They say rank hath its privileges. If so, I must be missing something. Apart from a slight bump in salary, the benefits of promotion so far amounted to an increased workload and the unwelcome responsibility of running my own squad. Rather than unleash my singular management style on the whole of Homicide, Sherry had opted to put me in charge of a newly created sub-division: Special Homicide. It was basically an expansion of my previous role, benefiting from the addition of no less than three Inspector-grade Demons and a clutch of civilian analysts. I’d been allowed to pick them myself, my selection criteria being narrowed by the need to find people with a basic level of competence, not the easiest thing at the best of times. Joe had been my first pick, now elevated to Inspector First Grade and ostensibly my second-in-command.
“Security-cam coverage for the Quad runs at a daily average of thirty percent,” he told me as I settled behind my desk. He had to stoop to make it through the door. I had a small office separated from the rest of the squad room by a heavily besmirched glass partition. I could have called building services to clean the glass but liked the privacy it afforded.
“Standard facial recognition scans are running now,” Joe continued. “I prioritised for perps with a history of violence. No hits so far.”
“We have coverage on the brothel entrance?” I asked.
“Cam’s been out for months. I’m guessing the owners pay the maintenance crews to skip it. Got reasonable coverage on the surrounding streets though. Timor and Leyla are on it.”
“It can wait for now.” I took the data-stick the manager had handed over and slotted it into the terminal on my desk, sending the feed to the main display in the squad room. “Gather the troops. And you might want to distribute some sick-bags.”
He ducked his head under the door again then paused, voice dropping into a cautious rumble. “Your, uh, other meeting? Go OK?”
“About as well as can be expected.”
“She’s still pissed, huh?”
“Not as much as she should be. We’re meeting up again tonight.”
My smart started buzzing, loud and strident, the ID reading as ‘Mayor’s Office.’ Shit. “Be out in a second,” I told Joe. “Close the door.”
“Chief Inspector McLeod?” the female voice asked as I hit the call icon.
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my temples.
“Please hold for Othin Vargold.”
What the hell? “Erm, OK.”
A short delay then a male voice, cultured and even with a slight nordic lilt. “Chief Inspector, thank you for taking my call.”
“I was expecting Mayor Arnaud.”
“Yes. Forgive the subterfuge. The mayor indicated you might not pick up if I called directly.”
He was right. “Guess you’re calling to emphasise your personal connection to the victim and encourage my best efforts.”
“I’m aware of your history, so I know your best efforts are already guaranteed. Your appointment to this case was in fact made at my insistence. I merely wish to offer the assistance of my company. Any and all resources within my power are at your disposal.”
“Including a list of Mr Rybak’s enemies?”
A short pause and a faint sigh. “You may not believe this, Inspector, but Craig didn’t have any enemies. The more cut and thrust aspects of business were always within my purview. Craig ran the company and I ran off the competition.”
I got up from the desk and leaned close to the glass, squinting through the muck at the main display. Joe had already started the playback: Rybak entering the room with the two girls. A big man, moving in a hunched shuffle, face drawn and haggard like he hadn’t slept in a good while.
“And his mental state recently?” I asked Vargold, watching Rybak slough off his clothes with the girls’ assistance. His frame was broad across the shoulders but flabby elsewhere, a former athlete gone to seed.
Another pause from the smart, another barely heard sigh. “I guess you’ve already ascertained that Craig’s recent behaviour had been somewhat… erratic.”
“A multi-millionaire visiting a Yang-side brothel three or four times a week whilst cultivating a Blues addiction seems pretty erratic, yeah.”
“Clinical depression knows no favourites and can strike any of us. Craig stopped working, distanced himself from friends and colleagues. He even started giving his possessions away. I had been doing my best to help, but… Well, if you watch the news feeds you’ll understand the demands on my time at present.”
“Sure. You chosen a name for the big tamale yet?”
Vargold’s tone took on a puzzled note. “Not quite. Though we do have a short-list. Is that relevant?”
“Your company’s about to complete construction of the first starship in human history. Major historical events tend to attract all manner of weirdness.”
“Craig’s involvement in the Ad Astra project was peripheral at best, mainly limited to oversight of the funding and accountancy structure.”
“Seem to be a lot of people angry about the whole thing. Vast waste of resources, some say. Seeking to spread an imperfect species across the galaxy, according to others. Then there’s all the religious nuts.”
“Any major advance is bound to cause a certain amount of societal upheaval. However, I take your point. I’ll have my security people compile a breakdown of the most serious threats. You’ll have it within the hour.”
“Look forward to it.” Rybak was slumped on the bed now, propped against the wall and staring into space with dull eyes, apparently oblivious to the two girls stroking and caressing his sagging flesh. I knew the look: a man awaiting death.
“Depression often leads to suicide,” I said to Vargold. “Had he ever tried it?”
“Not to my knowledge. He stopped going to therapy some weeks ago.”
“It’d help if I had access to his medical records. Save a lot of time if I didn’t have to go through the whole court order procedure.”
“I’ll see to it. I’m also posting a reward for information, one million UA.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. At least not yet. That kind of money will be a magnet for every freak and con-artist on the Slab. Sorting through every report will use up time and resources best employed elsewhere.”
I watched the girls draw back from Rybak and turn to the door, presumably in response to the door buzzer. He said something and they opened it, pausing then standing aside to admit a diminutive young man in nondescript clothing. Time for the main event.
“If there’s nothing else,” I said to Vargold. “I need to get back to work. The Mayor’s office will keep you updated on progress.”
“Of course. I’ll hold off on the reward until you say otherwise.” Another pause. “Inspector, you asked about enemies. There is one enemy we all share, as I’m sure you know. Astravista is the main arms supplier to CAOS Defence.”
“This is way too messy for Fed Sec.”
“Unless they wanted to send a message. This is a secure line so I can tell you. Thanks to Astravista’s military contracts I was granted high-level clearance some time ago. I know about Ceres.”
“Really? Where’s that?”
A faintly amused sigh. “Quite. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Not all wars end when the treaty is signed.”
The girls left the room and the young man closed the door, turning to Rybak. They stared at each other for a full minute, saying nothing.
“Not ruling anything out at this stage,” I told Vargold, the ancient police response to the amateur detective. “I really have to go now.” My finger hovered over the end-call icon. “Sorry for your loss,” I added before cutting him off.
One of the civilian analysts was the first to bolt, white faced and retching as he held a desk bin under his chin. The rest followed in quick succession leaving only us jaded detectives to watch as Rybak’s killer tossed aside his dismembered head.
“Splice,” said Leyla O’Keefe. “Gotta be.”
“Racist,” said Timor Briganti, like Joe one of the few Splices in the department, though his heritage was a lot more obvious. Ash-black skin, white hair and pointy ears, second-generation morphology based on some genre fiction anti-hero from two centuries ago. I always wondered how much he must hate his parents.
“Look at him.” Leyla froze the vid, stepping close to the screen to form an elaborate pose, like a gameshow assistant showing off the prizes. Visually speaking she was Timor’s opposite, pale skin, black hair and only an inch and a half over five feet. She also had the confidence that came from multi-generation Irish-cop lineage, claiming one of her ancestors had been immortalised in the French Connection, whatever that was.
“That, folks,” she said, small hands framing the hairy and fanged face on the screen, “is a werewolf.”
“Not enough hair,” Timor insisted. “And his snout’s too small. More Lon Chaney than The Howling.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Joe rumbled.
“He’s a wolfman. Not a werewolf.”
“In either case,” I said. “He was neither when he came in. He’s a shifter.”
“Thought they were a myth,” Leyla said.
“Evidently not. Run it back.”
She rewound to the point where the perp had entered the room, transforming him from ravening, fanged dismemberment machine to unremarkable young man. The manager hadn’t bothered to set up his module to record sound, perhaps as a somewhat redundant sop to Rybak’s privacy, but it was clear victim and killer had exchanged words. The perp’s back was to the camera but I could see the slight bob of his head as he said something and Rybak’s lips moving in reply.
“Run phoneme interpretation,” I said. Leyla’s hands danced over the icons to call up the lip-reader, the result playing a few seconds later in toneless, stilted computer-speak. “From light… we are… born to light we… return.”
“Mean anything to anyone?” I asked to a parade of baffled shrugs.
“Sounds culty, whatever it is,” Timor said.
“Run a search when we’re done here. Play around with the wording, see if it cross-refs with any known groups. Include both political and religious.”
I gestured for Leyla to restart playback and watched as the perp moved to the centre of the room, partly obscuring Rybak’s hunched bulk. The young man undressed slowly, casting his clothes aside and standing naked, arms raised, waiting. The transformation happened in seconds, muscles bulging, limbs extending. My gaze inevitably lingered on his hands, blurring as they spasmed into claws and reminding me of something I’d seen only once before. When it was done a five-foot three inch man of slender build had become a six foot monster with a thin pelt of grey fur.
“OK, that’s enough,” I said, seeing the thing’s fisted claw lash down at Rybak’s forehead and not relishing a second helping of what came next. “The camera got a good profile shot when he came through the door. Cap it and run it through facial recognition.”
“On it, boss,” Leyla said.
“Timor, when you’re done researching that phrase I want you to recheck Harry Redwing’s canvas results. Wouldn’t put it past him to miss something obvious. Joe, get the analysts out of the crapper and put them to work on open sources. We need a profile on Rybak: every news item, piece of gossip or smart-ping relating to him in the past six months. We’ll also be getting a hefty package from Astravista security…”
“Uh, boss,” Leyla said, gesturing at the display where the word ‘MATCH’ was flashing on the perp’s profile alongside an ID summary:
Name: Khristopher Corvin
DOB: 06/04/2195
Criminal Ident: O10987-FL
Custodial History: Six months corrective immersion, Lorenzo City Municipal Penitentiary
Date of release: 03/04/2215
Current domicile: Apt. 4C, Dunelm Court, Quad Delta, Yang Sixteen.
“Well that was easy,” Timor said.
I returned to my office, gesturing for Joe to follow. “Scramble SWAT to meet us there,” I told him, opening a drawer to extract a new department-issue Colt 5mm. “Covert approach. And clear a Pipe route to Yang Sixteen. Sherry’ll authorise it.”