They crossed the few meters of alley in silence and entered the building. Matheson stayed at the rear, rubbing the back of his sweaty neck as fine needles of tamped panic stabbed into his empty gut.
Neme coughed in revulsion and Matheson looked past her, searching for Inspector Dillal. He saw Istvalk lurking near the inner security door and taking shallow breaths through his mouth. He continued his visual search for the inspector, not sure what to do next.
Dillal was crouching beside one of the bodies in the gaming room and, aside from the stirring and breathing of the people beside Matheson, all was silence.
“GISA graces us with its new Forensic Ofiçe,” Neme observed aloud, shattering the momentary calm. She began to walk across the bar room floor. “Quite a jump—IAD to Inspector in a year. I didn’t think Pritchet would send his precious new toy out for a gang war.”
Without turning, Dillal pointed a warning finger at Neme. “Don’t contaminate my scene.”
“The hell—?” Neme snorted and stared at him in affront.
Dillal turned without rising and gave her a baleful stare. The artificial eye cast a red gleam toward the Gattian and Neme stiffened, recoiling from her first view of Dillal’s face before she stopped herself and let a flicker of disgust curl her lip.
The inspector did not break his cold expression with an answering reaction. “The blood in the carpeting is still fluid,” he said. “If you step onto the floor here, you’ll track DNA into these samples. I’ve already found several patches of cross-contamination. I’d prefer not to have more.” His tone could have chilled nitrogen liquid from the air.
Surprise rippled over Neme’s face before her usual sneer slid back into place. “Really? What about your own feet, you officious little rag?”
Dillal, entirely composed, rose and pointed to a bit of clear sheeting nearby. “IAD Istvalk provided me spray seal and sheath—per procedure.” He looked at the IAD. “You can go now.”
Istvalk’s gaze flickered to Neme, who narrowed her eyes and twitched her head at him in dismissal. As the IAD left, Dillal stepped over the body and onto the sheath material, making his way back along the edges of the room to the bar.
Neme glowered, but stepped back onto the ash-clay tiles near the vestibule, waiting in the less-sensitive zone away from the blood-soaked carpets. Self-important ass, but not stupid. And it appeared that the inspector had decided to own her insult rather than take umbrage. Orris stood slightly behind Neme with his arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits so a band of scruffy wrist was all that showed.
Dillal joined them, glancing at Matheson as he stepped onto the tiles. He rubbed his fingertips together and the spray seal peeled here and there, rolling into tiny gray grains that clung to his skin. Orris reached in front of Neme and handed the inspector a packet of clean up wipes from his own pocket. Matheson caught himself frowning at the gesture, too tired to wonder why.
“Thank you.” Dillal wiped the translucent coating off his hands and wrists. He didn’t move to clean the spray off his shoes, though Matheson could see the film on their surfaces.
“So,” Neme began. “I assume your magical analysis has already solved the case and it’s just a matter of rounding the bastards up. Right?”
Dillal shot her a dismissive frown. “There are sixteen bodies here and a great deal of other material to be sorted out. The forensic system does not run any faster in my skull than it does in the lab, Detive, though it does run more discreetly.” He finished wiping down his hands and looked up at Neme, who was practicing her superior smile. “However, it should allow me to proceed with a thorough investigation much faster than you would.” He looked at Orris.
The older man just shrugged, his hands tucked away again. “If Pritchet says it’s yours, I got no argument.”
Neme bridled and her expression went cold. “For the record, what does the evidence say, right now?” She was following protocol on handing it off, though normally she’d be the one reciting sit rep, not the incoming investigator. She doesn’t like handing off, or is it just handing off to him?
Dillal tilted his head and studied her for a long moment. He quirked the right corner of his mouth into an ironic smile and turned back to regard the scene. “The victims are all Dreihleen adults—six female and ten male, from fifteen to seventy-two years of age. All local and all recorded in the database as required—do you want the names?”
Neme scowled and shook her head. “Get on with it.”
Dillal nodded. “They died about four hours ago—between oh-one-thirty and oh-two-thirty, most likely. Causes of death are variously trauma or blood loss from wounds to the head and neck. These wounds were inflicted with two types of weapons—short-plasma projectors, and small-caliber firearms. As yet, no casings or bullets have been recovered, so I can’t say if all the shots were from the same weapon or from several—”
Neme smirked. “You’re not sure?”
Dillal cast his red-sparked stare back at her. “The bullets will have to be removed from the bodies for comparison before I can make absolute statements. We’re not set up for an autopsy here—much less sixteen of them.” He returned his gaze to the bodies. “The plasma burns are most likely from pen torches, but, even if we find them, the weapons wouldn’t be much evidentiary use in court without DNA and prints to tie them to suspects.”
Neme clenched her teeth. Orris stood and watched the byplay with a sarcastic smile of long familiarity and Matheson had an inkling of what had induced Dillal to submit to such ghastly surgery.
The inspector continued, “By the evidence, the victims were robbed, bound, and gagged, and placed on the floor, but not all at once. They were collected over an hour or more while the killers robbed the premises and lay in wait for more victims. Two of the victims weren’t tied when they died.” He paused to point to two bodies that lay the farthest back in the room, away from the rest. “They appear to be the only ones with defensive wounds—but all were killed within a few minutes of each other. Then the killers left. Possibly one of them—or one of our own men—tracked blood onto the tiles in the vestibule and alley, leaving partial sole impressions. Either before or after the robbery, the door lock was broken.”
Neme had glowered through the whole recitation, now she interrupted again. “Santos and Matheson were first on the scene. The rookie says they broke the lock to gain access.”
Dillal turned to Matheson, inquiring with a look. “Santos—my TO—ordered me to break it when I arrived,” Matheson said, scowling. All of this was in my report. “We’d split the block because of the alley and his knee was slowing him down—he’d twisted it earlier while we were in pursuit of a pickpocket. I was about halfway around, rousting a dealer from a doorway, when he called me. When I got here, Santos was just outside the door. He thought the situation was suspicious, so I checked the door myself and broke the lock. We stepped inside and saw the scene, then I called it in.”
“Why did Santos call you?”
“He was concerned that the jasso was locked up when it should have been open for after-hours business. He’s been on this patch for a long time and I guess—”
“Don’t guess. Where is Santos?”
Matheson shifted his eyes away from Dillal’s gaze. “He . . . was injured, sir.”
“He went jumpwise,” Orris answered, “and knocked his brain loose. He was just sittin’ up again when I got here. The rook—” he added, jerking his thumb at Matheson, “blew lunch, but he stuck on until I arrived. Sent Santos to Public Health, and Admin held Matheson there to spring you while they argued with the docs. The rest of us have been standin’ around like the Pillars and readin’ the graffiti until you got here.”
Matheson was sure he could see something moving in Dillal’s head. What sort of machine did Andreus shove in there?
“Do you surmise that the killers locked the door as they left?” Dillal asked.
“Must have,” Matheson replied, feeling a little queasy.
“Wa
s the ventilation off when you arrived on the scene?”
Matheson had to think before he could answer. “No. It was on.”
“Who turned it off?”
Orris answered for him. “ForTech. To put collection filters in the vents.”
Dillal’s right eyebrow descended into half a scowl. “Humidity and insects degrade evidence and the filters will catch nothing if there’s no draft.”
Orris nodded, but didn’t move.
“What about the shoe?” Neme asked.
“Shoe?” Dillal seemed thrown by the question.
“The one that made the bloody print by the door. Can’t you tell whose it is?” she sneered.
“It’s an indeterminate print. I need to make comparisons and eliminate all the GISA personnel on scene. It may be Santos’s or Matheson’s as easily as one of the killers’.”
“You seem pretty sure there’s more than one perp.”
“Yes. The holding and binding of the victims would require two, but it was probably more.”
“The more gang members there are, the more likely one’ll grass,” Neme said. “You know the fucking drecks and humps always brag their kills—they’ve been slaughtering each other over clan rights since before First Settlement.”
“This wasn’t clan against clan or Ohba against Dreihleen,” Dillal stated in his dry, measured tone. “The Paz da Sorte is neutral territory in the Dreihleat, and there aren’t any society marks in evidence, either Ohba or Dreihleen.”
Neme peered down her nose at the inspector. “And you should know.”
Dillal cocked an eyebrow at her. “As well as you should.” Then he changed the subject. “Have the ofiçes learned anything from witnesses, yet? It’s not likely anyone heard the shooting with such small caliber projectiles and plasmas, but perhaps something—”
“Something is nothing,” Neme snapped back. “So far, no one saw or heard anything. Which is why it’s got to be a clan thing. It’s not system-hoppers, and if it was humps or mets, the drecks would be crushing each other in their rush to point fingers. These insular duck-fuckers are tighter than a mouse’s ass when it’s their own people for the chop.”
Dillal didn’t seem to hear Neme’s slurs. “Then we’ll continue asking. Coordinate the canvass in the Dreihleat before you go, and turn the reports over to me later. Matheson and I will continue with the scene. Detive Orris, are you still on shift as IOD?”
“About four hours into overtime, just like the kid, here. Half the guys assigned to this patch were up too late the night before, too—you know this fuckin’ festival schedule.”
Matheson had had his baptism by fire: his first week on the street was the second week of Spring Moon—a month-long mutation of some agricultural fertility festival Angra Dastrelas clung to like a greedy monkey that couldn’t stand to pull its fist empty out of a nut jar. With engineered agribusiness, the festival’s timing was moot these days, but the tourism and its revenue stream remained—which was all the planetary corporation cared about. The showier events were staged in more glamorous or family-friendly venues near Cove Quay, run by and for people higher on the social scale, but the hardcore traditionalists and culture mavens could still find the real thing in the Dreihleat—if they didn’t mind the pickpockets and drug dealers.
Dillal nodded at Orris. “No reason for you to stay. Tell someone to turn the ventilation back on as you go, and send your report to my office before your next shift. I’ll check on Santos.”
Orris flipped a sardonic salute to the inspector and wasted no time leaving the building. Dillal, Neme, and Matheson followed him outside and toward the transport.
Matheson sucked in purging lungfuls of thick air scented with boozy urine and the odors of early breakfasts cooking. The keyhole glimpses of sky over the alley showed pink. He looked at his mobile: 0537. He’d thought it was later.
The comparatively clean air was no substitute for sleep. He was abraded by exhaustion and the rough grit of his reined and unsorted emotions—he was too tired to be horrified, now—he only felt chilled, and so detached from his own brain that he moved in slow motion.
“You going to toss it again, rook?” Neme asked.
Matheson squeezed his eyes and ground his teeth against a surge of fury that was pleasantly warm. Probably thinks overtime’s beneath her. He caught a breath through his nose and cut a look at the senior detive. “No, sir.”
“Detive,” Dillal said.
Neme turned her superior smirk toward Inspector Dillal. Rank or not, she thinks he’s beneath her, too.
Neither spoke for a moment.
“As Santos is not available,” Dillal said, “I’ll require SO Matheson’s presence here a while longer, and I’d like to second him to my office for the duration of the investigation. As you are handing off, do you have an objection?”
Neme frowned and flipped a hand dismissively. “Oh, now you’re by the book are you?”
“Have you ever known me not to be? I could go to Belcourso, or Pritchet, if you prefer . . .”
She snorted—it almost seemed as if she spat. “No. Why should I object? What good is he on this patch if he falls apart over a bit of blood? He’ll be your millstone, now.”
Matheson scowled after her as she walked away into the alley, patting her pockets.
CHAPTER FOUR
Day 1: Morning
What does he want with me? Matheson was nearly too tired to care. The smells of cooking teased his nose, but his stomach gurgled whenever memory of the jasso’s interior raised its head, and he thought the only cure would be to spend the next twenty hours in the embrace of a mattress and cool, dry air. Not that he’d get that.
“. . . Matheson?”
He jumped, realizing that Dillal had spoken his name several times already. “Sorry, sir. Yes, sir. What can I do?”
Dillal blinked at him a few times, his eyelids unsettlingly out of sync and his expression an unreadable, swift montage that faded to blankness. He shook his head. “Get some coffee—or whatever will keep you awake a few hours longer. I’d send you home too, but now I’m here, I can’t leave so soon and I wouldn’t like to risk Andreus’s ire by working alone,” he added in a dry tone.
“The doctor—”
Dillal stopped him with a raised hand. “I can imagine what she said. This,” he added, touching the shaved left side of his head, “is experimental and not to be left unobserved in the field. Yes?”
Nanny duty . . . Matheson cast his gaze down and nodded as a shameful heat rose in his face again. He tried to change the subject. “There may be coffee in the transport.”
Dillal gave the barest smile and shook his head. “Orris will have drunk it all, if it was drinkable. There used to be a café on Rua dos Peixes, facing the park.”
“There’s still one there.” Not salvation, but at least a temporary respite from his foggy state. “How do you take your coffee, sir?”
“If there’s a man at the counter, tell him I sent you. Otherwise, plain.”
Matheson started to turn, then frowned and turned back. “Sir,” he said, turning back, “didn’t we just agree you’re not to be alone?”
This time he got a real smile out of the inspector—it was one-sided and didn’t show any teeth, but it tugged the raw skin around the prosthesis and brightened his remaining human eye for a flickering second. Was that a test?
Dillal motioned to one of the ofiçes at the cordon—Charley Tyreda, olive-skinned, baggy-eyed, and stuck with the extra shift like the rest of them. “Tyreda, assist me for a moment.”
“Ah, fuck, Dillal . . . Why me?” Tyreda muttered, but he went along like a lamb—a skittish lamb in the company of what could be a small, but dangerous wolf.
Dillal knelt by the door in the glare of Tyreda’s Sun Spot and examined the lock. It yielded no useful information. He scowled and went back into the jasso, pausing to reapply the spray seal to his shoes and hands. The slowly stirring air inside smelled of aerosol solvents more than it did of blood and excre
ment and the beginnings of tropical rot for a moment before the humidity and stink fell back onto them.
Tyreda followed the inspector’s example before trudging after him, disgust and horror vying for control of his expression. “Why are you bothering with all this crap?” he asked.
Dillal paused on the sheath beside the bar room wall and turned slowly back to face the SO. He narrowed his eyes, the left responding a beat slower than the right. “Bothering? With the investigation of murder?”
Tyreda dragged his gaze away from Dillal’s face and shuddered. “No. With all this.” He flapped his hands as if dismissing a cloud of smoke between them. “This on-site forensic cat shit. There’s no fuckin’ way that cybernetic freak show is actually functional.”
“You think not?” Dillal’s voice was cool.
Tyreda swallowed hard and glared back. “Yeah, I ‘think not.’ I mean . . . I gotta credit you with some hefty balls for goin’ through with it—I knew you were crazy, Dillal, knew you were ambitious—but this stuff . . . How does it even work? Takes a database the size of a desk and a room full of techs with machines and microscopes to manage scene analysis any other time, but here’s you, what . . . sixty-eight, seventy kilos and a head half-full of hardware and you can do it right here, right now? It’s gotta be a con. You agree to the show, they promote you—for whatever reason Pritchet’s got, which I don’t know and don’t want to,” he added, holding up his hands to ward the information away, “—and you finally get out from under that blue-assed bitch, get a promotion you shoulda had years ago. That’s a good deal. But the rest . . . ?”
“It works.”
“Cat shit.”
Dillal cocked his head and waited.
Tyreda couldn’t hold out more than a minute before dropping his gaze. “That’s cold, that silent thing you do. It’s even creepier with your face like that and I’ve known you . . . what? Six years?”
Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel Page 3
