The image froze and Parker said, “We talked to the FME and that little squeeze addresses the FME’s concern about that rib bone’s change in direction; the one that went through Flanagan’s heart.”
“When Chief Constable Crowe was detective chief superintendent,” said Shad, “he and his former spouse Lurella lived in a modest place on Napier Terrace near the catacombs. That was where Pilot Officer Trainee William Foster of Pureledge, Ltd. was hit with insecticide. He still carries the scars of that assault and his natural body expired in stasis as a result of the attack.”
“We have the sworn affidavit of Lurella Roberts, eyewitness to the assault against Foster. Years later,” continued Parker, “when another pilot officer trainee named Romila Kumar was on break at the Clarence and disappeared, Crowe and a different mistress, one Kati Prien, were upstairs in the hotel having a tryst.”
I looked across at Milburn. “We’ve located the former police records collator, Danielle Mintz, whom Chief Crowe ordered to dispose of the Kumar case materials and cook the Heavitree mainframe to eliminate any mention of the case. It was she who dropped Kumar’s dead bio into the Exe. Judging by her description of the weapon, Kumar’s bio was killed with the same gas gun that took down Flanagan. She cleaned the weapon and Chief Crowe returned it to the Royal Diane Museum where the curator has the chief on record as a weapons restorer. He has access to whatever he wants whenever he wants it. To get a reduced charge,” I concluded, “Ms. Mintz has agreed to testify against the chief.”
From deep within the superintendent’s WC boomed Parker’s dulcet tones, “On foot Sharissa Thule went to Parliament Street and tossed the body up against the southeast wall. She believed it might look like a flying accident. Whoever drove her there either drove between the camera surveillance photons or drove stealth.”
Matheson looked at al-Fasi. “And the only vehicles authorized to use image neutralizing software in the county?”
She glanced at Milburn and nodded as she returned Matheson’s gaze. “The only vehicles so authorized in the constabulary are the Major Incident Support Team stealth units under Chief Constable Crow’s direct command.”
The superintendent looked at me. “Getting away with it wasn’t enough. He wanted to make a point. It’s Artificial Being Emancipation Week and Chief Constable Crowe, valued member of Natural Life, wanted to make a point. He was the one who suggested giving Jaggers and Shad the evening off leaving Parker to catch the Flanagan case. Crowe notified the press to watch out for a really funny story at the High Street end of Parliament, waited fifteen minutes, then had the Exeter Station notify ABCD. The calls were made with a toss phone, but we have the phone records, and soon the phone thanks to Ms. Thule.”
DC al-Fasi nodded to herself and looked at Matheson. “Did this Kumar’s body die in stasis, as well, superintendent?”
“No. The fellow snapped mentally, crippled another bio, and had to be put in an institution. Poor chap’s still there.”
“The chief has a lot to answer for,” she observed.
“He’s a cop. A chief,” said PC Milburn to DC al-Fasi. “The stink on us’ll never go away.”
“It might,” said Shad as he jumped off the back of his chair and began pacing on the floor at a crisp waddle. “Devon & Cornwall Constabulary, Exeter CID, and ABCD together, brothers and sisters in blue: we go to the chief constable’s office in the name of the law and take this crooked cop and murderer down in front of the nationwide media.”
Milburn frowned, thoughts playing across his face. “How you going to get the media in there with us?”
Detective Superintendent Matheson arched his brows innocently and said, “It’s just possible, constable, that someone without the permission of either Exeter Station or my office might possibly provide a live feed to the event in HD widescreen.” He looked at Shad.
“Complete with EnviroSound and narrated by a celebrity of some note,” Shad added.
DC al-Fasi leaned forward and nodded at Shad. “Quite a package you’ve got there, sergeant. I hear you were the duck in all those telly adverts a couple years ago.”
“He will be again, soon,” I butted in. “The insurance corporation that was honored to have the duck mascot is bringing him back.”
“Never did like that bloomin’ lizard,” she said. “Always talking like a yob.” She looked at me and said, “Heard about you too, Inspector Jaggers. Took down some bad ones in London when you were with Metro.” She looked at Matheson. “Superintendent, I hear you practically have to get killed to get in this unit. Everybody here—their natural bodies—killed in the line of duty, right?”
“That’s correct,” he answered.
DC Fatima al-Fasi reached into her pocket and suddenly we could all detect her bio marker beacon. “I had to leave Weymouth, go clean out of Dorset, and do a little truth elongation to get into Exeter CID as a nat. Marker shield cost a bloody fortune at Bio Shack. Been in Exeter CID three years. Heard all the bio jokes, seen too many ABs getting what for and hard done by. I love police work and hate my job. If you’d take me, I’d be honored to serve alongside the likes of you chaps.” She smiled really wide. “You blokes go after some really big game.”
PC Duke Milburn drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. He let out a breath he had apparently been holding. “Well, I guess that just leaves the stink on me. I got no career in the cops after taking town a chief, superintendent, even if I get the bleeding Victoria Cross for it. Do you have to be an AB to be in ABCD?”
Matheson’s brows arched. “No. It’s not a rule.”
“It’s either join the ABCD or hit the road sellin’ bleedin’ toilet brushes.”
“I’ll call London and see.” Matheson shook his head. “We need to focus, people. Although I hate to discourage such an unexpected upturn in recruitment—I’d be pleased to have both of you—there’s just one small matter you two need to get out of the way before climbing down to our rung of law enforcement: The arrest of Chief Constable Raymond Crowe. We aren’t allowed to make arrests in ABCD.”
Al-Fasi and Milburn stood. “Well, we’d best get cracking then,” she said.
“Parker,” I called. “We’re ready to go.”
The toilet flushed, the sink water ran, and Parker emerged drying his hands on about ten paper towels. Both al-Fasi and Milburn froze.
“Hi,” said the gorilla.
They muttered something unintelligible in response somehow acknowledging Parker as lead on the inquiry.
“Shad,” called Matheson, his face suddenly serious.
The duck turned, “Yes sir?”
“During the arrest, with the feed, try to...” He cocked his head gently toward Parker. “You know.”
“No sweat, superintendent. It’s all been taken care of.” He looked at the gorilla. “Right, Parker?”
“All taken care of, sir.”
“Really? I mean, really taken care of, Shad?”
“Water off a duck’s back, boss.”
“Indeed. And to think that only hours ago I was contemplating fleeing to the Himalayas disguised as a yak.” Matheson reached forward to pick up his phone link. “Well then. I think I’ll just ring up a few media fellows and give them each an anonymous tip about a great big arrest about to go down.” He held up a pale green slip of paper. “Shad, this is the feed frequency?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Good work, Parker,” he said. “All of you,” he said to Shad and me. To al-Fasi and Milburn he said, “Good hunting at Middlemoor.”
The arrest went nearly as planned. Considering the disturbed lethal violence CC Crowe had exhibited on more than one occasion, attempting to resist arrest should have been expected at least by Shad and myself. We were the most experienced detectives there. Arguably Parker was not prepared either, which didn’t matter a whit. Parker looked prepared.