"Still working on it," she replied. "Computer's churning through data day and night doing citywide DNA searches. We don't have the point of reference that we did for Engels, so it's kind of a big net we're throwing out."
"When did you ID her?"
"About half an hour ago. Assumed you'd want to be the first to know."
Dredd nodded slowly. "Good work, Garrison." He looked around the room. "Is there a terminal I can use here? I need to access MAC."
"Here, use this one," she said, getting up from her chair. "I've got to go and dissect a brain anyway." She winked and disappeared into another lab.
Dredd sat and logged into Justice Department's central computer, calling up Engels's details. She'd arrived on 14 August 2125 via the Atlantic Tunnel and came looking for work as an actress. Immigration had declared her clean, she had no previous arrest record, and was granted a six-month stay in the city. She'd registered her address as 2242/b George Bush Snr, living with her landlady, one Agnes Petri. The same Mrs Petri had contacted her local Sector House on 17 May 2126, saying that she was worried about her tenant, whom she hadn't heard from in over a month. Despite a note claiming to be from Engels saying that she'd found work in another sector, and a suitcase full of clothes had been taken, Mrs Petri insisted that if Engels had gone anywhere, she wouldn't have disappeared so suddenly. She'd also left a number of possessions and was owing rent.
The investigating Judge - Parris - got in touch with Engels's parents and boyfriend in New Nairobi, but they hadn't heard from her since her disappearance, and she hadn't mentioned anything about a new job the last time they had spoken to her. The Public Surveillance Unit had no record of her movements, and in the end, Parris wrote it off as a Missing Person, adding as a footnote that she'd probably done a moonlight flit with some new beau. As a result, Emmylou had joined the thousands who disappeared in the city every year, with no motive or explanation, and were very rarely seen again.
Now, four months after she was recorded missing, her remains had been discovered.
Dredd trawled through the text, assimilating the information. Reading between the lines, it seemed to him that Parris had done only the most cursory of jobs in investigating her disappearance. From the language used in his reports, he clearly thought he was wasting his time chasing after an adult who'd probably deliberately hidden their tracks and didn't want to be found. Parris was of the opinion that he could detect no criminal activity surrounding her vanishing, and believed the landlady was being overly suspicious simply because she was out of pocket. The trail had gone cold and the last entry was logged at the end of May. Other, more pressing cases had moved to the fore and Engels was forgotten; out of sight and out of mind.
And now she's resurfaced, Dredd thought, looking at the small photo of her onscreen - pretty, plump, auburn-haired - and the investigation was kicked into life once more.
Dredd made a copy of the case file, then left the med-bay. He resolved that his next port of call should be the landlady, Petri, to see if she could remember anything several months on, but first he had to deliver the bad news to the victim's family. This was one of the most unfortunate aspects of the job and Dredd was still not comfortable with it after all these years. Normally, in a situation like this, there would be a liaison Judge to soften the blow and comfort the grieving, but with the parents based over in Pan-Africa he would have to do it via vid-phone. He found their contact numbers amongst the data stored on the disc and steeled himself for the anguish that was inevitably to come.
George Bush Snr was in the rough end of Sector 20 and looked like it could do with some major structural repairs. Broken windows had been repaired with tape, and there were a few old laser scars from a years-old block war competing with lurid scrawling to make the building appear an eyesore even from a distance. From what Dredd had learned about Emmylou, talking to her mother and father, she evidently had little money and her acting career had not been exactly going great guns. She'd moved to the Big Meg to try to land bigger roles, but lacked the talent or the drop-dead looks that would've made her a star. According to Emmylou's dad, she'd made noises about returning home, her dream unfulfilled.
The couple had taken the grim news hard, and Dredd tried his best to sound sympathetic while at the same time cajoling information out of them that might be pertinent. They had nothing new to reveal since they'd last heard Emmylou had gone missing, and had been secretly hoping that she'd grabbed herself a plum part in some touring company, even though it was completely out of character for her to go off without a word to anyone. They said they were going to scrape what money they had together and come to MC-1, to bring back her remains. Her actor boyfriend - whom Parris had earmarked early on as a suspect, before checks confirmed that he hadn't left the country for the past year - was equally distraught, but did mention something of interest: in one of the last conversations Emmylou had had with him, she'd said that she'd joined an agency. When pressed, however, he couldn't recall its name and dissolved into more tears.
Dredd rapped on the door of 2242/b, and a wrinkled, rat-faced woman in her sixties answered. She peered up at him, squinting.
"Agnes Petri?"
"That's me. If it's about that goldfish licence, I told the man at City Hall I've already paid-"
"Can I come in, Mrs Petri? It's about one of your old tenants, Emmylou Engels."
She ushered him in, saying, "You after her for rent evasion? She owes me a good three months. I've had to get a new gentleman in and put the rent up so I can recoup some of my losses. People like that I've got no sympathy for-"
"Emmylou is dead," Dredd interrupted, looking around the cluttered apartment. The carpet was threadbare and the ceiling stained with something unrecognisable. Grud knew what people paid to live here, but it was probably too much. Dredd wasn't surprised that only unemployed actors were desperate enough to put up with conditions like this. "Her remains were recently discovered."
Mrs Petri shrank against the wall, her hand fluttering to her throat. "Oh. Oh, how terrible," she stammered. She walked over to a tatty armchair and slumped into it. "Oh my grud, that poor girl..."
"You originally reported her missing, Mrs Petri. When was the last time you saw her?"
"I... can't remember," she said quietly, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "I went out one evening - it must've been April, I think - and she was in then. She was using the computer. When I came back, she'd gone. There was a note saying she'd got a job on the other side of the city, and half her wardrobe had been packed. I assumed she'd be back in a week or so, because she'd left some of her stuff here. When it got to a month, and still I hadn't heard anything, I got worried."
"There was no sign of a struggle? Nobody had broken in?"
"No, everything was how I left it. I presumed she left of her own accord."
"She was using the computer?" Dredd asked. "Show me."
Mrs Petri got to her feet and led him to a small, old terminal sitting on a table by the window. Dredd checked the files on it, noting the dates they were last revised. The latest was Emmylou's CV, on 6 April 2126. That had to be the date her landlady had last seen her. "Are the block CCTri-D cameras working, Mrs Petri?"
She shook her head. "Juves keep vandalising them. Haven't worked for years."
Terrif, he thought. He scrolled down through the CV, noting her last employers, and decided to print a copy off. "What about Emmylou's things that she left behind?" he enquired.
"I didn't know what to do with them," she said, opening a cupboard and retrieving a box filled with clothes, papers and publicity photographs. "I thought I should forward them to her family, but I never got around to it."
Dredd looked at what was left of Emmylou. On the top was the handwritten note that Emmylou had left; it was brief and vague, with no suggestion of where she'd gone, who she was with, or whether she was coming back. He compared the handwriting with her signature on other documents amongst the paraphernalia - mostly speculative letters, soliciting for work from the m
ajor film studios - and it looked convincing enough. A headed missive caught his eye: Mega-City Casting Agency. It was arranging an appointment for her to come in so they could find her work. Dredd mentally logged the address.
He handed the box back to her. "Better keep hold of it for the moment, Mrs Petri. We may need to examine some of the contents more thoroughly. I'll have someone come and collect it from you soon. Thank you for your time." He headed towards the door.
"B-but what happened to her, Judge?" she asked, following him to the threshold. "Where did she go? Who would want to kill her?"
"That's what I intend to find out, citizen."
From one end of the spectrum to the other, Dredd thought, as he entered the MCCA building. The carpet was a plush cream pile, and the chairs in the reception area were an artful arrangement of canvas and chrome. The walls were studded with portraits of the agency's top clients - most of which, he had to admit, he had never heard of - and replica movie posters. For one startling moment, he found himself looking at a picture of his own visage, snarling back at him in front of a post-apocalyptic backdrop. The film was titled Flight of the Eagle, and the credits said that he'd been played by somebody called Janus Krinkle. The jowls were a little flabby, he thought, but otherwise it wasn't a bad likeness.
"I see you're admiring your alter ego," said a voice. Dredd turned to see a tanned, muscular man in an expensive-looking suit approaching him. "You gotta say, Janus has you down to a tee."
"You're aware that it's illegal to use a Judge's image for monetary gain?"
"These movies have all been approved by Justice Department," he replied, pointing at the little eagle symbol in the corner of the poster. "They're what we like to call our 'promotional pics'. This one retells your mission to nuke East-Meg One."
"They're propaganda, you mean?"
"Yes. A little anti-Sov entertainment goes down well in friendly territories." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Buddy Laskin, one of the partners here at MCCA. What can I do for you, Judge?"
Dredd ignored the proffered hand. "I'm investigating a case involving one of your clients. Emmylou Engels?"
Laskin frowned. "Engels? The name doesn't ring a bell. Come through into my office, I'll check my records." He led Dredd through into an ostentatious room, bedecked in black and gold. Film props adorned a huge desk, and more posters decorated the walls. Laskin rifled through some documents in a filing cabinet, then gave a little exclamation of triumph. "Ah, yes, Emmylou. Joined our ranks some eight months ago. Terrible actress, by all accounts, but she's cheap and punctual, which goes a long way."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"Well, according to our files, when we last found her some work. That was back in February when she got a gig working for Catalyst. In fact, she hasn't been in touch since then, which is a bit odd, 'cause she came across as very keen. Is she OK?"
"She's been murdered."
"Jovus..." Laskin went pale beneath his tan. "When did this happen?"
"Possibly not that long after you saw her. She went missing in April. What's Catalyst?"
"It's a film studio - Catalyst Productions. They make the propaganda features you saw out there. Big budget, anti-Sov, war movies. We supply them with lots of actors."
"She didn't have any other work after that?"
"Not through us, but then actors work all over. She might've done some vidverts or something through another agency."
"How was she when you saw her? Did she give any indication of being troubled?"
"Not at all. As I said, she was very keen. She was happy to accept any work that came her way."
"And she didn't say anything about going away?"
"No, she made no mention of it."
"How long have you supplied actors to Catalyst?"
"Hell, years. The movies might not be works of art, but they pay fairly well and it's a regular income. That's the most important thing to our clients."
"Any other of your actors disappear?"
Laskin shrugged. "People drop off our roster all the time. They move on, have kids, join another agency, go abroad. It's not our job to keep track of their movements." He fixed Dredd with a stare. "You don't think somebody's targeting our clients, do you?"
"I'm sure Citizen Krinkle can handle himself," Dredd said as he left.
Outside, back at his Lawmaster, Dredd checked Emmylou's CV again. The Catalyst job was the last one listed in her employment record - a subtle number called Total Annihilation. If she'd done any work after that, then presumably she would've added it to her résumé when she was updating it. The gigs previous to the Catalyst job were fairly evenly spaced, then there was a gap prior to her disappearance.
The fact that there was no struggle at Petri's apartment suggested that, if Emmylou was kidnapped, she may have known her abductors and let them in willingly. There was no mention from her parents of her making many friends in the city, so perhaps she recognised somebody from her acting work. A fellow thespian? A director? Maybe Catalyst, as Engels's last employer, could provide some answers.
Dredd swung his leg over his bike and was about to gun the engine when shots rang out. A bullet clipped his thigh, and he instantly rolled for cover. He yanked free his Lawgiver, then glanced at his leg and saw it was just a flesh wound. He peered over the Lawmaster frame, looking for the source of the gunfire, but a moment later the gunfire came looking for him. A roadster screeched around the corner, a perp riding shotgun and spraying him with the contents of a semi-automatic. Dredd dived out of their path, then came up shooting, putting three rounds through the back window of the car. Without hesitation, he leaped onto the bike and roared in pursuit, crouching down as the creep twisted round and started firing again. Dredd thumbed the bike cannons, and the powerful ammo shredded the roadster's back tyres, making it spin out of control. It hit a central reservation barrier and flipped, crashing down on its roof.
The perp with the semi-automatic crawled out of the passenger door window and got shakily to his feet, still clutching the gun. He saw Dredd bearing down on him and tried to aim, but the Judge fired one Lawgiver shot that caught him directly in the forehead. The back of his skull erupted as he flew backwards onto the ground.
Dredd slid to a halt, just as the driver was clambering out. "Freeze!" he shouted. "You're under arrest!"
The driver looked at him, dazed, then raised his hands, a strange beatific expression passing over his face. Dredd had a fraction of a second to notice before the guy exploded with an ear-splitting blast. The detonation threw him off his bike as the perp vaporised before his eyes, windows shattering behind him and red globules pattering down onto the street. Limping around his upturned Lawmaster, Dredd looked at the spot where the creep had been standing and saw only a sooty epicentre with residue radiating outwards.
Mob blitzer, he thought to himself, waving away the smoke and cordite thick in the air. Evidently, somebody didn't want him following this line of inquiry.
SIX
My shoulder gives me a twinge of pain as I enter Iso-Block 14's infirmary, probably in phantom sympathy to the poor spuggers lying in here with missing limbs, punctured organs and scarred faces. Funny how the baddest, most evil motherdrokkers look like such sorry sacks of shit once they're laid up in bed, regulation PJs on, and heads wrapped in bandages or extremities strapped to a splint. Walking between the beds is like taking a trip into a retired perps' home: a tattooed biker sits upright, coughing violently, a drip running from his arm; next to him, some sickly looking creep with waxy skin is staring at the ceiling, as motionless as a corpse; across the way, an eldster is moaning incessantly, sounding like he won't last the night. If you met any of them in a dark alley, they'd slit your throat as soon as look at you. Now, the only danger they pose is spreading an infection.
That said, the warders don't take any chances, ill inmates or not. There are two guards standing sentry at the entrance, las-rifles slung at the ready, and the med-droids that sweep from one patient to the next administerin
g booster shots or painkillers look as if they could turn nasty if threatened. I instinctively touch my shoulder where Jonny Dansky's bullet shattered the scapula, feeling grateful that it only took a few hours in a speed-heal to knit the bone back together. Something about receiving treatment from a robot gives me the shivers: the cold, metallic fingers grasping your arm as they search for a vein; the stiff, jerky movement of their heads as they look down at you, computing a diagnosis within their circuitry; the realisation that all it takes is one crossed wire and they could be recommending you for experimental vivisection. I, like a lot of people, get queasy around droids. When something checks my pulse, I want to be able to feel a pulse back.
I find Jonny towards the far end of the ward, lying back with his eyes shut. This is the first time I've seen him since he tried to frag me on the ship, and an urge unexpectedly builds inside me to put a gun to his head and give him a permanent kiss goodnight. I haven't taken many bullets in my years with Wally Squad, and when somebody attempts to kill me, I can't help but take it personal. Part of me thinks that pulling the trigger on the drokker would be too quick, and maybe I should try something a little more agonising, like putting his pillow over his head, for example, and watching the bastard squirm as I crush the air out of him. The urge is so strong that my fingers actually brush the butt of the gun jammed in my waistband, but then reason takes over, making me realise that whacking a perp in the middle of an Iso-block med-bay isn't the smartest move, surrounded as I am by several dozen witnesses, including a pair of heavily armed Judge Wardens. Also, I still need information from him. The yearning doesn't go away, but is flattened by the odds of getting away with it. Justice Department takes a dim view of summary executions, especially when the victim is laid up in bed with a severe groin wound and is already looking at life in an iso-cube.
Even if circumstances were different, Jonny wouldn't have the honour of being the first creep I've nailed in cold blood. Occasionally, my undercover status becomes compromised to the point where my own life may be in danger, and a quick bullet to the back of the head can salvage an operation. Sometimes the choice can be hard as it's not unknown for me to grow to like the crims I infiltrate - their ingenuity, their balls-out courage, is sometimes worthy of a grudging respect - and taking out a prospective problem before it grows into a full-blown crisis is a tough decision.
The Final Cut Page 9
