Rath's Gambit (The Janus Group Book 2) (12 page)

“Why?” Rath asked. “They’re all on the Training planet, as far as we know … wherever it is.”

“I doubt it,” Beauceron said. “That planet is almost certainly deserted, except for the facilities you mentioned – it’s either privately owned, or quarantined, or they keep people away using some other method, I don’t know. But the Guild wouldn’t set up its training operation somewhere that members of the public could just stumble across it by accident.”

“True,” Rath said.

“And the implants you have, those are complex operations – that means highly-trained medical staff. Top caliber surgeons, who are generally well compensated wherever they choose to work. I find it very unlikely that those kinds of people are going to willingly spend their lives on a deserted planet. No one would agree to go there for so long, even for a significant amount of money. What good is money if you’re stuck on a desolate planet away from your family and home?”

“So they rotate them in and out?”

Beauceron rubbed at his bald patch. “Probably. Which means they must recruit them from hospitals around the galaxy … and then allow them to return when their tour is complete. There’s a good chance they’ve recruited here on Alberon. If we can find one of them, they may be able to lead us to the training planet.”

Beauceron activated the computer’s voice recognition mode. “Show me all cybernetic surgeons on Alberon who list facial implants as one of their specialty areas,” he told it.

A list appeared on the screen. “Thirty-two entries,” the computer replied.

“Cross-reference with their practice or hospital websites, or social media profiles. Search for the term ‘sabbatical’ or ‘charity work.’ ”

Rath cocked an eyebrow questioningly. Beauceron explained: “A doctor can’t just disappear for months – they’d have to tell their friends and coworkers they were going somewhere. An easy lie would be calling it a sabbatical – that’s like a working vacation that academics take. Or they could say they were doing charity work in the Territories; many doctors do that, too.”

The list shortened. “Twenty-eight entries.”

“Hm,” Beauceron grunted. “Pretty much all of them. Okay, this is where the legwork starts, unfortunately.” Beauceron stood up, pocketing his notebook. “You’re going to look through the doctors’ sites and social profiles, and see what you can find.”

“I don’t get it. What am I looking for, exactly?”

Beauceron shrugged. “Anything suspicious. Like a doctor that went on a sabbatical off-planet, and didn’t publish a paper after they came back. You can probably focus on just the ones that were gone for at least three or four months – I doubt the Guild would rotate doctors out more often than that.”

“Where are you going?” Rath asked.

“The morgue. Let’s hope your search is more fruitful than mine.”

* * *

Beauceron stopped at a drive-through coffee shop on his way to the morgue, buying two coffees. His car dropped him outside the building’s entrance, and then moved off to park itself up the street. Inside, he was relieved to find there were no policemen in the waiting area. He took his phone out and sent a quick message. Five minutes later, an examiner wearing glasses and a white lab coat pushed through the doors and waved to him. Beauceron stood.

“Hello, Whittier. Do you want to catch up out here?” Beauceron asked, gesturing to the waiting area.

“Of course not, come into my office,” the examiner said.

“I’m not sure I’m allowed to anymore …,” Beauceron said.

“Nonsense,” Whittier waved him away. “I can have visitors anytime I like. Come in, please, Martin.”

In his office, Whittier spent a minute shifting stray piles of paper onto his desk, until one of his seats was clear enough to accommodate Beauceron.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “You know me. Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Beauceron said, taking a seat. “How have you been?”

“Good, all things considered. Been a quiet week, catching up on my backlog a bit. Perhaps I’ll finally clean this mess up.” Whittier sipped his drink, watching Beauceron. “I would ask how you’re doing, but … I fear I know the answer.”

Beauceron shrugged. “It hasn’t been an easy few weeks.”

“For what it’s worth,” Whittier told him, “I will certainly miss working with you.”

“Thanks,” Beauceron told him. “I appreciate that. I was wondering, actually, if I could ask you for a favor.”

“Of course,” Whittier said.

“I was working on a case before I left, something of a pet project, long term. I had an idea, but I never got a chance to see it through. It’s been weighing on my mind a bit, I have to say.”

Whittier laughed. “You’re still policing, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Beauceron admitted. “I wanted to see if a suspect ever turned up in our mortuary database. This is completely unofficial, though, so I understand if you don’t feel comfortable.”

“You want me to look now?” Whittier gestured at his computer.

“Whenever’s convenient,” Beauceron answered. “You probably have better things to be doing.”

“Let’s do it now. Easier while you’re here, anyway.” He activated the computer and pulled the keyboard close. “What am I looking for?”

“Uh, it would be a new record in the last four years. Make it five, to be safe. A female, average height, with a fairly unusual set of implants.”

“Alberon only, or galaxy-wide?”

“Everywhere,” Beauceron said.

Whittier typed for a few seconds. “Do you have specifics on the implants?”

“Yes. Facial reconfiguring and military-grade sensor suite: ears, nose, eyes, neural interface.”

“Interesting. I was going to guess ‘prostitute’ when you said the face implants – seen a few of those over the years. But given that sensor package, I believe you’re looking for a different type of professional.” Whittier finished filling out the query, and raised an eyebrow. “Let’s see if we got anyone.”

The database processed the request for several seconds, then spit back a result. “Nope,” Whittier said. “Sorry.”

“That may be good news, actually,” Beauceron said.

A window popped up on the screen, and Whittier frowned. “Our ever-helpful algorithm says there was a close match in a different gender. Any chance your mystery woman had a sex change?” He didn’t wait for a reply, but clicked on the record. “Ah, sorry. Biological male, no signs of prior reassignment surgery. Still, he had the exact implants you listed, and even hemobots.”

“Not her,” Beauceron agreed. “Out of curiosity, what was the cause of death on that one?”

Whittier read the file. “A three-way tie between drowning, organ failure, and blood loss. Seems he was shot multiple times and fell off a boat. Body washed up a week or two later. Want me to search for something else?”

“No, thanks.” Beauceron smiled and stood up. “I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you again for doing this.”

“Anytime, Martin – thank you for the coffee. And good luck finding her.”

* * *

“This is a real pain in the ass,” Rath told Beauceron, when he walked back into the meeting room.

“A lot of police work is,” Beauceron told him. “But it’s what solves crimes.”

“What did you find?” Rath asked.

“A dead male contractor, but no females,” Beauceron reported.

Rath blew out a long sigh. “Good. She’s alive.”

“No,” Beauceron wagged a finger at Rath. “All we know for sure is that no bodies matching her description have been found since you last saw her. That doesn’t prove she’s alive. What do you have?”

Rath sighed again. “Three doctors that all disappeared for at least six months, all supposedly on charity work, but I can’t find much evidence that they went where they said they went. Most doctors post photos of themselves in action – you know, cosmetic surgery on a kid who was injured and couldn’t afford it, helping to build a new hospital wing in some rural area, that kind of thing. Two of them don’t have much in the way of social profiles, so I couldn’t find any of that. The third does post pretty regularly on social networks, but he only posted a handful of photos, way down from his usual posting activity.”

“Could just be bad data connectivity where he was,” Beauceron said. “But let me see.”

Rath pulled up the third doctor’s website, and scrolled through the timeline of updates. “Here he is. Dr. Soukhin, from Islabadan Memorial Clinic. He went about three years ago, to Xheshuan, in the Territories.” Rath reached the photos and stopped, letting Beauceron flip through them. “This is a field hospital they set up, then here he is at a real hospital … that’s some tribal ceremony.”

“He’s wearing the same shirt,” Beauceron said.

“Huh?” Rath took another look at the photos. “Yeah, he is – in a few of the photos. Different one in these photos, though.”

“But these,” Beauceron pointed to the screen. “They were posted nearly two months apart. The shirt is the same, and so is his beard – like he skipped shaving and wore the same shirt each day, exactly two months apart.”

“You think the photos were staged?” Rath asked.

“Let’s see,” Beauceron told him. He selected the photos and downloaded them, then opened them up in a photo management program. “The dates on the photos show they were taken a month apart. But hold on.” He opened up several advanced settings, scrolling through. “This is not the original version of the photo. Someone did some basic clean-up work on the photos, adjusting balance and saturation, typical post-production stuff. But the log shows the dates have been edited, too. On seven out of the eight files.”

“What does that mean?”

Beauceron sat back, rubbing his chin. “There could be a reasonable explanation. But I think there’s a good chance the Guild flies people to somewhere like Xheshuan for a week, poses them in photos with all the other medical personnel, so they can plausibly claim they went there for a while, then ships them on to your training planet. Then they give them all the edited photos and tell them when to post them over the coming months.”

“Where’s Islabadan?” Rath asked.

“Northern hemisphere – about a ten-hour flight by air car, with a stopover to recharge en route.”

Rath picked up his Forge. “I’m ready when you are.”

* * *

Dr. Soukhin’s office was small, but neat. His medical degree hung on the wall next to several diplomas and accolades, and below it were pictures of a famous actor posing with the doctor, smiling and shaking hands. On inspection, Rath even found a framed version of one of the photos Soukhin had posted online from his trip to Xheshuan. He pointed it out to Beauceron.

“Yes, I saw it,” Beauceron said. “Now sit, please – it’s rude to snoop, and he’ll be here any minute.”

“Am I making you nervous?”

“Yes,” Beauceron said. He pointed to the fake Interstellar Police badge he wore on his jacket, which Rath had built using his Forge. “This is bad enough as it is.”

The door opened, and Soukhin hurried in carrying a datascroll and a mug of coffee. He set the coffee down and shook hands with each of them in turn, favoring them with a thin smile. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m a bit rushed today, and normally people make appointments in advance. What can I help you with?” He turned to his computer and typed in a password, waking it.

“We’re just following up on a case at the request of some of our colleagues on another planet,” Beauceron told him. “We were told you did some charity work with a nurse by the name of Trijan Lynmer?”

Soukhin turned away from his computer, suddenly ignoring it. “The Xheshuan trip? Yes, I know Trijan well. Is she okay?”

Rath noted a slight tremor in Soukhin’s voice.
He’s nervous already.

“I’m sorry.” Beauceron smiled apologetically. “I can’t share any of the details, it’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Oh,” Soukhin said. “Well, what can I help with?”

“Just tell us about that trip, please,” Beauceron said. He took out his notebook. Rath stayed focused on Soukhin.

“It was a while ago. I took about eight months off, and volunteered for the trip – it was through the Helping Hands Foundation, they’re a charity organization that arranges these kinds of things. We were basically just helping underserved communities in Xheshuan, basic reparative surgery stuff, nothing as fancy as what I normally do here. I can show you some of the photos, if you like.”

“We’ve seen them,” Rath told him.

“Okay.” Soukhin looked at Rath, taken aback.

Beauceron glared at Rath, then turned back to the doctor. “And you met Nurse Lynmer there?”

“Ah, yes. She was another volunteer. She wasn’t on my team, but I interacted with her from time to time.”

“What were her duties?”

“Typical nurse duties – assisting in surgeries, caring for patients after the operation, that kind of thing.”

“Were you compensated for your work on Xheshuan?” Beauceron asked.

Soukhin’s eyes flicked quickly between the two men. “Uh, no. It was charity work. They just gave us room and board.”

“Your private practice sure took off when you got back,” Rath told him. “Business really picked up.”

“I started advertising more broadly,” Soukhin replied.

“Where did you get the money?” Rath asked.

“My personal savings. I’m sorry, am I a suspect here or something?” Soukhin asked, frowning.

“Of course not,” Beauceron told him.

“I thought you wanted to know about Trijan,” Soukhin pointed out.

“We do,” Beauceron agreed. He cleared his throat. “Doctor, you seem like an upstanding citizen, so I’d hate for you to get implicated in this whole … situation.”

“What situation?” Soukhin asked. Rath could see the sweat on his brow.

Beauceron glanced at Rath. “You’re not the first doctor we’ve talked to, sir,” Beauceron said. “And some of the other doctors are telling us a different story about that trip.”

Soukhin opened his mouth to argue, but shut it as Rath fixed him with an icy stare. “We know who you were really working for,” Rath told him. “So think carefully before we go any further.”

Soukhin cleared his throat. “They told me if I told anyone anything – anything at all ….”