“I’ll bet. Any theories abounding?”
“Theories, sure. I dunno about the abounding. The prevailing wisdom is that they were shot with some kind of charged organic particles, maybe a gelatin that hit the body
hard enough to penetrate. The holes weren’t real deep, remember. High voltage would explain the instant cauterization and lack of bleeding. But it doesn’t explain why two shots, and the same distance apart on both bodies. Unless some kind of double-barreled weapon was involved.” Moody cracked his box of cookies. “Maybe one capsule carried a positive charge and the other a negative, and they only reacted lethally on contact.”
Welles’s expression brightened. “That’s one I haven’t heard yet. I bet Coroners hasn’t even thought of it.” She eyed him admiringly.
“Just an idea,” he mumbled deferentially. “Preventing a discharge until contact seems the sensible way to design a weapon like that.”
“Why wouldn’t the charge jump within the gun?”
“Insulated barrels, maybe. Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know anybody who’d kill two folks for the privilege of destroying a piece of art, either.”
“People are saying maybe it was some kind of fanatical collector,” Welles informed him softly. “The kind of person who wants exclusive possession of something, who wants to be able to say he has the only one of its kind in existence. Even if it’s a copy. A painting mounted on a chunk of wood six feet square would be pretty hard to wrestle out on a maglide car. A holo wouldn’t. Think about it. I gotta get back to my desk.”
Moody did think about it, without satisfaction. The hypothetical weapon made more sense than the hypothetical motive. No bullets to trace to a certain caliber gun, no poisons to track to a pharmacologist, no messy sharp blades. An electric charge left no calling card.
He didn’t care much for the Chief. While Moody liked working with machines, he also enjoyed the company of other human beings. Feldstein didn’t. If given a choice, there was no doubt in Moody’s mind that the Chief would all. Just wall screens and mollyboards and memos and directives.
The science of law enforcement having yet to advance to that point, however, he was still compelled to make use of human beings. That included the likes of Vernon Moody, with whom the New York-educated Feldstein had little in common. Moody was sure the man had never handled a red wriggler or a nightcrawler in his life.
It didn’t help that he was the shortest member of the department, with the exception of two of the female officers. In spite of his handicap he had risen to become chief of the largest police department in the state of Florida. The detectives often wondered how that had come about. Accidents of nature were frequently invoked.
Moody didn’t think about it as much as some of his friends, because he had next to no contact with the Chief’s office. Nor did Feldstein actively seek the company of his officers, preferring the seclusion of his office with its mollyboards and vorec circuits. They responded promptly and obediently to his requests and commands, unlike his often obstreperous subordinates.
Not that Feldstein was hostile. He was friendly enough when encountered in the hall or the commissary. Had he been unwilling to work with others, he never would have lived through his years as a patrolman and detective. He knew what it was like to work a beat, knew how to joke and bullshit on the street. It wasn’t that he was incapable of sharing with others. It was just that he chose not to do so.
Moody turned a comer on his way to the Chief’s sanctum. Maybe Feldstein thought it wasn’t a good idea to get too close to people who might be found floating in the Bay the next morning. That Moody could understand. If he were Chief, maybe he’d feel similarly. Not that he ever would be. It didn’t bother him. He was quite comfortable with the level he had achieved.
Security passed him through an admin checkpoint and on to Feldstein’s office. It was not spacious, though it did command a nice view of the Bay. Molly and chip storage lined all the walls, warring with Feldstein for living space. Feldstein’s intellect was all that kept the mutating files at bay, like a napalm-armed skier caught in a Colorado avalanche. Each time the files were reduced, western Florida’s antisocial population inevitably restored them to their former dimensions. Try as he might, Feldstein would never be able to shrink them down to manageable size, nor would they overwhelm him. It was a perpetual stalemate.
Moody did his best to pay attention. It wasn’t easy, because the silvery sheen of the Bay was clearly visible through the big window at the back of the office. It made him think of fishing, and that made it difficult to concentrate on his job. Don’t eye the Bay, went the conventional office wisdom, and don’t eye Corporal Laney in Processing, and a man might could get his work done.
Feldstein was working at his desk when Moody entered. The detective had never seen him not working. He was a small dark man, son of a small dark man, grandson of a small dark man, continuing a lineage of successful small dark men who had arrived in Florida by way of New York, East Europe, and the Middle East, the end product of several thousand years’ worth of small dark men arising originally in Samaria, where—Moody did not doubt—Feldstein’s ancestor many dozen times removed had served as faithful policeman or tax collector or accountant in the service of Solomon—or some lesser light.
“Morning, Chief.”
Feldstein reluctantly looked up from one of the three screens that sprouted from his desk like flat-faced mushrooms.
“Vernon.” That was his one concession to familiarity. The Chief knew everyone in the building, maybe everyone on the whole force, by their first name. Maybe the janitors
who worked the night shift, too. “How long have you been on the Kettrick case?”
“About three weeks now, sir.”
“Got anything yet?”
“As in ‘results’?” The Chief hadn’t invited him to sit down, which suited Moody fine. It meant this was going to be a short interview. “No more than what we had by the second day. We got a modus, a possible motive, and a good description of the prime suspect, but we haven’t been able to run him down yet. We will. APB’s are out all over the country, heightened in the Southwest.”
Feldstein folded his hands on the desk. That was a bad sign. It meant the Chief had been thinking. “Having had to do it myself once or twice, I know how frustrating it is to try running an investigation twenty-five hundred miles from the likely territory of your prime suspect. That’s why I’m sending you to Arizona to work on it from there. We need someone on the scene.”
An image congealed like stale milk in Moody’s head. A vision of endless horizons devoid of growth, of dry, enervating heat; of dust and cactus spines and venomous reptiles and insects. Not that Florida didn’t boast its share of the latter, but they stayed down in the Glades where they belonged.
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather not go.”
Feldstein turned to one of his monitors, his tone as coolly correct as the information being displayed on the screen.
“The local police will be doing most of the work. You’re going to serve as backup, information source, and to keep us up-to-date.” He glanced up from the glass. “Also because the media and city fathers are all over me to show some progress on this one. You can record five murders a day down in the harbor and nobody sneezes, but somebody like Kettrick gets deleted and important people get the
shakes. You know the drill. Don’t look so glum. Think of it as a working vacation.”
“Chief, I don’t like the desert. I like lowlands and open water. Lots of open water. There’s nothing out there but sand.”