Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (19 page)

Gutterson couldn’t repress his enthusiasm as he pulled into the precinct with a wide smile. Finally, after so long, he felt like he was getting somewhere, confirmation from someone on the inside of Janefield that things were dysfunctional. Charlie Billings’ revelation had given Gutterson the ray of light he’d been chasing. They
were
onto something. This might just give him the space from Martinez that he needed to push deeper into the investigation.

He swept in through the front doors of the station half anticipating a welcoming of epic proportions—though he hadn’t called it in yet. A couple of officers glanced up from their screens and smiled. Nothing more. The ‘Bot’s didn’t move. Still, it was more than he’d gotten a week ago. He
wasn’t
going mad after all; there was more happening behind the scenes just as he’d suspected all those years ago.

He checked the Captain’s office, but found it empty. He bounced around outside, wondering if he should wait. No, he had to tell somebody, and Camilleri had helped as much as anyone. He raced along the narrow lower-level hallway towards the stairs, passing two other detectives in the hallway—Nick Tsoulos and Jeremiah Clarke. A week ago they would have pushed Gutterson aside, ignoring his presence. Now, they smiled, allowing him to pass.

As he approached the conference room on the second level, he found Smyth and Harding coming towards him. He bristled at the sight of Harding. He still didn’t know whether it was the detective or the administrator that had prevented processing of his approvals. The expression on Harding’s face indicated he felt the same too, but it was Smyth who slowed with a smile.

“How's it going, John?”

“Still battling on. Nothing really yet.” Harding grunted. “What are you guys working on now?”

They made small talk about another case, and then Camilleri poked her head out into the hallway, allowing Gutterson to escape.

She read his buoyant walk as he entered the conference room, and matched it with a wide, excited expression of anticipation. “Fill me in,” she said and fell into a chair, listening intently as Gutterson closed the door. “You found something.”

“I did,” Gutterson said in a low, excited tone. “Just a snippet.” He explained; recounting every detail of the incident from the moment the conversation began. Camilleri couldn’t sit though, pacing as she listened with a hopeful expression, her large, dark eyes wide with expectation. She had invested enough in the investigation now to care beyond the job. Gutterson felt a certain pleasure in that.

After he had finished, she sat back down in silent consideration. When she didn’t make comment, Gutterson asked, “What is it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I mean, you were right.” Gutterson waved it off. “So he actually said he didn’t think Dominic Curwood had committed suicide?”

“He was surprised when I mentioned Dominic’s name. And then when I said I wasn’t convinced he had committed suicide, Billings said, ‘me neither'.”

“Wow. Are you going to speak to him again?”

“Soon, but not straight away; I’ll give him a couple of days to stew over it. I left my details.”

“What did Martinez say?”

“I haven’t spoken to him yet. I put a call in and recorded a message.”

“What else can you get out of him? Do you think he’s willing to talk?”

“Perhaps. I think he wants to, but he’s scared. There’s something more going on here, I’m certain.”

Gutterson’s internal ear piece beeped. It was the Captain. “Hello, sir?”

“I’m back, John. Come down now, can you? There’s something I need to speak with you about.”

Gutterson had to stop himself from running to the captain’s office. He knew it was an important moment, and he couldn’t wait to tell Martinez of the discovery.

He knocked, and the captain called him in with urgency in his tone that should have alerted Gutterson.

“Tell me you had the goddamn approvals to do this, John.”

Gutterson froze. “Do what?”

“Talk to the Janefield employee.”

Martinez began pacing the room, his face a dark shade of red. Gutterson had to get control of this. He had good news to tell, but didn’t want to waste the moment while Martinez was angry. He sat in the visitor's chair across the other side of the desk and spoke in calm voice. “Of course I had the approvals, Cap. I received them yesterday.”

“That’s something then. But it doesn’t get me out of the shit.”

“What? Why?”

Martinez fell into his chair. His face was a softer pink, and he rubbed it with both hands. “There’s another problem, John,” he said, sitting up straight. “I don’t know why yet, but I received a call from the regional Chief at about eight-thirty this morning. Asked me what the hell was going on.”

Gutterson felt a cold fear wash through him. “They knew by then that I’d spoken to Charlie Billings?” Martinez shrugged. “Jesus.”

“There are two issues the chief mentioned. He told me the powers that be don’t feel it’s in the best interest of the employees over at Janefield to be questioned about the deaths of two employees in such a short space of time. They’re finding it difficult to accept.”

“Ah, that’s cheap, Cap. I’ve only spoken to one guy so far. And—” Martinez put up a hand.

“And the second, more important issue is why we are investigating a case where the medical examiner has already ruled it suicide. At this point of the conversation, he began yelling.”

“Like I said in the beginning, Cap, the information I had wasn’t consistent with the ME’s report.”

“You didn’t tell me
how
you knew that.” Gutterson pressed his lips into a thin line. “Spill it.”

This would go either of two ways. “Last time I was detective I made a contact at the ME’s office—an assistant who had access to the bodies coming into the morgue. I…”—he glanced away—“paid him to keep me informed if he saw anything out of the ordinary.” Martinez bristled. “I called him after I saw the suicide on the list of deaths and asked if he knew anything about the body. Turns out it was from Janefield, and that there were inconsistencies with the report.”

Martinez brow twisted into lines of concern. “Jesus, John. Do you know what this means?”

“I’m getting a clearer picture every day.”

Martinez made a face and stood, hands on hips. “Someone from the plaza doesn’t want you poking around this case. There hasn’t been a backroom reaction like this for a long time.” He started pacing again.

“The question is how we proceed. I was planning on talking to Billings again.” He glanced beyond the office window to make sure nobody was close by. He leaned forward, and in a low voice, said, “What I came here to tell you, Cap, was that I think Charlie Billings agrees with me—that it wasn’t suicide.”

Martinez’ mouth sagged. Gutterson had never seen such worry on his face. “Be very careful with this, John.” He sat slowly in his chair, stroking his moustache, the cogs of his mind working. “You need to make a choice right now, my friend. Whether you pursue this, contrary to what the plaza is telling me, or you give it up.”

“What’s your gut say?”

“I’m torn. I can’t say what might happen. I’ll protect you as much as I can, but I have a very bad feeling this goes deeper than we know.”

“Me too,” Gutterson said. “I wasn’t this close last time.”

“I get a sense you won’t be able to give it up.”

“I can’t, Cap.” The excitement of the discovery had worn down his emotional resolve. Now, he felt it cracking. He leant forward, elbows on knees. “I knew there was something there. I kept at it and at it. Carolyn died during that time. I wasn’t even
there
when she died. I was chasing another lead. I owe it to her—as much as those involved—to find out the truth in all of this, even if it’s no more than a single murder.”

“That’s our job. You got a plan in mind?”

“Talk to Billings again.”

“Will he talk?” Gutterson tipped his head either way. Martinez ground his jaw, thinking. He fiddled with his moustache. Finally, he looked up and said, “If you’re gonna make this stick, John, you’ll need more. You can’t beat inside evidence and even better if someone is willing to testify. You need this kid to talk.”

“I know. I’ll get him to talk.”

On Friday morning, Charlie woke at half past four and lay in bed until after six, wrestling potential outcomes the day might bring. He didn’t want to arrive at work too early, knowing he would struggle to concentrate for most of the day until Samantha was safe, but without sleep, he eventually rose and readied himself for the office.

As he showered and dressed, Charlie considered the imminent options. What if he refused to consent her? They wouldn’t kill him. He might get a fine, or suspension. He might even lose his job. Was it in the contract? He’d look it up when he went into the office.

The greater worry was if he
did
authorize it. There were a thousand ways, and Charlie knew many of them, including the most creative methods ever imagined to kill a human. All the advice went against the innate reaction to save his wife.
Authorize the list and move on
, they had told him. Not the physical consequences for him; her death would blend into history, like the millions played out under company jurisdiction every year. Could he live with himself though? No. Not the money, the riches, the access, nor the perks were worth the shattering sadness he had witnessed in Steve.

In the end, as he sat in the apartment drinking coffee and watching the city below, Charlie reached his decision. It brought a sense of relief. He wasn’t going to approve Samantha’s death. Although he knew there would be consequences, he was prepared to accept them. He considered his record faultless, as Jennings had said, and therefore surely they would forgive such an infraction.

When he arrived at the office though, a nervous edge bit him. Tabby wasn’t in, and he wondered whether she’d received warning to stay away. He couldn’t recall if she’d told him she would be absent or late, although he
had
been walking around in a daze since Monday. Other offices were vacant, stirring his paranoia, and his cloudy judgment was unable to decide whether it was worse than normal. He tried to focus on other things, but his mind kept wandering. He called Samantha to make sure she was still getting on the plane, but it went straight to her message service. Another delay would send him over the edge. The truth was that the company could get to anyone, anywhere, at any time. If they wanted Samantha dead, it would happen, and there wasn’t any way Charlie might prevent it.

He drained his ‘Bot of coffee, and it disappeared to collect a refill. Were his hands shaking? He held them out, willing them to be still. What might take his mind from the waiting? Charlie recalled his meeting with Steve White. The idea struck him and he snatched his hands back, remembering he wanted to find out if the Company had organized Steve’s wife’s death.

It took him only twenty minutes to locate a reference number. While it wasn’t forbidden for associates or partners to look into other areas, protocol usually meant querying directly with the regional manager. Charlie wondered if he’d still be working for the company by the time his request was answered. He wanted to know what had transpired that had ended in Steve White losing his wife.

He found the information under the section headed Motor Vehicle Accidents. It had been an icy January morning, a seventeen car pile-up on the freeway. Steve White and his wife Melanie had
not
been the targets. They had simply been collateral damage, along with the other eleven deaths and seven people hospitalized. Additional fatalities were considered a bonus. There were pages of case files: maps of the site, photographs of the carnage, even rows of dead bodies lined up at the morgue. Melanie White had died at the scene, her neck broken as the car behind clipped its tail and spun it into an oncoming vehicle.

Charlie sat with a loose jaw, swiping his finger over the screen between images. He lingered on an image of Melanie, feeling a swell of sadness. He knew then, if he had not before, that his time at the company was over. If he was truthful though, it was over long ago. His discussion with Tom had surfaced from his growing desperation to leave it behind.

The reality of what he had been doing for the last three years struck him repeatedly with horror. His role required background analysis, strategy, and planning. Charlie only ever saw names, never faces or bodies. All these years he had sat in his office ignorant and naïve, oblivious to the outcomes that shattered lives. Was this payback for all the previous lists
he
had approved? Were people like Steve White and his wife now getting their revenge? There was a number, somewhere, of people that had gone to their death at his authority. He could find out. Tabby would have it, disguised as income from one source or another.

He closed the screen, sat back in his chair, and rubbed the tension from his face. It ratified his decision not to approve her name on the list. How could he condemn her to such a fate? How could he condemn
anyone
to such a fate ever again?

Just before ten, he received a message from Bryan Fox. It simply read:
Charlie, I’ll be back later today from Washington. We need to talk. Stay low until then. Bryan.
He considered responding, but decided against it. The message added further unease to Charlie’s bearing though. Both Fox and Jennings were out for the day. He didn’t know whether that was a good or bad thing.

Tabby arrived just after ten, and poked her head through the doors. “Morning.” Her smile was real and it momentarily lifted Charlie. “Anything you need?” Tabby asked, hanging on the edge of the door. Charlie considered telling her. He knew it was outside the rules, forbidden, but they were a team and he wanted her to know… just in case. Tabby’s eyes were wide with anticipation. The only thing stopping him was the jeopardy into which he would place her. The delay brought pinched confusion to her face.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m fine, thanks.” He tried to smile but it felt wrong, as though he was grimacing.

“Charlie?” He raised his brows. “Are you okay?”

Slight hesitation. “Yeah.” He thought she might say more, but she only nodded.

Samantha called at 12:30. “I’m just about to get on the plane,” she said, as announcements sounded in the background.

“So the teleport network down there isn’t fixed yet?”

“No. Another three days they’re saying.”

“Okay.” But Charlie couldn’t find any relief in that either. He thought again about the company’s reach; it was within the realm of reason for them to bring the plane down, as they had done so before. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Of course. I’ve spoken to my boss and he’s agreed to give me few days off next week. See what you can do?”

“Yeah, sure.” But he was distracted, planning what to do once she had landed. Did he send her home, or bring her directly to the office? The idea of protecting her made sense. “I need you to come straight to the office, okay?”

“Your office? Why?”
Why?
Could he explain in two minutes?

“Please, Samantha. I just need you to do it.”

“Charlie, I just want to go home. I’m tired.”

He was losing her. “For me, Sam, do it for me. I’ve got… something planned for us.”

If gambling were legal, he would have bet she’d say no. She sounded worn out, her voice whiny, frustrated. He supposed it was understandable after five days of conferences. “Fine. But it better be good.” There was a lightness in her voice that made him sad.

“It will be, I promise.” He felt some relief. Surely they wouldn’t harm her if she was at the office with him. “And use the Janefield service from the airport. Like you did once before, remember? Give them my name.”

“I remember.”

He ended the call with the first slither of hope for the day. Whatever he had to face, Samantha would be with him at five o’clock.

When the list reappeared at three o’clock for his approval, he lost focus and sat staring at the screen. His finger hovered over the name Simon Mountford, and a fresh realization washed over him.

He rose from the desk and wandered out through the doors past Tabby, who sat at the screen with her headpiece on, talking words into a document. Charlie walked down the corridor, glancing into other offices, but they were all empty. He never recalled so many being empty at once. He crossed a T-intersection at the end of the hallway and entered a small cafeteria where they sometimes sat to eat lunch. Something wasn’t right. There was nobody around. He circled the tables, looking for odd signs, and then left the room, glancing down the hallway to his right as he passed through the doorway.

He saw a person disappear into an office at the end of the hall.
It couldn’t be.
But he knew it was. Jennings, who was supposed to be away until next week, was in the building. Who had told him Jennings was out? He couldn’t recall. His memory was sketchy lately. Had Jennings changed his mind?

Charlie strode down the passageway ignoring more empty offices until he reached the place he had spotted Jennings.

Nobody. Walkways disappeared into other sections of the building. Charlie considered following, but felt uneasy, as though it might be a trap. Surely Jennings had noticed him. He waited then hurried down the hallway back to his office, passing a surprised Tabby, and slammed the door shut.

Something was wrong.
Shit. Think
. He was unable to though. Lines of confusion snaked through his mind. Did he let Samantha come to him? Was it safe? He didn’t know, but the underlying threads of real terror curled around him. He had tried every approach to have Samantha removed from the list. The deadline approached and the office was too quiet. Jennings had returned—if he'd even left at all—but he didn’t want Charlie to know about it. He ran a hand through his hair. What did he do? He needed an insurance policy; if something was going to happen, he needed to ensure there was evidence. He thought of Gutterson, the police detective, and wished maybe he’d had a conversation with him after all. Charlie had to find a way to get information out.
Tabby.
That might work. And after that, he would send her away, too.