by John Zakour
“A dying clue?”
“When the victim, in the final nanos of clarity before death, summons his or her remaining strength to leave an obtuse reference to the killer’s identity.”
“I know what it is.”
“Apparently, it’s quite common.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Well, maybe not in real life.”
“That’s sort of my point here.”
HARV waved his hand in the air as though gently patting down a pillow. He does this whenever we’re arguing and I actually start to win (which, admittedly, isn’t often).
“While you slept, I took the liberty of doing some research, boss and I happened upon a literary reference known as the Haycraft-Queen Cornerstone list.”
“Oh, no.”
“Created in 1938 by noted scholar Howard Haycraft, the list illustrated the early history of mystery fiction. It was later updated and expanded by Haycraft and author, Frederic Dannay. It begins with Zadig by Voltaire and includes one hundred seventy-six other works ending with The Little Tales of Smethers by Lord Dunsany in 1952.”
“You read all the books on the Haycraft-Queen list?”
HARV nodded. “Somewhere between 5:32 and 5:33 this morning. I couldn’t find a similar list that covered the genre post 1952 so I simply read everything.”
“Everything?”
“Well, I skipped the titles that were obviously derivative of the classic works and, to be honest, I’m not too fond of the alternative history genre, but I read mostly everything.”
“You read every mystery novel of the past one hundred years?”
“One hundred and six years, actually.”
“Oh yeah, that’s going to be helpful,” I said.
“I thought so as well,” HARV replies. “For instance, it’s clear now that what we have in this case is what is referred to in the business as a ‘locked room’ mystery. That being a mystery where the culprit, in this case a murderer, is one of a clearly defined group of suspects. The objective is to deduce which suspect is the killer. And I’ve noticed that in most locked room mysteries there is often a dying clue, such as the one we have here.”
“HARV, you have no idea how happy I am that you’ve discovered the joys of mystery fiction.”
“Thank you, boss.”
“And you certainly have no idea how much more annoying this is going to make you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I finished the last of the sandwich and took one last sip of coffee then got to my feet.
“Beg me later,” I said. “Let’s hit the road.”
“Before we do,” HARV said, there are two things you need to know.”
“Oh, don’t say that. It’s never good when you say that.”
“One is that there’s currently an incoming call for ‘Buttlebug Johnson.’”
“DOS,” I said, hanging my head. “Put her on the wallscreen.”
“The other thing, by the way,” HARV said, “is worse.”
12
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Zach, honey.” I saw her smile contentedly on the screen. Her thin face was cheery, her gray hair neatly arranged. She looked happy, which made me nervous.
“I called you ’Zach’ just now,” she said. “Did you notice?”
“Yes, I did, Mom. I appreciate you getting my name right.”
“And I can recognize sarcasm when I hear it, mister. So let’s not go there.”
“Mom, is there a point to this?”
“Ah, yes,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “A quick stop in sarcasm city and on to our next destination in hostility-ville.”
“With a short excursion to the desert of guilt. Don’t tell me you’re in town already.”
“As if that would be such a terrible thing, but, no, I’m not. I won’t be there until tomorrow. And I’ll try not to be too much of a bother when I get there.”
“You’re not a bother, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m just a little busy right now and I’m not working on a lot of sleep.”
“You’re run down. That’s going to make you sick. You know that don’t you?”
“Mom, please don’t start.”
“Start what? Caring about my boy? Forgive me but I do, even if he doesn’t care about me?”
“I care, Mom.”
“Sure, you care. What about last Mother’s Day?”
“What about it?” I said. “I sent you purple, thorn-less roses. You love purple, you hate thorns. What’s not to like?”
“The flowers came C.O.D.”
“What? No, they didn’t. They couldn’t. Could they?”
Mom bit her lip and looked away.
“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t know how that could have happened. The florist must have double-charged us. That’s it. I’m calling that crook right now.”
She turned to me and smiled.
“Gotcha.”
I had a brief nano of confusion. Then one of anger. Then finally I smiled.
“Good one, Mom.”
“You got your acting ability from me,” she said. “That’s why you’re so good at what you do.”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Well, in my book a private investigator is just a nosy actor who can’t afford a stunt double.”
I smiled again. “Good one. Can I use that?”
“Actually,” she said, “I think I stole it from you.”
Then we both chuckled and it surprised me how good it felt. Honestly, it had been a while since the two of us had laughed together and just the sound of it brought back memories of me as a child telling her jokes as she sat on the old couch in our livingroom. I didn’t want to do the actual math on the number of years that had passed since then because I knew it would depress me, so I just clutched the memory a little tighter. I knew from her next words that she did too.
“Why is nine so unpopular?”
“Oh, Mom, that one’s so old. I made that up when I was five.”
“So, I haven’t heard it in awhile,” she said. “Why is nine so unpopular?”
“Because it’s odd and a real square,” I said.
And we laughed some more. The guilt that we felt laughing at such a silly little joke only made us laugh even harder.
HARV’s hologram appeared behind me, chuckling. Laughter is relatively new to him and, for some reason, he needs to be in actual holographic form to do it properly.
“A numerical pun,” he said between giggles, “delightful.”
His appearance startled Mom.
“Oh my goodness, I thought you were alone.”
“This is HARV, Mom.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Johnson.”
“The pleasure’s mine. Are you Zach’s…roommate?”
“Well, technically, I don’t have what one would call a room,” HARV said, “but I do handle most of the household matters as well as many aspects of his business. So you could call me his partner”
“I see.” Mom said. Then she was silent for a very long nano before finally saying: “Has he told you how I’ve always wanted grandchildren?”
“Mom!”
“Well, it’s true,” she said. “And where’s Electra? I always liked her.”
“HARV is my computer,” I said, waving my hand through his image. “This is a hologram.”
She was confused for a nano. Then her eyes brightened a bit as she realized her mistake. Then the two of us laughed again, much to HARV’s consternation.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
Yes, my mood had brightened. I’d had my coffee, laughed with my Mom and confused HARV at the same time. I was starting to think that maybe this could be a decent day after all.
“So, Mom,” I said, with a smile, “what’s up?”
“Well, dear, I understand that you’re now working for Ona Thompson.”
My laughter caught in my throat and I nearly did a spit-take with my epiglottis. I should have known that the good day wouldn’t last.
/> “How did you know that?”
“It’s on the news,” she said.
“It’s what?”
“Remember when I said that there were two things you should know?” HARV said. “That’s number two.”
“It’s on the news?” I asked.
“Entertainment This Nano,” Mom said. “So it’s true? If so, Zach honey, then we really need to talk.”
“Not now, Mom. My life just became a lot more complicated. HARV put ETM on the other screen.”
“Zach, I don’t think you should be working for Ona Thompson. I’ve never liked that woman.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, I really can’t talk right now. Call me when you get into town.”
“But Zach…”
I hit the disconnect button and turned my attention to the second wallscreen as HARV brought up Entertainment This Nano, the round the clock (and wildly popular) gossip-news service.
“By the way,” HARV said. “What’s so funny about me being your partner?”
“Please, HARV,” I said. “There’s no room in my head for another migraine right now.”
13
“Good late morning and/or early afternoon to our east coast viewers, I’m Bill Gibbon the Third and this is Entertainment This Nano. Once again, our story for this advertising cycle, New Frisco Police last night responded to an emergency call at the ziggurat mansion of trillionaire playgirl Ona Thompson. We have no details yet as to the nature of the emergency but unnamed sources tell ETM that all four of the famous Thompson Quads were present at the house. I repeat, all four Thompson Quads were together under one roof, albeit a very large one.”
Bill Gibbon the Third was the kind of commentator that you knew you shouldn’t trust but that you watched anyway, because he was so darn entertaining. He looked like a giant Ken doll brought to animated, semi-intelligent life by a white-bread, voodoo spell gone awry. He was attractive (thick auburn hair, blue eyes, tan skin, you know the type), had no journalistic pretensions and even fewer journalistic ethics. His beat was pure celebrity, pop gossip, the juicier, the better, and he’d go to any lengths to get it. One of his pressbots had shadowed me for six months after the BB Star case. I lost count of the number of times Electra “accidentally” crushed the thing with her hover. Eventually the cost of replacing the pressbots became too great and his network pulled the plug on the surveillance. Gibbon had never bought the “official” story on the BB Star case and had tried like crazy to find the truth. His instincts are actually quite good. Lucky for me, that his IQ isn’t as high as his Q-Scores.
“An unnamed source has also confirmed to this reporter that Ona Thompson has officially engaged the services of local private eye, Zachary Nixon Johnson and that Mr. Johnson visited her mansion late last night, arriving shortly before the police. It is unknown at this juncture the purpose of his visit or the services for which he has been hired.”
“This is bad,” I said.
“We go now to correspondent Cindy Jane Buffy Snowden Ashcroft who at this nano, is outside Zachary Johnson’s office demanding an official statement from his representative.”
“Outside my office? HARV, is Carol working today?”
“She was in at nine.”
“Oh, boy. This is going to get very bad.”
“But it should prove interesting.”
Carol is my part-time receptionist. She is Electra’s niece and a strikingly beautiful university major. She’s also a very powerful Psi (short for Psionic), class 1 Level 6, which means that she has all kinds of spooky mental powers. She can read thoughts, move things with her mind and, alas, she can make most people do whatever she wants. Now she knows that her abilities come with a great responsibility and she is very respectful and restrained in her use of them. But she’s only human. And she hates pushy news correspondents.
That said, I was not at all surprised at the…strangeness of the live report given by the unfortunate Cindy Jane Buffy Snowden Ashcroft.
“Are you there, Cindy?” Gibbon asked.
“I’m here, Bill,” Cindy responded.
The picture went to a split screen and revealed Cindy Jane standing on the street outside my office. She was a fair-haired beauty. Twenty-three years old at most with blue eyes and a creamy complexion. She wore a designer suit and presented herself to the camera with the poise of a veteran. She was a good camera personality, who unfortunately was about to run into a psionic buzzsaw.
“Can you tell us what’s going on?” Gibbon asked.
“Yes, Bill. As you can see, I’m outside the offices of private eye, Zachary Nixon Johnson. I’ve just spoken with his representative about this developing story.”
Gibbon was excited now.
“And what can you tell us?”
“Well, Bill, I can tell you that I am a vapid, empty-headed, bimbo. This is not my natural hair color and these aren’t my original teeth, lips, cheekbones or nipples.”
“Come again, Cindy?”
“And it is important to note here that you and I have been having an affair for the past six months and that I am currently waiting for you to leave that ice bitch, saggy-assed, wife of yours as you have continuously promised.”
Gibbon’s face began to fall.
“Also, and I can’t stress this enough, your real name is Dexter Weeney, you have a strange rash on your crotch and you insist on calling me Auntie Hilda during our lovemaking.”
Gibbon made a slashing motion with his hand to someone off camera and Cindy’s side of the split screen disappeared. Gibbon nearly slipped out of his chair but caught himself on the desk and then spoke, in a voice only slightly more strained than normal, into the camera.
“Once again, the big story, and the only thing of merit reported here in the past few minutes, is that there was police activity at the home of trillionaire playgirl, Ona Thompson early this morning and that she has hired private eye Zachary Nixon Johnson for some yet to be determined purpose. ETN will have updates, commentary and wild speculation on this story as it develops.”
HARV cut the feed and spoke to me, even though I continued to stare blankly at the now dark screen.
“You have to admit, Carol is a very inventive spin doctor.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and ran my mind through the number of ways that this development changed the case. Sadly, I found no upside to any of it (and I looked really hard).
“Okay,” I said at last. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to leave the house, via the underground entrance, since I’m sure that the house is now being watched by reporters. We’re going to meet Tony at the morgue and get an update on Foraa’s post mortem and the CSI. On the way there, we’re going to net with Ona and tell her to stay put, not to talk to anyone and that we’ll see her later this afternoon. We are also going to net with Carol and instruct her on how to politely use the phrase ‘I have no comment’ when addressing any members of the press. And then we’re going to net Electra at the clinic and apologize.”
“Apologize for what?”
“I don’t know but odds are things are going to get much worse, and I just want to be on record that none of it is my fault.”
14
I met Tony in the hallway outside the city morgue. From the look of him, his morning hadn’t gone any better than mine. He looked just as tired as me and probably felt worse, but he had at least shaven that day so he was one up on me in the grooming department.
“I’m hoping very hard here, Zach, that you’re not the one who leaked this story to the press,” he said.
“Yeah, right, Tony, because having the story made public just makes my life so much better.”
“You have any idea where the leak came from?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “You don’t think it was any of your team, do you?”
Tony shook his head. “They’re loyal. What about the Quads?”
“I don’t see how having the story out there helps them, but who knows what they’re thinking. At least Gibbon doesn’t have all the
details.”
“We don’t know for certain that he doesn’t,” Tony said. “He could know everything already and just be doling out the information in bits.”
“Building it into a ‘developing story.’”
“More on-air time for himself.”
I was embarrassed that I hadn’t already thought of that. And I had a sneaking suspicion that there were a lot more things out there that I still hadn’t thought of.
“Tony, you know the only reason I came here was because I thought the day couldn’t get any worse.”
Tony smiled, put his arm around me and gently walked me the rest of the way to the morgue.
“Trust me, Zach,” he said. “It gets much worse.”
Call me old-fashioned but I’ve never been comfortable in the city morgue. Yes, it’s clean and well organized. It is exceptionally well run, utilizes the latest in forensic technology and is an absolutely essential part of law enforcement and, sadly, of my own work as well. I regret the need for it yet recognize and respect its function and importance.
But it gives me the willies (and I’m not crazy about the smell).
So, like most people in the city, I do my best to stay out of it. Alas, however, sometimes fate just has other plans.
“Since the homicide is still officially top secret, access to the body will be allowed only to high ranking members of the investigation. And you.” Tony said as we walked. “Forensics on this one are being handled by the new chief coroner, Lenny Shakes. Have you ever met him?”
“I don’t think so.”
We stopped outside the metal security door. Tony paused and put his finger on the DNA scanner. The system confirmed his identity a nano later, the big doors unlocked and he led me inside.
“Shakes is a good man, top notch. A little unstable, but he knows his way around a dead body.”
“I’m sure that looks good on a resume.”
“One more thing, when you meet him…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be offended if he doesn't refer to you by name.”
“What?”
“It’s an idiosyncrasy,” Tony said. “He feels that a coroner needs to be detached from the humanity around him in order to be effective.”
