Iterations

  I shrugged. Nothing worth killing a man over. Suze fast-forwarded the tape some more.

  “—and that’s it,” concluded Skye. “You now know everything significant that’s coded into your DNA. Use this information wisely, and you should have a long, happy, healthy life.”

  Dale thanked Skye, took a printout of the information he’d just heard, and left. The recording stopped. It had been too much to hope for. Whoever killed Skye Hissock had come in after young Dale had departed. He was still our obvious first suspect, but unless there was something awful in the parts of the genetic reading we’d fast-forwarded over, there didn’t seem to be any motive for him to kill his soothsayer. And besides, this Dale had a high IQ, Skye had said. Only an idiot would think there was any sense in shooting the messenger.

  After we’d finished watching the recording, I did an analysis of the actual blaster burn. No fun, that: standing over the open top of Skye’s torso. Most of the blood vessels had been cauterized by the charge. Still, blasters were only manufactured in two places I knew of—Tokyo, on Earth, and New Monty. If the one used here had been made on New Monty, we’d be out of luck, but one of Earth’s countless laws required all blasters to leave a characteristic EM signature, so they could be traced to their registered owners, and—

  Good: it was an Earth-made blaster. I recorded the signature, then used my compad to relay it to The Cop Shop. If Raymond Chen could find some time between stuffing his face, he’d send an FTL message to Earth and check the pattern—assuming, of course, that the Jeffies don’t scramble the message just for kicks. Meanwhile, I told Suze to go over Hissock’s client list, while I started checking out his family—fact is, even though it doesn’t make much genetic sense, most people are killed by their own relatives.

  Skye Hissock had been fifty-one. He’d been a soothsayer for twenty-three years, ever since finishing his Ph.D. in genetics. He was unmarried, and both his parents were long dead. But he did have a brother named Rodger. Rodger was married to Rebecca Connolly, and they had two children, Glen, who, like Dale in Skye’s recording, had just turned eighteen, and Billy, who was eight.

  There are no inheritance taxes in Mendelia, of course, so barring a will to the contrary, Hissock’s estate would pass immediately to his brother. Normally, that’d be a good motive for murder, but Rodger Hissock and Rebecca Connolly were already quite rich: they owned a controlling interest in the company that operated Mendelia’s atmosphere-recycling plant.

  I decided to start my interviews with Rodger. Not only had brothers been killing each other since Cain wasted Abel, but the DNA-scanning lock on Skye’s private inner office was programmed to recognize only four people—Skye himself; his office cleaner, who Suze was going to talk to; another soothsayer named Jennifer Halasz, who sometimes took Skye’s patients for him when he was on vacation (and who had called in the murder, having stopped by apparently to meet Skye for coffee); and dear brother Rodger. Rodger lived in Wheel Four, and worked in One.

  I took a cab over to his office. Unlike Skye, Rodger had a real flesh-and-blood receptionist. Most companies that did have human receptionists used middle-aged, businesslike people of either sex. Some guys got so rich that they didn’t care what people thought; they hired beautiful blonde women whose busts had been surgically altered far beyond what any phenotype might provide. But Rodger’s choice was different. His receptionist was a delicate young man with refined, almost feminine features. He was probably older than he looked; he looked fourteen.

  “Detective Toby Korsakov,” I said, flashing my ID. I didn’t offer to shake hands—the boy looked like his would shatter if any pressure were applied. “I’d like to see Rodger Hissock.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” His voice was high, and there was just a trace of a lisp.

  “No. But I’m sure Mr. Hissock will want to see me. It’s important.”

  The boy looked very dubious, but he spoke into an intercom. “There’s a cop here, Rodger. Says it’s important.”

  There was a pause. “Send him in,” said a loud voice. The boy nodded at me, and I walked through the heavy wooden door—mahogany, no doubt imported all the way from Earth.

  I had thought Skye Hissock’s office was well-appointed, but his brother’s put it to shame. Objets d’art from a dozen worlds were tastefully displayed on crystal stands. The carpet was so thick I was sure my shoes would sink out of sight. I walked toward the desk. Rodger rose to greet me. He was a muscular man, thick-necked, with lots of black hair and pale gray eyes. We shook hands; his grip was a show of macho strength. “Hello,” he said. He boomed out the word, clearly a man used to commanding everyone’s attention. “What can I do for you?”

  “Please sit down,” I said. “My name is Toby Korsakov. I’m from The Cop Shop, working under a contract to the Soothsayer’s Guild.”

  “My God,” said Rodger. “Has something happened to Skye?”

  Although it was an unpleasant duty, there was nothing more useful in a murder investigation than being there to tell a suspect about the death and seeing his reaction. Most guilty parties played dumb far too long, so the fact that Rodger had quickly made the obvious connection between the SG and his brother made me suspect him less, not more. Still…“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” I said, “but I’m afraid your brother is dead.”

  Rodger’s eyes went wide. “What happened?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Murdered,” repeated Rodger, as if he’d never heard the word before.

  “That’s right. I was wondering if you knew of anyone who’d want him dead?”

  “How was he killed?” asked Rodger. I was irritated that this wasn’t an answer to my question, and even more irritated that I’d have to explain it so soon. More than a few homicides had been solved by a suspect mentioning the nature of the crime in advance of him or her supposedly having learned the details. “He was shot at close range by a blaster.”

  “Oh,” said Rodger. He slumped in his chair. “Skye dead.” His head shook back and forth a little. When he looked up, his gray eyes were moist. Whether he was faking or not, I couldn’t tell.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Not yet. We’re tracing the blaster’s EM signature. But there were no signs of forcible entry, and, well…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, there are only four people whose DNA would open the door to Skye’s inner office.”

  Rodger nodded. “Me and Skye. Who else?”

  “His cleaner, and another soothsayer.”

  “You’re checking them out?”

  “My associate is. She’s also checking all the people Skye had appointments with recently—people he might have let in of his own volition.” A pause. “Can I ask where you were this morning between ten and eleven?”

  “Here.”

  “In your office?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your receptionist can vouch for that?”

  “Well…no. No, he can’t. He was out all morning. His sooth says he’s got a facility for languages. I give him a half-day off every Wednesday to take French lessons.”

  “Did anyone call you while he was gone?”

  Rodger spread his thick arms. “Oh, probably. But I never answer my own compad. Truth to tell, I like that half-day where I can’t be reached. It lets me get an enormous amount of work done without being interrupted.”

  “So no one can verify your presence here?”

  “Well, no…no, I guess they can’t. But, Crissakes, Detective, Skye was my brother…”

  “I’m not accusing you, Mr. Hissock—”

  “Besides, if I’d taken a robocab over, there’d be a debit charge against my account.”

  “Unless you paid cash. Or unless you walked.” You can walk down the travel tubes, although most people don’t bother.

  “You don’t seriously believe—”

  “I don’t believe anything yet, Mr. Hissock.” It was time to
change the subject; he would be no use to me if he got too defensive. “Was your brother a good soothsayer?”

  “Best there is. Hell, he read my own sooth when I turned eighteen.” He saw my eyebrows go up. “Skye is nine years older than me; I figured, why not use him? He needed the business; he was just starting his practice at that point.”

  “Did Skye do the readings for your children, too?”

  An odd hesitation. “Well, yeah, yeah, Skye did their infant readings, but Glen—that’s my oldest; just turned 18—he decided to go somewhere else for his adult reading. Waste of money, if you ask me. Skye would’ve given him a discount.”

  My compad bleeped while I was in a cab. I turned it on.

  “Yo, Toby.” Raymond Chen’s fat face appeared on the screen. “We got the registration information on that blaster signature.”

  “Yeah?”

  Ray smiled. “Do the words ‘open-and-shut case’ mean anything to you? The blaster belongs to one Rodger Hissock. He bought it about eleven years ago.”

  I nodded and signed off. Since the lock accepted his DNA, rich little brother would have no trouble waltzing right into big brother’s inner office, and exploding his head. Rodger had method and he had opportunity. Now all I needed was to find his motive—and for that, continuing to interview the family members might prove useful.

  Eighteen-year-old Glen Hissock was studying engineering at Francis Crick University in Wheel Three. He was a dead ringer for his old man: built like a wrestler, with black hair and quicksilver eyes. But whereas father Rodger had a coarse, outgoing way about him—the crusher handshake, the loud voice—young Glen was withdrawn, soft-spoken, and nervous.

  “I’m sorry about your uncle,” I said, knowing that Rodger had already broken the news to his son.

  Glen looked at the floor. “Me too.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “He was okay.”

  “Just okay.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where were you between ten and eleven this morning?”

  “At home.”

  “Was anyone else there?”

  “Nah. Mom and Dad were at work, and Billy—that’s my little brother—was in school.” He met my eyes for the first time. “Am I a suspect?”

  He wasn’t really. All the evidence seemed to point to his father. I shook my head in response to his question, then said, “I hear you had your sooth read recently.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you didn’t use your uncle.”

  “Nah.”

  “How come?”

  A shrug. “Just felt funny, that’s all. I picked a guy at random from the online directory.”

  “Any surprises in your sooth?”

  The boy looked at me. “Sooth’s private, man. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  I nodded. “Sorry.”

  Two hundred years ago, in 2029, the Palo Alto Nanosystems Laboratory developed a molecular computer. You doubtless read about it in history class: during the Snow War, the U.S. used it to disassemble Bogatá atom by atom.

  Sometimes, though, you can put the genie back in the bottle. Remember Hamasaki and DeJong, the two researchers at PANL who were shocked to see their work corrupted that way? They created and released the nano-Gorts—self-replicating microscopic machines that seek out and destroy molecular computers, so that nothing like Bogatá could ever happen again.

  We’ve got PANL nano-Gorts here, of course. They’re everywhere in Free Space. But we’ve got another kind of molecular guardian, too—inevitably, they were dubbed helix-Gorts. It’s rumored the SG was responsible for them, but after a huge investigation, no indictments were ever brought. Helix-Gorts circumvent any attempt at artificial gene therapy. We can tell you everything that’s written in your DNA, but we can’t do a damned thing about it. Here, in Mendelia, you play the hand you’re dealt.

  My compad bleeped again. I switched it on. “Korsakov here.”

  Suze’s face appeared on the screen. “Hi, Toby. I took a sample of Skye’s DNA off to Rundstedt”—a soothsayer who did forensic work for us. “She’s finished the reading.”

  “And?” I said.

  Suze’s green eyes blinked. “Nothing stood out. Skye wouldn’t have been a compulsive gambler, or an addict, or inclined to steal another person’s spouse—which eliminates several possible motives for his murder. In fact, Rundstedt says Skye would have had a severe aversion to confrontation.” She sighed. “Just doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy who’d end up in a situation where someone would want him dead.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Suze. Any luck with Skye’s clients?”

  “I’ve gone through almost all the ones who’d had appointments in the last three days. So far, they all have solid alibis.”

  “Keep checking. I’m off to see Skye’s sister-in-law, Rebecca Connolly. Talk to you later.”

  “Bye.”

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m in the right line of work. I know, I know—what a crazy thing to be thinking. I mean, my parents knew from my infant reading that I’d grow up to have an aptitude for puzzle-solving, plus superior powers of observation. They made sure I had every opportunity to fulfill my potentials, and when I had my sooth read for myself at eighteen, it was obvious that this would be a perfect job for me to pursue. And yet, still, I have my doubts. I just don’t feel like a cop sometimes.

  But a soothsaying can’t be wrong: almost every human trait has a genetic basis—gullibility, mean-spiritedness, a goofy sense of humor, the urge to collect things, talents for various sports, every specific sexual predilection (according to my own sooth, my tastes ran to group sex with Asian women—so far, I’d yet to find an opportunity to test that empirically).

  Of course, when Mendelia started up, we didn’t yet know what each gene and gene combo did. Even today, the SG is still adding new interpretations to the list. Still, I sometimes wonder how people in other parts of Free Space get along without soothsayers—stumbling through life, looking for the right job; sometimes completely unaware of talents they possess; failing to know what specific things they should do to take care of their health. Oh, sure, you can get a genetic reading anywhere—even down on Earth. But they’re only mandatory here.

  And my mandatory readings said I’d make a good cop. But, I have to admit, sometimes I’m not so sure…

  Rebecca Connolly was at home when I got there. On Earth, a family with the kind of money the Hissock-Connolly union had would own a mansion. Space is at a premium aboard a habitat, but their living room was big enough that its floor showed a hint of curvature. The art on the walls included originals by both Grant Wood and Bob Eggleton. There was no doubt they were loaded—making it all the harder to believe they’d done in Uncle Skye for his money.

  Rebecca Connolly was a gorgeous woman. According to the press reports I’d read, she was forty-four, but she looked twenty years younger. Gene therapy might be impossible here, but anyone who could afford it could have plastic surgery. Her hair was copper-colored, and her eyes an unnatural violet. “Hello, Detective Korsakov,” she said. “My husband told me you were likely to stop by.” She shook her head. “Poor Skye. Such a darling man.”

  I tilted my head. She was the first of Skye’s relations to actually say something nice about him as a person—which, after all, could just be a clumsy attempt to deflect suspicion from her. “You knew Skye well?”

  “No—to be honest, no. He and Rodger weren’t that close. Funny thing, that. Skye used to come by the house frequently when we first got married—he was Rodger’s best man, did he tell you that? But when Glen was born, well, he stopped coming around as much. I dunno—maybe he didn’t like kids; he never had any of his own. Anyway, he really hasn’t been a big part of our lives for, oh, eighteen years now.”

  “But Rodger’s DNA was accepted by Skye’s lock.”

  “Oh, yes. Rodger owns the unit Skye has his current offices in.”

  “I hate to ask you this, but—”

  “I’m on the Board of Dire
ctors of TenthGen Computing, Detective. We were having a shareholders’ meeting this morning. Something like eight hundred people saw me there.”

  I asked more questions, but didn’t get any closer to identifying Rodger Hissock’s motive. And so I decided to cheat—as I said, sometimes I do wonder if I’m in the right kind of job. “Thanks for your help, Ms. Connolly. I don’t want to take up any more of your time, but can I use your bathroom before I go?”

  She smiled. “Of course. There’s one down the hall, and one upstairs.”

  The upstairs one sounded more promising for my purposes. I went up to it, and the door closed behind me. I really did need to go, but first I pulled out my forensic scanner and started looking for specimens. Razors and combs were excellent places to find DNA samples; so were towels, if the user rubbed vigorously enough. Best of all, though, were toothbrushes. I scanned everything, but something was amiss. According to the scanner, there was DNA present from one woman—the XX chromosome pair made the gender clear. And there was DNA from one man. But three males lived in this house: father Rodger, elder son Glen, and younger son Billy.

  Perhaps this bathroom was used only by the parents, in which case I’d blown it—I’d hardly get a chance to check out the other bathroom. But no—there were four sets of towels, four toothbrushes, and there, on the edge of the tub, a toy aquashuttle…precisely the kind an eight-year-old boy would play with.

  Curious. Four people obviously used this john, but only two had left any genetic traces. And that made no sense—I mean, sure, I hardly ever washed when I was eight like Billy, but no one can use a washroom day in and day out without leaving some DNA behind.

  I relieved myself, the toilet autoflushed, and I went downstairs, thanked Ms. Connolly again, and left.

  Like I said, I was cheating—making me wonder again whether I really was cut out for a career in law enforcement. Even though it was a violation of civil rights, I took the male DNA sample I’d found in the Hissock-Connolly bathroom to Dana Rundstedt, who read its sooth for me.