Jericho Iteration (20 page)

That was the first time my bullshit detector had gone off. Now, upon reflection, I knew why.

First, whatever purpose Payson-Smith had fulfilled in the Ruby Fulcrum team couldn’t have been so critical that Tiptree had been unable to replace him, even in a pinch. However brainy this man was, I hadn’t heard his name mentioned in the same breath as Robert Oppenheimer’s, and they had replaced him, too, way back when. Oppenheimer’s only mistake had been in openly expressing his objections to the atomic bomb, and that was after it was exploded over Japan. No one had ever claimed he was mentally ill, only that he was a suspected commie sympathizer.

If Huygens was telling me the truth, then Payson-Smith should have been canned immediately, for being mentally unhinged
and
opposed to Sentinel before it was even built, let alone made operational. But they wouldn’t have kept him on the project … and that, I now realized, was why the first alarm had rung.

At the same time this was going on, McLaughlin continued, certain spare parts and lab instruments had turned up missing from the company storerooms; they included various high-quality mirrors, lenses, Pyrex tubes, small carbon dioxide and water tanks, and a portable vacuum pump. The theft of the items had not been detected, it later turned out, because someone had managed to access the company’s computer inventory system and delete their removal from the records. The loss was discovered only when other scientists complained to the company comptroller that they couldn’t find items that had been there last week.

Then, almost exactly one week ago, Kim Po was found dead outside his condominium in Richmond Heights. He had apparently been coming home from a late night at the lab when he was shot just outside the condo’s front door … not by a conventional rifle, but by a laser weapon of some sort, one that had drilled a self-cauterizing hole straight through the back of his head from a parked car. As with John’s murder, no one had heard gunfire, nor had a bullet been recovered from either man’s body.

“We’ll cut to the chase,” Barris said. “Judging from the information Cale has given us and the near identical circumstances of both Dr. Kim and Mr. Tiernan’s murders, it seems as if a high-power laser had been used.”

McLaughlin coughed into his fist. “A CO2 laser rifle, to be exact,” he said. “Not like something you see in movies, of course. It would be extremely large and cumbersome … at least the size of a rocket launcher, in fact … but my people tell me it could produce a beam capable of burning through metal, wood, plastic, just about anything … and that includes flesh and bone.”

He shook his head. “It’s a nasty weapon, probably even more powerful than the one that kid in Chicago used a couple of years ago. Silent, invisible, absolute flat trajectory, almost infinite range. If you had a good infrared sight to go with it, you could fire it through a closed window, provided it was made of nonreflective glass, and hit a target several blocks away. No one would even know where the shot came from.”

“And you think someone from Tiptree concocted this thing?” I asked.

McLaughlin glanced hesitantly at both Barris and Huygens. He put the glass snowball down on the desk and leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. “No, not just anyone,” he replied, looking embarrassed by the admission. “We think Richard’s the one. He had the training and the technical ability, plus access to the parts he needed.” He looked at Mike Farrentino. “Lieutenant? If you’ll continue …?”

For the first time since we had entered the colonel’s office, Farrentino spoke up. “After Mr. Huygens tipped us off,” he said quietly, “some of my people visited Payson-Smith’s home earlier this evening. He was missing, but they found a small workshop in his basement. Something had been built on a bench down there, all right, and there were pieces of burned-through metal that looked as if they might have been used for target practice.”

“But why would he …?”

“Why would he kill Dr. Kim and Mr. Tiernan?” Barris shrugged. He picked up the glass snowball and juggled it in his hands. “Who knows what goes on in a sick mind? Maybe he’s upset at the other members of his team for having built
Sentinel …
that’s our theory, at any rate. First he knocked off Dr. Kim, then he tracked down Dr. Hinckley when she was trying to tell Tiernan about Kim’s murder and tried to kill her, too. Unfortunately he nailed your friend instead.”

I started to ask another question, but Huygens beat me to it. “We did our best to keep Kim’s murder out of the press. There was only a small item in the next morning’s
Post-Dispatch
about it, but we managed to get their reporters to believe that Po had been killed during a robbery attempt … but Beryl obviously found out the truth and decided to go to your paper instead.”

“That’s another reason why we suspect Payson-Smith,” the colonel said. “He was one of the few people who could have learned of her plans to meet Tiernan at the bar tonight.”

McLaughlin raised a hand. “Before you ask why Payson-Smith didn’t kill them both when he had the chance … according to my people, this laser rifle apparently consumes a lot of power. It would have to be run off an independent current, so it takes about a minute for its battery to recharge before each shot.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “So Hinckley suspected that Payson-Smith was the guy behind Kim’s murder and went to John to tell him the story.”

Barris and McLaughlin both nodded their heads, and that was the second time my bullshit detector went off.

They didn’t know it, but I had seen Hinckley and Payson-Smith talking to each other during the reception. For a woman who suspected her boss of having gone psycho and killing one of her friends with a home-built laser, she had not appeared apprehensive about being in his company. Nor had Payson-Smith struck me as the homicidal maniac type. Yeah, maybe you never know for sure. When some nut with a machine gun goes on a rampage in a shopping mall, his neighbors invariably describe him as a nice, quiet person who always minded his own business. Yet my guts told me that Payson-Smith just seemed the wrong guy to be carrying this sort of rap.

And then there were other implausibilities. Even if Payson-Smith was the sociopathic killer these guys made him out to be, how could he have known where Hinckley would be tonight? After all, she had been the one who had told me to pass the message to John. I had not disclosed this to anyone else. So how could Payson-Smith have known where these two people would be meeting each other?

For that matter, why were these guys so certain it was Beryl Hinckley who had met Tiernan at Clancy’s? “Middle-aged black lady” was a description that could fit a few hundred thousand people in St. Louis, but that was how Farrentino had described Hinckley to me when I had been summoned to the murder scene.

And why, on the basis of such circumstantial evidence, were McLaughlin and Huygens here at all, putting the blame on one of Tiptree’s own scientists?

The bullshit detector was sounding five alarms now; fire engines were leaving the station, and the dalmatians were howling like mad. Yet I continued to play the dummy; I stretched back in my chair, resting my feet against the bottom of Barris’s desk. “Okay,” I said. “So you’ve got a mad scientist on the loose. Why are you telling me this?”

Barris didn’t like my boots touching his desk. He stared at me until I dropped them back to the floor, then he went on. “When you took Tiernan’s PT, there was the possibility that you might have found some evidence that could conclusively link Payson-Smith to Kim’s murder. We needed to get that back at all costs, and that’s why you were brought in.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “But why the rest of the—”

Barris raised a finger, a silent admonition for me to shut up. “There’s also the possibility that Dr. Hinckley may try to contact you, now that Mr. Tiernan is dead. We haven’t been able to locate her since the shooting, and we suspect that she has gone underground to avoid being killed. So has the other member of the Ruby Fulcrum team, Dr. Morgan.”

He put down the glass ball and leaned forward across the desk. “Mr. Rosen, I realize that there is little reason for you to trust us,” he said. “ERA has a bad reputation in this city, and as easy as it may be for me to put all the blame on the media, I know that my men haven’t always … well, behaved themselves. But this once, we need your cooperation. We’re trying to track down a killer, and we’re also trying to save the lives of two valuable people.”

“Uh-huh.” The bullshit was getting so thick in there, I thought I was going to need a shovel just to get to the door.

“If you hear from either Dr. Hinckley or Dr. Morgan, we need to hear from you at once,” Barris went on. He pulled a calling card from a box on his desk and handed it to me. “That’s how you can reach me personally, any time of the day or night.”

I glanced at the card. No phone number was printed on it, only Barris’s name and the ERA logo. The codestrip on the back would connect with his extension if I passed it in front of a phonescanner. I nodded my head as I tucked the card into my shirt pocket.

“Here’s something else you may need,” he went on, and that’s when he passed me the plastic card and explained how it could be used to get me through ERA blockades.

“We also need you to keep quiet about this matter until it’s resolved,” he went on. “When that happens, you’ll have the complete story from us … and you’ll have helped to bring your friend’s killer to justice. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I hope I can be of service.”

What should I have said? No, sir, this place reeks like a barnyard and you can take me down to the basement now?

Barris nodded, then he stood up from his desk. So did McLaughlin; once more, he extended his hand to me. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rosen,” he said as I shook his hand again. “I’m glad to have you on our side.”

Farrentino pushed back his chair and stood up. Huygens gave me a perfunctory nod. Barris glanced at Farrentino. “Now, Lieutenant, if you will kindly escort Mr. Rosen to the street …?”

I was free to go—but I was certainly not free. There were too many secrets, too many lies.

Too much bullshit.

“W
HICH EXIT DO I
take?” Farrentino asked.

The light rain had become a steady downpour, but through the darkness and drizzle I could make out the familiar landmarks of Webster Groves from the interstate. The sign for the Shrewsbury Avenue exit was coming up. “This one will do,” I said.

The detective nodded as he swerved into the right lane. “I take it your ex isn’t expecting you,” he said, following the long curve of the ramp as it led up the street overpass. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be dropping you off?”

“I guess it’s okay,” I replied as I pointed toward the left; he waited until a street cleaner ’bot rumbled through the intersection, then turned onto Shrewsbury. “She’ll let me in, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s what I’m asking.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Worst thing a cop can do is get caught in the middle of a domestic quarrel. Y’know that when cops get injured in the line of duty, it’s most often while breaking up a household fight? I damn near got my left ear sliced off with a vegetable knife that way, back when I drove a cruiser.”

The intersection of Big Bend was coming up, and I pointed to the left again. “That’s not going to happen here,” I said. “For one thing, she’s not really my ex. I just call her that.”

“Separation?” He lighted his cigarette while making the turn, catching the green light just as it was turning yellow. A blue-and-white passed him in the opposite lane; he flashed his brights at it, and the officer driving the cruiser gave him a brief wave. It was the only other vehicle on the street, despite the fact that Webster was one of the few neighborhoods in the city that wasn’t under dusk-to-dawn curfew. “Sometimes it’s better that way,” he went on. “Why did you guys get separated?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s my job. Besides, I’m just asking …”

His voice trailed off as if anticipating a reply, but I didn’t answer immediately. It had been a few months since I had last visited this neighborhood, and I wanted to look around. Webster Groves had ridden out the quake pretty well, at least in comparison to the parts of St. Louis that had been built on sandy loam or had been undermined by the tunnels of lost clay mines. Some homes had collapsed, a couple of strip malls had fallen down, but overall this quaint old ’burb of midwestern-style frame houses hadn’t been significantly damaged. I didn’t even see any ERA patrols.

“Go a few more blocks, then turn right on Oakwood,” I said.

“Okay.” Farrentino was quiet for a few moments. “Not going to talk about it, are you?”

“Talk about what?”

He shook his head. “You’re going to have to trust somebody sooner or later, Gerry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’ve got your hand stuck in a hornet’s nest. Either you talk to me, or you talk to the colonel or McLaughlin, but eventually you’re going to have to talk to somebody.”

It was true; he knew it, and I knew it. I was treading on hot coals now, and there were damned few people I could count on to get me through this firewalk. Before I could commit myself either way, though, there were a few questions that still had to be cleared up in my own mind. Stopping by for a visit with Marianne, even in the middle of the night, was the first step.

“I’ll let you know, Mike,” I said as he took the turn onto Oakwood. “Right now, all I want to do is get home.”

Home was an old, three-story Victorian on a quiet residential street, a one-hundred-twenty-year-old former farmhouse that had been renovated at least three or four times since the beginning of the last century. Marianne and I had bought the place shortly after we had moved back to St. Louis; if I had known the city was going to get socked by a quake, I might not have signed the mortgage papers, but to my surprise the house had only swayed during New Madrid. The house next door, which was only half as old, had fallen flat, but by some quirk of nature our place had survived, suffering only the loss of the carport and an oak tree in the front yard.