Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (6 page)

Gutterson peered through the blinds covering the floor-to-ceiling windows of Captain Martinez’ office, and saw his boss’ bulky form hunched over the desk. Around him, on numerous levels of shelving, sat plaques and certificates Martinez had collected over the years for his commitment to the people of New York City. Gutterson had once aspired to those kinds of achievements, but had long ago given up.

He rapped on the glass-paneled door. It had taken him three days to track Martinez down after discovering the suicide of the Janefield Investments employee. He had left the office right before Gutterson had sought him, and with a busy schedule of internal and external meetings, had not returned since. Gutterson was beginning to wonder whether the Captain was avoiding him.

Most of the enthusiasm he’d felt since the discovery had parted, replaced by growing disquiet. Gutterson had spent Friday evening and most of the weekend pouring through old hardcopy files, rejigging the puzzle pieces he hadn’t been able to solve eighteen months ago. This time though, he read them with a fresh light.

Martinez called for him to enter. Gutterson pressed his thumb against the plate and the latch disengaged. All doors at the station were equipped with fingerprint technology locks. Access was dependent on rank and level of security, though Captain Martinez’ door was accessible to all personnel.

The Captain looked up, eyebrows raised, and smiled, pausing as he drew a mug of coffee to his lips. “John. Come in.”

Gutterson slipped through and stood inside the door, cupping the electronic tablet in one hand, a heavy beat in his chest. “Morning, sir.” Martinez signaled towards the chair. Gutterson hesitated, then reached out and pulled it away from the stand. It floated towards him and he sat. Gutterson folded the tablet he’d brought into his lap. “I need to speak with you about something important, sir.”

The Captain nodded, lowered his mug, and rubbed his moustache. “Okay. Mind you, I’ve got a nine forty-five, so get to the point quickly.”

Gutterson had turned the words over his mind countless times since Friday, running out his speech, changing the order, replacing weak words for stronger ones. In the three oral practices before the mirror in the bathroom at home, he’d spewed dialogue with ease; convincing himself he had it down pat. Now, as the lines on Captain Martinez’ face pinched into impatience, the words dissolved. Gutterson couldn’t find the beginning, like a ball of string with an end tucked into the middle.

Martinez eyed the tablet. “Is there something on there you wanted me to see?”

“Yes.” He passed it across the desk. He thought about explaining, but decided to let Martinez read the page. He would get it.

Gutterson stiffened as the Captain scanned the information. Maybe he’d been crazy coming here, forcing the slim idea of his obsession onto another policeman after all this time, but he had to know, even if Gutterson knocked him back.

Martinez read, eyes squinting, for a time. Finally, he placed the electronic tablet onto the table and leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. He stared off at the wall, an arrangement of certificates floating from the ceiling on transparent rods. Gutterson opened his mouth to speak, but it was so dry, his tongue stuck to the roof.

“The guy committed suicide. You think it might be murder?” Gutterson nodded. “And you’re telling me it happened there—at Janefield?”

“Yes.”

“The whole thing is still a bit raw, John. It took a long time to repair the damage to this precinct.”

Gutterson hung his head. “I know, sir. I know.”

“And now you want me to open it up again?” Gutterson pursed his lips. “I don’t think there’s anyone here who’d be willing to take it on.”

The words blurted out. “I would.”

“You? You’re not even a detective anymore, John. You haven’t been for almost
two years
.”

Gutterson sat forward. “But last week you said I’ve been doing some good work lately. You said there was a slim chance of my reinstatement.
You said that to me, Cap.
”

Martinez shook his head. “Yeah, but I didn’t think it would be
this
soon. I was going to start working on the chief. Pick my moment and float the idea to him.”

“When, Cap? How long can one man be suspended for?”

“I don’t know.”

Frustration leaked out. “Then why’d you keep me around for so long? To make the precinct look good for helping out the son of one of its heroes?” Martinez glared at him, moustache twitching. Gutterson snapped his mouth shut. “I’m sorry, Cap. That was out of line.”

Martinez looked at him for a long time and then rubbed his temples. “What do you want me to do, John?”

“Give me my badge back. Let me investigate—properly, as a detective again.”

“What’s the cause though? As far as I know, the coroner has ruled a suicide.” Gutterson looked at him, lips pressed into a tight line. “What do you know?”

“I know that the condition of the body was not fully clarified in the autopsy report.” Martinez frowned. “There were… injuries, let’s say. To the head and throat, that weren’t reported.”

“That’s against the law.” Gutterson nodded. “How do you know that?”

“I just know, Cap. It’s the truth, I swear.”

“That might get some people in trouble, but if there’s more to this as I think you’re telling me, you’ll need more evidence.”

“That’s why I’m here, sir.”

Martinez stood and began pacing. His jaw flexed; a habit that surfaced in times of stress. “You’re miles behind in your qualifications. You’d need to re-sit them and take two years of make-up exams to stay abreast of the changes in the law.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ve got them.” Martinez lifted his dark eyebrows. “I’ve been taking them every year.”

“Even though you didn’t have a badge?” Gutterson nodded. “You’re dedicated, I’ll give you that.”

“Please, Cap. Give me another shot. Reinstate my badge. I won’t let you down this time.”

“I almost lost my job after your last effort.”

“I know.
I know.
But I learnt my lesson.”

“How?”

“I’m not as reckless as I was then. I follow the rules now. You’ve taught me that.”

“But you don’t agree with the rules.”

Gutterson made a face. “The privacy laws are bullshit, Cap. Let’s be honest, needing written authority to talk to potential witnesses?” He scoffed. “Our job is harder than ever to do.”

“They’re the laws though, John, and we have to abide them.”

“I know. And I will, I promise.”

“What about the bribe allegations?”

Gutterson blew out air. “They were rubbish. You know me. I might have gone outside the rules but I never,
ever
took a bribe.”

Martinez nodded. He stopped, arms folded, silent for almost a minute. “Tell me again what happened last time. You were so damn adamant it wasn’t suicide then either.”

It was a question Gutterson had rolled around his mind more than any other over the last eighteen months. The truth was that he didn’t know why. In the end, he shook his head. “I can’t say. I thought I had enough proof. But I couldn’t get the warrants when I needed them. I couldn’t get the DHS or the FBI interested. Nobody cared.” He ran a hand across his head. “But there was something there, Cap. I
know
it. It wasn't suicide, I’m certain.”

“And you think there’s something in this… suicide?” Gutterson nodded. “Suppose I was able to throw some help your way. What else would you need, besides your badge?”

Gutterson hunched forward. “Resources. I need a team to help me recon this thing.”

“A team?” Martinez laughed. “Jesus Christ, I’ve barely got enough detectives to field the real issues.”

“Just in the initial stages to do the ground work. It would be good to get some more eyes on it.”

“We just don’t have the people, anymore, John. I can’t spare enough to handle the crimes we know about.”

Gutterson hung his head. He understood things were tight, and the resources thin. Perhaps that’s why the crime statistics were on the rise. And really, what was this beyond another murder in a city full of them?

“I’ll see what I can do, John. No promises.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m grateful you’ll consider it.”

Martinez nodded, his face lined with worry.

Fox ported directly over to headquarters in Washington D.C. and spent ten minutes heaving air in one of the bathrooms off the foyer. He told himself he wasn’t avoiding the meeting, that the teleporting was genuinely affecting him and that he should cut back. Eventually he gathered himself, and took the elevator up to the level three boardroom where the other seven sector heads and the divisional CEO waited.

Fox was prepared for what lay ahead. The Chairman would drill down into his performance and humiliate him. That's how it worked. Fox had seen it countless times. Divisional CEO’s were smothered with shame until they cracked. Fox himself had been there once before, back in '32, when a rogue cell of doctors had created a vaccine that had cut his numbers by twenty percent. But he had survived then. He'd gone back to basics, made some staff changes at every level, and empowered those that he believed possessed the courage to take risks and find ways to claw back the lost numbers. He had good people then; people he trusted.

He understood what it took to turn things around, but he had neither the commitment nor heart to apply it. He was no longer able to take the action required to run the organization. If they offered him a choice to leave without repercussion towards his family, he’d take it, but such was highly unlikely. What was the worst thing that
could
happen? They might kill him. Not today, but at some point, when he least expected it. Even the most diligent person had to drop their guard eventually. He thought of the Chairperson when he had first joined the company, and how they had suffered after trying to run.

The boardroom was of the traditional variety, filled with paintings of previous CEO’s and prominent employees on the walls, including several former US senators and even a president. A stout oak table, built for eight participants, greeted Fox, seven spots filled by his waiting colleagues.

“Welcome, Mr. Fox.”

Ivan Chekov was Chairman of the US Division of Janefield Investments. A Russian immigrant, he had served two terms in as a Senator for the state of New York almost twenty years ago. It was said that a former United States president had coerced Chekov to work for Janefield and had ultimately secured him the role of Chairman. He was in his eighties, but still as fit as a man two-thirds of his age, with no sign of slowing.

The chairman noted Fox’s entry to the meeting. Fox responded as a professional courtesy. They did not get along; their viewpoints on company direction differed, and Fox had made it clear in several heated debates. The chairman had ousted his predecessor, who had been a close friend of Fox, and changed the fundamental way in which the company was run. This was a strong stimulus for his declining interest. To worsen matters, Fox’s inferior results would demand a long discussion between the two men in front of the board.

The rest of the board comprised of the other seven regional CEO’s in addition to Fox: Central-West, North-West, South-West, North Central, South Central, North-East, and South-East. These people filled the US Division’s most senior positions in the world’s fourth largest economy. He caught their eye and nodded, smiling at his closest allies—Jonas Whitmore from the South-West, Abato in the North-East, and Del Marco covering the South-East. Beyond a nod or brief greeting, nothing more would be said inside the meeting. It was important for alliances to remain conspicuous, although most knew where their allegiances sat.

The chairman began his opening speech. “Despite our continued success, there remains a host of new and existing challenges to our objectives. Despite the government’s best attempts, the effort to colonize space has not come to fruition. We are at least another thirty years from the realization of that idea, which means sustaining our efforts in providing a more comfortable life on Earth, however undignified some might consider it.”

“Seven of our eight divisions are well ahead of profit targets. Population controls are right where we projected and where we need them to be for the perfect economic and ecological balance over the next three years.” The Chairman looked around the table, across each of their satisfied expressions. “Ladies and gentlemen. You are to be credited with this most excellent result.” Everybody clapped. The Chairman wasn't talking about Fox though. The results of that one failing division—
his division—
would soon be revealed.

The board perused the revenue and profit from all operating segments. Each Divisional CEO reported their earnings and population numbers. Fox couldn't help but be impressed. Some of the statistics were staggering. Even the South-West had managed to get their population numbers under control, despite the fact that for decades they had faced the biggest hurdles. And so it came to him, and Fox tuned out while the chairman went through his figures. Goddamn he had seen them enough, pouring over profit and loss tables for the last six months as he tried to make the bottom line numbers look respectable. He'd given the package to his best senior executive, Robert Jennings, who had a knack for transforming watery numbers into magic, but even Jennings hadn’t been able to do much. His population numbers were
increasing.
That was bad for business on every level.

The room had grown silent. They were all looking at him. Someone had asked a question. “Sorry?”

The chairman twisted his expression with distaste. “You know how important the targets are, Mr. Fox. The government sets them with the highest expectations. If our
group
doesn’t meet them, the rest of us suffer.”

“I assure you, we’re working on it.”

“Six consecutive quarters of falling profits. It’s difficult to ignore, and it can only mean that your actions are not generating enough taxes and that government funding is being wasted.”

Fox glanced around. Even his allies were looking down. “I understand. We’re addressing it now. I’m confident we have the right people in place to reverse the trend.” But his words lacked conviction. Even he sensed it.

“Your teams have not submitted any new innovation over the last six months. What are your scientists working on? You doctors?” He let the thought hang. “Nobody doubts your long contribution to this organization; however, with these latest figures, I’m unable to avoid action.” Fox tensed. The chairman cleared his throat. “According to clause eighty-one A of your employment contract, I invoke the right as chairman to offer you three months to show an appreciable improvement in your results. Failing that, you will be removed from office. Is that clear?”

Fox nodded. He was surprised. He’d expected harsher measures, a shorter timeframe and more specific expectations to improve.

“I need an audible confirmation of your understanding, please.”

“I understand.”

Later, his allies on the board and would call to discuss options for turning things around and he would acquiesce them about what needed to be done, but he would just let things run their natural course and focus on the three things he had already committed: his family, his own survival, and Tabitha. In some ways, he was relying on where the winds of chance took him, like all those people who lived in the world, unbeknownst to the company’s existence, and the absolute uncertainty of their lives.