16
By sixteen hundred, Eve felt she’d covered all the ground and all the potentials that made sense.
She considered her options, didn’t care for any of them.
“Peabody, book a holoroom at Central.”
“Really?” Surprised delight flashed over Peabody’s face. “You never use frosty tech like a holoroom.”
“I’ve used Roarke’s a few times. I want to walk through it, all three scenes. One, two, three. Something might pop out rolling through them one after the other.”
“Checking on it… There’s one, and only one, open in ten minutes for forty minutes. The big one’s booked straight through until twenty hundred hours, and the second one’s out of order – again. McNab says it’s glitchy more than not. Booking it now. We’ve got a couple of the booths free, but that’s the only room.”
She only needed one.
Because she wanted the full time, Eve headed straight there, suffered the elevators jammed by the eight-to-four, four-to-midnight changes of shift.
The Holo and VR sector was quiet, and clean. No Vending was offered, and signs were posted along the corridor as reminders that food and drink were forbidden in the rooms.
Others warned that all activity in said rooms would be monitored and recorded.
One way to discourage personal use if a cop had an urge to virtually lie naked on a beach, or get it on with a fellow officer, visitor, or tech.
There were ways around it, of course, and rumor was the second holoroom was routinely glitchy because somebody messed with the monitors so they could lie on the beach or get it on.
As Eve rarely used the facilities, she didn’t much care.
She swiped her master in the slot, waited while it was scanned and approved.
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve approved. Time and facility booked by Peabody, Officer Delia. Approved, the computer announced after Peabody also swiped in.
They stepped into the empty room with its white, windowless walls and white floors. Eve moved to the wall comp as Peabody secured the door.
Eve keyed in the three case files, in order, programmed a reenactment, most probable, in sequential order.
Elements accepted, system analyzing. Facial details on suspect incomplete.
“Use the sketches.”
Coordinating artist renditions, merging. Remaining data is being uploaded.
“I saw this vid where these four people were fooling around in a holoroom and got stuck there in like this swampy jungle place – except one of them who got tossed in some urban underworld. And there was this guy with an ax who…”
Peabody trailed off as she looked around the white room. “And maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. We could end up in a swampy jungle. Anyway it was called HoloHell. They’re doing the sequel now.”
“If some guy comes at you with an ax, stun him,” Eve suggested.
Upload complete, program to commence in ten seconds. You have thirty-four minutes, eighteen seconds remaining on your reservation.
“Fine, fine, fine. Go.”
Program to commence in three seconds, two seconds, one second.
Eve followed the killer to the door of Bastwick’s building. She noted the fading light of the late December evening, the computer-generated traffic noises. She watched the gloved hand press the buzzer, and the casual ease of the door opening.
“What do you suppose she’s feeling?” Eve wondered as she stepped onto the elevator with the killer. “If this is the first time – and we’ve got no reason to believe it isn’t, doesn’t she feel nerves? Excitement? Something? But her hands are steady. She shifts and angles the box so easy, like it’s choreographed in her head.”
“No hesitation,” Peabody commented. “No rush either.”
“Everything about her says pay no attention, and no one did. But attention’s what she wants. Maybe most of all.”
“Yours.”
“Yeah, to start.”
Bastwick, in her classy loungewear, opened the door. Bastwick’s mouth moved, and the program gave her voice.
All right. Just put it on the
Her last words as the killer stepped in, drawing the stunner from the right pocket. Center mass, full stun. Bastwick’s nervous system went haywire so her body convulsed, perfectly manicured hands flapping. She crumpled, fell back, went down. The head smacked against the floor. Eyes stared for a second, another, before rolling up white, then the lids came down.
Following the scenario Eve had laid out, the killer – the face an almost cartoon-like sketch – set the box on a table, took a box cutter from the left pocket of the coat, broke the seal.
Removed a can of Seal-It from the box, removed the gloves.
“She’d have sealed up before she came in. Hands, feet, everything. Maybe she gave the hands another backup coat, but she didn’t step in without being sealed first.”
“The cleaning service came in on the twenty-third,” Peabody said, referring to her notes. “No one came to her place that we know of until this. The sweepers didn’t find any hair, fiber, prints that weren’t the vic’s.”
“Sealed up tight. She might even have a seal cap under the hat, just to be sure. She’d have put the security back on – this program doesn’t show that, but she would’ve. No chances. And she’d have taken off the coat. Too hot, too bulky, but we don’t know what’s under it. And why take her into the bedroom?” she added as the killer deadlifted Bastwick, hefted her into a fireman’s carry.
“More comfortable?” Peabody speculated.
“Drawing it out a little, that’s what I think. There has to be some nerves, so she’s drawing it out. Curious, too. Into the bedroom, check it out. Lay her down,” Eve continued, “take a breath or two, go back for the box.”
Eve watched murder, saw the way, even stunned, the body’s heels beat a tattoo on the bed. And the eyes rolled open again, went to glass as the blood slid down the throat.
“From behind. Had to take the coat off, sure. Have to be sealed up under it. Protective clothing under it in case of blood, even the vic’s hair. You burn the protective gear later, but there’s no chance of blood or trace on the coat.”
“Medical gear, morgue gear, sweeper gear?”
“Like that. Or like painters or exterminators use. Put it on to kill, take it off. Roll it inside out or even bag it, put it back in the box. Pause program.”
The scene froze in place as Eve moved through it, circling the killer with her sketched face.
“You had this planned out for so long, every single detail. Computer, elapsed time?”
Elapsed time is twelve minutes and forty-five seconds.
“Add into elapsed time removing protective suit from box, putting it on, removing it again, bagging it, replacing it in the box.”
Average time calculated at one minute and fifty-two seconds for full protective covering.
“Recalculate with additional time, continue program.”
“We had her at twenty-seven minutes from entry to exit,” Peabody said.
“Exactly, and she’s only used about half that time. Writing the message adds to it,” Eve commented as the killer did so. “Replacing everything in the box, resealing it, replacing the coat, the gloves. A glance around to be sure you got everything, then out. With that little spring in the step.”
She waited, still watching the killer, until the computer announced program, first stage, end.
“Elapsed time?”
Twenty minutes, ten seconds.
“What did she do with the other seven minutes?” Peabody asked.
Insufficient data to answer.
“I’m not asking you. Maybe she took a quick tour of the place. It’s a nice place, classy. Maybe she did take a couple things nobody noticed.”
“I don’t think so. I’d say, possibly, she needed time to gather herself to do the kill, or to pull herself together after. But she’d waited so long to do this, she’s so happy when she leaves. And the writing’s rock solid.”
“Gloating?”