Deadly Relations: Bester Ascendant (32 page)

Anne was better, and even helped him. A few years of isolation from the rest of the Corps might have made her a little timid, but she remembered who she was. She understood that minor damage to some mundanes wasn’t important compared to saving the life of every teep the killer might have targeted.

He got quite a lot from the interviewees-images of deliverymen, repairmen details about their own household duties. None seemed to have an explicit knowledge of the murders. He scanned them, erased the knowledge of the scan, and sent them out. Let them worry about the blank places in their memories - he didn’t have time to.

By the afternoon he was tired and frustrated, but Lyta managed to cheer him up.

“Sir, I think I have something.”

“What’s that, Lyta?”

“There is a regularity in the time of murder-it was so obvious - I don’t know why it took me so long to get it.”

“Well?”

“The murders are all on record in local time.”

“Of course.”

“The first murder happened around 10 P.M. The next happened a week later a little after 3 P.M. The next was two days later around 8 P.M.”

“And you see a pattern in this?”

“Yes, sir. If you add a little wiggle-room for the forensic uncertainty, you get a factor of 2.5 - that is, for each day after the first murder, you add 2.5 hours.”

He got it.

“The local day is 2.5 hours shorter than Earth’s day.”

“Exactly, sir,” she said, triumphantly. “He’s killing them all between midnight and one o’clock in the morning-Earth time.”

“The witching hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he had to rush the cops-he had to do one, then drive to the house of the other and do him, too, before the clock struck one. Brilliant, Lyta. I’m impressed.”

He rubbed his chin.

“So far that doesn’t tell us any more about who our killer is. But that settles one problem - he didn’t pick the cops as victims because they were teeps, but because they were cops. He followed his MO as best he could - because they were teeps. I’ll bet he imagines he feeds on their souls, or sends them to hell - something like that. That would explain why Finn was killed without the ritual - he wasn’t a teep. Check the station log. See if either or both cops had paid a visit to Finn.”

She nodded and worked at her terminal for a moment.

“No, sir… but…”

She looked up, excitedly.

“But they did visit the information ecology office. Something about the flow grids.”

“That’s it. That’s it.”

He clapped his hands together.

“Finn was helping him, all right-but they weren’t accomplices.”

“I… don’t get it.”

“Imagine you’re Finn. You hate telepaths, despise them. Your father came all of the way to Beta Colony to keep you away from them, and you grew up in a religion that preaches their destruction. And now, suddenly, in your own lifetime, the colony council votes to start letting business teeps in. You watch them become wealthy while you, a public servant, have to scrape by on what you always have. You hate them, but you’re too timid to do anything about it, so your frustration builds up.

Then you read about the first killing. You understand this killer - oh, he’s a little wacko, what with the way he kills them-but you don’t really care. AI least somebody is doing something. Only, when you go back over your information flow records for that night, you notice he almost got caught.

Well, this is your job, this is what you do. You can help him. You can fix it so the security calls just disappear somewhere.”

“But Finn was dead, for the last murder…”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. You were right about the difficulty of breaking individual systems - that’s not what he did. After the first few murders, Finn figured out the same thing you did-that the time for the killings was always midnight, Earth time. He put the whole city on a timer. I’ll guarantee you that when we check, we’ll find that at twelve midnight, Earth time, the whole system does a little hiccup - goes off-line for just a second, then comes back on. In other words, Finn opened every house for a minute or so every night, knowing that only one person would take advantage of it the killer.”

“No one noticed this?”

“No reason to. It didn’t shut down banks or businesses - their systems are smart enough to know when they aren’t online. Most home systems aren’t.

On the other hand, our two cops did figure it out. So did Detective Stesco. He knows why Finn died.”

“But he doesn’t know who killed him. Or care.”

Her eyes widened.

“We could set a trap!”

“We could, but it’s risky. We might still not know the whole story. How did the killer find out he was being helped? How did he know to kill the cops after they went to the office of information ecology? That’s the missing piece, Lyta. If we know that, I think we know who our killer is.”

“Well, it could just be someone Finn knew. In the end, they might still have been in it together.”

“I don’t believe it. And how did Stesco know these killings were connected?”

“That part’s simple. He knew Finn was covering for the killer.”

“Which means that either Stesco is a better detective than I gave him credit for or…”

“…or Finn bragged. To someone. Somewhere.”

Bester smiled slowly.

“He was an Adamite. Who might an Adamite brag to?”

“Other Adamites - people he was certain wouldn’t tell.”

Bester nodded grimly.

“I think it’s time we see our friend Detective Stesco one more time.”

Chapter 5

Bester glanced at Stesco’s quivering body.

“He’ll need to be cleaned up, this time,” he said.

Lyta - ashen - nodded.

“He heard Fmn bragging in a bar - I’ll make you good odds that it’s an Adamite bar and that the killer frequents it, too.”

He thought for just a moment, then flipped open his telephone and entered a code.

“Annie?” he said when the station chief picked up.

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

The bar fell silent like a scene from a bad western. The place didn’t really look much like a saloon - it was a scrubbed - clean-looking place. There were perhaps thirty patrons. Some of them looked tough enough to play the cowpoke role - most did not. They all watched Bester and Lyta with less-than-friendly expressions.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” Bester said, loudly enough for everyone to hear him.

A telepath walks into a bar. He goes up to the bartender and says, “I want to talk with each of your patrons, one at a time, in the back room, starting right now“…”

The bartender, a tall, slight man with a thin horseshoe of hair, frowned, gaped, then said, “Hey, you can’t just come in here and… and…”

“…“Replied the very articulate barkeep“,” Bester continued, “But the place is surrounded“, the telepath - that would be me - responded. “And if you don’t do what I say, you’re going to be very, very sorry. On the other hand, all I want to do is to ask each of you a few questions, out of earshot of the rest. It won’t take long“.”

They commandeered the bartender’s office. Bester and Anne started with the bartender. They didn’t waste time asking him anything - they just scanned him.

Then they started working through the patrons, taking turns to keep from wearing out. Lyta, he noticed, seemed more and more uncomfortable. He began wondering, again, if she might be a problem. Sometimes it took a little nudge to get someone to see the big picture. A bit of personal involvement.

“Lyta,” he said, as patron number six exited. “Would you scan the next informant, please? I need to catch my breath.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment he thought she would refuse, until Anne added, quietly, “Intern.”

She did it, though Bester monitored the whole thing and helped her excise the memory.

“Next.”

The next fellow was a middle-aged, paunchy fellow. He drew a PPG almost as soon as he entered.

“Well, hello,” Bester said softly. “We were expecting you.”

The man looked at the three of them with curious eyes.

“I had to do it, you know,” he said. “Of course you did,” Bester replied. “Nasty telepaths, always screwing around with your head.”

“It’s not like that,” the fellow said. “I want you to understand, I loved them.”

“Oh, I don’t really care to understand that,” Bester said. “I don’t care about that in the least.”

The killer turned and pointed the PPG at Bester’s face. Bester seized his nervous system, felt him trying to depress the contact. Such a little motion, one that would close the gap between life and death. For a second, he thought he might lose the contest the man’s thoughts were like greased roaches, disgusting, slippery, distracting. But he held firm, which was unfortunate, because that put him far enough in to see the life going out of their eyes, the victims, one by one, feel an almost crushing affection…

“This is really him,” he said. “Lyta, if you could take his gun?”

Lyta gingerly removed the weapon. The hand stayed out, trembling.

“Anne, could you cuff him?”

As soon as that was done, Bester blacked him out.

“Let’s take him to the station,” Bester said. “I want to take my time.”

“What do you mean?” Lyta asked. “Don’t we turn him over to Faith security now?”

“Lyta, surely you understand that all of the evidence we have indicating this man’s guilt - all of the evidence leading to us even finding him - was obtained illegally. He won’t be going to trial.”

He patted the man on the head.

“No, I have very special plans for him.”

“What did you do?” Lyta asked, staring at the prisoner.

He wore a straitjacket, and his eyes bulged. His breath came in quick, animal pants - then he would go an entire minute without inhaling at all. Now and again his eyes would dart exactly like those of a person in REM sleep. Arubber ball was strapped into his mouth.

“If he could only escape his jacket,” Bester said, “he would know a moment of perfect, absolute pleasure.

He would tear out his own eyes, bite off his tongue, render himself by degrees into one of his own victims. It’s the only thing he can imagine that might give him peace, allow him to escape from the things he sees - end he can never do it. He’ll stay bound for the rest of his life or he’ll die. It’s that simple.”

“It’s horrible. And what you did to all of those people…”

“Five doctors go duck hunting,” Bester said “A general practitioner, a pediatrician, a psychiatrist, a surgeon, and a pathologist. A bird comes flying over, The GP is the first to see it-he raises his shotgun, but he doesn’t shoot. He thinks, “Maybe it’s not really a duck. I should get a second opinion“. By then the bird is long gone. Another bird flies overhead, and this time the pediatrician gets it in his sights. But tar thinks, “I’m not sure if that’s a duck-besides, it might have babies.“ And so, on flies the bird Next bird flies over, and this time the psychiatrist sees it first. Being pretty sharp-eyed, he knows for sure it’s a duck, but he thinks, “I know it’s a duck - but does it know it’s a duck“? and while he’s worrying about that, the duck escapes. Now along comes a fourth bird, and this time it’s the surgeon’s turn. Boom. He shoots immediately. Down comes the bird. The surgeon turns to the pathologist and says, “Go see if that was a duck, will you“?”

He smiled.

“I’m the surgeon, Lyta. Sometimes you just have to call one in.”

“You’ll pardon me if I… I don’t think that’s at all funny.”

“Was what I did somehow more horrible than what he did? Worse than what he would have done again, if he had escaped, or the courts had released him? Now - there’s nothing to fear. The second he’s unrestrained he’ll start killing himself. You don’t find it poetic?”

“No.”

“I hear you’ve applied for a transfer to business.”

“Yes.”

“That might be just as well, if you don’t have the stomach for police work.”

“Mr. Bester, I just can’t believe this is what police work is supposed to consist of.”

“Lyta…” He sighed. “One day, sooner or later, you will understand. In a way, I’m song for that, because the truth won’t set you free. It will circumscribe you. It will make you understand what has to be done, and that what has to be done isn’t necessarily pleasant. I don’t enjoy what I do. But I know that it’s the right thing. Right thing?”

“You’ll pardon me again, Mr. Bester, if I can’t take your word for all that.”

“Of course. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Lyta. I trust we’ll meet again.”

“No offense, Mr. Bester, but I sincerely hope not.”

He smiled indulgently, wondering if he ought to do something about her. There was little chance she could cause him any harm, unless…

He rubbed his jaw. What if she worked for Johnston and his cronies? He was more certain than ever that this whole situation had been a trap, set by the director. The assassination attempt had confirmed that, at least to him. But what if the assassin were merely a feint, a distraction? What if the real attacker was Lyta Alexander, who might now level charges against him? Such charges would - under ordinary circumstances - be buried by the Corps. Unless the Corps wanted to bury Al Bester instead. The defiance in Lyta’s face had become mingled with uncertainty.

“Sir?” she said, questioning.

He realized that he had been staring at her, silently, for quite some time.

“Nothing, Lyta,” he said softly. “Just wondering if you are a shovel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No,” he said, with some relief, “I really don’t think you do. Good day.”

He watched her go. He would ask Anne to arrange to have her things searched just in case she had been carrying any recording devices. He still had Anne to back him up.

Unless Anne… No. Paranoia was healthy, but if he went too far in that direction, he would be as mad as the man in the cell, and Johnston would have won. Let it go this time. Lyta would come around. She wasn’t his enemy, she was one of his own, and someday she would realize it.

He peered back at he calmed down, like a troubled child recognizing its father. Bester smiled, and the man started trying to scream around the rubber ball. Bester left him like that. He was humming a phrase from The Rites of Spring as he strolled up the corridor. Stravinsky.