“In dreams things happen without meaning anything,” he thought. “But I’m not dreaming, this is real.”
“Any other wounds, or marks on the body?” he asked, slowly.
“None. I’d suggest, Rod, you concentrate on a search for that blaster. Search all of Sector Three, if you have to. You know what a blaster looks like, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen pictures,” said Caquer. “Do they make a noise, Medico? I’ve never seen one fired.”
Dr. Skidder shook his head. “There’s a flash and a hissing sound, but no report.”
“It couldn’t be mistaken for a gunshot?”
The doctor stared at him.
“You mean an explosive gun? Of course not. Just a faint s-s-s-s. One couldn’t hear it more than ten feet away.”
When Lieutenant Caquer had clicked off the visiphone, he sat down and closed his eyes to concentrate. Somehow he had to make sense out of three conflicting sets of observations. His own, the patrolman’s, and the medico’s.
Brager had been the first one to see the body, and he said there was a hole over the heart. And that there were no other wounds. He had heard the report of the shot.
Caquer thought, suppose Brager is lying. It still doesn’t make sense. Because according to Dr. Skidder, there was no bullet-hole, but a blaster-wound. Skidder had seen the body after Brager had.
Someone could, theoretically at least, have used a blaster in the interim, on a man already dead. But—
But that did not explain the head wound, nor the fact that the medico had not seen the bullet-hole.
Someone could, theoretically at least, have struck the skull with a sword between the time Skidder had made the autopsy and the time he, Rod Caquer, had seen the body. But—
But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t seen the charred shoulder when he’d lifted the sheet from the body on the stretcher. He might have missed seeing a bullet-hole, but he would not, and he could not, have missed seeing a shoulder in the condition Dr. Skidder described it.
Around and around it went, until at last it dawned on him that there was only one explanation possible. The Medico-in-Chief was lying, for whatever mad reason. Brager’s story could be true, in toto. That meant, of course, that he, Rod Caquer, had overlooked the bullet-hole Brager had seen; but that was possible.
But Skidder’s story could not be true. Skidder himself, at the time of the autopsy, could have inflicted the wound in the head. And he could have lied about the shoulder-wound. Why — unless the man was mad — he would have done either of those things Caquer could not imagine. But it was the only way he could reconcile all the factors.
But by now the body had been disposed of. It would be his word against Dr. Skidder’s—
But wait! — the utility men, two of them, would have seen the corpse when they put it on the stretcher.
Quickly Caquer stood up in front of the visiphone and obtained a connection with utility headquarters.
“The two clearance men who took a body from Shop 9364 less than an hour ago — have they reported back yet?” he asked.
“Just a minute, Lieutenant… Yes, one of them was through for the day and went on home. The other one is here.”
“Put him on.”
Rod Caquer recognized the man who stepped into the screen. It was the one of the two utility men who had asked him to hurry.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” said the man.
“You helped put the body on the stretcher?”
“Of course.”
“What would you say was the cause of death?”
The man in white looked out of the screen incredulously.
“Are you kidding me, Lieutenant?” he grinned. “Even a moron could see what was wrong with that stiff.”
Caquer frowned.
“Nevertheless, there are conflicting statements. I want your opinion.”
“Opinion? When a man has his head cut off, what two opinions can there be, Lieutenant?”
Caquer forced himself to speak calmly. “Will the man who went with you confirm that?”
“Of course. Earth’s Oceans! We had to put it on the stretcher in two pieces. Both of us for the body, and then Walter picked up the head and put it on next to the trunk. The killing was done with a disintegrator beam, wasn’t it?”
“You talked it over with the other man?” said Caquer. “There was no difference of opinion between you about the — uh — details?”
“Matter of fact there was. That was why I asked you if it was a disintegrator. After we’d cremated it, he tried to tell me the cut was a ragged one like somebody’d taken several blows with an axe or something. But it was clean.”
“Did you notice evidence of a blow struck at the top of the skull?”
“No. Say, Lieutenant, you aren’t looking so well. Is anything the matter with you?”
2. Terror by Night
That was the set-up that confronted Rod Caquer, and one can not blame him for beginning to wish it had been a simple case of murder.
A few hours ago, it had seemed bad enough to have Callisto’s no-murder record broken. But from there, it got worse. He did not know it then, but it was going to get still worse and that would be only the start.
It was eight in the evening, now, and Caquer was still at his office with a copy of Form 812 in front of him on the duraplast surface of his desk. There were questions on that form, apparently simple questions.
Name of Deceased: Willem Deem
Occupation: Prop. of book-and-reel shop
Residence Apt. 8250, Sector Three, Clsto.
Place of Bus.: Shop 9364, S. T., Clsto.
Time of Death: Approx. 3 P.M. Clsto. Std. Time
Cause of Death:
Yes, the first five questions had been a breeze. But the sixth? He had been staring at that question an hour now. A Callisto hour, not so long as an Earth one, but long enough when you’re staring at a question like that.
But confound it, he would have to put something down.
Instead, he reached for the visiphone button and a moment later Jane Gordon was looking at him out of the screen. And Rod Caquer looked back, because she was something to look at.
“Hello, Icicle,” he said. “Afraid I’m not going to be able to get there this evening. Forgive me?”
“Of course, Rod. What’s wrong? The Deem business?”
He nodded gloomily. “Desk work. Lot of forms and reports I got to get out for the Sector Coordinator.”
“Oh. How was he killed, Rod?”
“Rule Sixty-five,” he said with a smile, “forbids giving details of any unsolved crime to a civilian.”
“Bother Rule Sixty-five. Dad knew Willem Deem well, and he’s been a guest here often. Mr. Deem was practically a friend of ours.”
“Practically?” Caquer asked. “Then I take it you didn’t like him, Icicle?”
“Well — I guess I didn’t. He was interesting to listen to, but he was a sarcastic little beast, Rod. I think he had a perverted sense of humor. How was he killed?”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to ask any more questions?” Caquer said with a sigh.
Her eyes lighted eagerly. “Of course.”
“He was shot,” said Caquer, “with an explosive-type gun and a blaster. Someone split his skull with a sword, chopped off his head with an axe and with a disintegrator beam. Then after he was on the utility stretcher, someone stuck his head back on because it wasn’t off when I saw him. And plugged up the bullet-hole, and—”
“Rod, stop driveling,” cut in the girl. “If you don’t want to tell me, all right.”
Rod grinned. “Don’t get mad. Say, how’s your father?”
“Lots better. He’s asleep now, and definitely on the upgrade. I think he’ll be back at the university by next week. Rod, you look tired. When do those forms have to be in?”