by Alex P. Berg
“Then, there’s temporal reconstruction. This involves the manipulation of the time streams to send objects, or even people, backwards or forwards in time. It’s how Scar Face made it here. A reconstructionist sent him. Temporal reconstruction is a very rare skill, but even it’s common compared to tempomorphy. Tempomorphs can move backwards or forwards in time themselves, and, as far as I know, there’s only one of those who’s ever existed, at least though my time.”
“And what’s this tempomorph famous for?” I asked. “Anything we’d remember?”
“Well, nothing yet,” said Wyle. “The tempomorph isn’t responsible for any changes to the history streams. Unless…Darryl and Anya’s deaths changed things.”
“Wait…” I said. “You’re the guy?”
Wyle shrugged. “I’m the guy.”
Steele leaned back in her chair, arms still crossed. “How convenient.”
“Hey, you think I wanted to go back in time to stop a murdering psychopath?” said Wyle. “I’m useless in a fight, and I don’t know the first thing about tracking, except what I’m able to accomplish through observation of the time ripples. But I was the only one who’d be able to travel back to the present. Or future, for you two.”
I madly jotted down notes in my pad. “Ok, so let me get this straight. Your story—” I looked at Steele and reemphasized the word. “story, of course—is that you used an as yet undiscovered form of magic to travel back in time and stop a psychotic, anti-technology nutbag from changing the course of humanoid events for the worse. Correct?”
Wyle nodded. “Yes.”
“Ok,” I said. “Let’s assume this is all true. Answer me this: why did this madman murder Darryl Gill and his sister Anya? What do they have to do with the advancement of science? And if they’re dead, why hasn’t anything changed?”
“I have no idea how Gill and his sister are important,” said Wyle. “Honestly, there’s no mention of any Gills in our history books referencing this time period. They’re nobodies. I don’t know why Scar Face would want to kill them. But regarding your last question—I’m not sure, but I have a few theories…”
“Go on,” I said, letting my pencil hover over the notepad.
“Well,” said Wyle. “Our society is split in thought between two theories regarding time travel. One is that events in time are set in stone. They can’t be changed. If Gill and his sister are murdered, then they’ve always been murdered, and it’s part of the set time stream. But we don’t know if that’s the case. It’s possible events in time can be changed. We don’t know which theory is true, but the latter theory is frightening enough that we had to try to stop this temporal reconstruction attempt from Citizens for Simplicity.
“Now, there’s two additional possibilities. It could be that Scar Face’s actions have already irreparably damaged the time streams, and the world as I knew it no longer exists. I’m not much of a fatalist, but I admit that’s a possibility. Not a strong one—the ripples in the time streams have been small so far. But if so, that means Darryl and Anya’s lives didn’t matter, which means they weren’t Scar Face’s ultimate target. Which is why we need to work together to find him, and we may not have a lot of time, so…” He nodded toward his handcuffed wrists.
I set my pencil down on my pad, leaned back in my chair, and used my now free hand to stroke the stubble on the sides of my mouth and on my chin. I glanced at Shay, and she returned my gaze with an eyebrows raised, lips puckered, stone eyed, I’m not amused sort of glance. I knew the look from my married days.
I looked back at our prisoner. “So, tell me Wyle, does everyone in your time period have as unique a flair when it comes to fashion as you do?”
Harland looked at his robe. “What? This? No way. This was a mistake. We thought this was what mages in your age wore. Apparently our history texts aren’t quite as complete as we thought they were.”
“I see.” I slipped my notepad back into a coat pocket. That last remark had clinched what I’d already suspected. The guy was a total kook. “Look, Wyle, Steele and I are going to see what we can do. In the meantime, hang out, ok?”
“No, please, come on,” he said. “Don’t leave me in here…”
I stood, and Steele followed my lead, but another thought hit me as I approached the door. “By the way, Wyle…what did you take from Gill’s place that eventually led you to Anya?”
“Nothing,” he said, exasperated.
“You didn’t take anything?” I asked.
“No,” said Wyle. “I didn’t know who Scar Face was after.”
“So how did you find Anya?” I asked.
“I followed the time streams,” said Wyle. “I told you, changes in the time streams leave ripples. If they’re large enough, I can follow them. Let’s just hope they don’t turn into a tidal wave.”
I wasn’t sure I understood, but I excused myself from the interrogation room before I let any more of Wyle’s crazy get all over me.
20
“You know he’s bonkers, right?” said Steele.
“Oh, without a doubt,” I replied as we headed back to our desks. “The guy’s wackier than one of those carnival games with the fake moles. But his complete and total craziness doesn’t explain his involvement in the murders, nor does it give us any clue as to the identity of the murderer.”
“Not yet, anyway,” said Steele. “But maybe things’ll start to make sense once we dig into the guy’s past.”
I nodded. “Hopefully.”
I spotted Quinto and Rodgers and we entered the pit, Quinto lounging in his poor, abused chair and Rodgers sitting on the edge of Quinto’s desk. I made a beeline for them. They’d want to be briefed on our findings.
“Daggers,” said Rodgers as Steele and I approached. “We heard about Anya.” His grim face said the rest.
I shrugged. “Can’t save them all. We’ll get the bastard before his third one though.” Or at least we’d try, I told myself.
Rodgers and Quinto nodded, which was about the extent of anyone’s ability to mourn in the precinct. Thick skin was a necessary condition for admittance into the brotherhood of homicide detectives, and anyone who didn’t have one coming in grew one real fast, even Steele.
“So, tell us about this guy you brought in,” said Quinto. “Suspect number two, right?”
I glanced at my partner. “You want to field this one?”
“Sure,” she said. “The guy’s completely crazy. Certifiable, even. He thinks he’s a time traveler sent back to our age to save humanity from certain destruction.”
“Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” I said. “He never said anything about the destruction of all the sentient races. More of a…readjustment of his known reality.”
“Close enough,” said Steele.
Quinto and Rodgers shared looks, then the big guy spoke to my partner. “Did you lose a bet to Daggers or something?”
“Oh, no, I’m serious,” said Shay. “You can go talk to the guy yourself if you don’t believe me.”
As if on cue, shouts erupted from the far side of the pit. A pair of bluecoats were escorting Wyle to a holding area for further evaluation, and he took the opportunity to try to get our attention.
“Detectives! Detectives! Hey, there’s been a misunderstanding. Come on, you have to let me out of here! We don’t have time for this. You have to believe me!”
The bluecoats pushed Wyle around a corner.
Rodgers whistled. “Alrighty then.”
“Yeah,” I said. “What about you guys? I’m guessing Gronk didn’t have anything else useful to pen into our tale of misery and woe?”
“Not a single stanza,” said Quinto. “Gill’s Repossessions was honestly run. We didn’t find a single misplaced zero or decimal point in the financial files we sifted through. And Gronk didn’t know anything about Gill’s sister: her last name, her whereabouts, nothing.”
“However,” said Rodgers, “while you guys were interrogating the lunatic in the wizard’s robe, Any
a’s husband dropped by. What was his name?”
“Mel,” said Quinto.
“Right. Mel. Apparently a runner tracked him down and told him what happened. He’s over in the sitting room.” Rodgers gestured across the pit to the right of the break room. “He’s pretty shaken. Maybe you should let Steele handle him.”
I crossed my arms. “What are you trying to say? That I’m insensitive? Boorish? Rude?”
“Yes,” said Rodgers.
“Oh. Ok then,” I said, uncrossing my arms. “Just so we’re clear.”
Shay gave me one of her smiles, the kind that made me think she thought I was a huge dork, but that perhaps, just perhaps, she liked huge dorks.
“You can come with me,” she said. “But let me do most of the talking. I don’t want you badgering this poor man over his lost wife with ill-conceived references to time travelers.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and then to Rodgers and Quinto, “We’ll be back. Hold down the fort.”
“We always do,” said Quinto.
Thinking Quinto could probably hold down anything shy of a seven-foot tall werewolf, I followed Steele to the waiting room, a simple space adorned with framed quotes from retired captains and a map of the city from circa fifty years ago. An old worn couch made of tanned lambskin populated the room along with a pair of matching deep-seated club chairs, all of which remained in miraculously acceptable condition only through the unrelenting will of the Captain. Any detectives caught lounging in the chairs outside of official interviews were given a stern reprimand. Apparently, only civilian posteriors were good enough for padding and leather.
In the middle of the couch sat a man with short brown hair, lighter in color than mine, wearing a pair of maroon slacks and a white collared shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to mid forearm. His head hung so low I wondered if he might be inspecting the floor for cracks, and he clutched a mug of steaming precinct-issue coffee between his shaking hands.
Shay paused inside the open door and knocked on the side of the frame. “Excuse me…Mr. Crestwick?”
The man’s head shot up in surprise. Tears streaked his face, and I realized he’d been hanging his head to hide his pain.
He wiped the trails of despair from his face with his palm hastily before responding. “Um…yes. Yes. I’m Mel. Mel Crestwick. Anya’s… Anya’s husband.”
“I’m Detective Steele. This is my partner, Detective Daggers.” Shay shot a thumb at me, and I gave a halfhearted wave. “Mind if we sit?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Mel gestured toward the club chairs. “It’s your office.”
Steele and I sat. As we did so, Steele reached a hand out and lightly touched Mel’s knee.
“I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry for you loss,” she said.
Mel nodded without speaking, but I could tell the gesture put him slightly more at ease. Shay had that effect on people. Not on me, of course. I think she intentionally inflamed me. Perhaps it was in retaliation for all the guff I gave her day in and day out, but she certainly saved her aura of caring and calm for others. Victims and witnesses, mostly. So what did that say about me? Did it mean she cared even less for me than she did a stranger?
Don’t do this to yourself, Daggers, I told myself. Not now. Focus.
“I know how difficult this is for you, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele. “But do you mind if we ask you some questions? Your answers could help us solve this tragedy involving your wife.”
Mel brought the coffee to his lips, his hands shaking so much I feared I’d be placed on spot janitorial duty. “Sure,” he said between sips. “Sure.”
“Mr. Crestwick, did your wife have any enemies?” asked Steele. “Anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”
Mel shook his head, and his eyes glistened. “No. No. Absolutely not. She was a kind, sweet woman. The best. I can’t imagine why anyone would…” His voice cracked, and the rest came out in a whisper. “Why…why would anyone do this to her?”
“We’re trying to find out, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele. “Daggers. The sketch.”
“Oh. Right.” I fished the drawing back out of my coat pocket and handed it to Shay.
She smoothed it and showed it to Mel. “Does this man look familiar, Mr. Crestwick? We think he may be responsible for your wife’s murder.”
Mel shook his head again wordlessly, perhaps not trusting himself to retain his forced stoicism if he opened his mouth.
“Were you aware Anya’s brother, Darryl, was also murdered yesterday?” said Steele.
Mel looked up and blinked. “What? No.”
“This man in the sketch is our primary suspect in his murder,” said Shay. “We have good reason to believe he’s behind your wife’s murder as well. Are you sure you’ve never seen him? There may be a connection between him, your wife, and her brother.”
Mel looked at the sketch, more carefully this time, but again he shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Detective. I’ve never seen this man before. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”
I spoke up, but I tried to keep my voice warm and fuzzy. “Do you mind telling us where you and your wife were yesterday morning, Mr. Crestwick?”
“We were at the World’s Wonders Fair,” said Mel. “To see the exhibits. We spent the majority of the day there. Didn’t get home until late.”
“What time?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Mel. “Maybe eight or nine in the evening.”
I tried to envision Scar Face’s movements, stalking Anya and Mel’s home after having tortured the address out of Darryl, but eventually giving up after not finding them at home all day. We’d have to canvas Anya’s neighborhood to see if anyone could corroborate my theory. Surely someone would’ve noticed a creep like Scar Face hanging around.
“And this morning,” I asked. “What happened? Could you run us through your schedule?”
“Sure.” Mel dropped his eyes back down to the floor. “We…went through our normal routine. I got up just after sunrise. Had breakfast and was out the door by seven thirty, at the latest. Anya stayed home, like she always does.”
“Was she unemployed?” asked Steele.
Mel shook his head. “No. She had been, for a while, but she got proactive. Started up her own events planning business. She worked small functions. Parties for businesses, birthdays, even weddings, though she hadn’t scheduled any of those yet. She’d just begun a few months ago.”
“And what do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a guidance counselor,” said Mel. “I help young people get their lives on track. Help them figure out what sorts of careers and paths to consider.”
A thought struck me. “So…you work with troublemakers, then?”
“Not really,” said Mel. “They’re misguided, but they’re good kids. They just need, well…guidance for lack of a better term.”
“So none of them ever threatened you or your family?” I asked.
“No. No, they…” Mel looked up, and I could tell someone had connected the hoses in his mind. “Wait. Actually, there was one kid. A young gang member. You know the type: cocky, self-assured, brash. He didn’t want to be in my office, but he had to be as part of his parole agreement. I was trying to be sympathetic—only the gods know what sorts of things these kids go through—but then Anya dropped by to deliver some lunch. Left the bag on my desk, leaned over to give me a kiss, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid ogling her. And then he made a—” Mel clenched his teeth. “—a rude remark, one that’s not fit to be repeated in public. And so I told him to get lost. To get the hell out. I wasn’t going to help him. And he gave me this look. Like a real, malicious, evil sort of look.” Mel shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining things. But it gave me a bad feeling about the kid.”
“When did this happen?” I asked.
Mel shrugged. “I don’t remember. A few weeks, maybe a month ago?”
“And do you remember this kid’s name?”
“Yeah,
” he said. “It was Zander, though I can’t remember if it was his first or his last name. He was sent to us from the Our Lady of Hope and Salvation halfway house. The one on Crown Street, south of the Erming. We have a relationship with them.” Mel leaned forward a little. “Look, you don’t think that incident had anything to do with Anya’s…murder, do you? I mean, how would that kid be connected to the guy in the sketch?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele. “Chances are there is no connection.” She glanced at me pointedly as she said that. “But we need to look at this case from all possible angles. Who knows where a lead will surface?”
Mel nodded again, glumly, as if he wanted to drown himself in his coffee.
“I know this is hard, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele, “but do you mind staying here a while? We don’t understand the motivations behind your wife’s murder yet, but between her and her brother, it would appear someone’s targeting her family, or yours. Did Anya have any other relatives?”
“No,” said Mel with a sigh. “It was just her and her brother. Her mother’s long dead, and her father’s been out of the picture almost as long.”
“Alright. Thanks,” said Steele. “We’ll try to send some officers out to check on the rest of your family members.”
My partner stood and gave me a nod. I considered leaving Mel with my condolences, but I knew better than to think they’d make any difference. The only thing that could fill the hole in his heart now was his own misery, and chances were the hole was deep enough it wouldn’t fill for years.
21
Shay and I returned to the pit where we found Rodgers and Quinto exactly where we’d left them. Well, not exactly—Rodgers had shifted from the top of Quinto’s desk to his own seat, but neither detective looked to be involved in anything particularly useful, unless a discussion on how a guy like Gronk Turbot could come to be conceived could be considered useful. From what I caught of the conversation, Rodgers and Quinto were split between copious amounts of alcohol, a curse, and divine fury as the most likely causes.
