Local Event - Chapter 02

LOCAL EVENT (a novel) - CHAPTER 2

Crime Scene

Dull-eyed, Jones watched as the last of the local police left the scene. The guy looked back at Jones with undisguised disgust and what was probably hatred. Nobody liked a FIN. Not the criminal element, not even the cops. Maybe, most especially the cops.

Samuel Jones was a Federal Investigator; a FIN. After all these years, he no longer took umbrage at the slang reference to his profession. In fact, he often found it useful in pursuing his duties. Despite the ever-present sneer when his contacts said, "Oh. It's a FIN," he found it opened many a door; doors which would remain closed to the police, the FBI, bounty hunters, you name it. It no longer mattered to Jones, though. He just wanted answers . . . and being a FIN was a great way, the best way, to get them. He had access; he didn’t need acceptance.

The door made a slight click when it closed. The FIN was alone with the victim.

Jones quickly checked the other rooms to ensure his privacy. Returning to the main room, his goal was the desk in the corner; but he stopped to view the body on his way. She looked very young. But, he knew she had to have been close to thirty.

(doesn't have to be . . . she might not be . . .)

He shut down the thoughts before they could go any further. He had trained himself to compartmentalize back in his teens in Military School. Now was a time when he really needed to do that. He forcibly drew his attention back to the situation at hand. There was a lot still to do, and his federal credentials could only buy him just so much time, alone, in this apartment. He had bullied his way in and he had bullied them out. He hated to operate that way. But, this, this was...well, he couldn't think about that right now.

He turned his attention back to the young woman. The Medical Examiner would provide the official cause of death, later. But the basic facts were undeniable. She had been shot with a projectile weapon, at close range. Possibly by somebody she knew; somebody she trusted. The range was telling; but the presence of the outdated weapon was intriguing. He was impressed that the killer had left the weapon behind. He glanced over at the gun, resting on the desktop near the built-in Net screen, carefully tagged by a crime scene technician. It was a large caliber automatic. There had been no fingerprints, and only one of the bullets had been fired.

Even supposing you could get your hands on such a weapon, where would you get a bullet?

He knew it wasn't impossible to do; just very, very difficult. The laws were quite strict about weapons possession.

Who would risk even transporting one, much less actually using one? Why risk a lengthy prison term? There were so many easier ways to flaunt the law. Even thieves used the common, and fully legal, Neural Disrupters.

Why kill someone when you could just knock them unconscious long enough to steal their valuables? Besides, If you 'D'ed a victim, they would live to be victimized again at a later date. Dead ones would never yield another bounty.

So theft, he decided, was not the motive.

Looking back at the body--The body? Can I really be that cold?--he recalled that there had been no indication of assault, sexual or otherwise. In fact, he had noted with interest the comment in the crime scene report that the dead woman had been (the writer had used the slang) a "Vickie." The Voluntary Celibates were called "Vickies" because they rallied to "Vici!" the Latin word for victory. Her membership in the group had been determined when a search of the apartment had turned up her pledge of celibacy, signed, as they always were, in the blood of her own pricked finger.

So, most likely, it wasn't a lover.

Reaching the desk, he noted it was one of those hybrid things, part antique (real wood!) and part high tech accoutrements, all integrated into something that shouldn't have been as attractive to the eye as it was. (How did they do that?) Glancing at his hands to assure himself that he was wearing the plastic gloves, he picked up the e-mail flimsies. The date/time notation suggested that the copies had been printed sometime near, possibly even after, the time of death. When the local authorities had arrived, the flimsies had been lying on top of the desk. Someone had taken them from the output tray and placed them on top. The killer could have placed them there. But, nothing else about the scene had that "arranged" look. The clearest implication was that the dead woman had been reading them. The absence of fingerprints was troubling, though, contributing to the uncertainty.

He sat in the desk chair ... and then nearly jumped out of it when he felt the seat and back realign themselves to cushion around him.

What level of tech did this woman have access to?!

Now beginning to wonder at just what it was he was missing here, he flattened the earlier of the two e-mails on the desktop and read it.

####

The Core

Sal called out to the twilit room, "What's that he's reading? Someone get it up on the screen for me. Can we get a camera on it?"

A male voice replied. "I'm getting a feed off the computer. It's an e-mail. I'll put it up on the right side of the main screens."

Jenson. Hmmm.

Several of the screens on the right converted themselves into one large rectangular viewing surface. A giant e-mail sprang to life:

####

From: Gold, Garland M.

Sent: Wednesday, January 14, 2038 10:16 AM

To: Powers, Kara A.

I'm the guy you've been looking for. They call me "Wedge." Don't ask why. We don't know each other, yet, and it's too soon for me to start lying to you. I don't think it's really anybody's business why I'm called Wedge. All anyone needs to know, you included, is that you can find me if you need me; just ask around for Wedge Duval. I'll hear about it and get back to you.

Yeah. Yeah. I got an address, but you don't need to know it. If I decide you do, I'll tell you. In fact, I'm here today to tell you to stop digging. You won't find anything about me in your databanks; and you won't find me on the nets, either. I'm just not there. OK? So stop. You're making a lot of people nervous with your poking around. I don't like tech. In fact, I prefer no-tech to low-tech. Get it? I like to work with people. They're far more interesting than machines. And, it pays well.

That surprises you? I know you don't know me, but trust me on this. The "people business" is much hotter than the "machine business." I don't hurt for dough. And, I don't hurt for stuff to do.

So. OK. I understand you're looking for a story. You wanna know what happened in Austin a while back. And, for some reason, your investigation has led you to me.

Oh, I know you didn't know my name until just now, but you knew I existed in the abstract. That's why you kept poking people. You figured somebody would give me up. Well, this is better; don't you think? First, let me congratulate you. You are one of a very few who have ever flushed me out. I don't spook. In fact, I wouldn't BE here if I didn't think this was better than letting you continue your "research". There are . . . people . . . who might get hurt if you kept poking. Not me, but better to do this direct than to let your clumsy (OK, I know, AND effective) methods cause harm.

Here are the rules. I tell you the story, you change the names. Also, there are a few details that will have to be obscured. I'll tell you which. You agree to my rules and you will hear something VERY interesting. Think about it.

Otherwise, I disappear, in my own way, and YOU can never find me again. And, don't try to track me through this guy's e-mail. I'm just piggybacking. Heck, he doesn't even know I'm doing it. I may not LIKE tech, but I can sure use it when I need to. Poke the last pokee if you want to continue this on my terms.

Wedge

P.S. Here's a little bit to chew on. You remember when the Gates kid moved the business to Austin? You old enough to remember that? What year was that? '17? '18? Well, anyway, it was before '20. I remember thinking at the time, with apologies to Sam Goldwyn, "If your Daddy was still alive, today, he'd roll over in his grave!" Who could have guessed it? All those years in the Northwest, then, BANG, deep in the heart of Texas. Well, that's where it all started.

####

Crime Scene

Lifting his gaze from the flimsy, he stared out the multi-paned window. Several seagulls pinwheeled around each other about a quarter mile to the south. The questions in his mind seemed to do the same.

Who was this guy? What was he to her? Did she find him? Did he kill her? Was it something to do with his needing to remain anonymous? And, what was it she was trying to find out?

(or, possibly, who?)

This Duval person seemed to know the object of her research. Or, at least, he wanted her to think he knew.

With no answers forthcoming, he pulled the other sheets on top of the first and began to read them.

####

The Core

The central screens showed the FIN arrange the sheets in his hands so that a new e-mail was on top of the one he had just finished reading. Before Sal had to ask, the screens to the left of the central image re-configured to show the second e-mail:

####

From: Gold, Garland M.

Sent: Tuesday, January 20, 2038 11:21 AM

To: Powers, Kara A.

Well, now, THAT wasn't very smart. What? You didn't think I would KNOW you tried to track me? I gotta tell you, it was pretty funny watching you stand there and stare at that public access booth! What a maroon! Look. This is your last chance. Stop looking or I stop with the story.

Now, as a token of my goodwill, I give you the following. In some ways, the Gates move was almost as significant as The Strike. Who could resist that kind of pull? Of course, those that were already here fared the best. Even smarter than buying up potential commercial property, were the ones who bought land out in places like Moulton, Flatonia, Round Top, Cut and Shoot, Old Dimebox, Blue. Suddenly, everybody wanted a place "on the comma."

Funny thing about The Strike, how something so destructive could end up creating such a massive economic boom. You know, while Houston was sinking, while flashfloods were destroying crops and livestock almost as far north as Dallas, while aftershocks were shaking coastal Texas into rubble, there were people already thinking how to make money off it. It was one of Bush's Grandkids who came up with the plan. Right after that last chunk of that space rock carved us a new Gulf of Mexico, Texas made the whole deal a historical site. Did you know that everybody on the Texas Strike Commission is either a Bush, married to a Bush, or loyal to a Bush? I kid you not. It's the next Kennedy Dynasty in the making.

So, what I'm gonna tell you here is what's between the lines. By moving so quickly, Texas beat out the Federal government by one day. That's it; just one day. That's why, today, all that oil is still under the control of Texas. It was really genius, making it a historical site. NOTHING can be changed without their permission. And that means money in the coffers of the only state that used to be a nation.

Now, we all know that Texas wasn't the only place hurt by the Strike. But Texas was the only state to take care of itself. You know, I think DC would have made a bigger deal out of it if they could have seen the potential. Sure, it cost Texas a lot to sort things out on their own, but it was worth it in the long run. Today, the DC crowd's got no claims on Texas. So, maybe now you have a little better understanding of the tension between Texas and DC. Texas doesn't need anything from DC, but DC needs Texas.

Well, anyway, the point of this little lesson was to make sure you knew who the key players were. Next time we communicate, I'll complete this part of your education by telling you some pretty interesting things about Lars Wol. Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're wondering what any of this has to do with what happened in Austin. Yeah, you could find most of this in the history books. So, I can afford to give it to you, no charge. But, if you want more of those interesting little insights, then you gotta STOP LOOKING FOR ME.

This is a test. Don't fail it.

Wedge

####

The Core

"OKAY!" called Sal, making it an imperative, "What's going on here? What is the guy referring to? Give me some context to work with!"

Again, she heard Hardiwick's voice launch out from the upper gloom.

"I can confirm some of the information in the e-mails, but some of it may just be fiction. Also, I can give you a bit of elaboration on a few of the key items.

"The Gates move: Moving the Gates Empire to Austin, Texas effectively made that city the technological center of the world. Everyone wanted to be close to Number One.

"Moulton, Flatonia, etc.: all small towns near Austin. The Comma: a local term referring to the newer portion of the Gulf of Mexico, 'tail of the comma' jutting up into Texas.

"The Texas Strike Commission, or 'TSC': Our best intel supports the comments in the e-mail; but no verification on the rumor about the Bush grandchild. We have little data on its composition; the names are readily available, but relationships are more difficult to sort out. I've initiated a line of inquiry, but it may be some time before I can tell you more on this.

"Prior to 'the strike' Texas had maneuvered itself into a position where it had little dependence on federal funds. Pouring federal funding into a Texas recovery could have reversed the situation. It appears no one in Washington perceived the need to do so. There is, at present, a significant 'balance of power' issue between Texas and Washington. Texas doesn't really need federal money for anything. However, the federal government needs the tax revenues from Texas. It is, arguably, the strongest economy in the country.

"The Lars Wol reference: everyone knows who he is. I cannot, at the moment, determine what his involvement could be with these matters. I started the automated inquiry, but almost immediately hit a firewall."

Sal sat and thought for a while.

After a few minutes, fully aware that what she was about to do would violate the presumed "flat structure" relationship between the female agents and that she would be creating problems for Hardiwick as a result, she said, "Good work, Hardiwick. Migrate your workstation down here to the floor, next to me."

Turning her back to the tiers, Sal thought, The women will hate her because it looks like I've elevated her. The men won't like it either, but they will give her a little respect, perceiving her to be a winner. That won't really be enough to make up for the other, but it will have to do. Either you are a player or you have lots of friends. Lord knows, I've never been able to have both.

####

Crime Scene

Jones continued to hold the e-mail flimsies long after his mind's eye had stopped seeing them. Something told him these were more important to his mission than just the obvious, and the only way to figure that out was to let the information percolate. Years of experience had taught him that. To give his thoughts room to run, he put the flimsies the desk and looked about the apartment, hoping to distract himself from the pressures of the moment.

The advertisements described this particular complex as "Neo-Southwestern." The motif was clearly Southwest, but nothing about it seemed very "neo" to him. Some of these old buildings had weathered the after-strike seismic shocks quite well. Of course, with the layer of stucco slathered all over the outside of this building, no one could tell if it had been damaged or not. So, like most BTS buildings, this one no longer drew the better clientele.

These days, "The Drover" was inhabited by people of Austin's art world; musicians, painters, techno-artists of every variety, groupies, almost anything else that could fit loosely under the big, floppy hat called art.

Still, she had made the apartment comfortable. He thought about the other rooms. There was nothing to suggest why she was now dead. Somehow, in what appeared to be an absence of strait forward clues, he had to discover why this woman was dead.

(and if she was...the one...)

But, then, that was just the kind of mystery he was intended to solve; the really hard ones.

None of that was doing Samuel Jones the least bit of good at the moment. He had to know what had happened here, and yes, he had to know if this woman....

He could feel the hot tears spring to his eyes. Without warning his control had crumbled. A sob escaped from him. He placed his face in his hands and wept. He leaned forward, the backs of his hands flattened against the e-mail flimsies. Tears sluiced through his gloved fingers, forming clear buttons on the flimsies, magnifying the letters and words below.

He had to know if this woman, this very dead woman, was his daughter.

####

The Core

Sal was stunned. She neither moved nor spoke. The weeping FIN had transfixed everyone in The Core. For a few moments, absolute silence reigned.

Then, a new voice, excited, tense, male, exclaimed from half way up the tiered rows of consoles. "He's not alone! There's someone else in that room with him!"