Analog SFF, November 2007 Read online

"Record on the call?"

  "Throwaway mobile. Do you think that's what the killer wants: ABCD to fall on its pratt and to look ridiculous in doing so?"

  "Or someone using the occasion created by the killer. One question that remains to be answered is at whom this exercise has been aimed: Parker or ABCD."

  Shad cackled out a wak-wak-wak laugh. “If it's Parker, that makes Nigel Towson our prime suspect."

  Despite an involuntary smile, I shook my head. “DS Towson may be dogging it, but he's the grandfather of by-the-book cops. Former Royal Canadian Mounted Police, you know."

  "Yeah.” Shad shuddered. “I heard about that grizzly attack in the Yukon. Lucky his head was found by that RCMP tracking unit and they could copy his engrams into one of their bloodhound bios."

  "Yes. And as soon as he finished copying, he continued tracking down the killer he'd been after. Got his man, too. A lesser cop would've gone after the bear."

  "The media should hear some of these stories—how the cops in ABCD got here—rather than focusing on Parker's poop and all this silliness."

  "Wouldn't that be a treat? The media have programmed this city to expect ABCD to fall on its face and have a big laugh every time we do. Our success with the Hound Tor case, though, and getting blown up out on the moor stepped on their laugh lines rather severely. They seem grimly determined to get back to the giggles. That is why we must succeed in this inquiry, Shad. We must succeed, look magnificently competent in doing so, and with Parker in charge."

  The duck leveled a gaze at me. “And we are going to bring this to pass how?"

  I looked down my Basil Rathbone nose at him and arched an eyebrow. “I have brushed in the broad outlines of the concept, dear boy. Fill in the details.” I pointed at the open door to downstairs. “Shall we brief our lead on his murder case?"

  "Oh, let's do.” Shad waddled toward the door muttering gloomily about computer-generated lizards, penthouses, Waterford Crystal birdbaths, action figures, and outrageous fortune.

  * * * *

  Room 914 looked like every other interrogation room in every police station in every country in the world: featureless pale beige walls, white light panel above a plain white plastic table flanked by two sets of composite wood stools on opposite sides, audio-visual recording controls in a black enameled wall panel next to the desk. The only way 914 differed from other interrogation rooms was that it was en suite, or as Shad would have it, the room had an attached crapper. I sat on a stool at the table, Shad squatted upon the table, and Parker sat in the loo with the room's door open—undignified, perhaps, but with olfactory compensations.

  Through the open door Shad briefed Parker on the scene of the crime, the position and condition of Darcy Flanagan's bio, and the impact and trace evidence. “Flanagan was killed elsewhere and dumped at the scene,” said Parker.

  "Shad and I concur."

  "Security cameras in the area?"

  I looked at Shad. He shook his head. “Nothing yet,” he said to the toilet door. “I've downloaded the area traffic surveillance records for this evening into the Heavitree mainframe as well as the private security recordings. The tech mechs are just getting started on them."

  The toilet flushed, but Parker failed to emerge. Nothing but silence for a long uncomfortable stretch.

  "Parker?” I called at last.

  "Sorry, sir. I was just thinking. What if Flanagan's body was carefully inserted into Parliament Street for a purpose?"

  "What purpose?"

  "A political statement."

  Shad and I exchanged glances. “Dead bird in an alley—vote for Arthur Q. Schnebble?” cracked Shad.

  "Hear me out, sergeant,” said Parker. “The deceased is a bio, isn't he? We're right in the middle of AB Emancipation Week, right? E-Week marks the Parliamentary Reform Act of 2132, which maintains suffrage for the human engram imprint, even onto mechanical or non-human bios, and it extends suffrage to artificially created intelligences otherwise qualifying as independent intelligent beings. See?"

  Shad and I exchanged additional confused glances.

  "It's symbolic, sir,” continued Parker. “See, if Flanagan was purposefully dumped on Parliament Street, it may well hearken back to the original reform act that led to that little passage being named after Parliament. A possibility?"

  Mallards don't have eyebrows, but I swear Shad's went up. “Parker, I bet you could tell me what the original act of Parliament was that lead to the naming of Parliament Street."

  "Yes, sergeant. It was the Reform Act of 1832. The act changed a number of laws in Britain, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales regarding representation in Parliament, but the main thing it did was to increase the number of males who could vote by approximately thirty percent."

  "Fair to say it extended suffrage to the less worthy?” Shad inquired.

  "That was certainly how the Exeter city fathers regarded it at the time. As we are all aware, that's how the archbishop and the rest of the anti-AB crowd today currently regard the Act of 2132."

  I pondered that in silence for a moment. I glanced at Shad. He was looking at the tabletop. Once he had concluded shaking out his feathers from his head to his tail, he looked at me and said, “Well, gang, this nothing case fairly reeks with significant coincidence."

  "If DC Parker is correct in his facts,” I cautioned.

  "He is. Checked it all out on Ferdie's Freepaedia,” Shad explained. “Parker—” he began but stopped short. “Autopsy report coming in,” he said, his eyes focused at an invisible point between the toilet door and myself. “Flanagan's human meat suit likely died as a result of a heart attack induced by the violent death of his pigeon bio. Death in the pigeon bio was caused by a broken rib through the heart as the result of blunt force trauma, the weapon being circular, approximately seven centimeters in diameter, convex in shape, fabric enclosed, flexible—"

  "Shad,” I interrupted, “doesn't that sound like one of those old beanbag loads for a what-do-you-call-it?"

  A brief pause as Shad consulted Ferdie's, then he said, “Gas gun. They were miscreant-safe weapons for use in riot control. The thirty-seven millimeter gas gun fired a 7.5 centimeter fabric-covered flexible baton filled with a 150 grams of lead shot."

  "Sounds like one of those could do a dandy job of mangling a pigeon,” said Parker.

  Shad faced the toilet. “They're antiques, Parker. We've got greasefoot, flashnet, and stunspray now. Gas guns haven't been used anywhere for anything in over a century."

  Before I could suggest Parker put in a search for gas guns in Devon, he mentioned it himself. “Research will keep me out of public view,” he offered contritely as a wistful note came into his voice. “That's what I used to do, you know. Research."

  Shad looked at me and held out his wings questioningly as the voice from the loo fell silent.

  "Parker was once a police historian,” I explained. “Oxford, wasn't it, Parker?"

  "Yes,” he replied gloomily. “'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!’”

  I glanced at Shad.

  "Wordsworth,” Shad muttered back at me. Facing the door to the toilet he began to ask a question—probably concerning just how a police historian in Oxford wound up as a gorilla bio—when another call came in on Shad's interface. “Tox screen on Flanagan.” He stood and faced me, nonexistent eyebrows arched. “Alcohol. In Flanagan's blood. Enough to pickle a pigeon."

  We all thought on that for a moment. It was a case wrinkle with which none of us knew what to do just then. Shad's tail resumed twitching, signifying another incoming call.

  "The person who reported finding the body, Parker,” I said, “did he or she ever show?"

  "Yes. Sharissa Thule. She's a thirty-one year old woman—human natural—from Dawlish. She was in the city shopping and visiting relatives and was on her way from the Guildhall Shopping Centre to have tea at the Milkmaid on Catherine. She found the body on Parliament and reported it to a constable."

  "Why would a
nat report a dead bird to the police unless she knew it was a bio?” I asked.

  "She could tell it was a bio. I gather Ms. Thule carries a marker detector."

  "Really. Why?"

  "The way she put it, sir, ‘I want to know whether to pet a cute little doggie on the head or send the bloody pervert packing.’ A bit anti-amdroid. Said something about a wolfhound in Lympstone two summers ago. The creature rubbed against her leg rather passionately. Turned out to be an amdroid."

  Shad's tail stopped twitching; he spread his wings and faced me, his bill hanging open. He froze that way for almost a minute, and then said, “They want me back!"

  "Sorry?"

  "They want me back!" He lowered his wings and began pacing rapidly in a circle. “That was my New York agent. Barton Stanky? The duck stockholders somehow regained control of the insurance conglomerate over the lizard people—I don't know the details, but Barton baby says the corporation stock has been diving for the bottom ever since their advertising firm dumped the duck! The clients have been demanding the return of the duck! Aa-flak!” he cried “Aa-flak! They want me back!"

  * * * *

  "I swear, Val, I have the karma of Tantalus,” I said later at home as I poked at the shepherd's pie Val had Walter prepare for me. Walter, the mech who did our cooking and housework, had even made spotted dick for dessert, but I could only pick at it.

  "I finally get a partner I can work with—that I like—and bleeding Madison Avenue wants to make Shad a flipping billionaire clowning around and falling on his pratt to sell insurance."

  "How nice for Guy. He was so unhappy to be let go,” she said, her aqua eyes focused on mine. She sat across from me on the table, her tail wrapped around her legs. “Aren't you happy for him?"

  "Oh,” I let out my breath and turned my scowl toward my dinner. “Of course I am, dear. I am being quite selfish."

  "A tad."

  I took a breath, let it out, and tried a bit of pie. “This is rather good, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Walter said he was trying a new recipe."

  "Excellent.” I leaned back in my chair, took a sip of tea, replaced the cup on the table, and smiled at her. “I suppose if I got a call from Metro to go back to London the sonic boom of my run back to the Yard would uproot half the trees in southern England. Thanks for being patient with me, dear."

  "Cats are nothing if not patient, Harry."

  "I'll miss Shad, though. He saved my life in that stable out at Hound Tor Hunts. We've talked old films for hours, and he tells the most outlandish stories. His rather disrespectful comments of certain political and police personalities from time to time have kept me in stitches, not to mention his terrible puns. Did I tell you—"

  "Murder most fowl,” she interrupted.

  "Yes. Sorry. I forget at times.” Val walked the length of the table and seated herself next to my left shoulder. “Looks as though this might be my last case with Shad,” I said to her.

  "If that's so, Harry, make it a good one."

  "Of course. We'll make it a good one—if we can. Parker's career—ABCD's existence—may well depend upon it."

  "What's on for tomorrow?"

  "Parker will be tracking down antique beanbag guns while Shad and I question Flanagan's coworkers. We'll see if we can piece together Darcy Flanagan's movements prior to his demise."

  "Do you know yet what to do about Ralph Parker leading the case? I'll never forget the horror of that ceremony at the Royal Diane Museum when I saw it on the telly."

  "Many of us have been having rather fearsome flashbacks this evening on that account. After we briefed Parker, I prepared and read a brief statement to the reporters and took no questions. They didn't like that at all. Hardly any of the questions they tried to ask were about the murder."

  "About Ralph?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Sooner or later, Parker is going to have to face the media if he's going to lead this case."

  "Ralph must be so worried."

  "A concern shared by a small but anxious legion at ABCD, my dear."

  * * * *

  The next morning constables from the Exeter Station brought in only a single coworker of Darcy Flanagan's, a pigeon bio named Tommy Shay. He was a deep-gray bird with gleaming white wing bands, a blued-gunmetal colored hood that came down to his shoulders, white beak, and deep pink feet—a much more handsome model than that flown by the deceased. Shay was a flight lieutenant and the commander of Puss-in-Boots Flight, the late Darcy Flanagan's unit. The remaining two members of Puss-in-Boots, flying officers Jock Munro and Art Krauthammer, were in hospice at Royal Devon & Exeter Hospital where Pureledge kept Munro and Krauthammer's stasis beds. Both were in their late nineties and bedridden, hence unavailable until they came on duty at three in the afternoon, should they live so long.

  Flight Lieutenant Shay was brought in wearing his pigeon suit, which for him was a permanent arrangement. It seems that the year before, ninety-seven-year-old Tommy Shay cacked out on his barracks stasis bed at Castle Street while his engrams were still on patrol at St. Peters. “When that happens,” Shay said from his perch on a stool at the interrogation table, “Pureledge lets their old time employees live out their lives wearing wings, if they like. Those who take to it permanent even get a new bio once the old pigeon goes toes up."

  "Generous of the company,” I said.

  The pigeon shrugged. “Pigeon bios is cheap when you get ‘em by the thousand. Builds good will with the lads, though."

  "And for you?” I asked.

  "A pigeon on this side o’ the dirt's better'n worms on t’ other, the way I looks at it,” he answered philosophically.

  Shad squatted on the end of the table as I leaned my elbows on it. “What can you tell us about Darcy Flanagan?” Shad asked the pigeon.

  "Not much, sergeant. See, the RPAF is kind like the old French Foreign Legion. You get a job, training, equipment, burial expenses, and no questions."

  "RPAF?” asked Shad.

  "Royal Pigeon Air Force,” answered Shay.

  "Is that actually connected to the British military?"

  Shay shook his head at the duck. “No, guv. Haw! The RPAF is just somethin’ the original lads dreamed up to make the job a bit more fun. Long as we keep Jerry off the ledges, company don't mind."

  "Tell us what you can about Darcy,” I said.

  "Darcy joined the 712 middle of June. He was issued one of them old-line model pigeon suits. We calls ‘em ‘Hurricanes.’”

  "I noticed,” I said, “that your bio is much better looking than Flanagan's."

  "Better performin’ too. This here is a Spitfire,” said Shay, opening and closing his wings, turning about, giving Shad and me a good look. “We calls ‘em Spits. Great improvement over the Hurricane, detective. Better speed, climb, and dive rates, higher ceiling, more maneuverable, can take a whale more punishment, too. I rammed me a couple o’ pushy ravens settin’ up house on a turret on the cathedral south tower in this suit back in March. Tangled toes with the buggers, I did, ‘til they got discouraged and headed for the countryside. Never mussed a feather of me own.” He looked at Shad. “Raven's bigger'n a pigeon,” he explained.

  "Do tell,” Shad responded. “About Flanagan?” he urged.

  "Oh. Well, Castle Field was short o’ Spits when young Darcy joined 712. Still is.” He faced me. “I do believe Artie Krauthammer got the last Spit."

  "Darcy?” I reminded him.

  "Right. So when Darcy shows at flight school, I looks at that old Hurricane bag o’ feathers and says I to Squadron Leader Haverill, ‘Les,’ I says to him, ‘you can't send the kid up in a crate like that!’”

  I glanced at Shad. He appeared to be gnawing on the edge of his own wing.

  "Squadron leader says Flanagan flies the Hurricane ‘til the new Spits come in. ‘Make do,’ says he."

  "Well, Tommy,” I said as I faced Shay, “How did he do?"

  "Oh, he took to flying well enough. Loved it so, he did. Inspector, you take dim eyes, sore knee
s, bad back, weak heart, a scarred liver, and no wind, leave that all behind and put on wings—even one o’ them Hurricanes—and all you wants is to get up in the sky—” Shay interrupted himself, looked down lost in thought for a moment, then he faced me. “On patrol though, sometimes he'd lag behind. Hurricanes just can't keep up with Spits. We'd get to diving on Jerry, chasing him ‘round the towers ... well, sometimes Darcy wouldn't quite be on time. Tried to keep down the speed, but in the heat of the chase—"

  "Tally ho,” said Shad.

  "Exactly. See, Puss-in-Boots Flight patrols the south side of St. Peters. I ain't unfair in sayin’ we're hard done by with just the one flight. Wolf Flight has the north cathedral patrol which is just that side o’ the church. Red Riding Hood Flight only has Mol's, St. Martins, and them other old shops on Cathedral Close. Cinderella Flight's only got east end o’ Cathedral Yard, the Royal Clarence and a couple shops. On the cathedral's south side, though, Puss-in-Boots's got half the cathedral plus the Cloisters, plus the Diocesan House, and plus the Bishop's bleedin’ Palace."

  "And Flanagan couldn't keep up,” I urged.

  "What I thought I done was make a problem into a virtue, inspector. After a few days I put him on lone patrol flying the Diocesan House and the Bishop's Palace. Just surveillance, mind. While me, Jock, and Art buzzed Jerry off the rest, Darcy would patrol his part and send up the balloon if he saw Jerry heading his way. We'd come running and the four of us would roust the Hun and chase ‘em off."

  "So for most of the shift—ah, patrol—you wouldn't see Flanagan at all,” said Shad.

  The pigeon nodded. “True enough, but he'd radio in every so often when he'd see Jerry or to check in. It was just until Darcy got his Spit.” The bird thought for a moment. “It worked good for a few weeks. Darcy would put in a call and the rest o’ the lads'd come a-runnin'. Kept the ledges pristine, we did.” Shay fell silent, shook his head. “Then Darcy stopped calling in for help. He could do it on his own. When I'd check, the ledges were clean, so I left well enough alone."

  "And yesterday?” I asked.

  "Patrol started at three, our flight was posted and Darcy peeled off for the palace. We got two calls from Darcy that first hour. Both times he said he'd taken care of Jerry on his own. We got no more calls. It were busy on the south side. Besides Jerrys, there was dole bums and pige freaks—other pigeon bios. They had us fagged, so it wasn't ‘til a bit before five I radioed Darcy, see how he was makin’ out. I got no answer and ordered the flight onto Darcy's patrol area. He wasn't there. We split up and searched all over for him, but couldn't find a feather. Can't see how he wound up on Parliament Street. That's way out of our patrol area."