"You gotta understand, we had no idea what was in it," the humanoid robot was starting to protest again, his digitised voice a reedy whine.
"Shut up," Dredd said. "You can answer questions when they're put to you. Geraldo, is it?"
"Robert," the droid murmured.
"Anyway," Harrick continued, "in the process of shoring up the chem-pit, they realised the chemicals had become too unstable and the 'crete's just going to be eaten away again. So they decide to empty it entirely and Call-Me-Kevin starts to pull apart the banks to channel the sludge away, and that's when they first saw the bones."
"We called Judges straight away," Call-Me-Kevin said with a low rumble. Dredd couldn't help but recall the first Robot War and its revolutionary leader, Call-Me-Kenneth; the two robots closely resembled each other. Dredd didn't entirely trust mechs. With the problems they'd caused the city in the past, it was a sensible suspicion, and it wasn't easy to gauge what was in their heads. A Judge shouldn't have to use a lie-detector when interrogating a droid since theoretically, it was against one of the laws of robotics for a mechanical to tell a deliberate untruth. But robots were just too damn inscrutable.
The only droid Dredd knew of that wore its emotions on its sleeve was his old servant Walter, and even he had managed to surprise Dredd with his deviousness and ability to cause trouble. No, droids were a double-edged sword, a potential menace everyone had to live with. It was impossible for the city not to use them. They were more efficient, they never tired, they didn't require wages and could be used for situations which were far too dangerous for a human being, and yet mankind had grown used to relying on an artificial intelligence they couldn't always understand or even control.
"Why was the pit not cleared before construction began?" Dredd demanded. "Did you know it was there already?"
"We knew the history of the land," Robert said. "We had been briefed beforehand that it had been heavily irradiated. A Sov missile came down not far from here at the start of the Apocalypse War. But that was the point of Councillor Peat's restructuring programme-"
"Wait," Dredd interrupted. "You're saying this block is another of Peat's Phoenix Campaign buildings?"
"Yes. This was started just as Fred Quimby was in the closing stages."
"Can't seem to get away from the councillor tonight," Dredd muttered under his breath. He looked at Geraldo, who had remained quiet so far. "So you knew you were building over the chem-pit?"
"As far as we were aware," Geraldo replied in a high-pitched wheedle, "the pit had been covered over. We would not have started construction if we knew the chemicals were going to eat into the rockcrete. It would have eventually destabilised the entire building, putting the residents at risk."
"I don't understand why the pit just wasn't emptied first," Dredd said, more to himself than the others. "Surely that would've been the safest option?"
"Councillor Peat wants this built quickly," Robert said quietly, as if debating with himself about whether he should spill the beans on his boss. "Why do you think we're working at this time of night? He's put the whole thing on a fast-track, making us work overtime to get it up and ready."
"So much for Peat's 'quality first' statements," Harrick said. "Looks like he's cutting corners and neglecting safety issues simply so he can get another of his buildings up as quickly as possible and his face back on the Tri-D."
Dredd didn't reply. It didn't seem like Peat to so wilfully disregard the well-being of those he'd want to live in the block once it was completed. After all, they were going to be his wealthy friends and peers, whom he relied upon to stay in office. Why risk incurring their wrath for the sake of delaying the opening of the building? From what Dredd had seen of the councillor, the man was exacting and a stickler for detail; he did nothing without reason.
Of course, it was also perfectly possible that Peat knew nothing of the pit his workforce was building on; while he may be the instigator and figurehead of the Phoenix Campaign, he wasn't necessarily in charge of clearing the land or making the day-to-day budgetary decisions with regard to materials. Dredd would have to have a word with the councillor himself and see what he had to say. He would have to be informed in any case that his latest project was now the site of a multiple-murder investigation, which would no doubt cap his day off nicely.
"Y-you don't think we had anything to do with those bodies, do you?" Robert asked. "As I told the Judge here, we just found 'em. We never knew what we was building over. We called the authorities as soon as we knew what they were. You gotta believe it, it's the truth-"
"All right," Dredd snapped, holding a hand up. Gruddamn thing sounded as if its voicebox was stuck. "No, you're not suspects. But make sure you give Judge Harrick all your serial numbers and manufacturers' details because we may need to question you again. There'll be no more work done on Liz Short until this inquiry is over, so I suggest you find other employment. Harrick, get contact numbers."
The droids looked at each other, though none of them said anything. If it was possible for a robot to feel relief, Dredd guessed, that was what was passing through their circuitry. Once again, he felt a twinge of distaste for the machines; it was as if they were privy to information that he couldn't obtain. There was too much of a divide between human and mechanical for his liking, with the latter too easily capable of concealing matters from their masters.
"Dredd!"
The senior Judge looked around and saw Garrison beckoning him to return to the tented area. Dredd marched off towards it and he could see from the excited expression on the Tek-Judge's face that they had a breakthrough.
"We've found something," she said, leading him back to the remains. "It was something on one of the last to be pulled from the pit."
"What is it?" Dredd asked impatiently.
Garrison lifted another bagged skull before him. "Look closely, under the cheekbone. It's a complete fluke that it's caught there. It could've easily disappeared amongst all that effluent."
Dredd took the cranium in his hands and tilted it into the light. The skull appeared fairly fresh compared to some of the others that had been dragged out, and even he could tell it was female. Beneath the cheekbone was a silver pellet, half the size of a pea, which had become welded to the bone.
"Is that... metal?" Dredd wanted to know.
"Titanium," Garrison replied, barely able to contain the pride in her voice. "I'm pretty confident that it's an earring and as the flesh surrounding it disintegrated, it came loose and caught in the skull. As I say, absolute thousand-to-one shot. We've taken scrapings from it and are running tests now, but we think it originates from outside the Big Meg."
"The titanium survived the chemicals in the pit?"
"Just about. That's why we're sure it comes from overseas. It's probably been mixed with other polymers as it was fashioned into a piece of jewellery, and that's what enabled it to stay virtually intact despite the heat."
"Could they be imported?"
"It's very likely, which means that we should be able to run a trace on any purchases that were made in, say, the past ten years. Even though I don't think this woman was killed all that long ago - we could possibly be talking only months - she may have bought the earring a while back. However, just by looking at her skull, I can tell she was in her early to mid-twenties, so we wouldn't have to go back much more than a decade."
Dredd handed the skull back to her. "Even so, a trace running across the entire city over that period is going to take time."
"There is another possibility that would narrow it down some," Garrison said. "That she came from overseas herself and had the earring when she entered the city. If she was a tourist or an immigrant, then they should have records of her at customs. If we can pinpoint the source of the titanium, then we can match it with anyone visiting from that country within a certain timeframe."
Dredd nodded, feeling progress was made at last. "Good. Get on it, Garrison. Any leads, any names, pass on the info immediately."
The Te
k-Judge lifted the skull up again and looked at the minute earring with something approaching wonderment. "Amazing how one little detail can throw a case wide open, isn't it? And it's sheer luck that this victim happened to be wearing something that was near indestructible, as well as it sticking to the body. From tiny acorns, eh?"
"Ironically," Dredd replied, heading out of the tent, "I'm about to tell someone just how far his mighty empire could fall..."
Matheson Peat sat in the dark in his luxury apartment in Michael Douglas, with a glass of water and a couple of tablets for his nerves. His nineteen year-old girlfriend Sondra had long since gone to bed, and from his chair in the living room he could hear her rhythmic breathing. He found it soothing to listen to, but sleep for him seemed very far away. His brain was too wired, the events of the evening playing over and over again in his head like a movie stuck on a constant loop. How could something that had been arranged so meticulously, that had seemed to be going so well, fall apart so quickly? One minute he had the press hanging off his every word and any Z-list celebrity that was worth his or her salt was desperate to scrounge an invite to the biggest night of the year. The next minute, three men lay dead in a vicious gun battle, sending one of the world's most famous women - who was here at his invitation - round the bend.
Lubular had taken Vanessa back to their hotel, the Mega-City Excelsior, via a back route that avoided the riot going on at the front of the building. He said he would try to wean her off the narcotics until she calmed down so they could decide what their next move would be. His other guests had similarly dispersed as quickly as they could while the Judges contained the trouble, and though he made an effort to help clear up the remains of the party afterwards, his listlessness made him more of a hindrance. In the end, he too headed for home, a strange, unfamiliar feeling gnawing at him. A feeling of failure.
He'd been sitting here for over an hour, visibly trembling. Thoughts tumbled through his head: what the headlines were going to be on tomorrow's newspapers, what his friends would think of him after such a debacle, whether it was his fault for inviting a superstar like Vanessa Indigo to an inane, dumbed-down city such as this. He really should have known better.
But the image that occupied his mind most of all was of the mysterious man who had kick-started all the trouble, the would-be assassin who was gunned down by Indigo's bodyguards. Lubular had waved away the reasoning behind such an attack, saying such crazies are par for the course when you're in the public eye, and perhaps that was true. Trying to apply logic to something as random and maniacal as this was pointless. And yet, Peat couldn't help but be haunted by the man with the gun, prepared to murder someone he loved with all his heart, possibly because he couldn't have her for himself. If he had succeeded, then Peat's name would have been synonymous with a night everybody would remember for entirely the wrong reasons.
There was a knock at the door. At this time of night, he knew it could be nothing trivial, but even so he was disinclined to answer it. He just wanted to shut his eyes and forget that this evening had ever happened. The knock came again, louder, and he heard Sondra stirring in the bedroom. He struggled to his feet and padded across to the door, opening it a crack, keeping the chain in place. When he saw who it was, he sighed and opened the door fully, letting his visitor in.
"I trust I'm not disturbing you, councillor."
"No, I couldn't sleep anyway." Peat went and sat back in his armchair, reaching for his half-glass of water. "What can I do for you, Judge Dredd?"
Dredd stood, arms folded. "There have been developments of which you should be aware. Construction droids working on Elizabeth Short discovered a chem-pit beneath the foundations. This pit proved to contain the remains of at least fourteen bodies. We believe they have been murdered and dumped there."
"My grud..." Peat's jaw dropped. "D-do you know who they are?"
The Judge shook his head. "We're working on that at the moment. Just so you know, all work on Liz Short has been halted for the foreseeable future pending the outcome of this investigation."
Peat swallowed a gulp from his glass. "OK."
"I also have to ask you, councillor, did you know there was a chem-pit beneath the construction site?"
Peat leaned back in his chair, frowning. "No... not specifically. I mean, I knew the area once had a high rad-count, because that was the reason behind my campaign - to make such areas habitable again. So I suppose I must've assumed there was every chance there might be chem-pools on the land. But it was the collective responsibility of the architects and construction companies to clear the land before building was to begin."
"Did you authorise the block to be constructed over the chem-pit, without it being cleared first?"
"What? Who's said that I did?"
"Just answer the question."
"No, of course not. It would be a recipe for disaster."
Dredd paused for a moment, glanced at his lie-detector, then levelled his gaze at the man. "Our paths seem to keep crossing, Councillor Peat. I'd hope for your sake that it's just coincidence, if you believe in such a thing. Right now, you're involved - however remotely - in a multiple-murder case, so I'm instructing you not to think about leaving the city until we say otherwise. We may require you for further questioning."
"Matheson, what's going on?" Sondra emerged yawning from the bedroom in her dressing gown, her hair tousled.
"Nothing to worry about, dear," Peat replied. "Judge Dredd has just relayed some rather surprising news regarding business."
"We'll talk again later," Dredd said. "I'll bid you citizens goodnight." He headed towards the door.
Peat followed, and as he got out of earshot of his girlfriend, hissed: "I shall be contacting the Chief Judge in the morning about your heavy-handed tactics at the block opening this evening."
"That is your right, I suppose, Councillor Peat."
"Don't think you can bully us around like everybody else, Dredd. We're not like everybody else. I could have your drokking badge." Peat slammed the door on Dredd before making his way back to the living room.
"Matheson, you look terrible," Sondra said. "You always work so hard. I wish you'd let me help you."
Despite her protestations, Peat had refused to let her come to the opening; partly because he wasn't keen on everybody seeing his teenaged girlfriend for fear of what rumours would start circulating, but mostly because he knew she'd steal the limelight from him.
"Why don't you come to bed?"
Peat didn't argue. He let her lead him by the hand into the bedroom and beneath the sheets. But even wrapped in her arms, he found he was shaking more than ever, and he stayed awake until the first fingers of dawn pierced the sky.
FOUR
It is three nights later when I get the call telling me the buy is going ahead. Brett instructs me to pack as much killware as I can surreptitiously conceal about my person, and to meet them at warehouse four-two-three on the north-east docks at 2:00 am. I can glean nothing from his voice that tells me how he thinks the night's events are going to go down. He just barks brusque directions and suggests that I would be a fool to leave without adequate firepower.
The call comes through at 11:25 pm, which will give Hendry a couple of hours to mobilise the back-up units and stake the area out. I go down to a public phone and leave a coded message on an automated reply service that feeds directly into Wally Squad, and tell my superior the where and the when. Then I head back to my apartment in Nic Cage and try to think of something mindless to do to fill the hours and take my mind off the upcoming bust.
In my experience, too much thinking can be just as dangerous as a lack of preparation - with your brain wired over what to expect and how you'll deal with it, should the eventuality arise, it can blunt your instincts. I feel I work better fuelled by adrenalin, living off my intuition and natural reflexes. Certainly, in undercover work, the moment you start doing things by the book, you risk blowing your identity as your years of training start to filter through. In the end, I el
ect to channel-surf my Tri-D set, maybe catch a crappy movie that will require next to no concentration.
I've been living out of my apartment for virtually my entire career as a Judge. There are tens of thousands of habitats like this one, dotted around the city and owned by Justice Department for its covert operatives, and they're not so much homes as bases. I have no personal effects or photographs on the walls, my bed is a mattress, tucked into a corner of a bare room, the cupboards in the kitchen are all but empty save a few packets and some mouldering vegetables. I have no need for luxury, for it plays no part in my life. I receive no salary from Justice Department, but it supplies me with everything I require to be a Judge, and being a Judge is all that I require. When I entered the Academy of Law, I willingly relinquished the chance of marrying or having a family, of ever being wealthy or travelling, of making my own choices. I traded it all in.
Perhaps my one concession to normality is my Tri-D set, which can be vital in linking me to the rest of the city. Whilst your average street Judge operates best when he or she's aloof from the citizenry, to be a Wally Squad officer is to be in tune with the fashions, crazes and dialogue of your regular Joe on the slab. If anything, this side of the job is just as dangerous to your health as having a blaster rammed in your face; overexposure to the insanity that this city dreams up can send your brain sideways, with every goofball quiz show and vidiot pirate channel competing for your attention. It's well known that a proportion of undercover Judges have a slender hold on reality as it is, forced to plunge into the mind-sapping maelstrom of plastic pop music and twenty-four-hour soaps.
Living in Mega-City One is a stressful business, crammed into a melting pot of bizarrity, with four hundred million borderline psychopaths jammed either side of you that can snap at any time. To submerse yourself too far into the populace brings with it the risk that you too can succumb to the intense pressure experienced by your fellows, and jeopardise your ability to think coherently. For a Wally Squad officer, the trick is to never forget what you are; that while on the outside, you're indistinguishable from the next cit. As long as my moron act stays just that - an act - then I have some hope of survival.
The Final Cut Page 6
