An Unnatural End
“Back to work, gentlemen.” Gumshoe guided the cruiser into a garage.
“Thanks for lunch,” said Shotgun, climbing out of the cruiser.
“You’re welcome, always enjoy the Café des Moulin. Keep your eye on Louis, though, he’s as Old Atlantis as my shoes.”
“Where are we going?”
“Nodlon Entertainment Logistics,” Gumshoe said. He stopped in front of a directory hanging next to the lift. The directory listed accountants, real estate agents, and a dentist or two. “It’s on the top floor.” They joined a dapper gentleman, and a dwarf maiden in the lift.
Clay dodged a secretary on her way to a late lunch and fell in step with the Inspector. Shotgun brought up the rear with his satchel.
Gumshoe eyed the mahogany wainscoting, wallpaper, and portraits of businessmen long past. “High rent district,” he muttered.
The transom windows above each door were open. A few of the doors were propped open, inviting clientele and prospects to enter. Their footfalls echoed on the hard tile floor as they searched for Steele’s office. A short walk brought them to the end of the hall, and a window overlooking the alley below. They were high enough to see the blue lamps in the alley’s artificial cloud lights. A pane of clear glass graced the door of Steele’s office. Her door sported a suite number, a mail opening, and a sign inviting them to enter. Next to the door was a translucent window boasting the name of her business. Gumshoe opened the door and stepped into the little waiting room.
“Madam Steele,” called Gumshoe. Two armless chairs with leather seats sat under the window, next to a matching divan. A walnut partition wall separated the foyer from the rest of the office. The wall ended a few feet from the high ceiling and was interrupted by a single door and a glazed reception window.
Gumshoe walked up to the reception window, and tapped on the glass. He noticed dark red spots on the glass. “Madam Steele?” He tapped on the glass again, and called, “Madam?” Looking back at Jack and Shotgun, Shotgun shrugged.
“Maybe she’s still at lunch,” suggested Clay.
“Why would she leave her door open then?”
Everything in the little foyer was in order. Taking his glasses out of his coat pocket, he mounted them on his nose. He blinked and looked again at the spots on the reception window. One small purple spot marred the divan. He looked up and saw another spot near the top of the partition. Backing away from the partition, he saw a few more spots on the wall. Straining to see over the partition wall, Gumshoe turned to the tall elf.
“Look at the ceiling, Jack, what do you see?”
“Scarlet spots,” said Jack. “Odd, like the decorator was flinging the paint.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” said Gumshoe. “Stand in the hall gentlemen, and stop anyone who tries to enter. And, don’t let anyone leave either.” Gumshoe turned the knob, but it was locked.
“What’s wrong Inspector?” asked Shotgun.
Clay tugged gently on the coat sleeve of Shotgun’s tuxedo. “Let’s step outside.”
Gumshoe backed up to Steele’s threshold, and he charged the inner office. He gave the door a savage kick below the lock. The top of the frame snapped, and the reception window cracked. The door jamb split and the door swung open violently. The strike plate whistled, flipping end over end. It hit the wall with a clunk, and disappeared behind the copier.
The door rebounded, and he blocked it narrowly saving his face from a collision. He winced as his wingtip smacked the tile floor. He slipped on a pool of blood, and the partition rattled as he struck it. He caught himself on the jamb. Letting go of the partition, it grunted at him and still tilted inward. Its footing was sheared from the bolts. His elbow ached and a pain shot up his left arm.
He cursed his age as he fought to steady himself
Rays of blood splatter radiated from what was left of Jezebel Steele. Ribbons of a sliced business suit floated in a pool of her blood. Blood splatter sprayed up the wall to the ceiling, and from her desk to her copier. Trails of blood ran down the walls, and rivulets spread across the floor. Slashes covered her face and what recognizable parts remained. Her arms were open to the bone, and there was little else holding her together.
Her desk had flipped on its face. Gashes stripped the desktop veneer, and deep claw marks ran down the walls. Her chair had rolled aside. The desk held up the partition wall.
The attacker had strewn her computer, appointment books and paperwork about the office. Carnations withered near a shattered vase. An overturned wicker basket contributed brochures to the mess.
Posters of the Circus featuring Cretaceous Clay and the Rockhounds flanked a collage of trade show programs. The posters dangled from the wall, slit apart. On her copier was a bumper sticker reading “Biots are people too.” Blood spatter covered the copier.
Gumshoe backed away. Her fate was out of his hands, and the only solace he could offer was finding her killer.
“Sorry gentlemen, we’re going to be here awhile.” He opened his caster and began making the necessary arrangements. “Gutted like a fish, she was.” Betraying the stress, he rubbed his chin, and straightened his fedora.
“Is there a sign?” Jack asked.
“A Capricorn?” Gumshoe asked. “No, not that I can see, but I need a spatter analysis to be sure. The blood splatter is on everything, floor to ceiling.”
“Maybe this isn’t a Zodiac murder,” said Shotgun. “It’s an incredible coincidence, but there’s no sign.”
“Guarantee it’s connected, Shotgun. My gut says it is, and besides there are no coincidences.”
“Why would he not leave a sign, then?” asked Jack. “That’s the modus operandi.”
“No idea, Jack. Maybe it’s to throw us off, or it’s just whimsy. It looks like a wild animal tore the poor woman apart in broad daylight, and got away with it. No, I think this is the work of the Black Dwarf.”
“What about Noddie attacks?” asked Shotgun. “Haven’t there been people ripped apart by a giant reptile in the sewers and the mines under Nodlon?”
“No,” Gumshoe disagreed. “Alligators and crocodiles cause most of the reptile attacks in Nodlon. Once in a while, a croc escapes from the zoo, or is released by some ne’er do well, and we have a rash of attacks. Gators and snakes live in the sewers, but they usually keep to themselves.”
“If Noddie is real and she eats anyone, she’s not leaving anything behind,” said Jack. “The few reports we have of Noddie are mostly from sanitation workers who report seeing a large serpentine shape. I might suspect an Anaconda or other large snake, but those who see Noddie always say she’s running away. If she’s real, she may be a vegetarian. None of the eyewitnesses report aggression.”
“Officially, the Yard believes Noddie is a figment of the overactive imaginations of tired sanitation workers. She’s always spotted in the wee hours, and always in shadow or silhouette. Unofficially, there’s a rumor she may be a synthetic monster created by the ancients for one of their amusement parks. After centuries of confinement, she’s hiding to avoid capture. Just a hunch of mine of course, but I think she’s real. You didn’t hear that from me though.”
“Mum’s the word, Inspector,” said Shotgun, and he zipped his lip.
“Gentlemen, please watch the lift and the stairs, and don’t let anyone leave. I’d better earn my keep.” Gumshoe began questioning everyone working on the floor. When the first uniformed officers arrived, he had interviewed only a few witnesses.
“It’s going to be a long day,” said Shotgun.
The crime scene technicians entered the office first with robots, boxes of sample vials, spectrophotometers, chemicals, cameras, and instruments Clay hardly recognized.
He overheard an officer mumble, “What a waste.”
“Show a little respect for the dead,” said another. Nodding his agreement, the officer turned away.
After an hour or so, Gumshoe returned from his interviews. Huddling wit
h the technicians and the uniforms, he collected their reports. Updating his own notes, he muttered, “Bad business,” more than once. Eventually, the crime scene technicians completed the tedious task of cataloguing and itemizing every detail. Gumshoe dismissed all but a couple of uniformed officers to guard the scene.
“We develop a sense of macabre humor in this job,” said Gumshoe. “Helps to insulate your emotions.”
“Understandable Gumshoe,” said Jack, “carry on as if we weren’t here.”
“Steele never left for lunch. No one saw or heard anything, nor was anyone seen entering or leaving on the security vid in the hall, the front door, or the lift.”
“No one saw anything?” asked Jack.
“A fresh murder is committed in broad daylight and no one saw a thing. She has a part-time receptionist who doesn’t work today. Her bookkeep is a dwarf who only comes on alternate Wednesdays. A real estate agent down the hall claims to be a friend, but she didn’t see her at all today due to a closing this morning which ran over. Steele underwent retro-gene therapy about ten years ago. Quite a looker she was.”
“No one heard anything?” Jack asked.
“No, and the security robot produced all the tapes this morning. Every dwarf who entered or left the building is a known employee or client. Baffles the heck out of me; it’s as if they were invisible.”
“Maybe they were,” said Jack, “if they had magic.”
“Can you become invisible?”
“No, but I might be able to come up with an illusion that would fool at least one camera at a time.” He hoped the inspector was not serious. “Gumshoe, I hope you’re not accusing me?”
“Relax Jack, we know where you and Shotgun were at the time of the murder, and you’ve already got an alibi and the most impeccable of witnesses.”
“Oh?”
“You were at the Café des Moulin, with Police Inspector Lestrayed of Nodlon homicide when Jezebel Steele died. Good thing too. Fortunately, eating at an open café under a security camera at the time of the murder sort of clears all of us of the crime. Good thing all three of us have an alibi, otherwise you’d be the prime suspect and Shotgun and I would be your accomplices.”
“Magic may be involved,” Clay agreed, “but only a powerful magician who knows how to use magic could pull off the illusion of invisibility, summon the telekinetic energy to murder the victim, suppress the noise, and wipe the security records. Everything I know is by accident.”
“The Black Dwarf brazenly murdered Steele in a busy office building at lunch time, and no one saw him?” Gumshoe frowned. “If we had been here, I wonder if we would have survived the encounter.”
“He must have some technology we don’t understand,” said Jack. “I’m telling you, there’s no one else in this Solar System with magic.” Regaining his composure, Jack thought about the office. “Is there any other way in or out of this office besides the hall?”
“There’s the air ducts, but they’re only a few inches across,” said Gumshoe. “We’ve thought of that. No micro-bots small enough to make the corners in the walls could have cut her up. The window at the end of the hall sets off the fire alarm if opened. There’s no other entry. I’ve seen stabbings, shootings, and strangulation in the heat of passion, or out of cold revenge, and poisoning, and murder for hire, and accidents, but I haven’t seen anything like this in thirty years. To tear someone apart that way requires demonic fury and incredible strength. I don’t even recall an animal attack leaving a scene like this. If the dwarves are responsible, they must have brought some type of animal, or a synthetic monster. Doesn’t look good for the home team, does it?”
“No,” agreed Clay.
“Speaking of magic though,” Gumshoe asked, “I’m beginning to think you are not unique. The Black Dwarf waltzed in here with a monster, viciously ripped the poor woman open and cut her apart with claws or a set of kitchen knives. And then, turned around and waltzed back out into an early afternoon traffic without anyone seeing any blood on their clothes. Can you think of any dwarf who fits the description?”
“Real magic?” scoffed Clay. “No way, Gumshoe, you’ve known me since I discovered my first fire ball, and learned how to make kids laugh. In all these years, I’ve never heard of anyone else with real magic. I know illusionists, jugglers, acrobats, dancers, and I employ more than a few myself. But none of them could do this, and I can’t imagine any of them who would do this.”
“Yes, my thought too. Have to ask though. We’ll search for anyone in the database.”
“You might as well look in the directory for a hit-magician,” said Jack. “Wanted; black dwarf for hire. Have magic, will travel.”
“Very funny, Jack,” said Gumshoe, “but we’ll do exactly that. We’re Nodlon Yard.”
A technician hurried up to them. “Inspector, we’re buttoning up the crime scene. Can I brief you now?”
“Go ahead, son,” said Gumshoe. “Summarize it here, and spare us the jargon.”
“As I’m sure you noticed, sir, her body is in bad shape. We think a large animal attacked her. It tore her business suit off, and flayed her. She probably died from blood loss shortly after the attack began. It must have been a horribly painful way to go, but swift. She couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes. The creature stood eight to twelve feet high on its hind legs, and had five claws on each paw. Examination of the bite mark suggests the creature had eighty to two hundred teeth and two sets of fangs, one upper and one lower.” He paused, contorting uncomfortably.
“Creature?” asked Gumshoe. “Any idea what? How do you know it was a creature?”
“Yes, sir, it has to be a big creature. It’s the only explanation that fits. The claw marks on the floor and walls, and the gouges on the desk are those of a cat. Cats have four claws, but a polydactyl cat may have five claws per paw. Bears have five claws, but bears are not generally excited feeders, so maybe it is a synthetic cat.”
“Any idea how big this creature is?”
“Based on the bite marks, and the distance between the claw marks, we think it’s in the range of a Kodiak or Grizzly bear, or a very large Bengalese tiger. Assuming it’s a synthetic, it may weigh half a ton, or even a full ton.”
“Let’s get this straight son, you’re telling me it’s a cat, bear, tiger, and pterodactyl sort of thing? What next? A Sasquatch werewolf?”
“Polydactyl, sir, not pterodactyl.”
“Polydactyl, pterodactyl, poly-fractal! Just say what you mean son.”
“Polydactyl means extra claws sir. A pterodactyl is a flying dinosaur sir.”
“Can you describe what you know about this creature in the common tongue we can all speak?” asked Shotgun.
“Yes, sir, I’ll try sir. Cats have about thirty teeth and bears have forty, and bears and cats also have fangs. Wolves have the same number of teeth as bears, but no living species is large enough. The attacker had twice as many teeth and larger fangs than any living species of cat or bear. The best match for the bite marks would be an alligator. Alligators also have five claws on the front, but only four on the back and the toes are not in the proper position. The blood splatter and wound analysis eliminates any reptile. The attacker stood on its hind legs and engaged in a dozen melee attacks in under a minute. One more piece of the puzzle throws the picture off completely. It had at least one horn. Nothing alive today matches anything in the zoological screen. An over-sized synthetic cat with extra teeth might work, but when I added the horn, the application crashed.”
A fatherly spirit filled Gumshoe. Quelling an urge to shout, he said, “Son, can you spell it out for us?”
“I’ll try sir, I was trying to say the creature has the teeth of an alligator, the claws of a polydactyl cat, and it is the size of a Kodiak bear or a Saber tooth tiger. And it has a horn.”
“Let’s get this straight. We’re looking for a synthetic Saber tooth tiger, but the horn throws off the puzzle?”
“Maybe, sir.”
>
Shotgun sniggered, and he bit his lip.
“Yep, Gumshoe, I think that’s what the tech said,” said Jack.
“Son, we’re looking for a gang of rogue dwarves, led by a black dwarf with magical powers who can walk around without being picked up on security cameras. And you’re telling me this fiend keeps a genetically modified horror vid monster for a house-pet. What do you think this is, a B-vid?”
“Yes, sir,” said the technician, “and there’s more.” The dwarf nodded vigorously and he bounced on his toes. “I mean no, sir, we are not in a B-vid, but we are looking for a genetically modified monster straight out of a horror vid.”
“Yep,” said Jack, “That’s what he said.”
“Anything else, son?” Gumshoe rubbed his temples.
“Pieces of Miss Steele are missing, sir. Whatever attacked her must have consumed about twenty pounds of her.”
“It gets better,” said Gumshoe. “So this monster eats exhibition managers?”
“Yes sir.”
“Make sure the lab boys know we may be looking for a synthetic creature. I don’t want them missing anything because they forgot their black box doesn’t have a brain. Did you find anything else? Any sign of dwarves?”
“Yes sir, I’ll make sure the possibility of a synthetic is noted on my testing request manifest. As for the dwarves, we found footprints. The first is a partial outline of a dwarf’s boot of a common size created when the victim’s blood pooled against the sole. We have a string of three successive print’s originating from the first as the wearer of the boot left the office. No other evidence of anything or anyone else in the office has been identified, though there will be the usual tests before I can speak conclusively on the matter.”
“Is the scene ready for entry or are we sealed?”
“Go on in Inspector,” said the dwarf. “We know you, sir. Always like to poke around, old school like.”
“Old school like?” muttered the Inspector as the dwarf trotted off. The Inspector cocked his thumb in his holster. “Just good police work. He’s a good tech, but he’s green. Follow me, gentlemen.”
Gumshoe led them into the foyer, and up to the inner entrance. He reached out and laid a hand on their shoulders. “Be warned, she’s not a pretty sight. If you feel the least bit nauseous, do your business in the hall. I don’t want the crime scene contaminated.”
Entering the office, Jack was overwhelmed by the stench of blood. The office reeked of corruption. A dwarf technician partially obstructed his view of Steele. He turned green.
Sensing his distress, Gumshoe patted his back. “Are you gonna be sick, Jack?”
“No, I’m all right.”
Jack craned to see over the dwarf. Catching a glimpse of something creeping on the floor, he looked down at his foot. Steele’s blood had congealed in a pool near her body, but blood flowed along the cracks in the floor tiles. Under his weight, blood oozed from the tiles, and welled up against his boot.
Nausea rose in his gullet, and he quickly backed up.
He had seen murder victims before. He had seen crime scene photos, but he had never seen any victim in this condition.
Dizziness swept him, and he swayed.
The crime scene tech was a cool as a fry cook putting out a grease fire. Dwarves were obsessive and well suited to police work. Temperamental types were not cut out for the work.
Worried the elf would fall on Steele, the tech spread a tarp over what remained of Steele. She stood up.
“Sir,” said the tech, “are you well?” She was a pretty dwarf maiden with amber eyes and a red chip on her forehead.
Someone squeezed his elbow. Allowing himself to be drawn away, he retreated as gracefully as he could. “Just need air,” he croaked, “it’s the smell.” He feigned nonchalance, and retreated to the hall. Out of line of sight from the body, he felt better. He looked around. No one was behind him, and Gumshoe and Shotgun were on the other side of the office. Was he losing his mind? A tingle ran up his back.
Gumshoe left the office, passed through the foyer, and came out to the hall. “Are you all right Jack?”
“I’m not a homicide detective,” said Jack. “I’m a magician with a knack.”
“Yes,” said Gumshoe. “You probably should get some water. I think I saw a fountain near the vending machines in the lobby. Shotgun is working on her computer now. I should be able to wrap this in a few minutes. Dwarves are really efficient.”
“Gumshoe,” he hesitated a moment unable to continue.
“If it makes you feel better, I still get sick sometimes.”
Jack wondered what might upset Gumshoe’s constitution after thirty years. “What makes an old hand like you turn green?”
“Forget it, Jack, you don’t want to know. Go on, I don’t want you losing your cookies all over my trench coat.”
Jack found a lounge, washed his face, and then he felt better. When he returned, Shotgun was briefing Gumshoe on his findings.
“The Crown paid for the ballroom. My bet is they hacked an account and put the tab on the Ministry of Manna to throw us off. I’ve identified the files with the activity codes for your computer forensics team, but I don’t think anything on her computer will help. Also, she had an appointment with Dr. Balaam, the gene therapist who owns the New Gem franchise.”
“The plot thickens, gentlemen. I have to be home once in a while. The missus complained this morning. She said I’d better solve this case or marry Captain Barfly. Let’s go, and I’ll drop you off.”
Halls of Industry
Two van drivers blocked an intersection, shouting at each other about the right of way. They slowed, and Gumshoe flashed his emergency lights. Startled, the frustrated molemen stopped arguing. With the hostility momentarily quenched, the traffic jam was quickly sorted out. Overhead, a few flyers sailed over the clogged streets.
Frightened molemen squeezed their vehicles onto the sidewalks. Moving vans headed out of the city clogged the intersections. The crush of traffic narrowed the streets to two lanes. Behind him a black airship lifted off from a loading dock.
“Let’s avoid the traffic,” he said. “We don’t want to spend the next three hours on the level-way in a traffic jam. We’re going down to the Halls. No one lives there, if you don’t count the homeless. The factories won’t be moving much of anything yet.”
Gumshoe turned back towards Moab and the traffic thinned. It had been months since he had driven through the halls. Moab was Nodlon’s third basement and the deepest occupied level. It was independent of Nodlon and outside his jurisdiction. Moab had no border, and anyone could travel freely between Deep Nodlon and Moab and often did. But he rarely had a reason to go this deep. He lived in a log cabin on the south side of the mountain, and he preferred the open air.
Thoughts of the halls brought back memories from his school days. Once Moab had been the heart of the coal mine. Thornmocker had ordered an army of biots designed to mine coal from Bio-Soft.
Bio-Soft’s human resources department lacking a sense of humor christened the new model the Mining Organic Anthracitic Coal Biot. Not lacking a sense of humor, Thornmocker called his new workforce molemen. Taking the acronym, and dropping the coal, he called their home Moab.
Molemen had carved out the mountains under Nodlon. When the molemen finished mining the third basement, Thornmocker converted the empty caverns into space for every conceivable industry. These he called the Halls of Industry, and when molemen were too old or were no longer needed for mining, he retrained them to manufacture everything from starships to toys and leased them to other manufacturers.
Despite greed, Thornmocker had not been ungenerous in specifying the design of molemen, and they were a bright and decent folk comprised of hard men, and fair women. They had earned their independence from Nodlon during the last war. Gumshoe recalled the tale well, but it would have to wait.
Into these halls Gumshoe guided the cruiser back towards downtown. The tunnels th
rough the Halls of Industry were usually slower than the level-ways, what with lights and intersections. But with the level-ways jammed, Gumshoe knew they could reach downtown through the Halls.
The heart of Moab lay in the halls. Over-size tunnels and massive bays accommodated Nodlon’s heavy manufacturers, warehouses, and factories.
Jack tapped on the cruiser’s scream bar. “Can we catch the news? And see if there have been any developments?”
Startled by Jack’s question, Gumshoe put his history aside. “Yeah, sure Jack.” He punched his console and selected the Mercury News feed. The vid screen lit up.
A picture of a comely dwarf maiden dissolved, and the camera shifted to the anchor, Bruce Ably. Bruce lowered his voice ominously.
“We have an update from the Octagon. General Thomas Arnold has been promoted to Warlord. General Arnold is the highest ranking military officer on the General Staff. He is said to be one of King Justin’s closest and most trusted advisors. He earned his reputation thirty years ago as an ace blasting space pirates back to Davey Jone’s locker during the Oort War. While we have no official word, the observers in the Octagon believe this is a prelude to declaring martial law.”
Gumshoe switched off the news. “That’ll make an omelet out of scrambled eggs.”
They crossed a boulevard, and entered a town square. In the center, a tiered pyramid built of red brick, and adorned with Greek columns rose to the domed roof. Apple trees ran around the pyramid’s foot encircled by brick curbs. Gumshoe pointed at the pyramid. “That’s the Union Hall. Together the Unions are a mini-state within Moab.”
“What do you think of General Arnold?”
“Arnold’s a war hero, and a good man. I met him a few years back at the Yard’s winter ball. I was the master of ceremonies, and he was the keynote speaker. He’s an expert on disaster preparation, and on paper he’s a good choice for the job. If Nodlon needs evacuating, I imagine he’ll get Nodlon evacuated on time. But, Arnold’s always had the city behind him for support. He’s never been responsible for running it. He knows natural disasters. And he’s fought forest fires - literally. He was in charge when we helped the Swamp men two years ago when Hurricane Gloria slammed into Gulf Port.”
Trucks and moving vans rolled in and out of factories and the campuses of Moab’s industrial firms. The streets were open in the commercial district and they made good progress.
Gumshoe guided the cruiser into another hall. The tunnel was six stories high, and industry facades marched away for miles before gently curling under the mountains. The traffic thinned as they drove deeper into the Halls of Industry.
The black airship turned onto the boulevard.
“Does he know what to do when he can’t call Moab? Once the city is evacuated, he can’t just order up a self-propelled deep water caisson or a fire suppressant tanker. Men like Arnold know they can handle complex emergencies so they think they can run a city. Not that I’m pessimistic mind you, but I’ve no idea of how he’ll handle it. If he lets the other experts help him, all will be well. Overconfidence brews a recipe for sloppy work.”