by E. R. Torre
“He is quick, I’ll give him that,” Overlord Dianna said. “Did you order him to return to Corregidor?”
“I could, your eminence,” Inquisitor Connors said. “But Damien is an Inquisitor and Davilia is within his purview. Given his proximity to the system and the nature of the news, ordering him to stand down might arouse… suspicions. The last thing we need at a time like this is to make your subjects feel we’re not doing everything we can for them.”
“Let me worry about appearances, Inquisitor,” Overlord Dianna snapped.
“If I’ve overstepped my boundaries, Overlord, I fully accept whatever punish—”
Overlord Dianna waved her off.
“You are far too nervous, Inquisitor Connors,” Overlord Dianna said. “Inquisitor Damien’s actions were as predictable as they were expected.”
“Your eminence…?”
“Let me be clear: It is a very good thing you did not impede his journey.”
Inquisitor Connors frowned. To this Overlord Dianna smiled.
“Why do you think I ordered Inquisitor Damien to Corregidor in the first place?”
“You wanted him near Davilia?” Inquisitor Connors sputtered.
“We’ll give Inquisitor Damien a little time to conduct a basic investigation. By then, he’ll know, without a doubt, Inquisitor Torano is on his way to take over.”
“Begging your pardon, Overlord, but are you sure letting Inquisitor Damien conduct any sort of investigation, however abbreviated, is wise?”
Overlord Dianna surprised the Inquisitor by laughing.
“He’ll find enough to get our message across,” Overlord Dianna said. “Just enough.”
In that moment, Inquisitor Connors marveled at Overlord Dianna. Despite years of service for the Empire and the political calculations she witnessed with her very eyes, she was always surprised by Overlord Dianna’s ruthless, calculating mind.
“Now, if there’s nothing more?” Overlord Dianna said.
“No, your eminence.”
Overlord Dianna nodded.
“Dismissed,” she said.
11
Capital City Parisia on the Planet Davilia. The Phaecian Empire.
Inquisitor Damien stood on the roof of the Cheval Hotel and examined the scene before him.
A little over two hours passed since Janice Grajan, Justice Edgar Grajan’s wife, was assassinated and forty minutes since the HPB Salvo, the battleship under his command, arrived through Davilia’s Displacer. Once in Davilian orbit, Inquisitor Damien and his staff boarded a shuttle craft and made their way to the planet’s Starport and from there to the scene of the crime.
Inquisitor Damien was proud of his staff’s efficiency but knew his investigation here would be short lived. Following their arrival, his ship received word Inquisitor Torano was to take charge when he arrived two days from now. Though the Overlords didn’t come out and say it, Inquisitor Damien’s presence was not only unnecessary, it was unwanted.
Inquisitor Damien let those thoughts drift.
He pressed a button on his trench coat sleeve and activated the computer built into the fabric of his suit. A holographic display came on over the sleeve and Inquisitor Damien pressed another series of buttons until the image of Justice Grajan’s wife taken earlier that night appeared.
Inquisitor Damien entered a specific time and images from the motorcade and only moments before she lost her life were displayed. Janice Grajan was in the process of standing next to her husband and only seconds from losing her life. She smiled. Her eyes were focused on something or someone behind the vid photographer.
With a sigh, Inquisitor Damien zoomed out.
Mrs. Grajan still smiled. Together she and her husband waved at the crowds.
Inquisitor Damien pressed a button and the still image moved a frame. The vehicle taking them to the center of town proceeded. The crowds continued cheering.
Another fraction of a second passed. Another.
Inquisitor Damien watched as Janice Grajan’s assassination passed before him in slow motion. He saw the blood appear and spread. He saw the look of horror on Justice Grajan’s face. He stopped the image and rewound it. He watched it again.
Again.
Soon, the gristly nature of the video no longer affected him. He slowed things down even more. He watched Janice’s smile switch from happiness to embarrassment at being brought up to wave at the crowds. The embarrassment was gone for a moment as she waved, unaware that she had only seconds of life left.
The rail gun’s blast was caught on a single frame, a mad burst of directed light, red and intense. The high speed bullet sliced through her chest in that frame. Its light display was almost pretty.
The next frame, however, was pure horror.
The colorful blast was gone and left behind was a grisly wound in Mrs. Grajan’s chest.
Despite this, the smile remained on her face. She was dead but her body didn’t know it yet.
The smile faded with the next frame and faded even more with the one after that.
Her eyes, so vibrant and full of life, stared at nothing in particular.
“The Gods grant you peace,” Inquisitor Damien muttered. He shut the holographic display off and focused on the body lying before him.
Inspector Loy Holland, the Parisian Forensic Tech in charge of collecting evidence from the scene, kneeled beside the assassin’s headless corpse while checking information on his computer tablet. The deceased man was dressed in a military surplus Camouflage Suit and in his dead hands was a fusion handgun. A few feet away and propped against an AC unit was a Mikel Rail Rifle. Early tests confirmed it was the weapon which killed Janice Grajan.
“Who was he?” Inquisitor Damien asked Holland.
“The shooter’s name is –was– Morffi,” Inspector Holland said. “Best we’ve determined, he took position over there, by the edge of the roof. He used the Camouflage Suit to hide his presence from drone security.”
“How many shots were fired?”
“Just the one.”
Inquisitor Damien frowned. He looked from the Inspector to the headless corpse and then into the distance and the place where Janice Grajan died.
“He couldn’t take a second shot?”
“Apparently not,” Holland said.
“Then what?”
“I’m guessing he was smart enough to know there was no chance he’d get away. He set aside his rifle, takes out his handgun, presses it against his right temple, and that’s it.”
“Why give up so quickly?”
Inspector Holland shrugged.
“Why go through with all this in the first place? We’re not dealing with a rational man.”
“Where was Morffi from?”
“Abuda.”
“A political prisoner?”
“That’s where they usually end up. He was in solitary a couple years then spent five years in general. He was close to his eighth year in prison when he was released.”
“How long’s he been in Parisia?”
“Since his release. Twenty five years.”
“What was he like as a free man?”
“Quiet.”
“No friends? Family?”
“He had family but wasn’t in close contact with them. He kept to himself but I wouldn’t describe him as a loner. He had some friends. Nothing too close, but they were there.”
“What did he do?”
“When he first came over, he worked in Stanos, a local bakery. His shift was from four in the morning to three in the afternoon, six days a week. For twenty years he made bread. A little over ten years ago he checked into this Hotel. He got to know the staff and, after retiring, helped them out.”
“He became an employee?”
“Not per se,” Holland said. “He hung around and did things the boss or the boss’ son asked him to do. He’d check rooms to see if they were ready for new guests or walk the fumigator around when he came by each month. Sometimes he even boxed supplies. In return,
the Hotel’s owner let him use the roof apartment back there for less than half the price most people pay for a place like it on this side of the city.”
“A nice arrangement.”
“It was, though there’s nothing suspicious about it. The Hotel couldn’t use his apartment for much. Until he took it, it was rotting away.”
“Morffi gets a cheap apartment and the Hotel makes a little cash on an otherwise unrentable space.”
“That right.”
“Why would he want Justice Grajan dead?”
“We found some pamphlets in his room. They’re from New Light.”
“He was a member?”
“If he was, he never paid dues. All monies he earned went to paying for food, rent, and, now and again, the lottery. Never won big.”
“Anything else?”
“We checked his online viewing history. He frequented certain channels frowned upon by the Council of Twelve.”
“Any hard core?”
Holland scrolled through the information on his tablet.
“No,” he said. “Weird thing is they were progressive stations. The type sympathetic to Justice Grajan’s philosophies, if not tone.”
“Maybe Morffi didn’t think Justice Grajan went far enough,” Inquisitor Damien said. “Did he have any ties, however tangential, to radical groups?”
“None we could find. At least not yet.”
Inquisitor Damien nodded. He stared off into the distance. Almost at the edge of his sight and glowing in the street lights was an intersection lined with red and yellow tape. It was where the motorcade was when the fatal shot to Justice Grajan’s wife was fired.
“Quite a distance and not the easiest target to see in this light,” Inquisitor Damien said.
He approached the edge of the roof. A group of ten small black boxes were set up on stands in this area.
“Have you calculated the rail’s trajectory?” Inquisitor Damien asked.
“We have a rough estimate.”
“Let me see.”
Holland reached into his jacket and pulled out a small remote unit. He pressed a button on it and an almost imperceptible hum was heard emanating from the black boxes. In the empty space between them appeared a holographic projection. It was a rough representation of a human figure. The figure stood next to the edge of the roof. In the projection’s arms was a rifle. A bright red line emerged from the rifle’s barrel and extended to the edge of the projector’s range.
Inquisitor Damien was surprised by what he saw.
“Morffi was standing when he fired?”
“We’re still crunching numbers but, yes, this appears to be the case.”
“Exactly how old was Morffi?”
“Seventy five.”
“Height and weight?”
“Five feet eleven, one hundred and sixty.”
Inquisitor Damien’s gaze returned to the elderly man’s corpse.
“Elderly and scrawny.”
Inquisitor Damien approached the holographic display. He positioned his body until it filled the spot where the shot was made. Inquisitor Damien then reached into his black trench coat and retrieved a pair of latex gloves.
“Hand me the rifle,” he said.
“Sir, shouldn’t we keep the weapon in place until all data is—”
“By now you’ve collected more than enough information,” Inquisitor Damien said. “Give me the rifle.”
Holland walked to where the rifle lay. Before picking it up, he spoke with the other techs and they shrugged. Even if they were reluctant to move the assassin’s weapon, they were unwilling to countermand the orders of an Inquisitor. Holland put on his own pair of gloves and carefully lifted the rifle from its resting place. He returned to the Inquisitor’s side.
“Here you go, Inquisitor.”
Inquisitor Damien examined the weapon.
“She weights at least eighteen pounds,” Inquisitor Damien said. “Give or take. Standard for a Mikel Rail Rifle.”
“Yes sir.”
Inquisitor Damien opened the rifle’s chamber and examined its magnetic core.
“Standard projectiles, no self-guiding mechanisms.”
He then checked for the rifle’s serial number.
“She has no numbers,” Holland said. “She was printed.”
Inquisitor Damien checked the rifle’s lines.
“She’s perfect,” he said. “Does Davilia have a printer capable of producing a weapon of this quality?”
“No sir. We assume she was printed off-world and brought here.”
Inquisitor Damien gripped the rifle’s trigger. He again mimicked the holographic display until his body and the rifle took over that space. He then stared through the weapon’s telescopic vision until focusing on the intersection in which Justice Grajan’s wife was killed.
He kept his pose for several seconds. Despite his solid, muscular frame, he felt the weight of the weapon pull his arms down. He stared hard through the telescopic sight and, in his mind, followed the route of the long passed motorcade, moving the rifle with it while locking on to his target.
“Bang,” he said.
He lowered the rifle.
“A tough shot,” Inquisitor Damien said. “A very tough shot.”
“That’s why Justice Grajan’s wife was hit instead of him.”
“You sure Justice Grajan was the target?”
The question caught Inspector Holland off guard.
“Of course,” Holland said. “Janice Grajan was a homebody. She never held office and volunteered at a children’s hospital. She had no political ambitions and was well liked. Why would anyone want to kill her?”
Inquisitor Damien bent down on one knee. He rested his elbow on the roof’s edge. Again he looked through the rifle’s telescopic sights. Again he followed the direction of the long passed motorcade.
“It would have been much easier and far more accurate to take the shot this way,” Inquisitor Damien said.
“Had Morffi waited a couple of minutes, he would have had an even easier shot regardless of his pose.”
“Oh?”
“The motorcade was scheduled to take Justice Grajan down 17th Street,” Holland said. “He would have been just a couple of blocks from this Hotel not five minutes later.”
Inquisitor Damien nodded.
“Tell me, Mr. Holland, how long have you been a forensic technician?”
“A year and a half.”
“You have the most seniority in this department?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
Holland’s face turned red.
“Sir, if you’re questioning my competen—”
“I have no doubt you are a very competent tech,” Inquisitor Damien said. “Given the nature of this crime and the fact that we’re dealing with the man most likely to lead your planet for the next decade, one can be forgiven for wondering why the Police Department didn’t send their most seasoned Forensic Technicians to investigate and instead chose someone like… yourself.”
Holland’s face turned bright red. If Inquisitor Damien noticed, he didn’t say. He stared at the dark city scape for a few more seconds before saying:
“What’s your impression?”
“Perhaps you should wait for someone more seasoned to tell you, Inquisitor.”
Inquisitor Damien smiled. For Holland, it was strange to see someone with such a stern countenance do so.
“Seeing as how you’re here and the more experienced staff is not, you’re what I’ve got,” Inquisitor Damien said. “You have some ideas. Tell me about them.”
Holland said nothing.
“All right,” Inquisitor Damien said. “I’ll tell you mine. We’re dealing with a sedentary elderly man with tangential ties to radical groups who decides to get himself a Camouflage Suit and a Mikel Rifle and blast away at one of your world’s most beloved candidates for high office. What’s missing in this scenario?”
From the expression on his face, it wa
s clear Holland wanted to talk but was uncomfortable doing so.
“If it eases your mind, whatever you say will be considered off the record,” the Inquisitor said.
The Forensic Tech leaned in close to Inquisitor Damien.
“There are discrepancies, certainly,” he began. “It’s been my experience, novice though I am, that almost all cases have them.”
“What discrepancies bother you the most?”
“Everyone who knew him says Morffi was a decent guy. His records corroborate that. At least so far.”
“People are good up until the point they’re not,” Inquisitor Damien said.
“You asked for my opinion,” Holland shot back.
“That I did,” Damien said. “Anything else?”
“If you want me to be blunt, I don’t see how a man everyone speaks so highly of could be behind this. It’s such a… a cold-blooded killing. It took planning and funds and Morffi just doesn’t fit the profile.”
Inquisitor Damien nodded.
“You’ve done a good job, Mr. Holland. You have much to be proud of.”
“I appreciate your words, Inquisitor.”
“As you know, Inquisitor Torano is scheduled to arrive on Davilia in two days’ time. He is to take over this investigation from me.”
“So I heard. Why are you being replaced, Inquisitor Damien?”
“Perhaps Inquisitor Torano has more experience in this field than I do,” Inquisitor Damien said and winked. “It appears we share more in common than you think.”
Inquisitor Damien again considered the distance and angle of Morffi’s shot. For a moment he thought of setting up a moving target and trying to replicate the fatal shot. Doing so, he quickly realized, was pointless. It would only confirm what he already knew.
Inquisitor Damien handed the rifle back to Holland.
“Is Justice Grajan in the Station?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good,” Inquisitor Damien said. “I’m going to see him.”
“Very well.”
“When you finish your investigation, send your report directly to Inquisitor Torano,” Inquisitor Damien said. “But as long as I’m here and if you should find anything else, anything at all, call me. Even if neither of us are the most experienced people around these parts to interpret it.”
