gallic pulled the trigger. Hearing a nearly imperceptible pssst sound, he briefly wondered what an activated little chewer drone would do inside a living person’s brain? He then repeated the same skull procedure on the mother.

  “Okay, four more to go,” Tori said, handing him another injector gun. This one had a red plastic handle and was labeled Esophagus. Not needing special instruction on its use, he opened the mother’s mouth and inserted the slender muzzle. On feeling resistance as the tip hit the back of her throat, he eased it back a bit then pulled the trigger. He repeated the same procedure on the child. “And the last of the internal probes?” he asked, handing her back the red-handled injector.

  She pointed her chin toward both bodies’ lower extremities. “This one does scans for a complete lower GI . . . urinary, reproductive organs . . . that sort of thing. Why don’t you take a break? I’ll do it . . . a part of me already feels they’ve been humiliated enough . . . and maybe a woman should do this next procedure.”

  Gallic pushed himself away from near the bodies and climbed off the bed. Tori handed him a vid-sheet manual. “Here, you can read up on the technology.”

  While Tori busied herself with removing the mother’s jeans, Gallic stepped away and swiped through the virtual pages. He read that small micro-blades could cut into flesh without leaving a visible trace—a process far more reliable than other current methods. The whole process took up to twenty minutes. Data processing would take another ten minutes, then the results were sent back to the main database at D-22. If setup that way, the same data could be available for the forensics team, working at the local scene as well.

  Tori now had the lower GI chewer probes inserted into both victims’ bodies. Then, replacing the injector back into its case, she brought out a different-looking device. “We don’t actually touch these external body probes. Too sensitive to be handled.” She placed an unimpressive small black container, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, on the chest of the little girl. Red, yellow, and green lights blinked on then stayed a steady green. The end of the container flipped open and two mechanical, thumb tack-sized bots crawled out onto her shirt. Tiny antennae fluttered as they then moved off again—one skittering over the folds of her shirt as the other moved up to her neckline, disappearing beneath the fabric.

  “It’ll take the probes about ten more minutes to process both epidermal and clothing trace evidence analyses.”

  “Hey, I’m going to get some air . . . you okay in here alone?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  Gallic looked at her with concern.

  “I promise . . . I’m fine. Go.”

  Gallic made his way through the house then out the front door, finding it dark outside. Night had arrived and a heavy wet mist had settled in, to the point he couldn’t see the ground. In the near distance was the Hound and above him a star-filled sky. Breathing in the fragrant air, he thought just has to be corn. He looked back at the front of the house with growing trepidation, thinking about the glyphs he’d seen on the wall. Soon, you son of a bitch, you’re going to make a mistake. That’s when the hammer-and-nails killer will come to an end.

  Chapter 21

  Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Stanford Pride.

  Gallic helped transfer the bodies and stow the equipment into Tori’s new star-cruiser. Closing and latching the aft hatch, she rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  “Why don’t you head back tomorrow? Stay on the Hound tonight and make a fresh start in the morning. Got plenty of room,” Gallic told her.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I just want to get back to D-22; start analyzing this new crime scene data. I’ll sleep some en route.”

  “You sure?” Gallic asked.

  Tori nodded. “I’ll contact you in a day or two. We can powwow then . . . determine our next move.”

  “I’ll do some preliminary work on the wall glyphs, if that’s okay?” Gallic asked. Since this was still Tori’s case, he didn’t want to overstep his bounds.

  “Yeah . . . go for it! There’s a lot to do. Thanks!” Climbing into the bow of the craft, Tori revved the propulsion system up. Before shutting the hatch, she asked,

  “What does your gut tell you . . . that it’s him? That it’s not another copycat killing?”

  Gallic shrugged, non-committing. “As you said . . . we’ll talk in a few days.”

  Tori closed the hatch, kicked on her lift thrusters then powered up into the air. Within moments she was gone from sight, the night again still.

  * * *

  After taking a scorching hot shower ang brushing his teeth, Gallic felt somewhat cleansed of the crime scene. Dressed in fresh clothing, he settled in behind the Hound’s command center console and ran through the pre-flight checklist. Satisfied, he initialized the propulsion system. The two big gravitorque drives momentarily shook as they awoke—soon humming steadily. He glanced out at the faded-yellow house through the window. It looked small and vulnerable, like its best days were in the past. He thought of the simple folks that had lived there. The mother and child, who’d done nothing to deserve their untimely fate. Then, thinking of Clair and Mandy, he fought to keep his growing fury in check. “I’m going to catch you, mother fucker . . . count on it.”

  Gallic turned his attention to his ComsBand and tapped on the small screen until he found what he was looking for. Tapping again, a series of twelve large crime scene images appeared. They hovered in mid-air, two rows of six, several feet off to the side. He avoided looking at the body images, instead concentrating on the wall glyphs. They really did look like stick figure paintings—caveman-like.

  “AI . . . configure a CoreNet mail-beam hail.”

  “Who would you like to contact, Mr. Gallic?”

  “Professor Harkins on Earth. He’s typically in the U.S., Washington, D.C. area. See if he’s open to a coms meeting . . . as soon as he has an opening.”

  “And what shall I say the meeting is regarding?”

  “A D-22 murder investigation. Tell him we need a subject matter expert. An expert possessing a unique skill set.”

  “I have opened a channel and initiated the contact.”

  Gallic turned back to the console. Taking the controls in his hands, he goosed the lift thrusters.

  “Shall I input destination coordinates for you, Mr. Gallic?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Local time, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It is 5:39 p.m., local Gorman Plains time”

  “Still early enough. Set a course back to Heritage Plains. Um . . . take us bac
k to the Cugan’s ranch.”

  “I have the coordinates. I will input that destination.”

  “Good . . . lock it in. Can you tell me if Lane . . .” he realized he didn’t know her last name, “lives in the general vicinity around there? If she has her own place?”

  It took a moment before the AI came back with, “She has her own small dwelling on a parcel of land, located near the northeastern section of the Cugan property.”

  “Okay . . . go ahead and lock that in. And AI, let’s keep things quiet for a bit. I need to concentrate.”

  Gallic thought about Lane; the image of her pretty face had surfaced into his thoughts several times over the past few days, but he’d quickly shut her out. He was good at that—warding off errant thoughts that didn’t serve him. He thought of her now, though. Recalling their lovemaking; how much trouble the woman, potentially, could be. Not since Clair had he opened his heart to another. He thought of her indignation; her saying to him, “This can never happen again.” Smiling, he thought, yeah, we’ll see. What he needed was an escape from the day’s horror. A reprieve from the mental images stuck on constant replay in his mind. Yeah, he needed to make a connection with someone vibrant and alive—even if it was only conversation.

  * * *

  By the time the Hound rumbled in low over the dark pasturelands of Heritage Plains, the hour was pushing 8:00 p.m. Gallic glanced to the nav display to see if they were now close. She probably wasn’t even home. A girl like that doesn’t sit home a lot, was his guess. Below, he saw the nearly indistinguishable outline of the Johnson house and made a mental note to speak with the deceased wife’s husband in the morning, although Tori should have handled that while she was here. Why Superintendent Bernard Danbury hadn’t made that a mandatory component—her being there—was beyond him. Or was it? Didn’t it always come down to money or power—or both? The people living around here, who owned thousands of acres of prime ranchland, would fit that bill. Danbury had always been a fine cop and a fine super. Was he so easily influenced now? What had changed?