“I suppose,” says Pitry as he absently examines the doors, “that they can’t teach history.”
“Not much, no,” says Nidayin. “What history they teach is strictly regulated, due to the WR. The Regulations sort of cripple everything they do here. And they have trouble teaching science and basic physics, since for so long things here didn’t function by basic physics. And in some places, they still don’t.”
Of course, thinks Shara. How do you teach people science when the local sunrise refutes science every morning?
Sigrud stops. He sniffs twice, then looks toward one door on the right. Like most of the doors at the university, it is thick wood with a thick glass window in the center. Otherwise, it is bereft of markings.
“Is that Dr. Pangyui’s office?” asks Shara.
“Yes,” says Nidayin. “How did he—?”
“And has anyone besides the police been inside?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Still, Shara grimaces. The police, she knows, will be bad enough. “Nidayin, Pitry—I would like it if you would check all the offices and rooms in this chamber of the university. We need to know which other university staff might have been nearby, as well as the nature of their relationship to Dr. Pangyui.”
“Are you sure we should be taking up such an investigation?” asks Nidayin.
Shara gives him a look that is not quite cold: perhaps the cooler side of lukewarm.
“I mean, not to speak out of turn, but … you are only the interim CD,” he says.
“Yes,” says Shara. “I am.” She produces a small pink telegram slip and hands it to Nidayin. “And I am following orders from the polis governor, as you will see.”
Nidayin opens up the telegram, and reads:
C-AMB THIVANI PRELIM INVEST POLIS FORCES ASSIST STOP GHS512
“Oh,” says Nidayin.
“Strictly the preliminary investigation,” says Shara. “But we must take advantage of evidence while it is still fresh, or so I am told. Would I be wrong?”
“No,” says Nidayin. “No, you would not.”
He and Pitry begin their rounds, checking the adjacent offices. Within twenty feet they begin bickering again. That should keep them busy for a while, she thinks.
She tucks the telegram inside her coat. She knows she’ll probably need it again.
Naturally, Polis Governor Mulaghesh sent no such telegram, but it’s useful to have friends in every Comm Department, no matter what you’re up to.
“Now,” says Shara. “Let’s see what’s left.”
*
The office of Dr. Efrem Pangyui is a knee-high sea of torn paper, with his desk resembling a barge lost on its yellowed waves. Shara turns on the gas lamps and surveys the damage: she sees countless tacks on the corkboard on the walls, with scraps of paper still tacked up. “The police must have torn them all down,” she says quietly. “My word.”
It is a small, dingy office, not at all befitting a man of Pangyui’s stature. There is a window, but it is of stained glass so dark it might as well be brick.
“We shall have to bag this all up and take it back to the embassy, I suppose.” She pauses. “Tell me: how many followed us on the way here?”
Sigrud holds up two fingers.
“Professionals?”
“Doubt it.”
“Did Nidayin or Pitry see them?”
Sigrud gives her a look: What do you think?
Shara smiles. “I told you. Stir up the hornets’ nest … But back to the matter at hand. What do you think?”
He sniffs and rubs his nose. “Well … Obviously someone was looking for something. But I think they did not find it.” Shara nods, pleased to see her own conclusions were correct. Sigrud’s one gray eye dances along the tides of paper. “If they were looking for one thing, and found it, they would have stopped. But I see no sign of stopping.”
“Good. I see the same.”
Which leaves the question—what were they looking for? The message in Pangyui’s tie? She isn’t yet sure, but more and more, Shara doubts if Pangyui was murdered simply for committing heresy in Bulikov.
Assume nothing, Shara reminds herself. You do not know until you know.
“All right,” says Shara. “Where?”
Sigrud sniffs again, shuffles through the paper to the desk, and uses his foot to clear away the floor on the side of the desk opposite from where the professor would normally work. A large, dark stain still lies on the stone floor. She has to get very near before she catches the coppery smell of old blood.
“So he wasn’t at his desk,” says Shara.
“I doubt it, yes.”
She wishes she knew where he lay when they found him, what was next to him, what was on his person. … There were notes in the police report, of course, but the police report did not mention Pangyui’s shredded clothing at all, so it’s not exactly trustworthy. She supposes she’ll have to work with what she has.
“If you could fetch me a bag for this paper, please,” she says softly.
Sigrud nods and stalks off down the hallway.