From the Ashes (Conquest Book 1)

by Jeff Taylor

  “What is it?” Strinnger asked.

  “It’s hair, human hair. But it’s been saturated with ultraviolet radiation which prevents me from reading the DNA.”

  “How does that make the DNA unreadable?” Drake questioned.

  The detective took the pad from the forensic officer and examined it closely. “The radiation damages DNA severely enough that you can’t make a positive identification,” he said as he reviewed the hair’s technical description. Bill was right. It was a hair. There were no dyes or artificial tinting enhancing the color. Without the DNA sequence, it would be impossible to run it against the criminal index or even the general population coding on file at the local hospitals. The sticky adhesive was citric acid, possibly from a lemon or a lime, which anyone at the bar could have ordered. It’s possible that it could have come from one of the women around Schulaz, but he didn’t remember seeing any redheads.

  Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He sidled up to Bill, keeping his voice low. “Did you work the scene with the Indian ambassador last month?”

  “Yeah,” Bill affirmed. His eyes immediately went wide, immediately understanding what Strinnger was alluding too. “I’m on it,” he said, immersing himself in his pad.

  Drake drew closer to Strinnger. “Am I missing something?” he asked, mirroring the hushed tone of the other two.

  Strinnger let his gaze wander the room. He had known something wasn’t right here, but this was not what he had expected. He leaned into Drake and whispered, “You heard about the ambassador from India last month, right?”

  “Of course, it was all over the news. His body was dropped off on the front steps of his embassy with its lungs full of water.”

  “One thing that wasn’t reported,” Strinnger added, careful no one was nearby, “was that a red, irradiated hair was found on the guy’s clothes. No one knew what to make of it so it was discarded as just a random hair.”

  The sudden change in Drake’s expression was almost comical and his voice rose sharply. “You think it’s a calling card, don’t you?”

  Motioning for Drake to lower his voice, Strinnger nodded. “It’s possible. The methods of execution are different but what are the chances that a red, UV-soaked hair appears on both bodies?”

  Bill interjected with the results of his search.

  “I can’t say it’s a definite match,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he showed the pad to Strinnger, “but it is the same length and color as the one found on the ambassador. More importantly, both strands show the same level of radiation damage.”

  The case instantly became more serious. Any misgivings about the extra responsibility of being the case agent vanished. The detective’s eyes darted around the room. The idea of a possible serial killer on the loose heightened his sense of urgency and he scanned the face of every inquisitive or irritated patron huddled in the side salon. Unsurprisingly, he saw no one with red hair.

  “Get that back to the station, but keep it under wraps,” he ordered. “Don’t tell anybody about it until I say so.”

  Bill nodded. He placed the hair in an evidence bag then told his team to finish bagging the body. Strinnger took Drake by the arm and drew him closer. “I’ll report to the chief. You get working on finding this Donna girl. She may have some answers for us.”

  “Roger that,” Drake agreed then hustled toward the exit.

  If there were any two people Strinnger could trust to do their jobs, they were Bill and Drake. Both were true professionals and he knew he could count on them. This was now a serious investigation and he needed them at their best.

  Strinnger watched them go. He stared at the techs as they loaded the black rubbery body bag onto a gurney. He suddenly felt very alone. The weight of being responsible for such a high-profile case suddenly pressed down on him. He did not doubt that he could handle the case, but the public scrutiny would leave very little room for error.

  He followed the techs as they wheeled the body toward the exit. His mind digested the possible scenarios of how and why Schulaz, the CEO of one of the last commercial space corporations, would be killed. Was Donna the killer? Was she even involved? Did the killer disguise herself as Donna? Or was it someone else, one of the other girls around Schulaz instead?

  His ruminations were interrupted when the violet exterior doors swung open, exposing him to a writhing sea of flashing cameras and eager media correspondents shouting his name.

  “Detective Strinnger, Detective Strinnger! How did he die? Is it true? Was it Hanel Schulaz?”

  So much for a discreet exit, he thought. A relentless barrage of questions pelted him with a ferocity that he was not initially prepared for. During his days as a patrolman he’d had very little contact with the media. When he did, his words had always been short and concise, giving little, if any, information about a case he was working on. As the lights blinded his eyes, he decided that approach would be best here too.

  “Detective Strinnger! Loura Lake for Peak 13 News,” shouted the short, dark-haired woman at the base of the club’s steps significantly louder than the rest of the group pressing against the yellow police tape.

  “I know who you are, Loura,” he replied through a feigned smile. The ring box suddenly felt heavier in his pocket.

  “Why is the homicide division involved? Does SFPD suspect Mr. Schulaz was murdered?” Miss Lake asked dramatically.

  Strinnger sighed. Loura was as attractive as always with her brunette hair brushing the tops of her shoulders and a subtle hint of makeup on her face. They had been seeing each other for five years now, five intense on-again-off-again years. Loura was passionate, not only about her career but life in general. She loved experiencing new things. Strinnger admired her vivacious personality and loved watching her work, especially when she publicly berated some city or government official withholding information. He never expected to be on the other end of that ferocity, however.

  “I have no comment at this time. We are continuing to gather the facts, but we don’t have anything conclusive yet. I will say that it is true that Hanel Schulaz is dead.”

  The definitive statement set off a firestorm of questions even more intense than before.

  “Was he murdered?”

  “Was it health related?”

  “Who was he with?”

  “Is there a weapon?”

  “Are there any suspects?”

  Several more questions flew at him, but he refused to give any more details. The chief will probably kill me for saying anything at all. He pressed his way through the mass of media hounds, repeatedly deflecting their questions with the standard, “No comment.” They followed behind him for only a short distance. Eventually, they tired of his uncooperative responses and moved on to the next group of officers and club-goers exiting the building.

  After the pack of journalists quit its pursuit, he reached the sleek, new patrol car waiting for him at the opposite curb. Small beads of water from the light rain that had fallen earlier that morning moistened his hand as he ran it over the smooth, polished hood. He loved this car. It was the first patrol vehicle in over twenty years to have manual controls and he was the only officer checked out to drive it. All those driving lessons down dirt roads with his grandfather as a boy had paid off. Now he had the coolest car with the latest tech to go with his new position. He couldn’t help feeling he was going to need it with this case.

  He lifted the side hatch door and lowered himself inside. The custom vinyl seat greeted his weight with a soft crinkling sound.

  “Welcome, Detective,” a pleasant female voice called from the console. “Would you like me to drive you to the station?” she asked.

  Fat chance. “Not this morning, Dora.” He pressed his thumb to the ignition switch and the car’s engine large engine hummed to life. It hardly made a sound as he revved it once, just to see if it would get any louder. He knew it wouldn’t. The earth-rattling engines of his grandfather’s custom hot rods were a far cry from the nearly sil
ent propulsion standards of the day. Sometimes he regretted letting his grandfather sell those cars.

  He forced himself to forget about the car and was about to pull away from the curb when he glimpsed the mob of media once more. Standing at the back of the crowd was a tall, beautiful woman, not ten meters away, her eyes sparkling as she looked at him with a playful expression. He stared intently at her. The woman was plainly dressed in a beige, mid-thigh leather jacket, brown pants and an orange top. She no wore makeup that he could see, though the lighting was poor where she was standing, and was very fair-skinned. Her eyes were narrow and her cheeks were sharp and pronounced. She was incredibly striking, physically. But what held his attention, what made his breath catch in his throat was the coppery, red-orange hair draping over her shoulders.

  It was not her beauty that transfixed him, it was the feeling in his gut that told him to go after her.

  “See something you like?” asked a sharp voice to his right.

  Strinnger jumped. He turned to see Loura Lake leaning into his passenger-side window, arms folded tightly across her small chest. Her presence had caught him off guard, but it was the scowl on her face that gave him chills.

  “What? No. I was just . . . do you know who that is?” he fumbled, pointing toward the woman.

  Loura shot the tall reporter a dagger with her eyes. The woman gleefully smiled back and then walked away. “No. Should I?” she asked with more than a hint of venom.

  Strinnger looked at Loura for a moment then again in the direction of the redheaded woman only to find that she had vanished amid the mass of news vans cluttering the street. He jumped out of his car and scanned the area again. There was no sign of her.

  His gut tightened as if it were sinking into the ocean. Had he just let the murderer walk away? He couldn’t help but wonder. Surely there were other redheads in the city and it wasn’t very likely the one he was looking for would linger around the scene of the crime so openly; but still, the way she had looked at him, it was if she knew him.

  The detective closed his eyes and tried to put her out of his mind. He couldn’t suspect every redhead in the city. He’d go insane. For now, he had to deal with reality.

  Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the sky. The smell of the rain still hung thick in the air. It had stopped just as he arrived at the club yet the clouds remained thick above the city. For an instant though, a brilliant, silvery moon beamed through a narrow opening, piercing the heart of the late spring storm. Strinnger looked up at the Earth’s constant companion. It was the one thing in the heavens that he never tired of seeing. The fact that people were actually living there (ironically on a colony organized by Schulaz’ company) was remarkable to him and he had always secretly hoped to visit one day.

  The downy clouds swallowed the lunar disk. Strinnger wished he were there instead of facing Loura’s wrath. He looked over in time to see her lower herself into his car. She slammed the door down behind her, visibly irritated, an angry pit-bull expression distorting her pallid face. He reached into his jacket and pawed the small velvet box.

  “As if this wasn’t going to be hard enough,” he mumbled, turning the box over in his hand. Replacing the box housing the ring that would forever change their lives back in his pocket, he got in and drove the two of them to a very early breakfast appointment.

  CHAPTER 2

  MEETINGS

  A heavy mist rolled in from the Puget Sound that morning, blanketing downtown Seattle with an ethereal nimbus that obscured the bustling city to all but those early-risers who were already in their offices high above the city skyline. A golden sheen of sunlight eventually broke above the mountains far to the east, casting a beautiful glow over the fleecy moisture.

  As usual, Mr. Brill stood next to the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, watching the city wake. From his lofty perch on the 108th floor of Carsus Tower, the tall septuagenarian gazed out over the city like a sentinel keeping watch over his kingdom. The warm rays of the morning sun soothed his normally taught features and for a moment he allowed himself to relax. After all, he thought, at his age, how many more sunrises did he have left?

  He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, inhaling the light into his soul and letting the air escape his lungs slowly, cleansing his mind of all other distractions. The day that was dawning would most likely be the most chaotic and difficult of his career. Yet, as he opened his eyes and felt the peace in his center, he knew that he would be ready. He would be the one the shareholders would look to for guidance. He alone would lead them through the crisis and reassure them that despite the cloud obscuring the company’s future, much like the one canvassing the city, a bright beam of hope would disperse the mist and unveil a new and even more prosperous organization.

  The window to his left suddenly changed and revealed the face of a plumb, middle-aged woman with thick, black-rimmed glasses.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brill,” the woman said in a less than cheery tone. “I wanted to let you know that the members of the board have begun to arrive.”

  Mr. Brill nodded. “Show me,” he said stoically.

  The woman’s face was replaced with the image of a line of black sedans pulling up to the front doors. Their occupants exited one by one and approached the lobby entrance. The last surviving founder of Carsus Corporation smiled at the weary faces of each member as they neared the unforgiving lens of the surveillance camera mounted above the building entrance.

  The first to arrive was a short man in his mid-forties, with shiny, black hair and a pin-striped suit. No surprise there, thought Brill. Dantral Brahlim was always the first to arrive and the last to leave, with the exclusion of Mr. Brill, of course. Brill respected Brahlim but cared little for him personally. The feeling was more than mutual.

  Next was the always proper, professionally attired Benunce Fridman. Many of her colleagues referred to her (none openly) as “The Python” because of her propensity to quietly circle in on a target and then squeeze it for all it was worth. Brill did not disagree with the moniker. He believed she was cold-blooded and ruthless, hence the reason why she was one of his favorites on the board.

  After Fridman, Brill was pleasantly surprised to see another man exit his vehicle. The new arrival was not on the board but his presence was just as eagerly anticipated by Brill as any other. He was similar in age to Brahlim, late forties, blonde hair, and blue eyes with a lean athletic build that alluded to his proclivity for sports. The ever-present broad grin was difficult to ignore. Brill reflexively grinned as well. The part of the day he anticipated the most was the possibility of the eager, bright-eyed man sitting on the board as a member, or possibly something more.

  The tall, light-haired man’s name was Nathaniel Kratin. Nathaniel was a passionate yet reserved man who had risen spectacularly through the company’s hierarchy in recent years. Overly ambitious young people trying to make an impression with the executives were not uncommon. The board had seen a number of these come and go without ever really making a splash. Somehow Nathaniel had been different. He had come to Brill’s attention late last year when, as directing manager, he had avoided a work stoppage at the company’s Johannesburg facility. His arrangement with the local leaders and unions was reached so quickly that some of the workers arrived to protest, unaware that their demands had already been met and that their job opportunities were even greater than before. Kratin had saved the company millions in time and currency. But it wasn’t the fact that he negotiated the settlement that impressed Brill; it was how.

  Labor unions in South Africa at that time were difficult to deal with. After centuries of exploitation, the men and women hired to work the diamond mines felt enough was enough. They demanded, of course, better pay, but also greater possibilities for advancement. The company’s policy for entering management was intolerably segregated. All managers, even assistants, were outsiders whom the company had appointed to oversee the operations there, which it had the right to do. But the community leaders saw this dispa
rity and cried foul. They believed their people should be allowed the chance to prove themselves in the workplace with higher paying jobs and higher degrees of responsibility. In the two years that Kratin had been assigned there, he found the people to be delightful and agreed with many of their demands. But fixing their problems was not that simple. The majority of those employed in the mines had, at best, what would be the equivalent of a fifth-grade education. The miners were capable of doing the manual and machine work, but not much beyond that. Kratin, acting on his own, put steps in place to reverse that trend. Positions were opened to all but not without certain prerequisites. Each level of advancement required training and certain educational courses. Kratin structured deals with the local universities, and community organizations to provide the necessary training and instruction. But he went beyond facilitating those benefits for just Carsus employees. He extended them to their families and eventually, to anyone in the area who wanted to learn. They had to either pay back the money used to teach them or perform internships and/or community service through the company.

  Such enormous changes to company policy did not go unnoticed. In fact, many on the board and across the organization had called for his head. However, it became very clear to Brill that he had not only improved the relationships and the conditions of the people there but he had increased productivity an unheard of one hundred-twenty percent. A year later when the program’s first graduate advanced to the position of assistant manager, that number increased another ninety percent. In two years the facility produced more than double its output before the changes. Kratin’s name had been a scourge before but soon came to represent initiative and progress. That was why Brill had chosen him, and that is why he firmly believed the forty-two-year-old man would soon be sitting at the table. Brill beamed at this thought. Instilling this young man into the company’s leadership would be his parting legacy.