Now, as Leonard approached the cutting room, a hard-faced man peeled away from the group of guards milling around outside and strode towards him.
"Freddie send you up?" Jensen asked. He looked Leonard up and down for a moment, his mouth pursed in a frown as though he didn't like what he saw. "The load is over there." He used the sawn-off stump gun in his hands to gesture towards a stack of crates outside the cutting room. "We already counted the baggies inside 'em. The count comes up short at the other end, it'll be you that pays for it." He tapped his gun menacingly on one of the crates. "You understand that, mutie?"
"I understand," Leonard said.
He lifted one of the crates, feeling the contents settle as the thousands of plasteen envelopes inside it shifted with the sudden movement. While Jensen still glowered at him, he began to walk the crate towards the stairs.
He shouldn't talk to people that way, Daniel said from beside him. You see the way he kept showing off the gun? It was like he was threatening you, Leonard.
He was threatening me, Leonard told the boy. That's his job, Daniel. He's my boss, same as Freddie is. And, in the city, it's Okay if your boss threatens you. That's how it works.
It felt weird for him to be the one explaining things to Daniel, but at times it was as though the little boy didn't really understand the way the world worked at all. Leonard understood it, though. Thanks to how he looked, people assumed he was stupid and thought they could talk to him any way they wanted. What was more, there was nothing he could do about it. Sure, if he made up his mind to do it, he could have taken Jensen's gun off him and wrapped it around the man's throat. But then, where would he be? He would lose his job, and the place where he lived. He would have to go back to scavenging for rats and garbage on City Bottom. Mega-City One wasn't like the Cursed Earth: you couldn't kill people just because you didn't like them. Living in the city meant sometimes you had to put up with people being mean, or unkind, or harsh. It was like Freddie had told him. It was the price of doing business.
Still, it's not right, Daniel said. He shouldn't be so mean and nasty, Leonard. He's like the bad men. The men who hurt me. And bad men should be punished.
Listening closely, Leonard realised a new tone had entered the boy's voice inside his head. It was a restless, uneasy sound that sat strangely with the high-pitched childish lilt of Daniel's voice. It was a sound Leonard knew of old, same as he knew what its coming meant. It had been only a few hours since they had killed the man in the office on the two-hundredth floor, but already Daniel's mind was turning once more to thoughts of vengeance. Soon, he would remind Leonard of the promise he had made. Soon, he would send Leonard out on another errand halfway across the city.
Soon, they would kill again.
SIX
DIFFERENCES OF OPINION
"Let me see if I'm hearing this right." Tolsen's expression was aghast, his words uttered in a rising tone of disbelief. "You're saying the killer was a child?"
"No," Anderson shook her head. "I'm only telling you what the victim saw. James Nales saw his killer's face, and it belonged to a little boy about seven or eight years old."
"But that's impossible," Tolsen said. He shrugged in annoyance. "Look, I'm not trying to tell you your business. This is your investigation, Anderson. You're the Psi-Judge here, not me. But what you've just said contradicts every piece of physical evidence we've managed to collect. The killer was over two metres tall, for Grud's sake! And he strangled the victim with his bare hands. There's no way a child could do that."
They were in the outer office; Anderson and Tolsen thrashing out the results of the psi-scan between them while Lang stood a short distance away watching them in silence. The rookie Psi-Judge had not said a word since Anderson had dropped her bombshell, but from the look on her face the words "I told you so" were currently uppermost in her thoughts.
"I'll admit it sounds crazy," Anderson said to Tolsen. "But you're not listening to what I'm saying. I'm just telling you what I saw in the psi-scan. As far as James Nales was concerned, his killer was a little boy. That doesn't mean he actually was a little boy. It simply means that's what Nales believed him to be. He could have been wrong, or mistaken - I don't know. But that's exactly what he saw."
"But of course it's wrong," Tolsen snorted loudly in growing anger. "What about the handholds in the elevator shaft and the broken vertebrae? There's no way a child could have that kind of strength. And what about the differences in height between a child and an adult? Nales stood at one-metre-drokking-eighty. Are you telling me the kid stood on a chair to be able to reach his throat?"
"No, I'm not saying anything of the kind." Biting her lip, Anderson tried to control her own temper. "Again, all I'm saying is that James Nales believed his killer was a child. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe the killer was using a portable holo-emitter to disguise himself. Whatever the case, we can't just dismiss the results of the scan out of hand. Sure, we take it with a pinch of salt. But, right now, Nales's lingering memories are the only thing we have that even comes close to an eyewitness account of the crime."
"Actually, they're not the only thing," Lang spoke at last, stepping forward to interrupt their conversation. Lang's mouth was set in a tight, stony line: Anderson got the impression her fellow Psi-Judge regarded both her and Tolsen with equal disdain. "We've got another witness. If not quite an eyewitness, then at least he's the next best thing." She looked at Anderson. "That's what I was doing when you arrived on the scene - looking for evidence to support the results of my psi-scan." Her expression grew darker. "Anyway, like I say, I found a witness. And I think you'll both be interested in what he has to say."
A middle-aged man in a grubby set of overalls stood waiting outside in the hallway. Lang led the others down the hall and nodded towards him.
"This is Dwayne Hemmings. He works for the company who handle the cleaning contract at Franz Kafka. He's the one who called in the murder." She turned to face the man. "Tell the other Judges what you told me, Dwayne."
"Uh, well actually, we use robots to do the cleaning," Hemmings said. Uncomfortable at finding himself on the receiving end of an interrogation by three Judges, his fingers fidgeted nervously at the sleeve of his overalls. "It's my job to supervise them, and contact the maintenance team if any of the robots go on the fritz. That's what I was doing up here on the two-hundredth. Cleaning Unit Twelve had a malfunction and started trying to apply floor varnish to the carpets. Made a hell of a mess. I've been telling Maintenance for two weeks now that Twelve's been acting hinky, but they don't lis-"
"The murder, Dwayne," Lang prompted him, impatiently. "Tell them what you heard."
"Oh, yeah. Well, I was in the office over there." He pointed two doors down the hallway. "I'd just removed Twelve's control panel and I was trying to get its systems to reboot, when I heard what sounded like voices. At first, I didn't think too much of it - I mean, people work late in these offices all the time. Then, I heard a kid's voice talking and I thought that was kind of strange. You know, seeing as it was so late and all."
"You heard a child's voice?" Anderson asked him. "You're sure of that?"
"Oh sure," Hemmings nodded. "A little boy, it sounded like. I mean, I got a couple of kids myself. Well, they're really juves now, I suppose, seeing as they're both in their teens. But, anyway, I know what a kid sounds like. And one of them was definitely a little boy's voice. I'm certain of it."
"One of them? There was more than one voice?"
"Yeah. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but there was two of them all right. One was the kid's voice, like I said. The other was deeper. A man's voice. A big guy, from the sound of it. Anyway, after a while, the talking stopped. Then, later, after I'd finished with Twelve, I came out into the hallway and saw the door to the office there was open. I went over to see if anybody was inside so I could ask 'em whether they minded me sending a robot in to do the cleaning. That's when I saw him. The dead guy, I mean." He shuddered at the memory. "He w
as lying there, with them words carved into his chest and his tongue all swollen and purple. Grud, I tell you, it almost made me hurl. 'Course, when I saw that, I got out of there as quick as possible. That's when I went to one of the other offices and used the vid-phone to call the Judges."
"Would you recognise the voices if you heard them again?" Anderson asked.
"I guess. Maybe. I dunno." Hemmings shrugged. "I mean, they were just voices after all. It ain't like I got a... watjamacallit... a phonographic memory or nothing. I just watch robots clean floors for a living."
"Anything else?" Lang said, lifting an eyebrow to Anderson and Tolsen. Seeing them shake their heads, she turned back to Hemmings. "All right, Dwayne. Thank you. You've been a great help to our investigation."
"You mean I can go now?" Hemmings breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.
"I've got your details," Lang said. "We'll contact you if we need to talk again."
As Hemmings turned to walk away, the Judges were silent for a moment. Then, once the man was out of earshot, Tolsen spoke.
"Phonographic memory? You ask me the guy has raw munce where his brains ought to be."
"True," Lang's face wore a subtle smile of vindication. "But that doesn't alter the fact we now have independent corroboration a child was up here." She paused, the smile growing slightly wider. "So, it looks like the results of the psi-scan weren't so off-beam after all."
"All right, it seems we're now on the hunt for two perps," Anderson said. "A boy and a giant. Given the fact the witness described them as talking amongst themselves, it doesn't seem likely they both turned up here at the same time by accident. For now, I'd say our best bet is to assume they came to the scene together and committed the crime in tandem. As to the results of the psi-scan, maybe we can see an explanation now. Nales was being strangled, his brain cells dying through lack of oxygen. Maybe that scrambled his memories somehow, and he put the boy's face on the giant's body."
It was later, and Tolsen had left to supervise the removal of the body from the office while Anderson attempted to discuss the case with Lang in the hallway. It was hard going. After her brief show of emotion when she had unveiled Hemmings's testimony, Lang had retreated into her shell. She stood facing Anderson with her arms crossed in front of her, her features cast in a serious and unflinching expression that even a street Judge might have found reason to envy. If Lang had anything to add to Anderson's verbal theorising, she gave no sign of it.
"A boy and a giant," Anderson shook her head with a sigh. "Grud, the whole thing sounds like some kind of kid's fairytale gone bad. I mean, they climb a two-hundred storey tower to kill an old man who looks to be in his thirties. Then, they escape again, with no one any the wiser as to who they were or why they came here. The way this case is going, I wouldn't be surprised if before much longer we find ourselves knee-deep in dwarf miners, magic beanstalks, and golden egg-laying geese."
In reply, Lang said nothing. Her lips pursed in a sullen line, she gazed coolly at Anderson and made no comment.
"Okay, so I can see you're not big with the on-the-job witticisms," Anderson said to her. "But remember, we're supposed to be working this case together. If you've got any ideas or theories, now's the time to let them out."
"The way I understand it, we're not working anything together," Lang said. Her expression put Anderson in a mind of a sulky teenager. "You ask me, I was doing fine on this one on my own. But Psi Division saw it differently. They told me you were taking over, and I'd be answering to you from now on."
"That's what you were told, huh?" Anderson said. She paused, weighing her words carefully. "Listen, Lang, maybe it's better if we clear the air now before we continue. I realise the situation is hardly ideal..."
"That's putting it mildly," the other Psi-Judge spat back, a well of sudden emotion breaching the dam walls of her reserve in a flood of angry words. "You think I don't know what's going on? You think I don't realise why they sent you? They've decided I'm not up to the job and they've sent you to be the axeman. This is my last case, isn't it? After we catch the perps, you'll write up a report and say I'm not carrying my weight. And we both know what happens then, don't we? I get drummed out of Psi Division. But it's not like getting thrown out of Street Division, is it? If you don't make the grade as a Psi-Judge, they don't turn you back into a civilian. Not when you've got psychic powers. Once this case is closed and you've done your dirty work, I'll be put in the psi-cubes like all the other psychics they say are too dangerous to be allowed to walk the streets. And why? Just because I butted heads with a street Judge about the results of a psi-scan that were drokking right to begin with!"
Lang's voice had steadily risen in the course of her diatribe. Now, it broke. Tears began to streak down her face. Embarrassed, she turned away from Anderson and wiped her eyes.
Long moments passed in uncomfortable silence. Finally, Anderson extended a hand to her colleague's shoulder and tried to console her.
"Listen to me, Lang. You're upset. I understand that. No one likes to be second-guessed in the field, especially when it turns out they were right all along. But I didn't come here to play executioner. My only brief is to work the case." Hating herself for it, Anderson lied. "Nobody said you weren't up to the job. I was assigned to the investigation because you're a rookie, and this case shows every early sign of becoming a monster. We have a giant, a child murderer, a thirty-eight year-old victim whose true age is closer to eighty, conflicting sets of physical and psychic evidence. And that's not counting the message carved into the victim's chest. 'Your sins will find you out'. Grud knows what that means. The whole thing has 'serial killer case' written all over it. If we don't catch the killer - or killers - quickly, there's going to be more victims. I'm sure of it. And, believe me, when you're working a serial case, you take every bit of extra help that's going - even if it means having to swallow another Judge being assigned to work the case with you. I'm not here to grab control of your investigation, Lang. That's not my style. We've got a murder to solve - between the two of us. Let's forget everything that's gone on already, and work this case together. Now, if you want to take a minute to gather your thoughts, I can-"
"I'm fine." Shrugging away Anderson's hand, Lang turned to face her once more. Her tears had dried, and in place of her earlier passions she wore an expression of glacial composure. "You'll have to forgive my outburst. I was tired and it's been a long night, that's all. I'm fully capable of doing my duties. You said it yourself: we've a murder to solve. Let's get to work."
"Okay, then." Wrong-footed by the unexpected change in Lang's demeanour, for a second Anderson found she was uncertain how best to proceed. "So, nothing about this crime suggests the choice of victim was random. You don't climb ten storeys inside an elevator shaft to kill someone without having a reason to want them dead. Probably our best way forward is to concentrate on the background of James Nales and see whether we can find a moti-"
"Anderson! Lang!" Abruptly, Tolsen emerged from inside the office and jogged towards them in a state of euphoria. "I just heard back from MAC. You're not going to believe it!"
"What have got for us?" Anderson said.
"Two things," Tolsen seemed breathless with excitement. "First off, I played a hunch. The Justice Department maintains a database of the criminal aliases of perps who have yet to be identified. Sometimes, an informant will tell a Judge that 'Perp X' was responsible for a given crime - but they only know 'Perp X' by a street name or alias. Without a real name to help track the perp down, often the Judge working the case has to chalk it off as an unsolved. But the aliases themselves are recorded, so I asked MAC to check the name 'James Nales' against the file and see what it could come up with. MAC found a hit. Over the last six months, three different perps arrested on charges ranging from Organ Legging to Possession Of Controlled Substances With Intent To Distribute have admitted under interrogation that they worked for someone with the street name 'Jimmy Nayles'. 'Nayles' spelt N-A-Y-L-E-S, like the things you hi
t with a hammer. In each case, the name turned out to be a dead end. It was like Jimmy Nayles was a ghost: the perps in question had never met him, and couldn't say what his real name was or what he looked like. He was a complete mystery man, so his name went into the alias file and that was that."
"And you think our victim James Nales may be this mystery mobster Jimmy Nayles?" Anderson asked him. "I know we've already established he doesn't seem the typical businessman, but are you sure you're not reaching here?"
"I admit it sounds like a stretch," Tolsen smiled in satisfaction. "Except, I've received other evidence that supports it. You remember I said I sent Nales's DNA to MAC? To compare it against the Justice Department's genetic database? I just got the results back. You know, there's a lot of ways a perp can try to conceal his identity. He can change his face, use nanosurgery to alter his fingerprints, even undergo a retinal transplant. But you can't beat DNA. MAC found a match in the database that confirms James Nales wasn't who he claimed to be. As who he really was..."
Tolsen paused for effect, the smile on his face broadening to such an extent that Anderson was immediately put to mind of a cat having been at the synthi-cream.
"Tell me," Tolsen said, "has either of you ever heard of a perp named Konrad Gruschenko?"
SEVEN
THE SECRETS OF JIMMY NAYLES
Dead of night, and the city is quiet. The choking logjams and gridlock of traffic by day have eased, giving way to gentle streams. The bars and nightspots are closed, or mostly empty. The pedways are all but deserted. In housing blocks and hotels, in con-apts and crockblocks, in displaced person camps and the cardboard cities of the homeless, millions of citizens lie slumbering in their beds. For the Judges out on patrol, working the end of the graveyard shift, the calls from Control are becoming less frequent. Dawn is still two hours away, but the worst of the night-time peak in the crime rate has passed. The city is sleeping. Its lights have dimmed. Its pulse slows and becomes torpid.
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