I sip at the thick, flat synthi-lager, studying a large, dog-eared photo tacked up next to the bottles on the back shelf of the remains of the original Tommy, spread out over the shuggy table. It must've been taken just before the Judges arrived, as if the killer was rather proud of his arrangement and wanted to capture it for posterity. Some wit has scrawled on it "Now That's What I Call A Break!", and I realise as I catch a glimpse in the mirror behind the bar that the table is still there next to the window, presumably stains and all.
I check my watch. Conrad is late. There's nobody here that even approaches his description and I'm a hundred per cent sure I couldn't have missed him. The thought that the guy might've got cold feet starts to play on my nerves, as I feel a little antsy surrounded by so many crims who would cheerfully rip my head off if they had any inkling of what I was. I buy another beer and nurse it for half an hour while listening distractedly to the meatheads to my left relating unlikely romantic conquests, and watching the entrance in the mirror for any new appearances. I must be looking on edge, 'cause eventually the barman notices that I'm still taking swigs from the same bottle.
"Ain't gonna hatch, if that's what you're savin' it for," he mutters, nodding at it as I roll it between my hands.
"Warm enough already," I reply.
I expect him to take offence, but he concedes the point in surprising good faith. "Ain't that the truth. Fridge got knocked out by those drokking 'bots. Whaddya call 'em, Nacker's lot? Ain't got round to fixin' it."
"You mean Narcos?" I say, wondering with an uneasy gulp just how out of date this stuff I'm drinking is.
"Whatever. Pointy headed spugger. All I know is, he owes me a fridge."
"Long dead, my friend. I think you'll have to write that one off." Some Wideboys come through the door to join the group in the corner, and I automatically look up at their reflection.
"You waitin' on someone?" the barman asks, catching my interest.
I consider my answer, unsure whether to say anything. While I don't want every crook in here knowing my intentions, my options are fast disappearing. I decide to go for it. "Was hopin' to catch a guy called Conrad, meant to drink in here. You heard of him?"
He shakes his head. "What's he look like?"
Good drokkin' question. "Smart, stylish. Snobby type. You heard him speak, you wouldn't mistake him."
"Don't get many like that in here. Ain't exactly the Megapolitan Opera House. If I see him, I can let him know you were lookin' for him. You a friend of his?"
"Just got some business to put his way."
"You got a name, just in case he shows up?"
For some reason, I pause, feeling I'm giving too much away. "Just say that Talón was asking after him." I drain the bottle, more for appearance's sake than the taste. The fear's starting to encroach on me and I need a hit. "Gotta take a whizz."
I go into the bathroom, which is as foul as I'd imagined it would be, and lock myself into a cubicle. I take a wrap of zizz from my pocket, empty a line onto the cistern lid and then snort it up, feeling it burn away the paranoia lurking at the back of my head. I close my eyes and let the drug course its way through my system, my pounding heart pumping it along every vein and artery, igniting my senses and boiling my blood. My jaw clenches and my temples throb as the anxiety is pushed back down into the dark once more, and a chemically infused strength of purpose washes through me.
I open the cubicle door and take a fist straight in the face. While I'm seeing stars I take another two body blows, knocking me to the ground. I feel my gun being wrenched from my belt, and the knapsack containing the torture instruments is ripped off my shoulder. Then I'm yanked to my feet and slammed up against the wall, and I get my first look at the two creeps assaulting me. One of the thugs keeps his arm against my throat, barely allowing me to breathe, while the other pats me down quickly, checking for any other weapons.
"He's clean."
"Going on a trip, motherdrokker," the dirtwad pinning me to the wall says, and he slams my head hard against the tiles. Darkness descends on me like a curtain dropping before my eyes.
SEVEN
"For I will not rest, I will not sleep, until every Sov is wiped from the face of the Earth."
"But, Judge Dredd, half the city is destroyed! Our forces are decimated! We have barely survived the aggressor's assault! How can we possibly return from this?"
"We will rebuild, because it is in our blood to stand strong against those that wish our citizens harm, because it is the Mega-City way. From the founding fathers, from Fargo himself, whose purity and belief in righteous justice flows through these very veins, it has always been our inner strength and uncompromising vision that has seen the city endure. We have stood on the brink of nuclear extinction, but fought against our enemy and threw it back at them tenfold. The whole world knows what happens to those that threaten us, who attempt to mess with the Big Meg. We will stamp on them, and we will stamp on them hard. There is no time for weakness and grief, for we must forge ahead making sure this city will rise again. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
"Dredd, where are you going?"
"I'm sorry, your honour, but I'm needed back on the streets. While this city still stands and crime is being committed, that is my duty: to protect the people and uphold the Law."
Dredd watched himself riding off into the distance on an authentic-looking Lawmaster - although he wasn't sure the bike needed the spoilers at the back - as the screen faded to black and the Catalyst logo emerged in plain white. It had just been a ten-minute short, rough footage cobbled together from recent shoots for a promotional tool, but he had seen enough to know exactly how awful it was going to be.
Dredd knew little about films and he hardly watched the Tri-D (except when an illegal broadcast demanded his attention) but for a supposedly accurate historical epic, he thought the dialogue was laughably over-the-top and the characterisation unrecognisable. He wondered what McGruder would've made of her role in it, as the actress in question had chosen to portray the former Chief Judge as some kind of simpering dunce who went around asking everybody what was going on. As for this Krinkle idiot who was playing him, Dredd had to assume the actor was either writing his own scripts or else he was being paid by the word, because he couldn't recall ever being so verbose. Speeches had never been his forte; he liked to think his actions spoke for themselves.
The lights flickered on and the studio's PR spokesman stood smiling expectantly at him, like he'd just introduced him to one of his children. "What did you think?"
Dredd struggled for a reaction. "You've taken events in an... interesting direction." In truth, he supposed he couldn't fault the sentiment. There was nothing wrong with a little city pride, and he could hardly criticise the representation of Justice Department. In an age when it seemed every cit and his uncle was distributing pro-democracy literature and taking potshots at any Judge they could find, it made a refreshing change to be painted as the good guy for once. Of course, these films were being made with the Grand Hall of Justice's approval, so they were never going to be anything less than complimentary. "You sell these all over the world?"
"To friendly territories, certainly, who share our suspicions of the Eastern Block. Most of our sales go to Texas City, but you'd be surprised how popular they are in Brit-Cit, mainland Euro-Cit and even Hondo. I think events on Sin City didn't help the Sov reputation to improve, to say the least."
"I guess not," Dredd replied, remembering the time thousands were killed when East-Meg agent Orlok released bacterium on the floating pleasure island. He imagined the televised pictures of the dying, their eyes streaming blood, their faces contorted by swollen growths, would make a horrific impression. After that, who wouldn't enjoy seeing the Sovs getting their butts kicked, time and again? "What's this one going to be called?" he nodded at the now-blank screen.
The PR gimp at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Dredd's Dirty Dozen. But that's just a working title," he added hastily. "It follows you and you
r fellow Mega-City Judges in your guerrilla war against the invaders. Y'know, executing collaborators, cutting off Dan Tanna Junction, that sort of thing. We've tried to make it as accurate as possible - you should see the scene where Tanna goes down, it's very impressive."
"I'm sure." Dredd couldn't help but feel distaste for the way a tragic moment in the city's history was being re-enacted for cheap entertainment. He knew this film had a certain role to play, but even so, a lot of good men and women had died in the Apocalypse War repelling the Sovs, and to see their sacrifices captured in such a tawdry fashion was a disservice to their memory. Despite being instrumental in Mega-City's eventual victory, Dredd didn't get any satisfaction from revisiting this specific point in his past, it was too much like picking at a scab, allowing the bad blood that had already been spilled to flow once more.
His overall opinions of Catalyst Productions were mixed; on the one hand, it was without doubt a professional outfit and the various soundstages were all busy in the process of making umpteen different flicks. There was no denying their commitment either, despite the general rottenness of the final product. Serious money was being thrown at these features with a substantial sum of it coming in the form of Justice Department subsidies. The productions utilised advanced special effects and real-life actors (as opposed to the digital versions), which was a cost in itself. Distributing, as it did, its wares all over the world, this was no fly-by-night company.
And yet something about the set-up irked him. Perhaps it was because that very commitment seemed too dedicated, going beyond a niche market into something personal and obsessive. He had no evidence of this, of course, it wasn't anything but a niggling feeling, his loony-tune antennae twitching.
Even so, there had to be a particular mindset behind a company to continuously produce something so fastidiously one-track and unrelenting in its depiction of the Sovs as the scum of the earth. It was a psychology of hatred that he found troubling. From what Dredd could see, there was little variation in the pictures. The sets and plots took occasional detours, but the end result was always the same - the East-Meggers got nuked out of existence, and more often than not it was him pressing the button. To see his doppelganger up on the screen, as part of this huge, big budget celebration of atomic genocide, made him feel used, as if he was complicit in this institutionalised, corporate xenophobia.
Catalyst's politics had made it friends in high office, however. Prior to his visit he'd read up on the history of the company - what little he could find on MAC, at least - and it had been McGruder, unsurprisingly, who'd seen its potential and helped fund its fledgling productions. Silver had later increased Justice Department's contribution, enabling it to significantly broaden its market share. Both former Chief Judges were hardliners, who probably took no small pleasure in seeing once again that roiling mushroom cloud rise above the remains of East-Meg One. Hershey was a different matter, but he noticed she hadn't removed the financial backing. Ever the diplomat, she was presumably keen to stay onside with the studio's CEO.
And that CEO was the enigma at the heart of his unease; the man behind the movies, Erik Rejin. Records on him were even more skimpy: born in 2066 into a wealthy family who had made their money in kneepads, he later inherited the fortune when his parents and siblings were killed by a Sov missile that was amongst the first payload to hit the city. Eighteen months after that, he sold the kneepad firm to one of the larger conglomerates and used the money to establish Catalyst. A widower with one daughter, Ramona, reports said Rejin hadn't been seen in public for a good twenty years or so. Dredd's attempts to talk to him had so far been benignly stalled and he'd been saddled with this simpering PR drokkwit instead, who'd insisted on giving him a mini-tour of the studio and running through the company spiel. He'd so far neatly sidestepped any questions relating to his boss, and Dredd's patience was wearing thin.
"You keep personnel records of the actors that work on these films?" the lawman asked.
"We have our employees' records on file, yes."
"I need to check the details of one of your actresses that worked for you some six months back."
The gimp looked uncomfortable. "The records are kept in our head office and Mr Rejin is very, very sensitive about his privacy. I don't have the authority to take you over there without his say-so-"
"Listen, creep," Dredd rumbled. "I'm all the authority you need. You continue to give me the runaround, I'll book you for obstruction. Tell your Mr Rejin there's no such thing as privacy in this city, and in my experience anyone who insists upon it usually has something to hide." He took a step closer to the PR goon who visibly cowered. "I'm investigating a multiple murder, and I don't have time for the fun and games of rich boy recluses."
The simp nodded quickly and retrieved a tiny phone from his jacket pocket, punching in a number and talking quietly and rapidly into it, turning slightly away from Dredd so the Judge couldn't discern what he was saying. Thirty seconds later, he clicked the mobile closed. "I've been instructed to take you through to Mr DuNoye's office."
"DuNoye?"
"Mr Rejin's legal advisor, and his... well, his second-in-command, you could say," he answered. "He's basically in charge of the day-to-day running of the studio."
He led Dredd through a warren of backstage corridors. They passed metres of cabling, discarded props, and the occasional actor wandering from the movie set still dressed in full costume. Dredd couldn't help but do a double-take as Sov Judges nodded at him in greeting.
"Hey, Janus, heard you scored with that chick last night, you old dog," one of them called out, slapping Dredd on the back.
The PR guy laughed nervously and hurried the lawman along before he could reply. "Sorry about that," he muttered. "Reality tends to get a bit mixed up around here." They climbed some stairs, and the surroundings gradually became less chaotic and more plush, morphing into an office environment. The gimp knocked softly on a door and ushered Dredd in. A silver-haired suit was waiting for them, standing behind a desk. Everything about him looked dry-cleaned: his clothes, demeanour, nothing was out of place.
"Thank you, Marcus. I can deal with Judge Dredd's questions," he said, dismissing his colleague, who withdrew gratefully. "I'm Vandris DuNoye, Mr Rejin's solicitor. You say you're investigating a murder case?"
"I wanted to check one of your employees' records. Emmylou Engels. She was in something called Total Annihilation."
He nodded. "I remember Ms Engels. A barely competent actress. Is she a suspect?"
"She's a corpse. She was murdered not long after finishing work for your company."
"My grud..." he whispered, his composure faltering for a moment. "I-I'm sorry to hear that. What did you want to know?"
"Whether her personnel file had any mention of a relationship with another employee, or if she'd talked about any problem she might've had with a colleague. I'm fairly sure she knew her killer."
"I don't think she was here long enough," he murmured, tapping at his keyboard. "She had a minor role, came in for maybe a few weeks' filming, maximum." He looked up from his flatscreen. "No, according to her details, she was paid, went away happy and we didn't call on her again. As I said, she wasn't exactly A-list."
"Any associates that you know of?"
"No, there was no one," he replied, then paused in thought. "Wait... she did say something about a mystery man. Joel somebody, lived a few blocks away from her. I presume she was dating him."
"And that's all, huh?" Dredd glanced down at his lie-detector curled in his fist, hidden from DuNoye's view.
"That's it."
The Judge looked around the office. "Your boss at home?"
"I'm sorry, Mr Rejin is not available to visitors. He's very ill."
"I wasn't requesting your permission, DuNoye," Dredd barked. "I'm getting a little tired of you people stonewalling me-"
"And I can assure you, Judge Dredd, that Mr Rejin is not well enough to answer any of your questions. As his lawyer, I'll make sure that if you insist
on disturbing him you will be facing extremely damaging legal consequences."
"Don't spout the Law at me, creep."
"Mr Rejin has some highly influential friends that would make life very difficult for Justice Department if they felt you were harassing an infirm friend of theirs. A number of distinguished Mega-City councillors are all shareholders in Catalyst, including Matheson Peat, whom I believe is already making his opinion of you widely known."
It figured that Peat was part of this rich men's inner cabal. "I couldn't care less what the good councillor thinks of me. Right now, you're hindering my investigation into a multiple-murder case-"
"I've been nothing but helpful to you, Judge Dredd. I've told you all I know. But I will not stand by and allow you to intimidate Mr Rejin. I think I've made my position perfectly clear." He pressed an intercom and said "Marcus, can you escort the Judge back to the studio floor?"
He had to admit this lawyer slimeball was calmness personified and was completely unruffled. "Don't think I've finished with you, DuNoye," Dredd growled, jabbing a gauntleted finger in the other man's face. "If I find out you've been withholding vital information, then even your connections aren't going to save you, understand me?" He stormed out, knocking aside the PR gimp as he came through the door.
DuNoye motioned with his head for Marcus to go after him, then as soon as he was alone, reached for the phone.
Dredd raced along the Steadman expressway, feeling his investigation was taking a route he hadn't anticipated. What had seemed at the beginning like the hallmarks of a nutjob cult killing now seemed to be growing into something more sinister, more sophisticated. The lead that DuNoye had thrown him - Engels's supposed "mystery man" - was a phoney, he was convinced of that. His lie-detector had told him that the lawyer was feeding him a line, and Dredd could only assume that he had been sent on a wild goose chase, to pointlessly hunt down this mythical date of the victim's. He'd briefly interviewed many of the cast and crew before he left Catalyst, and none of them could remember Emmylou talking about this "Joel" character, or that she saw any of her work colleagues out of hours. They all thought she didn't look like somebody with problems, or who was in fear for her life.
The Final Cut Page 11
