Babylon 5 12 - Psi Corps 03 - Final Reckoning - The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory)

by The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory)

  His city. His murder.

  Chapter 5

  Girard sipped his vile coffee and glanced through the paper. He flipped to the arts section and read the book review. It was the new reviewer, and Girard enjoyed his acerbic sense of humor. The plot of the book seems to be revealed only on a need- to-know basis-and apparently the author feels the reader doesn't need to know, he read and chuckled.

  Behind him, Louis Timothee, his deputy assistant, gave a sudden soft exclamation.

  "Look at this," Timothee said.

  "What is it?"

  "Maybe we shouldn't feel so sorry for Ackerman after all. Did you realize that he worked in the Psi Corps reeducation camp at Amiento?"

  "Yes."

  "Really? I just found that. It was past one of the security curtains..."

  "Yes, he was acquitted of most charges and served his time, so of course they make it difficult to access that part of his past. It's in keeping with the forgiveness statutes passed after the Civil War. We can get to them, we just have to work bloody hard."

  "Acquitted?" Timothee said, incredulously.

  Girard turned, and found his assistant staring at an image. It showed a heap of dead bodies. He clicked, and another scene came up-a group of men, women, and children, emaciated but alive, stared blank-eyed at the picture taker.

  "He rolled over on some of his superiors, of course. The age-old cry of the footman butcher, you know? ''I was only following orders.''"

  "Well, what do we care this son of a bitch is dead, then?"

  "We care because it's our job," Girard replied.

  "Furthermore - listen, give me your best guess. Who killed Ackerman?"

  Timothee gestured at the screen.

  "One of them. Or the brother or sister or son of one of the dead ones. He oversaw the systematic torture, mutilation, and murder of thousands. Just because he was acquitted doesn't mean he's forgiven. I would have tracked him down, if one of mine had been in that camp."

  "That's a good guess. Statistically, it makes the most sense. And you're right, in a way. I don't condone vigilantes. We can't. But maybe I wouldn't look far beyond the obvious, if I jumped to the conclusion you have. Maybe I would figure the killer was justified, and let it go at that."

  "Damn straight."

  "But that's why I keep my conclusions tentative. That's why I formulate alternate hypotheses. And if the one I've come up with is correct, I think you'll agree we should keep this investigation open."

  "I don't see any alternative hypothesis."

  "Well, you've blinded yourself then-not a good way to start an investigation. It's just like science, you know. You form various hypotheses and then you start testing them, or at least seeing which one best fits the facts you know."

  "If you have a better fit for the data, what is it?"

  "Maybe not a better fit, but I have another fit. There is another sort of man who might want to kill Ackerman, a sort with a motive other than revenge."

  Timothee paused for a moment.

  "Turn off the screen. It's distracting you. All you can think of is what you would do to a man involved in that."

  Reluctantly, Timothee did so. He continued staring at the blank space where the picture had been.

  "Well?" Girard asked, after a few moments.

  "Holy shit."

  "See?"

  "You think it was someone else who worked at the camp? One of the war criminals who got away. Fernandez, or Hilo, or..." he paused "...Bester."

  "Eh. La."

  "Holy shit," he repeated.

  "One of the real mindfraggers, here in Paris? I thought they all were supposed to be off world."

  "Where would you hide? On a space station with a few hundred thousand, a colony world with a few million at best, or on Earth, hidden in a crowd of more than ten billion souls?"

  Timothee sat open - mouthed for a few heartbeats, then lunged for his computer.

  "We can cross - reference," he said, "find out who worked there, who was caught, who is dead, who..."

  "...got away," Girard finished for him.

  "Only one, and you've already said his name."

  But Timothee had it, now.

  "Bester," he murmured.

  He might as well have been speaking the name of the Devil.

  "Alfred Bester. My God, if he's here in Paris-hey!"

  His screen went blank. He started working furiously to try to get it back. Alarmed, Girard turned back to his own AI unit and found it similarly blank. It was still working, but when he tried to return to the screen with Bester on it, he got an icon that read "information not found."

  "Ub-oh," he murmured.

  "What happened?"

  "I have no idea," Girard responded.

  "But I want to find out. We're supposed to have clear access to that database, and no one has the authority to cut us out of it. Not the EABI, nobody. When..."

  At that moment, the com on his desk burred for attention. Girard stopped in mid sentence, frowning.

  "Answer," he said.

  "Picture?" the wall asked.

  "Sure."

  The screen came on, revealing a balding man of middle years. There was something very familiar about him, and when he spoke, recognition came. Girard had seen his face half a hundred times on ISN broadcasts.

  "Hi," the face said-in English.

  "My name is Michael Garibaldi. And you would be Inspector Gerard?"

  "Girard," Girard corrected.

  "Whoops. Well, I guess that high-school French was a total waste, huh? Except there was this pretty blond thing who liked it an awful lot when I called her Ma'moiselle."

  He smiled.

  "But that's neither here nor there, is it? Look, it's come to my attention that you've been poking around in the law enforcement database that relates to one Alfred Bester."

  "You're spying on me."

  "Nooo, I'm spying on Alfred Bester's file. And keeping tabs on who looks at his file. That isn't strictly illegal, either. I checked."

  "Yes? Well, neither is my viewing it."

  "Of course not. But I think you ought to stop."

  "It would seem I have no choice."

  "Yeah, well, it looks like-by coincidence-there's been some sort of disruption in the system. Probably turn out to be solar flares, something like that, you know? In an hour or so, you can probably access it again. That's how long it usually takes to get this sort of thing fixed."

  "You sound like an authority on the matter."

  "Authority? Me? Nah. Just an interested citizen who's seen his share of equipment breakdowns. Used to happen all the time on the station. All I'm saying' is, when it comes back on line, I wouldn't look at Bester's file again, unless you want to be hip deep in feds from the EABI on down, that's all. And if you're like most locals I know-myself included, when I was a security officer-you don't want that."

  "I'm not a security officer, Mr. Garibaldi. I'm an agent de la police of the city of Paris. I have to report this matter to the EABI-in a few hours, anyway."

  "Maybe so, maybe not," Garibaldi said, though a brief look of approval flashed across his face.

  "I might be able to help with that, if there's reason. Why did you call up his file?"

  "That's really not your business, Mr. Garibaldi."

  "Look, I don't like to throw my weight around, but I'm making it my business. I can do it officially, which will make your life very hard-but what do I care? I hate Paris. It's not like you'll get a chance to spoil one of my vacations, or something. On the other hand, you and I can come to a friendly understanding, and help each other."

  "I don't like being threatened."

  "I wouldn't either, if I were in your shoes. But right now your choice is between me and some Metasensory squad from EA-and me. What's it gonna be?"

  Girard let out an angry breath and tapped his desk for a few moments. Marsies. Worse than Americans.

  "There's been a murder, an ex-convict named Ackerman. Professional job, but under odd circumstances
. Ackerman was a telepath-he worked in the reeducation camp near Brasilia. I was just checking to see who his higher-ups might have been."

  "Huh. You think someone did a 'see no evil, hear no evil' job on him, then. Bester?"

  "A remote possibility."

  "This telepath, do you know if he had a prescription for choline ribosylase?"

  "I do not."

  "Might want to check that - wait, I'll do it."

  There was a very, brief pause, during which Garibaldi looked down at something.

  "Nope. Oh, well."

  "Would that be significant?"

  "You know it."

  "I Why?"

  "Aha. Now you're getting interested in what I might have to say, right. I can be a big help to you, if I want to be. And I'll give you this for free - it's not a bad bet that Bester is in Paris. It's worth checking out."

  "I assure you, I'm doing so."

  "I believe you, but Bester has slipped through my hands one time too many. This is the first thing like a real lead I've had in a long time. And I'll tell you this, if Bester really is involved, you can't trust Metasensory people from the EA or anywhere else. He still has people inside. If the EABI knows you're looking at this, Bester will know an hour later, and an hour after that he'll be so long-gone, he might as well be a passenger pigeon."

  "If he did this, I'm thinking he's gone already."

  "Maybe. But maybe not. He may be overconfident. There was another incident, a few weeks ago"

  "The attempted robbery of a pharmacy?"

  Garibaldi's eyes widened.

  "Hey. I'm starting to like you. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. You tell me why you link the two, and I'll share what I've got."

  "In that case and in this one, some sort of device was used to override AI security devices. Not much of a link, really."

  Then he listened intently as Garibaldi outlined his connection-the drug for a condition only telepaths contracted.

  "That's very interesting," he allowed.

  "It's more than interesting," Garibaldi said.

  "I think he was there. I think he's still there."

  "And I still have to report it to Metasensory."

  "No, you don't. I have friends in some pretty high places. Listen, you want this guy, right?"

  "Of course."

  "So do I. Only thing is, I don't care if I get credit for it. I just want to see it happen. I want to be there, if it's possible. So just hold off. You'll get confirmation in an hour or so from EarthGov, guaranteeing that you won't get in trouble for holding out on the psifeds. Some government guys will come in to oversee, but ones I trust, and I promise you they'll just fade away after the collar. It'll be all you, a local bust by the local man."

  "And what do you get out of this?"

  "Satisfaction. The satisfaction of finally seeing that bastard put where he belongs, in a cave so deep he'll have to look up to see hell. Take everything you've heard about Bester, leave out the stuff that's merely heinous, and raise the rest to the sixth power. Then you've just begun to understand what he's capable of."

  "I sense a personal grudge."

  "You have a problem with that?"

  "Not if you don't. This is my city. If you come here with some idea of taking personal vengeance, I'll lock you up myself-I don't care who your friends are. Is that clear?" "Clear as vacuum. I'm on my way. I'll be there in four days."

  "And if I catch him before that?"

  "You won't."

  "You seem pretty sure of that."

  "I am. See you."

  The contact broke. Girard gave another sigh, but then shrugged his shoulders. One more thing to keep his mind off the unsolvable problems, anyway. He turned to find Timothee staring with eyes like saucers.

  "Do you know who that was?"

  "Of course."

  "He's friends with Sheridan himself."

  "So I hear. Things will become very interesting in a few days, if we don't have our man. I intend to prove Mr. Garibaldi wrong. I intend to catch Bester before he arrives. So let's not waste any time. If you were a war criminal and in Paris, where would you hide?"

  Timothee snorted.

  "In the government. Where else?"

  For the first time in days, Girard felt a genuine smile crease his face.

  * * *

  Garibaldi made his flight arrangements, then kicked back and gazed at the ceiling.

  Lise was going to kill him.

  Boy, what a schmo he'd been, convincing himself he didn't give a damn about Bester anymore. Of course he did, and anyone in his position would feel the same.

  But his was a position that allowed him-no, obligated him - to do something about it.

  Still, Lise would kill him.

  Maybe he should come up with a little white lie, in case none of this panned out. Tell her there was some emergency situation he had to attend to, right away. At least that way she wouldn't worry about him. Probably Bester was gone already, anyway. He was too smart to hang around after a murder. Even the cleanest murder was a mess, right? But something deeper-that monster-sniffing animal in him-didn't believe it.

  Something had happened. Something had changed in Bester's pattern. The bastard had some reason for hanging in Paris long after it wasn't smart to do so.

  He didn't know what, but he knew it, knew it in his ever-more- creaky bones. This time Bester wasn't getting away without a fight.

  This time it was Bester, or him. And he knew who he was betting on.

  Chapter 6

  Bester returned from Le Cheval Heureux, mulling over what he was going to do for the next day's column. He found himself in the unfortunate position of having liked the book he had just read. Not just liked a few things about it, but truly enjoyed it from start to finish.

  Which, by his own criteria, didn't make it worth reviewing. Oh, he could nitpick about the strand of slightly disingenuous naivete that ran through the work, except that, in context, it worked. He could point out that the demiplot was cribbed from Shakespeare's Tempest, except that it had clearly been a deliberate and charming homage, with nods to other liftings from the immortal bard-most amusingly, Forbidden Planet.

  So what was he to do? He was in a critic's hell. He had no choice but to lie or not do a column, since his deadline was only hours away. He could tell the truth and say he liked it, but who would want to hear that? His readers would assume he had sold out, was turning into another saccharine-spewing lapdog for the publishing industry.

  The thought brought a small grin to his face. Was this the worst of his troubles? It seemed so. Almost a week had passed since he had silenced Justin, and the murder hadn't so much as made the papers. He was back in touch with his contact inside Metasensory, and they had heard nothing. Fortunately, this contact was one he knew he could trust.

  Ford is in his tower and all is right with the world, he thought. Now there was a book he hated. Why couldn't he have picked one of the thousands of insipid dystopian allegories that crammed the shelves these days, to read and trash? He supposed it was because he couldn't bear to read another. Ah, well.

  He reached the hotel just in time to almost bump into Lucien d'Alambert. Bester's grin widened at as he caught the cop's disgruntled surface thoughts-surely he had come to see Louise, not Bester. Lucien surprised him, however.

  "Ah, Mr. Kaufman. Just the man I wanted to talk to."

  "Good afternoon to you, too, Officer," Bester replied.

  "I hope you've had a good day."

  "Could have been better, could have been worse," Lucien replied.

  "Well, that's the best most of us can ask for, I suppose," Bester said, brightly.

  "Hmm. That's not what you said about The Fugitive Paragon."

  "You read my column?"

  "I suppose I do," the officer replied.

  "Well, it's always nice to meet a fan." Lucien quirked his mouth.

  "I wouldn't exactly call myself a fan. You're much too harsh, in my opinion."

  "Peo
ple are more interested in reading things they disagree with than things they don't, I've found. It's the nature of the beast. But what can I do for you, Officer d'Alambert?"

  "You can tell me about Jem."

  "Jem. Jem. You mean the street thug I met my first day here?"

  "I'm sure you remember him. He was about to dismember you?"

  "Yes, of course. I never forget a threat. What about him?"

  "You may have read that he was killed trying to break into a pharmacy downtown, some weeks ago."

  "Louise mentioned it, yes. I can't say I was surprised. Were you?"

  "Actually, I was, for a couple of reasons. Jem had his fingers in a lot of things, but he rarely put himself deliberately at risk, especially these last few years. He didn't have to - he had lackeys for that.

  And his lackeys, I think, were genuinely puzzled by the whole business. None of them seems to have been in on the robbery, even though we know a man escaped"

  Bester frowned.

  "Well, that's very interesting, I suppose, if you are a police officer investigating the man-but I'm not. This Jem was a bother to Louise, and I'm just as glad he's gone."

  "That's the other thing. He stopped bothering Louise right after you came along."

  Bester raised his eyebrows.

  "Did you know that upward of ninety-nine percent of the people who contract cancer wear shoes?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I mean a simple correlation doesn't show cause and effect. Do you honestly think I had something to do with Jem's change of heart? Louise thought perhaps you did something, after the fire. I supposed the same thing, since you were clearly interested in her. In fact, I wonder if that doesn't motivate a lot of things you do."

  "I'm not in love with her. I care about her, and I don't want to see her mixed up with the wrong sort of people, that's all."

  "Like Jem."

  "For one."

  "And me, for another? Is there something wrong with me, other than the fact that I'm not you?"

  The policeman's face clenched.

  "Look, this has nothing to do with how I do or don't feel about Louise. It's got to do with a police investigation in this neighborhood. In fact, I hate to admit it, but you seem to be good for Louise-seem to be. But I'll be frank, Mr. Kaufman - there's something not quite right about you. Your record is clean, too clean, really. And nothing in it explains why a man of your background and means would come here, live in a small hotel, and start writing a newspaper column."