You hear the tortured refusal: `No!'..." The Prefect turned and enveloped them
all with an electrifying gesture: "And in that thrilling moment, we know we have
captured the killer!"
He almost had them. Almost. It was daring, novel, exciting; a sudden display of
ultra violet windows through clothes and flesh into the soul... But Maria's
guests had bastardy in their souls... perjury... adultery---the Devil. And the
shame within all of them rose up in terror.
"No!" Maria cried. They all shot to their feet and shouted "No! No! No!"
"It was a beautiful try, Linc, but there's your answer. You'll never get motive
out of these hyenas."
Powell was still charming in defeat. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I
really can't blame you. Only a fool would trust a cop." He sighed. "One of my
assistants will tape the oral statements from those of you who care to make
statements. Mr. ¼maine will be on hand to advise and protect you."
He glanced dolefully at ¼maine: "And louse me."
"Don't pull at my heart-strings like that, Linc. This is the first Triple-A
Felony in over seventy years. I've got my career to watch. This can make me."
"I've got my own career to watch, Jo. If my department doesn't crack this, it
can break me."
"Then it's every peeper for himself. Here's thinking at you, Linc."
"Hell," Powell said. He winked at Reich and sauntered out of the room.
Lab was finished in the orchid Wedding Suite. De Santis, abrupt, testy,
harassed, handed Powell the reports and said in an overwrought voice: "This is a
bitch!"
Powell looked down at D'Courtney's body. "Suicide?" he snapped. He was always
peppery with De Santis who was comfortable in no other relationship.
"Tcha! Not a chance. No weapon."
"What killed him?"
"We don't know."
"You still don't know? You've had three hours!"
"We don't know," De Santis raged. "That's why it's a bitch."
"Why, he's got a hole in his head you could jet through."
"Yes, yes, yes, of course. Entry above the uvula. Exit below the fontanelle.
Death instantaneous. But what produced the wound? What drilled the hole through
his skull? Go ahead, ask me."
"Hard Ray?"
"No burn."
"Crystallization?"
"No freeze."
"Nitro vapor charge?"
"No ammonia residue."
"Acid?"
"Too much shattering. Acid spray might needle a wound like that, but it couldn't
burst the back of his skull."
"Thrusting weapon?"
"You mean a dirk or a knife?"
"Something like that."
"Impossible. Have you any idea how much force is necessary to penetrate like
this? Couldn't be done."
"Well... I've just about exhausted penetrating weapons. No wait. What about a
projectile?"
"How's that?"
"Ancient weapon. They used to shoot bullets with explosives. Noisy and smelly."
"Not a chance here."
"Why?"
"Why?" De Santis spat. "Because there's no projectile. None in the wound. None
in the room. Nothing nowhere."
"Damnation!"
"I agree."
"Have you got anything for me? Anything at all?"
"Yes. He was eating candy before his death. Found a fragment of gel in his
mouth... bit of standard candy wrapping."
"And?"
"No candy in the suite."
"He might have eaten it all."
"No candy in his stomach. Anyway, he wouldn't be eating candy with his throat."
"Why not?"
"Psychogenic cancer. Bad. He couldn't talk, let alone eat gook."
"Hell and damnation. We need that weapon... whatever it is."
Powell fingered the sheaf of field reports, staring at the waxen body, whistling
a crooked tune. He remembered hearing an audio-book once about an Esper who
could read a corpse... like that old myth about photographing the retina of a
dead eye. He wished it could be done.
"Well," he sighed at last. "They licked us on motive, and they've licked us on
method. Let's hope we can get something on opportunity, or we'll never bring
Reich down."
"What Reich? Ben Reich? What about him?"
"It's Gus Tate I'm worried about most," Powell murmured. "If he's mixed up in
this... What? Oh, Reich? He's the killer, De Santis. I slicked Jo ¼maine down in
Maria Beaumont's study. Reich made a slip. I staged an act and misdirected Jo
while I peeped to make sure. This is off the record, of course, but I got enough
to convince me Reich's our man."
"Holy Christ!" De Santis exclaimed.
"But that's a long way from convincing a court. We're a long way from
Demolition, brother. A long, long way."
Moodily, Powell took leave of the Lab Chief, loafed through the anteroom and
descended to field headquarters in the picture gallery.
"And I like the guy," he muttered.
In the picture gallery outside the Orchid Suite where temporary headquarters had
been set up. Powell and Beck met for a conference. Their mental exchange took
exactly thirty seconds in the lightning tempo typical of telepathic talk:
Well, it's Reich for Demolition, Jax. We tripped him up in that
talk, and sneaked a peep in Maria's study just to make sure. Ben's
our boy.
You'll never prove it, Linc.
Can the guards help?
Not a chance. They've lost one solid hour. De Santis says their
retinal rhodopsin was destroyed. That's the visual purple... what
you see
Uh-huh. with in your eye. As far as the guards are concerned, they
were on duty and alert. Nothing happened
Nothing much! until the mob suddenly blew in, and Maria was
screeching at them
And how The Gilt Corpse can screech. for falling asleep on the
job... which they emphatically swear they did not.
But we know it was Reich.
You know it was Reich. Nobody else does.
He went up there while the guests were playing the Sardine game. He
destroyed the guards' visual purple some
way and robbed them of an hour of time. He went into the Orchid
Suite and killed How?
D'Courtney. The girl got mixed up in it, somehow, which is why she
ran.How did he kill D'Courtney?
And last of all: why did he kill D'Courtney?
I don't know. I don't know any of the answers... yet.
You'll never get a Demolition that way.
That I do know.
You've got to show motive, method, and opportunity,
Uh-huh. objectively. All you've got is a peeper's knowledge that
Reich killed D'Courtney.
Uh-huh.
Did you peep how or why?
Couldn't get in deep enough... not with Jo ¼maine watching me.
And you'll probably never get in. Jo's too careful.
Hell & Damnation! Jackson, we need the girl.
Barbara D'Courtney?
Yes. She's the key. If she can tell us what she saw and why she ran,
we'll satisfy a court. I agree.
Collate everything we've got so far and file it. It won't do us any
good without the
girl. Let everyone go. They won't do us any good without Right.
the girl. We'll have to back-track on Reich... see what collateral
evidence we can dig up, but--- I'm beginning to hate her.
But it won't help without that goddam girl.
Times like this, Mr. Beck, I hate women too. For Christ's sake, why
are they all trying to get me married?
Image of a horse laughing.
Sar(censored)castic retort.
Sar(censored)donic reply.
(censored)
Having had the last word, Powell got to his feet and left the picture gallery.
He crossed the overpass, descended to the music room and entered the main hall.
He saw Reich, ¼maine, and Tate standing alongside the fountain, deep in
conversation. Once again he fretted over the frightening problem of Tate. If the
little peeper really was mixed up with Reich, as Powell had suspected at his
party the week before, he might be mixed up in this killing.
The idea of a 1st class Esper, a pillar of the Guild, participating in murder
was unthinkable; yet, if actually the fact, a son of a bitch to prove. Nobody
ever got anything from a 1st without full consent. And if Tate was
(incredible... impossible... 100-1 against) working with Reich, Reich himself
might prove impregnable. Resolving on one last propaganda attack before he was
forced to resort to police work, Powell turned toward the group.
He caught their eyes and directed a quick command to the peepers: "Jo. Gus. Jet
off. I want to say something to Reich. I don't want you to hear. I won't peep
him or record his words. That's a pledge."
¼maine and Tate nodded, muttered to Reich and quietly departed. Reich watched
them go with curious eyes and then looked at Powell. "Scare 'em off?" he
inquired.
"Warned them off. Sit down, Reich."
They sat on the edge of the basin, looking at each other in a friendly silence.
"No," Powell said after a pause, "I'm not peeping you."
"Didn't think you were. But you did in Maria's study, eh?"
"Felt that?"
"No. Guessed. It's what I would have done."
"Neither of us is very trustworthy, eh?"
"Pfutz!" Reich said emphatically. "We don't play girl's rules. We play for
keeps, both of us. It's the cowards and weaklings and sore-losers who hide
behind rules and fair play."
"What about honor and ethics?"
"We've got honor in us, but it's our own code... not the make-believe rules some
frightened little man wrote for the rest of the frightened little men. Every
man's got his own honor and ethics, and so long as he sticks to 'em, who's
anybody else to point the finger? You may not like his ethics, but you've no
right to call him unethical."
Powell shook his head sadly. "You're two men, Reich. One of them's fine; and the
other's rotten. If you were all killer, it wouldn't be so bad. But there's half
louse and half saint in you, and that makes it worse."
"I knew it was going to be bad when you winked," Reich grinned. "You're tricky,
Powell. You really scare me. I never can tell when the punch is coming or which
way to duck."
"Then for God's sake stop ducking and get it over with," Powell said. His voice
burned. His eyes burned. Once again he terrified Reich with his intensity. "I'm
going to lick you on this one, Ben: I'm going to strangle the lousy killer in
you, because I admire the saint. This is the beginning of the end, for you. You
know it. Why don't you make it easier for yourself?"
For an instant, Reich wavered on the verge of surrender. Then he mustered
himself to meet the attack. "And give up the best fight of my life? No. Never in
a million years, Linc. We're going to slug this out straight down to the
finish."
Powell shrugged angrily. They both arose. Instinctlively, their hands met in the
four-way clasp of final farewell.
"I lost a great partner in you," Reich said.
"You lost a great man in yourself, Ben."
"Enemies?"
"Enemies."
It was the beginning of Demolition.
7
The Police Prefect of a city of seventeen and one half millions cannot be tied
down to a desk. He does not have files, memoranda, notes, and reels of red tape.
He has three Esper secretaries, memory wizards all, who carry within their minds
the minutiae of his business. They accompany him around headquarters like a
triple index. Surrounded by his flying squad (nicknamed Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
by the staff) Powell jetted through Center Street, assembling the material for
his fight.
To Commissioner Crabbe he laid out the broad outlines once more. "We need
motive, method, and opportunity, Commissioner. We've got possible opportunity so
far, but that's all. You know Old Man Mose. He's going to insist on hard fact
evidence."
"Old Man who?" Crabbe looked startled.
"Old Man Mose," Powell grinned. "That's our nickname for the Mosiac Multiplex
Prosecution Computer. You wouldn't want us to use his full name, would you? We'd
strangle."
"That confounded adding machine!" Crabbe snorted.