I arrived at the scene of the murder at half past three. Analysis drones zipped across the medical facility, collecting evidence. The head of Station Enforcement, Chief Alex Marks, was on site and more pale than usual. He noted my arrival with grim countenance and a jerk of his head towards the operating theater window.
“The victim is Beatrice York, age 32. Non-worker citizen, resides in block 6 of the Downtown Torus.” He said, “Cause of death, exsanguination.”
I raised my eyebrow and approached the window. Ms. York was suspended in the center of the clean room. Each of her wrists was secured to the ceiling by wire cables, and each ankle was secured to the floor. This kept her in place despite the deactivation of the room’s gravity compensation. She had brown hair and blue eyes, her body bare save for a blue bandanna around her neck. The color of her skin was difficult to discern due to the complete lack of blood.
Not that it was missing. Her blood was set behind her in a deliberate and very precise design that stretched from either shoulder blade, out and away. Each deep burgundy globule was equidistant from the previous, just far enough away to prevent merger. The array spread above her head by a foot, and stretched to her calves below. On the wall behind her was text in an alphabet I didn’t recognize.
“Are those wings?” I asked, bewildered.
“Near as I can tell,” the chief said, keeping his eyes away from the body.
“This isn’t some crime of passion,” I said, “This would have taken hours, if not days. The body should be more decayed.”
“Analysis suggests that the blood was harvested in portions,” the chief said, “Class four hemorrhages occurred twelve hours ago, giving us a rough estimate of 24 hours total for the full sequence. There are no signs of a struggle, and the tox-drone didn’t find any known-”
“Something doesn’t add up there,” I stopped him; “She didn’t struggle over a 12 hour bleed out?”
Chief Marks shifted uncomfortably and held out his hands.
“Known compounds, it could be some kind of new designer drug.”
I flipped open my notebook and tapped the tip of my pencil against the paper. I made a note of the potential drug lead, and signaled for one of the analysis drones.
“What language is the text?” I asked.
“The text is in standard English. The alphabet is Enochian, attributed to John Dee, 16th century spirit medium,” The drone announced before fluttering off.
“You got enough to work off here, Jack?” the chief asked nervously.
“Yeah, yeah I think so,” I said under my breath, jotting a few notes down, “Nothing concrete, but I can check into a few leads, chief.”
“Don’t let too much of this get out. We don’t need panic on the station.”
“I’m not exactly a gossip here, chief.” I said, folded my notebook into my jacket pocket and quickly added, “I’ll need the crime scene model as soon as it’s compiled.”
“I’ll send it to you,” the chief agreed, “It shouldn’t take much more than an hour, the family is eager to get her out of there.”
I nodded and left the scene. The thoroughfare outside of the medical clinic was abandoned at this time of night. Several perimeter drones hovered around the door, their steady yellow lighting swerving as I stepped by them. I walked past several dark store fronts, the overhead lights casting deep shadows on the interior displays. A flashy murder was exceedingly unusual on station. The Syndicates liked to stay quiet, and the vast majority of their hits could only be quantified as ‘disappearances’. If this was some low level thug trying to leave Beatrice York as an example, I had no doubt they would end up the next disappearance.
But something about this murder didn’t feel like an enforcement job. The sheer amount of time that the murderer would have spent with the victim was too intimate, and the artful display of blood too ornate. I thought back to my time planet-side, where there was more variety to the murders. I frowned, stopping at the first public tram station. This felt like a serial killer who had the time to develop their skills. That meant I was either looking at a new arrival, or someone that had practiced in secret.
I felt a rush of air as an automated tram pulled into the station and settled with a hiss of hydraulics. The passenger section was abandoned, and I took a seat facing the side windows. The sights of the Downtown Torus raced past, long steel corridors and intermittent open courtyards. There was a bare minimum of people moving about the torus, as everyone waited for simulated daylight. The tram passed into the spoke between Downtown and the central spire, and the view was instantly utilitarian. I could see electrical conduits and piping neatly arranged in sequence and emergency exits at regular intervals. The tram slowed to a stop as we entered the spire, and I rose to exit.
“Welcome to the central spire, current time is zero, four, three, six,” a cheerful voice announced over the loudspeaker. My first step would be to check with my Syndicate contact, a fixer named Ian. He was low level, distribution only, and a known contact for station enforcement. By allowing certain front facing employees, like Ian, to maintain contact with station enforcement, the Syndicates prevented us from getting our nose too far into their business. It was a working arrangement, and I doubted there’d be much push back in a murder investigation.
Ian’s den was located on the outskirts of the industrial zone, in a converted mechanic’s barracks. When the station had gone full automation, the mechanics had become obsolete. His name was neatly stenciled on the door with spray paint, and I wrapped on the door with a few knuckles. The door slid into the wall, and a rough looking middle-aged man stood behind it. He was gaunt, with unkempt blond hair and a nearly skeletal frame. He was dressed in a ratty jacket and ripped jeans.
“Good morning, Ian,” I said, walking into the room without waiting for an invitation, “I knew you’d still be awake.”
“Jack, always a pleasure,” Ian said, his voice biting, “How can I help enforcement today?”
“I need any info you have about compliancy drugs, nothing older than the past two weeks,” I said, adjusting a bowl full of random pills. Every color of the rainbow, mixed together and unlabeled.
“Nothing like that, boss. That kinda thing doesn’t need to change too often,” He said, skittishly moving the bowl away from me, “You wanna give me some more news, maybe let me in on something so I can give you the real info?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, pulling out my notebook, “This one’s gotta stay quiet, more so than usual. We’ve got a murder; looks like it took place over more than 12 hours. Victim didn’t move, nothing in her blood. Crazy text all over the wall.”
Any color left to Ian’s face drained, and he shook his head violently. I saw him swallow heavily, spin on his foot and stand near the door.
“Nothing like that Jack, but I can tell you there weren’t drugs involved. Also not involved? Me. You gotta go with this one, but you can sure as hell trust that I’m not gonna say word one.”
That startled me; Ian was old hat in the Syndicates. He wasn’t a power player, but they weren’t going to get rid of him on a whim. I took a step to the door and jabbed the tip of my pencil in his direction.
“I’m gonna follow up on some other leads, but if they amount to nothing, I’m coming back to see what’s got you looking like a ghost.”
“Good luck, Jack,” Ian said quickly, “Really, good luck, I sure hope not to see you again on this one.”
I took the tram back to Station Enforcement headquarters in the Midtown Torus. A quick flash of my fingertips across the biometrics scanner opened the entrance. The place was still quiet as none of the other detectives had arrived for the day. The nutriprinter spat out a cup of coffee as I walked by, triggered by my entrance scan. I snagged it reflexively and took a seat at my terminal.
I sorted through my messages, and found the crime scene model from Alex. An image of the operating theater came to life above my desk. I leaned forward and took a closer look at the body. The drones had noticed several dozen hypodermic puncture marks inside either elbow, on the femoral arteries and either side of the neck - certainly how the blood was extracted. Most of the injuries were at an angle that suggested the murderer had approached from the front, likely to avoid disturbing the blood array behind the body. There was marginal chafing around the wrists and ankles, no indication of a struggle. The choice of an operating theater ensured no fingerprint or genetic evidence. I swiped the image away, bringing up a translation of the Enochian text;
Through idleness we are bound, through pain we will ascend.
There was no immediate meaning to me, so I ran a scan for recent information related to Enochian. Nothing. I tried the name of the creator, John Dee, and similarly turned up no results. Finally, a search for ‘angelic’ brought up an article about a recent party thrown by local socialite Constance Hamilton. She was the daughter of the station’s mayor, and known for her extravagant, themed parties. The most recent of which had been heavenly themed. I made a note and dialed the chief’s number. After an inordinate amount of rings, he answered groggily.
“I just got back to sleep, Evans,” the chief said, “What do you want?”
“Are you still on good terms with George Hamilton? I think the murderer may have attended his daughter’s most recent soiree. I’d like to talk to her.”
“Uh, yeah, I can probably arrange that,” the chief said, “But not at the break of dawn. Give me a few hours.”
I cut the call, and resolved myself to returning home. I could review the information there, and the chances of arranging an on-the-spot interview with the mayor’s daughter were slim to nothing. I locked my terminal and left the office, passing a handful of bleary eyed detectives that were just now arriving.
The views in midtown weren’t as spectacular as the Uptown Torus, lacking the massive viewing dome. Midtown made up for this with frequent parks and artificial sunlight, itself a significant change from the harsh light and clinical walls downtown. The station was waking up, and a false sunrise had lit the streets. The street lamps snapped off, and a quick water mist spray settled onto the grass. I could feel the dampness through my pants hem, but my shoes dutifully kept the moisture out.
My comm chimed, just as I arrived outside of my apartment. I unlocked the door and stepped inside before answering, the chief sounding significantly more awake.
“George says that she’s having another party tonight. He talked with Constance, and she’s got no problem with you showing up. I’ll forward the address,” The chief paused, allowing an awkward silence, “Keep your guard up on this one, Jack. We don’t need anything getting out that could embarrass the department.”
“I’ll do my best chief, thanks,” I said.
“Also, get some sleep. The party doesn’t start until tonight, and you’ve been running around all day.”
“I didn’t know you cared, chief,” I said, failing to keep the amusement out of my voice, “I’ll update you after I know something.” The chief cut his connection.
My investigation was at an impasse for the moment, so I took the chief’s advice. All of my window simulators were still off, displaying only the Titan Station logo at the center of the screen. Instead of the artificial sunlight they would usually provide, there was a dim glow from the overhead lighting panels. My desk was covered in papers, case notes and incident reports of days past, but otherwise the apartment was fairly neat and orderly.
I tapped an order into my small nutriprinter, retrieving a tumbler of plain, tasteless station alcohol. It was intended as a base component for cocktails, and I had quickly learned that I was one of few people on the station that drank it straight. As it was, I didn’t care much what it tasted like; it was solely for the purpose of relaxation. I tossed my jacket over the back of a chair and dropped heavily onto my couch. I took a sip of the alcohol and tapped the tip of my tongue against the top of my mouth several times as the burn passed.
Unable and unwilling to go to sleep quite yet, I called the crime scene model up over my coffee table and took a third look at the murder. Beatrice York continued to stare out the operating theater’s window with dead, aimless eyes. Someone had gone to great lengths, spending time, money and effort to bring together the macabre art display. I was sure that I was looking for someone with a high education level, someone with an artistic bent. The body may have been found downtown, but there was no doubt that the suspect was a resident of the Uptown Torus.
I set my drink down on the corner of the coffee table, rotating the crime scene with a swipe of my hand. The position of Beatrice’s body was such that it would have been uncomfortable – there was no way around that – but not stretched taught. Someone may have gone to an effort to make it as tolerable as they could, while they bled her to death. Everything about the scene ran counter to what I would have expected. The wrists should have been torn apart from struggling. The artistic array of blood should be smeared, merged and sent flying against the far walls by her thrashing. If there were no drugs involved in her compliance, than I wasn’t sure what had happened in that clinic. I closed the model with a slight twinge of annoyance and stood from my place on the couch. The light fuzz of the alcohol was settling over me, and I took the opportunity to catch up on much needed sleep.
