Murder in the Fabric

Steve said.

  Some large trees. Mostly just thick undergrowth. Not all native trees. Once you moved away from the path, it was hard to see for any distance.

  “Infrared.” Alice said.

  Alice connected to the drone above. It gave her an instant infrared scan of the space ten metres radius from where she was. There they both were. And there was the camp. Directly ahead, behind the tree cover. Alice slipped on the glasses, and put the earpiece in. It meant she was directly connected to the wall. As she moved and faced something, the image that the glasses captured was fed in, and she got feedback. If she asked questions, they went direct to the wall also. If she looked at Steve, asked his name and Steve said “Fred” she would get a quiet “incorrect” in the earpiece.

  Two tents. They were a little startled. One male, two females, all in their late 20’s or early 30’s. He was unshaven. Camping rough for some time, but not with the look of those that lived permanently out here. Which made them more interesting. The simply homeless were unlikely to have the resources to stage a carjack over the wire.

  “Alice Nguyen. Homicide.” she said, flashing her id.

  He looked startled.

  “Peter Kowalczyk” he said.

  Alice made sure the glasses got a good look at his face. She turned to the other two.

  “Tricia Jones” she said

  “Elizabeth Wang”

  Alice got the confirmation through the earpiece. All the id’s checked.

  “Been here long?” she said

  “About a month.” Peter said.

  “Like camping, do you?”

  “It’s our choice. Lost resident rights. What else can we do?”

  Resident rights was shorthand for a number of things. It could mean that they had lost some sort of security clearance. Or lost a job.

  “Last Wednesday. You were here?” Alice said.

  “If you didn’t know that, you wouldn’t be here.” he said.

  “We are investigating the car destruction that night. You notice anything around that?” Alice said.

  “Heard it. Hard to miss.” he said. “We went up to the edge of the road. Saw the smoke. We can’t get across.”

  “That’s all?” she said

  “It didn’t look like we would be of much help.” he said.

  Her earpiece was silent. It didn’t validate, just jumped in where there was an inconsistency.

  “You work?” she said

  “Used to, like most people.” he said.

  “Technology?”

  “Network stuff. Nothing fancy.”

  Alice was getting a list of jobs. In these situations it was hard not to be distracted by the chatter in the earpiece. It took a bit of practice to tune in and tune out from it.

  She turned to Tricia Jones. Tall, dark hair. Quiet.

  “How about you.” Alice said.

  “I worked in software.” she said.

  Again the chatter in the earpiece, ‘Elizabeth Wang. Zybert.’ Now Alice was disoriented. She would have liked to talk to the wall, and ask what Zybert was, and how it was relevant to this. As it was she just had to wing it.

  “Elizabeth. What was your job at Zybert?”

  In the early days of using the glasses, and the wall, suspects would freak out at this point. Now it was commonplace. They knew that whatever they had done was stored somewhere, and in seconds it would be in an earpiece.

  “Kernel programming.”

  “How good were you at it?” she asked

  “Average.”

  The earpiece had her at top 10%. But Alice let it go.

  “You have plans to move on?”

  “We are heading north.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  Which was a bit redundant, as for a while they would have their very own drone.

  // Oscar

  Oscar adjusted his hood, and rode carefully beside the Yarra. He looked up, for reassurance. As for Mia the drone hovered, just on the verge of being out of sight. At Punt Road he verged right, up the hill. To a nondescript apartment tower much like Mia’s. Not sensible to put them all in the same place.

  22nd floor. Oscar took in the view. It was spectacular - almost 270 degrees. If he looked hard he might be able to see the airport. Not too late he thought. Some skills in hiding, and evasion. But the evidence laid out before him back in Nhong Khiaw was very convincing. It was a story with only one ending.

  He laid out the photos on the table. Five of them. Not unattractive. All low level bank employees. Single. Carefully chosen, he thought. Someone with serious responsibility would be carefully screened. These were low level people. Not key security key holders or anything like that. No heroic internal hacking. All they had to do was take a very small container and place it. He would do the rest.

  Still, it wasn’t something he had done before. Fools for love, he thought. Which of these eyes is the most foolish? He scanned again and again. Brought up social network views of all of them, which helped a bit. Even a set of photos gave him a useful window.

  “Track Natalie Parkes. Last week.” he said

  On the large wall screen a series of lines appeared. Facebook trails. Lots of them.

  “Replay 9am to 12pm Thursday” he said

  Sure enough, there was a coffee place. It wasn’t an every day thing. But often enough to have a persistence in the traces. Having picked a target, and a time, Oscar turned everything off. Even the lights.

  With the apartment in darkness, only the lights of the city were visible. Headlights snaking their way along streets. He could make out the occupants of the tower just down the street. Sipping drinks. Talking on the phone.

  It’s not Nhong Khiaw, he thought. But in a weird sense, it felt like home.

  // George

  One name in the work history stuck with George. He turned to Steve.

  “SciTec. What is it with SciTec?” George said.

  “Chinese conglomerate. Many tentacles. Which part?” he said

  George pointed at the wall. “Our disintegrated wrong way traveller. He worked for SciTec.” George said.

  “So do lots of people. So what?”

  “So something about that name is important, but I can’t remember.”

  “SciTec news incidents. Last five years.” George said to the wall.

  News stories scrolled slowly past. In the beginning there had been some semi-hysterical controversies about Chinese investment. Quickly giving way to the good news stories about job creation, and so on. George soon tired of it. He couldn’t remember what it was about SciTec. “Family.” George said to the wall.

  To which the wall responded with the usual family photos. He decided that perhaps he better follow the script. Talk to the wife. However unlikely it was that some stray lover had the capability to hack into the top level highway network and steer a car without leaving a trace, statistics told him that most people were killed by their nearest and dearest.

  “Wife’s location.” he said to the wall

  She was within walking distance of Ormond train station. George only went by car when there was no other alternative. Which put him at odds with about 90% of his fellow Melbournians. Also at odds with about 99% of his colleagues, and 100% of his bosses. Who counted his time traveling as loitering, without intent. It was one of those rare things that he could get away with as a result of his star status. Despite recent stumblings, he had the highest clearance rate of any of his peers.

  From the fun palace, it was only a few metres to Southern Cross railway station. This time of the afternoon the loop ran clockwise. It changed direction at around midday. Every now and then he would encounter a confused tourist. Trying to understand why the loop changed direction. Nowhere else on the planet did a loop change direction. ‘Why?” they asked. He realised with a smile that he had absolutely no idea why it changed direction. It just did.

  On the Frankston line train, it was quiet. Only a scattering of passengers. The guy in his carriage was looking at him, but tr
ying not to be seen looking at him. Trying to remember ‘where have I seen that guy’. Such was the nature of George’s fame. A minor rather than a major celebrity, he told himself. George smiled when he recalled the chat show. What a mistake that had been. He found himself on a stage with other minor celebrities. It had all been going well, a bit of background, a snippet of information from a case or two. Nothing serious. Then the host had steered it gently towards the “marvelous Melbourne” direction, with a “what makes the city livable” question. A switch closed in George’s brain.

  ‘I understand the livability surveys are for expatriate executives on short stays here. For those of us that actually live here it’s a joke. Not a ho ho joke, a very sick joke. This city is a cage inside which the idle rich do their idle thing. Outside the cage the rest of us make the best of the handoffs. Nothing works. Nobody cares.’

  He might as well have vomited on camera. Of course they left it in the edit. Even featured it in the promotion. It didn’t play well at Spring Street, and it especially didn’t play well at the Fun Palace. A policeman with an opinion. A bit like a nun with a sex life.

  At Ormond he descended into the underpass. It had one of those concave mirrors so you could see around the corner. See if there was anyone there. He couldn’t help but look back at it, an old habit. If anyone was tracking him they would be using the drones and the street cameras, not the old fashioned shoe leather approach.

  North Road here ran all the way to Brighton. He put the glasses on and it showed the sale price of each house. To what particular purpose? Simply because the technology could do it. George sighed, and muttered “history of movement” and as he passed each car a map with a red trace of how it got