The Cold Light of Day (3 page)

Now it all came down to today. Napoleon was by far the bookies’ favourite at three-to-one-on: a citizen putting down three credits would win one. Shock was at five-to-two-on, slightly more attractive odds for the punters. The big money was on the independent riders. Gavin Sable was the public’s golden child, known to be a dependable but inexperienced rider. Most of the bookies were offering twenty-to-one-against on Sable. Shock had heard of a man in MegWest who’d sold his apartment and almost all of his belongings to raise one hundred thousand credits. He’d put it all on Gavin Sable in the hope of winning two million.

By the end of the race, that man was going to disappointed as well as broke and homeless. The winner of this year’s Mega-City 5000 would be either a Mutant or a Spacer. They had the numbers, and they had the skill.

The Spacers and the Mutants had been rival gangs since before the atomic wars, their history pre-dating Mega-City One by decades. Initially, there had also been another two major biker gangs vying for control of the east coast of America, but the Angels had been hunted down and wiped out by the Highwaymen after a long and particularly bloody feud, and then in turn they’d been destroyed by the Mutants and the Spacers working together.

But that alliance had been tenuous at best, and had only lasted a few years. No one remembered what had sparked the current animosity—the original antagonists had been killed long ago—but they all understood that the gangs were enemies.

Since the rise of the Judges, all of the city’s biker gangs had drastically curtailed their activities. The Spacers and the Mutants had, separately, officially “gone legit.” They hired publicity agents and lawyers, marketing people and managers. They presented themselves as family-friendly clubs and associations—the Mutants once successfully sued a news channel that had referred to them as a gang—and they held membership drives and charity runs. They turned up to protest the closing of hospitals, and to support liberal politicians. They made a lot of noise about unfair treatment whenever one of their members was arrested, unless there was no doubt the member was guilty, in which case they publicly thanked the Judges for rooting out the “undesirable elements that give the rest of us a bad name.”

But in the shadows, the gangs were as vicious and territorial as ever. They used knives to settle scores, because bullets made too much noise and were too easy to trace. They dealt drugs and weapons, they carried out hits for hire, they ran protection rackets and gambling dens, kidnapped children of wealthy families, organised riots at public gatherings, fenced stolen goods, grabbed citizens off the streets and smuggled them out of the city and sold them into slavery.

The general public knew little of that. Most of the citizens of Mega-City One regarded the Muties and the Spacers in the same way they regarded enthusiasts of other hobbies, like the Judge-spotters and the sky-surfers, the fatties and the hair-collectors and the cereal-commercial re-enactors.

D
REDD’S
L
AWMASTER PURRED
to a stop outside the Funex Eaterie in Bevis Wetzel Plaza. Already, ten Lawmasters were present, and as Dredd climbed down from his bike, a med-wagon rose swiftly into the air, the flashing red and blue lights competing with the glow from the neon sign above the diner’s door.

The three Judges standing outside the diner glanced at him as he approached, then turned back to resume their conversation.

Dredd didn’t care for that. Two Judges had been murdered: these men should be on full alert, not squandering their time in pointless speculation. He strode up to them. “What’s the situation?”

Judge Perry—an older man, somewhere in his late thirties, with grey stubble on his chin—looked him up and down, sizing him up. Dredd liked that even less. “Dredd. Sector Chief wants you. Inside.”

The diner’s doors opened as Dredd stepped up to them, and a med-Judge pushing a laden body-slab ushered him inside. “Took your time. Mendillo’s in the kitchen.” The corpse on the slab was draped in a standard-issue body-sheet—red, so that the blood didn’t show if it seeped through—but it was clear from the outline that much of its head was missing.

The inside of the diner was a slaughterhouse. Blood dripped from the ceiling fixtures, covered the walls and windows in intricate arcs, was smeared across the tiled floor and the plastichrome furniture, and ran in thick rivulets down the glass display stands. To Dredd’s right, three teams of med-Judges were frantically working to save bullet-riddled citizens, while around them forensic teams photographed and scanned every square centimetre. Dredd quickly counted the bodies and the gaps in the blood-pools: at least fifteen citizens dead. Possibly more: one corner booth was splattered with a collection of body parts that could have been three or four people.

A Judge noticed him looking toward the corner and said, “Concussion grenade, probably. Very little shrapnel, just hyper-compressed air. The grenade explodes in front of the target and directs the blast back. Anyone in the line of fire within about four metres is shredded.” The Judge shook her head. “We’ve retrieved five thumbs from the mess already, so that’s at least three victims with that one shot.”

“Where would a citizen get hold of a shell like that?”

The Judge shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. They haven’t been manufactured since the war, and they’re pretty unstable. That’s why no one makes them any more: they have a tendency to spontaneously explode all on their own. I remember back in ’71, when I was assigned to Texas City. A guy found a dozen of them and thought they’d make nice paperweights. He gave them out to his friends. Man,
that
was messy. Four of them exploded on the same day. We thought it was a terrorist attack. Took us ages to track down the rest of them.”

In the diner’s kitchen, Sector Chief Daniel Mendillo looked on as another Judge was interviewing a young woman. She trembled as Dredd entered, and tugged tighter on the blanket around her shoulders.

“He came in shootin’,” the witness said. “I never bin so scared in my life!”

“Can you describe him?” the Judge asked.

Dredd said, “She can’t. She’s lying. Opportunist, hoping for air-time on the networks or compensation from the diner.”

Mendillo—a short, stocky man with grey hair and heavy bags under his eyes—turned to face Dredd. “What?”

“Perp didn’t come in shooting,” Dredd said. “Positions of the bodies, fallen shell-casings and bullet-holes in the walls show that he was already inside before he opened fire. He shot his way
out
of the diner, not in. Suggest you book her for obstruction and order a psych-eval.”

The interviewing Judge took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Listen, kid, don’t tell me my job, okay? I’ve been doing this since before you were born. Witnesses often confuse the order of events. She—”

“You seen the room out there?” Dredd asked. “Perp had two weapons besides the grenade. One with large calibre rounds, explosive tips. Probably a point-seven-six recoilless. Standard mag contains ten rounds. Used that first, took head-shots. When he ran dry, he switched to a high-velocity handgun. Gut-shots, chest-shots.”

“I don’t see what
any
of that’s got to do with the veracity of the witness’s statement.”

“There’s no blood on her,” Dredd said.

Mendillo sighed through gritted teeth. “Stomm. He’s right. Get her out of here, Carney. Just... Just throw her out. There’s more than enough to worry about without having to book her too.”

Judge Carney took the woman by the arm and wouldn’t look Dredd in the eye as he manoeuvred her around Dredd toward the doorway.

Mendillo began, “Dredd, this concerns you because—”

Dredd interrupted. “Hold it.” He turned and called after Judge Carney. “The
other
way, Carney. Take her out through the back. Don’t contaminate the crime scene any further. And if you want my advice”—this was directed to Mendillo as much as Carney—“if you’re not going to charge her, you’ll put her somewhere secure until the scene has been released. The networks pay well for early inside scoops.”

“Do it,” Mendillo said. “Thirty-six hours at least.”

Wordlessly, Carney led the woman out through the back door. Dredd and Mendillo watched them go, then Mendillo said, “Just want to check. You’re Joe, not Rico?”

Dredd nodded.

“Good. I called in Judge Amber Ruiz to head up this investigation—she’s on the way—and she requested you. You answer to her. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mendillo took another deep breath, then exhaled quickly. “All right. Here’s the situation. Judges Collins and Pendleton were on patrol nearby, responded to the shooting. Perp took them both out. They were good Judges. Knew them personally: Pendleton and I were in the Academy together. So I want this drokker found. I don’t care what it takes. Got that?”

“Understood.”

“Ruiz will fill in the blanks. Until she gets here, touch nothing and keep your mouth shut.” He moved toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “And stay clear of the other Judges. Don’t do to them what you just did to Carney. They’re pissed enough with you as it is without you showing them up and making it worse.”

Dredd stiffened at that. “Sir?”

Mendillo ran his hands through his greying hair. “Ruiz will explain... Look, I’m not blaming you. I’ve been a Judge long enough to know how things sometimes go down. But we lost two of our own today. That generates its own special kind of anger, and angry Judges make mistakes.”

From the doorway of the diner’s kitchen, Dredd watched as the forensic team and med-Judges went about their work. Occasionally, dark glances were thrown in his direction, but he refused to let that bother him. Instead, he concentrated on their work and resisted the urge to point out errors.

One of his classmates at the Academy, Judge Hunt, had for a year or so enjoyed a lame running joke: “Joe’s the only cadet who’d report himself for infractions.” That came to an abrupt end when Dredd reported another cadet for fooling around with a Lawgiver: the cadet had pulled his gun on Hunt, pretending to arrest him for “being a total dweebo.” Their tutor had reprimanded the cadet, taken the Lawgiver from him, and subsequently found that the cadet had forgotten to remove the live ammunition from the gun after target practice. One accidental squeeze on the trigger, and Hunt would have been on his way to Resyk. That had been in year three at the Academy, when the cadets were eight years old.

Now, Dredd counted three minor errors by the Judges investigating the crime scene. They were mistakes that, in all likelihood, wouldn’t make any difference to the case, but it was all Dredd could do not to point them out. One tech-Judge was so focussed on his work that he didn’t notice he was standing on a fragment of shell-casing. In the doorway, a street Judge was looking into the diner, watching the proceedings, instead of keeping an eye on the street, and just outside, Judge Perry—the older man who’d confronted Dredd on his way in—was unconsciously opening and closing one of his belt-pouches as he talked to his colleagues, an indication of agitation and nerves. Judges were trained not to display such signs: perps could pick up on them.

As he watched, another Lawmaster pulled up, stopping the required distance from the doors. Judge Ruiz dismounted and greeted Perry and the others with a nod. She removed her helmet as she strode through the doorway.

Dredd was pleased to see Ruiz take a moment to examine the scene before she entered fully—even looking up, as Dredd had done, to check the ceiling—then she carefully stepped around the gore as she made her way toward him. Ruiz was thirty-four, average height with a strong build. She kept her head shaved and her face clear—some other female Judges looked like fashion models from the neck up: trendy hair-styles, make-up, even ear- or nose-rings

“Joe Dredd. It’s been a few years. I heard you got the full eagle. Never doubted it. How have you been?”

Dredd wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to answer that. “I’ve been a Judge” didn’t feel like the right response, but nothing else came to mind. He resorted to, “A little confused as to why
I’ve
been called here, and why some of the Judges seem to think I’ve done something wrong.”

“Mendillo didn’t tell you?” Ruiz asked. “No, of course he didn’t. Never was comfortable with confronting other Judges with bad news.” She smiled at that. “You mightn’t think it to look at him, but when he was on the streets, he was one of the toughest Judges in the city.”

“What is this about?”

“Down to business. Of course. You haven’t changed much, have you?” She stepped past him into the diner’s kitchen. “Close the door behind you... All right. Joe, the perp has been identified as Percival Chalk. That name mean anything to you?”

“I remember him.”

“Good. Then you’ll remember how long his sentence was.”

“Five years. Some thought it a little harsh at the time, but as I recall you backed me up on that.”

Ruiz set her helmet down on a chair, then crossed her arms and leaned back against a work-counter. She stared at him. “I did. So you remember how long ago that was?”

“Five years and two months. So Chalk served his time and now he’s turned to murder?”

“Right. But we don’t yet know
why
. That’s what you and I have to find out.”

Dredd nodded slowly. “And Sector Chief Mendillo wants you to take the lead because you were the only Judge present when he was first arrested. Where do we start?”

“We start by getting something straight. What happened five years ago... Well, someone screwed up, and scuttlebutt is blaming you. Word is spreading that Chalk is a Judge-killer and that’s down to your mistake.”

Dredd considered that. “I’m not aware of making any mistakes.”

“They’re saying that your judgement was flawed.” Ruiz kept her eyes fixed on him, not blinking. “Do you understand what that means, Joe?”

“I understand. And I deny the accusation. My judgement was sound.”

“That’s what I thought then,” Ruiz said. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

The Cursed Earth

2075 AD