Fear the Darkness (10 page)

Though given recent events, not least the arrival of Judge Anderson, Hass was keenly aware that time was now the one commodity he no longer had.

What about Judge Brophy? he thought, desperately searching for some kind of breakthrough. It's too much of a coincidence that he should have a complete mental breakdown at precisely the same time as a new message appears. Yet he didn't burn to death - he tried to set himself alight. It could be he's the key to all this.

Discarding the forensics report, Hass turned to his computer terminal and tapped in his access code to connect to the SJS database. He typed in Brophy's name and badge number and skimmed through his service record.

Judge William Patrick Brophy. Street Division. Badge Number: 3948-8039-49398-A-56/3. DOB: 3/4/2072. Graduated Academy of Law: 10/6/2087. Current Posting Since 15/9/2106: Street Patrol, Sector House 12.

Checking the attached psych-reports and finding no sign of any previous incidents of instability, Hass brought up Brophy's secret SJS file from the restricted access archive. The file showed that Brophy had been reported for using excessive force on three separate occasions over the last ten years. He had never been convicted, but as far as Hass was concerned, three complaints for the same offence constituted a pattern.

So, he thought, Brophy likes to use his daystick to administer a little pedway payback to perps when he thinks no one is looking. He probably tells himself the system is too soft and all he's doing is levelling the score. Once a Judge starts thinking like that, it's easy to take things too far. The vigilante habit is hard to break, never mind the other crimes you have to commit to cover up your excesses. If Brophy hadn't been a victim of whatever it is that's going on in the Sector House, he'd have fit the profile for a member of the conspiracy perfectly.

Unless...

It hit him in a blinding flash of inspiration. All along, he had been thinking of Brophy as a victim. What if he had been a member of the conspiracy?

It would make sense, he thought. Brophy fits the profile. He likes to hurt perps. He could have been in on it from the very beginning. But then maybe he starts to think the whole thing has gone too far - especially once SJS comes in on the case. Maybe he threatened to turn the others in if they didn't stop what they were doing. Maybe what happened in the corridor earlier wasn't a case of Brophy having a psychotic episode at all. Instead, maybe it was all about a group of rogue Judges trying to silence one of their own by making it look like he'd gone futsie.

It was an elegant theory, made all the more attractive because it fit Hass's needs. If a murderous cabal of rogue Judges was at work in Sector House 12 and Hass could expose them, his future career progression would be assured. The case that had started out as a career breaker would become a career maker, a case that would elevate him to being one of the best and brightest in SJS; a star in the making.

It fits, he thought. The whole thing fits. The best place to start looking for the members of the conspiracy would be among the other Judges on the scene when Brophy suffered his breakdown.

Happily, Hass had already summoned one of the Judges to see him. Granted, he had sent out the summons simply because the man in question had recently served with Anderson, and Hass liked to spy on his enemies as a matter of routine. It seemed he had inadvertently put himself in the position to kill two birds with a single stone.

There was a knock at the door and the sound of a voice on the other side tentatively asking for permission to enter. Waiting a moment before he answered, Hass looked at his reflection in the computer screen as he smoothed his uniform and checked the calibre of his smile. Yes, he thought, looking at his face reflected in the screen. That's the right one: a quiet smile with just a hint of intimidation.

"Come in," he said, making sure his voice was loud, clear and commanding.

The door opened and Judge Whitby entered. He looked tired, his features drawn and haggard, his expression uncertain.

Perfect, thought Hass.

"Ah, Judge Whitby," he said. "Good of you to respond so promptly. Please, take a seat. Though, first, if you would be so kind as to hand over your Lawgiver, boot knife and daystick."

"You want my weapons?" Whitby was shocked.

"Nothing to be concerned about," Hass smiled at him. Bending down to retrieve a briefcase-sized plasteen gunsafe from beside his desk, Hass opened it and indicated Whitby should place his weapons inside. "Standard procedure, I'm afraid. It's all in the regs. Sub-section nine of paragraph two on page two-six-five
. '
All suspects are to be disarmed preceding interrogation', quote unquote. Still, you can keep your badge," he paused, letting the words hang in the air an instant before he twisted the knife. "For now."

"I'm a suspect?" Whitby said, complying with Hass's instructions with an expression of dull confusion. "What am I being accused of?"

"All in good time." Closing and locking the cover of the gunsafe, Hass removed it from his desk once more. "Sit down," he said, producing a voice recorder and a portable lie detector from a drawer and making an ostentatious show of activating them. "Now, if you would be so kind as to state your name and badge number. Just for the record, you understand."

"Judge Kelland Alexander Whitby," Whitby's voice was hoarse as though his mouth had gone dry. "Badge Number: 7906-4930-93820-G-74/9."

"Very good," Hass said, careful not to spoil the moment by glancing at his reflection again. "Now, why don't you start by telling me all you know about Judge William Brophy?"

"He's catatonic," Med-Chief Rodriguez shrugged. "Has been ever since they brought him in. Apparently Sector Chief Franklin and SJS Judge Hass both want to question him, but there's not much we can do about it when he's in this state."

Compared to the unsettling silence of the morgue, the med-bay on level six seemed full of vibrant life. Standing by the bed where Judge Brophy lay staring blankly into space, Anderson could hear dozens of competing sounds as around her the med-staff administered to a ward full of patients. The rhythmic hiss of respirators, the wet
whoosh
of flushing water as auto-bedpans emptied themselves, the clatter of trolley wheels as a med-auxiliary did her rounds and dispensed medication; together, the universal reassuring noises of medical facilities the world over. Meanwhile, on the other side of the bed, Med-Chief Rodriguez absently hummed a few bars of a familiar tune as he wrote something on the medical chart.

"Skull fracture and associated haematoma," he said at last. "Somebody hit him on the head, and
hard
. It was touch and go when they brought him in, but he's stable now. Magitron dealt with the skull fracture and the worst of the brain swelling. We've administered a course of gene-modified viral healers to help deal with the rest. Other than the head wound, there was no sign of any pre-existing organic damage. We screened for toxins, narcotics, hallucinogens, heavy metals, vitamin deficiencies, bacterials, viruses, prions, you name it; all negative. Whatever caused his breakdown, it wasn't biological. Looks like it's a psych-job now."

"A
psi
-job," she corrected him quietly.

"Really?" Rodriguez looked at her in surprise. "You're going into his head? Not trying to tell you your business, Anderson, but isn't that kind of dangerous? I understand there can be problems in these cases."

"You mean aren't I risking going as crazy as he is?" she said. "Sure, it's a risk. Performing a deepscan on an insane mind can be a traumatic experience. Worse, when you get that close and personal to madness it can be contagious. I could come back raving about sin and damnation like Brophy here was a few hours ago, or I could end up catatonic like he is now. Then again, it can play on the flaws in the psychic's own psyche, triggering a completely different kind of breakdown. I could become phobic, an obsessive-compulsive, a kleptomaniac, a spont. Take your pick. I don't have much choice, though. Whatever's going on here, the answers are probably in Brophy's head, and I need to find them." She shrugged and smiled, trying to put a brave face on it. "Guess that's why the Justice Department pays me the big bucks."

"It's your mind, Anderson," Rodriguez sighed. "Though, Grud knows, you wouldn't catch me doing it - even if my brain had the right equipment to begin with. I'm assuming it would make things easier if we moved Brophy off the ward to somewhere more quiet?"

"Yeah, it would," she agreed. "It might be an idea if you had a couple of Med-Judges standing by with some tranqs ready as well. Just in case."

"Tranquillisers? But, I told you, Brophy's catatonic, and he's in restraints. I can't see any situation arising where he'd need sedating."

"Not for him," Anderson said. "For me. Have you ever seen the kind of damage a berserk psychic can cause? Believe me, if this thing ends up going as badly as it could, you'll be glad you took some precautions."

Midday. A blazing summer's sun. Heat haze rising from the plascrete. Lunch at the hottie stand off Ellroy and Leonard. Hotties. Time was he would have driven right past. Recently, though, he had developed a taste for them.

"There you are, Judge." The girl with blue eyes passed him his meal from behind the counter. "One Long John with all the trimmings." She leaned forward, cleavage pushing her blouse buttons tight. "You sure must like our hotties. You've been coming here nearly every day for a month now."

"It's convenient," he said as he handed over his money. How old was she? Maybe twenty? "This place is just off the meg-way. Means if I get a call from Control I can respond more quickly."

"I never would have thought of that." She smiled, her teeth white and even. He wondered if she saw right through him. "That's pretty clever."

"Old Judge trick." His mouth went dry. He felt stupid. Awkward. "You may have noticed I'm a pretty old Judge."

"Oh, I don't know about that." She smiled again. As she handed the change back to him he felt her fingers brush briefly against his palm through his glove. "You still look to be in good working order to me."

"Hey, Broph." A voice broke the spell.

He turned and saw a Judge pulling his bike into the parking lot behind him. It was Elvins, his one-time rookie.

"When Control said you were on a meal break I knew I'd find you here." Elvins's voice was breathless and eager. "Got a hot tip from an organ legger I just busted. Stookie lab, backroom of the Holovid Hideout on Escobar Plaza. Thought you might want to come along for the ride."

"How many perps?" He dropped his hottie into the bin and made for his bike.

"Could be as many as a dozen. Spits and stump guns. Stoolie says they're mostly lab geeks, though. We roll in there hard we should take 'em, no problem." Elvins's eyes narrowed as they shifted to the hottie stand. "Hey, Broph? Health and safety violation. That extractor vent should have a cover on it."

"I've dealt with it already," he lied. "First-time offender. Used my discretion. Told her to get it fixed and gave her a warning."

"A warning?" Elvins smiled in mock disbelief. "No offence, but you must be getting charitable in your old age, Broph. Not like you to go so easy on a perp."

"Guess maybe I had an ulterior motive," he smiled. As their bikes roared out of the lot he stole a glance behind him. "Place makes good hotties. You get to be as old as me, you have to learn to take your pleasures where you can find them."

Night. Bettie Bacall Block. He had parked his bike outside the Bogart Con-apt and travelled the rest of the way on foot. He had told Control he was going into a basement in search of a perp and might be off-comm for a while. His second lie of the day. Luckily they didn't ask too many questions.

The hallway outside her apartment was empty. He was glad of it. The last thing he needed was some insomniac citizen nosing around. In his uniform he stood out like a sore thumb. At least there were no surveillance cameras. Lack of block funds meant Bettie Bacall wasn't due a security upgrade for another two years. He had checked it out in the Justice Department database, just to be on the safe side.

Melinda Jayne Holsen. He had checked her out, too. Fifty-third Floor. Apartment fifteen. One conviction. A two-hundred credit fine for Failure To Return A Library-Slug In A Prompt And Timely Manner. Twenty-six years of age. Unmarried. No known dependants. Height: One-hundred and sixty centimetres. Hair: brown. Eyes: blue.

She had blue eyes. Somehow that seemed important.

He reached the apartment. He felt guilty. Nervous. He pulled out his daystick, ready to pound it against the door. Old habits. This wasn't a crime swoop. Embarrassed, he put the daystick away. His hand shook as he rang the bell.

"Just a minute." He heard her voice inside the apartment. "I'm in the shower."

She opened the door wearing a bathrobe. Hair tied up. Skin still wet. He had prepared a story. Reports of a sneak thief operating in the block. Going door-to-door to ask if the residents had seen anything suspicious, but when the moment came he found himself dumbstruck. He swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. He looked into her blue eyes in silence.

"I knew you'd come," she said, a smile lighting up her face. The bathrobe fell open.

Night. Afterwards. Melinda's bedroom. Lying together, facing each other in the darkness. A glimpse of the moon outside through a chink in the curtains.

"An Unjudicial Liaison," he told her. "That's what they call it. If Justice Department found out about this they'd take away my badge."

"You don't want to see me again?" She shifted uneasily and her blue eyes flashed in the moonlight.

"Of course I do," He put his hand to her face to reassure her. "I don't want to lose you. It's like I've been waiting for you my entire life. I'm just saying we need to be careful. We can't let anyone find out."

"I understand," she said.

Morning. Another hot summer's day. Report of an ARV in progress at the Mother-o-Pearls Jewellery Mart in Gabor Precinct. Four perps caught leaving the mart, plus the getaway driver waiting outside. Two dead for resisting, leaving three chained to a holding post awaiting collection. Twenty-five years apiece, with the getaway man sentenced to an extra month for Parking In A Restricted Area. The mathematics of justice.