by Alex P. Berg
I stuck a finger in the air. “Now, here’s where the story gets weird. Wyle claims he’s a time mage sent from the future to prevent the murder suspect, who we’re calling Scar Face for obvious reasons—” I pointed to Boatreng’s first sketch. “—from ending the future as he knows it. Wyle doesn’t claim to know why or how, but he’s adamant about his mission. Clearly, he’s a nutball. But what’s his connection to the murders?
“And, the more important question is, why were Darryl and Anya murdered? Previously, we’d operated on the assumption that perhaps Darryl was slain by an angry client of his repossessions business or by a jilted ex-lover, but the evidence doesn’t support that. Similarly, Gill’s finances were in order, and his apartment wasn’t robbed. Money may not be involved. So why kill him?
“I’d suspected for a while now that the killer, and Wyle for that matter, were after information, but what? Well, thanks to Steele’s intuition—” My partner flourished her hand in recognition. “—we now have a clue. A year ago, Mel, Anya’s husband, was approached by none other than Linwood Bock, the wealthy industrialist, to try and locate Anya’s father, Buford Gill, who we’ll call Gill Sr. to avoid confusion with Darryl. Gill Sr. is, by Mel’s account, a brilliant scientist who could be of use to Bock’s empire, but he’s a recluse and hasn’t been seen in years. Now, let’s keep in mind Mel was approached over a year ago by Mr. Bock. With that said, however, I’d say it’s probable, if not certain, that our mystery killer didn’t murder Darryl and Anya for any reason other than to locate Gill Sr.. The question, of course, is why?”
I went back to my chair and took a seat. Steele, Rodgers, and Quinto all sat, quietly, staring at the cork board.
“Any ideas?” I said.
Quinto cleared his throat. “Have you had this Wyle guy undergo a psychiatric evaluation?”
“Not yet,” said Steele. “But we could. He’s in holding. Why?”
“Well,” said Quinto. “It seems to me he’s not crazy.”
Steele raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull a Daggers-esque theory out from between your toes.”
Quinto smiled. “That’s a nice way of putting it. Daggers usually picks a different orifice. But no, it’s more simple than that. If this guy’s crazy, how is it he made his way to Gill and Anya’s places in the immediate aftermath of their deaths? I guess he could be a stalker, but the timing’s off. As Daggers said, he’s looking for something, which means he’s not crazy and henceforth he’s lying. I’m not sure what his involvement in these murders is, but he must know something that can help us solve them.”
Steele nodded. “Good point. We could always interrogate the guy again. Change our tactics. See if he modifies his story.”
I stared at the board, my chin cupped in my hand, using my fingers to squish my lips together.
“Uh oh,” said Rodgers, noticing. “Daggers is doing that fish face thing again. I think he’s dangerously close to coming up with an idea.”
I glanced at him without moving my hand. “Maybe. And I doubt you or anyone else will like it.”
“That’s never stopped you from sharing before,” said Steele. “Go on. Out with it.”
I shrugged, leaned back in my chair, and clasped my hands. “Alright. What if Wyle’s telling the truth?”
Steele rolled her eyes and Quinto snorted.
“Not the whole truth, by any means,” I said. “But there might be a kernel of truth to his story. Think about it. He said Scar Face is a member of a radical anti-technology group bent on preventing the spread of science into the future. Buford Gill is a brilliant scientist, one who’s still working on his research from some unknown, secluded location. He could be on the verge of an important scientific discovery, and if he ends up collaborating with Linwood Bock, whose resources are nearly limitless, couldn’t that change the future of our world? And we still don’t know how he found Anya.”
“Look, Daggers,” said Steele. “I’m willing to agree with Quinto that Wyle probably isn’t crazy. But he’s lying, about everything, including all that stuff about time ripples and how he used them to locate Anya. Clearly, he found her address on one of Gill’s letters, or he tracked the murderer to her house.”
“I’m not necessarily saying I believe it myself,” I said. “I’m just putting it out there as an option. Either way, I think we’re all in agreement that we need to have another chat with our dapperly dressed prisoner. Rodgers and Quinto, care to join us?”
26
The precinct’s holding cells were located in the back of the building, each of them built about ninety percent underground except for the top foot. In that space, small, bar-reinforced lookout windows graciously allowed the prisoners access to a few hours of natural sunlight each day, in addition to the occasional sidelong view of the feet of anyone who happened to walk through the adjoining alleyway on the other side of the jail walls.
It was a slow day. Wyle had an entire cell to himself, though the compartment opposite him had a resident—a permanently drunk half-orc by the name of Goakey Joe who inevitably ended up in the pens every few days. Thankfully, the orc lush was still in the throes of unconsciousness. He could get pretty rowdy when awake and sober.
Harland stood and approached the cell’s bars as we descended the stairs into the holding chamber, his deep violet robe flapping as he walked. “Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid you’d abandoned me here in this prison.”
“This isn’t a prison,” I said, coming to rest outside the wrought iron. “It’s a jail.”
“There’s a difference?” said Wyle.
“Of course,” I said. “A prison is a place for people who’ve been convicted of a crime. Jails are for short term detention and people awaiting trial.”
“Ok, well, whatever,” said Wyle, shrugging. “Are you going to let me out or not?”
“That depends,” I said.
Harland’s brows furrowed and he blinked. “What? What do you mean, that depends? I thought you believed me.”
“Let me introduce you to a few of my friends,” I said. “This handsome fellow is Detective Rodgers. The walking mountain is Detective Quinto. And of course you remember Detective Steele. She’s hard to forget.”
Quinto tipped his head and Rodgers gave a mini salute. Shay just smiled, whether at me or Wyle I couldn’t tell. Probably because I couldn’t read her signals, gosh darn it!
“Um, nice to meet you,” said Wyle. “Now what’s it going to take to get me out of here? You know we have limited time, don’t you?”
“Why don’t we go through your story again,” I said. “You know, to make sure we’re clear on the specifics.”
Wyle gripped the bars of the cell and rested his head on his hands before bringing it up again. “Oh, come on, Detective…what was it? Dagger?”
“Daggers,” I said.
“Yes, that’s right, Daggers,” said Wyle. “Look, I already told you, we need to stop that psychopath from Citizens for Simplicity before he kills again. I’m guessing he hasn’t because I haven’t felt any pulses in the time streams since this morning, but as far as I’m concerned, we’ve gotten lucky. Yes, he’s murdered a couple people, but I’m certain he hasn’t found his target yet. If he had, the sensory flood from the time streams would’ve been seismic, to say the least.”
“And you know this because…” I said.
“Good question,” said Wyle. “To be fair, our knowledge of major historical changes due to temporal interference is purely theoretical. We’ve never tried to change history for the fun of it. But I assure you, the theory is sound. We’ve done tests with temporal distortionists. I’m certain we still have time. At least…I hope we do.”
Quinto leaned over to Steele. “Sorry I didn’t believe you earlier. You were right.”
“Right? Right about what?” Wyle looked at Steele’s face, then Quinto’s, then mine and Rodgers’. “Oh…I see. You all just came back to laugh at the nutcase. Well, guess what? I’m not crazy! This is real! Maybe to
you it isn’t, because you don’t have the knowledge I do, and it’s not your future on the line, just mine. You’re all free to live a new, non-premeditated future, but not me! I’m trying to save what I have, and what the rest of the sentient races put together.”
“Let’s cut through the lies, Harland,” said Steele, tapping on one of the cell bars. “What do you know about Buford Gill?”
“What? Who?” said Wyle.
“Buford Gill,” repeated Steele. “Darryl and Anya’s father.”
“I…don’t know,” said Wyle. “I’m not familiar with him.”
“He’s an important scientist,” I said. “If you’re from the future, surely you’ve heard the name.”
Wyle stared at the floor for a second and blinked. “Um…no. I can’t say I have.”
“What about Linwood Bock?” said Steele.
“No,” said Wyle. “I don’t know who that is either.”
“Your story’s sounding flimsier by the minute,” I told Wyle. “Bock’s a wealthy industrialist, owner of Bock Industries. Surely that name rings a bell.”
“Well, it doesn’t, ok?” said Wyle. “None of the history texts from my age mention any Bock or Bock Industries. It’s all Sherman Industries, so I don’t know what this line of questioning is supposed to accomplish. Unless…” Wyle let go of the cell bars and stepped back. “Oh no. Oh CRAP.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “Did one of the time steams spring a leak?”
“No, no, don’t you see?” said Wyle. “The theories? Maybe we were wrong. Maybe the killer’s work is already done. I don’t know how he did it—I was sure I’d sense the change in the time streams, but it’s the butterfly effect. It has to be. He must’ve already changed history. Sherman Industries doesn’t exist—or rather, it never will. It’s all Bock now. Oh, gods…”
Wyle slumped onto the flimsy bench inside his cell and rested his head in his hands. I thought I heard a sob.
“The what effect?” whispered Rodgers.
“I don’t know,” said Steele. “But this was clearly a waste of time. Let’s head back up.”
My detective compatriots headed for the stairs, but I lingered for a moment, casting my gaze Wyle’s way. The guy seemed pretty shook up. Would a nutcase get that emotional? Wouldn’t they change their story to fit their delusion? Or would they believe as Wyle apparently did, that his world had ended?
I caught up with the rest of the gang at the top of the stairs, the image of Wyle on his jail bench still fresh in my mind.
“Thought I’d lost you,” said Steele as we walked back into the pit.
I smirked. “Despite that old adage about men, most of us have very acute senses of direction. I can find my way back from the holding cells, and even if I couldn’t, there’s a fire escape map in the stairwell.”
“So,” said Rodgers as we neared the desks. “How’s that theory of yours about Wyle telling the truth feel now, Daggers?”
“I never said I believed it,” I reminded him as I plopped back into my chair. “I said it was a possibility. Now? I don’t know. I can’t tell if the guy’s crazy or lying, and if he’s lying, I don’t know what his game is. There’s something off about him.”
“No kidding,” said Quinto, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Multiple things. Way off.”
“Well, regardless of what’s wrong with him,” said Shay, “his role in these murders is still very much unclear. But he does have a role. I guarantee it. Quinto, Rodgers, why don’t you work the Harland Wyle angle? Try to figure out who he is, his background, where he’s from, who his friends are, all that stuff. If we can learn more about him, perhaps we’ll stumble across a connection to Scar Face.”
Rodgers glanced at his elephantine partner. “Well, it’s not as if we have much to go on—other than maybe checking with New Welwic’s specialty clothing stores and costume shops. But yeah, sure. We’ll try to slap together a dossier on the guy.”
Quinto chuckled. “As useful as that tactic might be, we might want to start with Public Records. If he’s crazy, chances are he’s been institutionalized. We’ll be able to find a paper trail.”
“Great,” said Shay. “Daggers, you’re with me.”
I tried not to stand at attention, but I had to put some effort in. Steele was assuming a leadership role, and doing a fine job at it. Rodgers and Quinto hadn’t even grumbled when told to dive into another mound of paperwork in the name of justice. If I wasn’t careful, she’d take my place in the Captain’s chair before I ever had a chance to ascend to the throne.
“You got it, partner,” I said. “But, if you don’t mind my asking…what are we going to do?”
Shay smiled. “We’re going to find Buford Gill.”
27
Our first stop was back at Taxation and Revenue where we managed to locate our young, bowtie-clad friend Teller and get him to track down yet another Gill name for us. Unfortunately, our luck held steady from earlier in the morning.
Teller produced the file they had for Gill Sr., but it was marked as severely delinquent. According to the records, Gill Sr. hadn’t paid his taxes in close to a decade, and that meant he wasn’t anywhere near the address they had on file for him, otherwise the city’s ordained tax thugs would’ve collected on his debts long ago.
Luckily for me, the pretty head my partner carried around on her shoulders had more than cooking tips, chemical know-how, and gumption coursing through it, which is how we found ourselves elbow deep in the scientific periodicals section of the New Welwic Municipal Library.
I dug out a pile of research journals from a gloomy stack and lifted them into my arms, filling my lungs with the scent of their dusty, acid-eaten pages. Turning, I headed back along the deserted aisle, my footsteps sounding off the marble floor beneath me before echoing off the walls a good hundred paces away. Grunting under the weight of the manuscripts, I worked my way back to a long refectory table situated under a high arching window at the side of the periodicals wing. I dropped the journals onto the polished wooden surface with a thud.
Shay looked up from her article. Somehow, she’d finagled it so whenever it was time to grab more journals, I was the one who did the heavy lifting. Imagine that.
I sat down across from her and picked up a few items off the top of the recently-deposited pile. Two of them were from Physica Modernica and one was from the far more rationally titled The Journal of Astrophysics. Flipping open the first issue of Physica Modernica, I checked the table of contents and found Buford Gill’s entry, a mouthful if I’d ever seen one. It was called: A Treatise on the Physiomechanical Principles governing Tangential Motion in the Phase Field, Part 1: Theoretical Proofs Concerning the LaTrobe Vector in Inverse Space.
My eyes glazed over as soon as they hit the page. Luckily, I wasn’t particularly interested in anything Gill had to say on phase fields and inverse vectors. I only cared about the portion at the top of the article, under the title, that contained the man’s contact information. I cracked a knuckle, closed the journal, and tossed it to the side.
“I don’t know how you managed to come out so normal, considering your dad’s a scientist,” I said to Shay. “I feel like anyone raised in one of those households is practically exposed to a foreign language.”
“Chemistry isn’t quite so bad as physics in that regard,” said Shay as she turned a page. “At least, I think so. But maybe I’m biased because I grew up with a chemist and I understand the lingo.”
I grabbed another journal, the astrophysics one this time. A glance at the table of contents revealed a more normal-sounding article, albeit one whose title I still didn’t understand: A Prediction of Tidal Radii based on Orbital Eccentricities. What did an orbit’s quirks have to do with tides? Or was I missing something?
After glancing at the article’s contact information, I tossed the journal in the pile with the rest of the rejects.
“This is useless,” I said. “All these old journals list Buford Gill’s work address at The University of New W
elwic’s Department of Physics and Chemistry, except for the newer ones that list a separate address at the Department of Physics and Astronomy. Either way, we know he hasn’t worked at the university in years. And the few journals that show his home address list the same place we got from Taxation and Revenue. We’re not going to find him this way.”
Shay glanced at me and smiled. “Well, not with that attitude we’re not. Try thinking outside the box.”
“I thought I was pretty good at that,” I said, “but sifting through these papers makes me feel like I didn’t even know there was a box.”
Shay lifted her head from her manuscript and looked at me. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Everyone’s talents are different. I doubt Gill Sr. could do what you do.”
I snorted.
“I’m serious,” said Shay. “He’s clearly a genius, but a lot of people like him struggle in all kinds of other areas, from their ability to interact socially to application of common sense. If you plopped the man into the middle of a crime scene, chances are he’d be as useful at solving a murder as a bricklayer or a window washer.”
I glanced at my partner, at how the sun at her back glimmered off her dark brown hair, how it illuminated the tips of her pointy ears while sending the rest into shadow, and how, despite any and all physical explanations a man like Buford Gill might be able to provide to the contrary, her smile always seemed to shine despite the angle of the sun.
“Thanks,” I said.
Shay smiled demurely and turned her head back to her reading material.
“So,” I said, “have you come up with any bright ideas about how these articles might help us track down Professor Gill?”
