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?”
That was the set-up that confronted Rod Caquer, and one cannot 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. Lots 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 asked.
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?”
“Twenty-four hours after the crime. But—”
“But nothing. Come on over here, right now. You can make out those old forms in the morning.”
She smiled at him, and Caquer weakened.
“All right, Jane,” he said. “But I’m going by patrol quarters on the way. Had some men canvassing the block the crime was committed in, and I want their report.”
But the report, which he found waiting for him, was not illuminating. The canvass had been thorough, but it had failed to elicit any information of value. No one had been seen to leave or enter the Deem shop prior to Brager’s arrival, and none of Deem’s neighbors knew of any enemies he might have. No one had heard a shot.
Rod Caquer grunted and stuffed the reports into his pocket. He wondered, as he walked to the Gordon home, where the investigation went from there. How did a detective go about solving such a crime?
True, when he was a college kid back on Earth a few years ago, he had read detective stories. The detective usually trapped someone by discovering a discrepancy in his statements. Generally in a rather dramatic manner, too.
There was Wilder Williams, the greatest of all the fictional detectives, who could look at a man and deduce his whole life history from the cut of his clothes and the shape of his hands. But Wilder Williams had never run across a victim who had been killed in as many ways as there were witnesses.
He spent a pleasant—but futile—evening with Jane Gordon, again asked her to marry him, and again was refused. But he was used to that. She was a bit cooler this evening than usual, probably because she resented his unwillingness to talk about Willem Deem.
And home, to bed.
From the window of his apartment, after the light was out, he could see the monstrous ball of Jupiter hanging low in the sky, the green-black midnight sky. He lay in bed and stared at it until it seemed that he could still see it after he had closed his eyes.
Willem Deem, deceased. What was he going to do about Willem Deem? Around and around, until at last one orderly thought emerged from chaos.
Tomorrow morning he would talk to the Medico. Without mentioning the sword wound in the head, he would ask Skidder about the bullet hole Brager claimed to have seen over the heart. If Skidder still said the blaster burn was the only wound, he would summon Brager and let him argue with the Medico.