"No freeze."
"Nitro vapor charge?"
"No ammonia residue."
"Acid?"
"Too much shattering. Acid spray might needle a wound like that, but it couldn't burst the back of his skull."
"Thrusting weapon?"
"You mean a dirk or a knife?"
"Something like that."
"Impossible. Have you any idea how much force is necessary to penetrate like this? Couldn't be done."
"Well... I've just about exhausted penetrating weapons. No wait. What about a projectile?"
"How's that?"
"Ancient weapon. They used to shoot bullets with explosives. Noisy and smelly."
"Not a chance here."
"Why?"
"Why?" De Santis spat. "Because there's no projectile. None in the wound. None in the room. Nothing nowhere."
"Damnation!"
"I agree."
"Have you got anything for me? Anything at all?"
"Yes. He was eating candy before his death. Found a fragment of gel in his mouth... bit of standard candy wrapping."
"And?"
"No candy in the suite."
"He might have eaten it all."
"No candy in his stomach. Anyway, he wouldn't be eating candy with his throat."
"Why not?"
"Psychogenic cancer. Bad. He couldn't talk, let alone eat gook."
"Hell and damnation. We need that weapon... whatever it is."
Powell fingered the sheaf of field reports, staring at the waxen body, whistling a crooked tune. He remembered hearing an audio-book once about an Esper who could read a corpse... like that old myth about photographing the retina of a dead eye. He wished it could be done.
"Well," he sighed at last. "They licked us on motive, and they've licked us on method. Let's hope we can get something on opportunity, or we'll never bring Reich down."
"What Reich? Ben Reich? What about him?"
"It's Gus Tate I'm worried about most," Powell murmured. "If he's mixed up in this... What? Oh, Reich? He's the killer, De Santis. I slicked Jo maine down in Maria Beaumont's study. Reich made a slip. I staged an act and misdirected Jo while I peeped to make sure. This is off the record, of course, but I got enough to convince me Reich's our man."
"Holy Christ!" De Santis exclaimed.
"But that's a long way from convincing a court. We're a long way from Demolition, brother. A long, long way."
Moodily, Powell took leave of the Lab Chief, loafed through the anteroom and descended to field headquarters in the picture gallery.
"And I like the guy," he muttered.
In the picture gallery outside the Orchid Suite where temporary headquarters had been set up. Powell and Beck met for a conference. Their mental exchange took exactly thirty seconds in the lightning tempo typical of telepathic talk: Well, it's Reich for Demolition, Jax. We tripped him up in that talk, and sneaked a peep in Maria's study just to make sure. Ben's our boy.
You'll never prove it, Linc. Can the guards help?
Not a chance. They've lost one solid hour. De Santis says their retinal rhodopsin was destroyed. That's the visual purple... what you see Uh-huh. with in your eye. As far as the guards are concerned, they were on duty and alert. Nothing happened Nothing much! until the mob suddenly blew in, and Maria was screeching at them And how The Gilt Corpse can screech. for falling asleep on the job...which they emphatically swear they did not. But we know it was Reich.
You know it was Reich. Nobody else does. He went up there while the guests were playing the Sardine game. He destroyed the guards' visual purple some way and robbed them of an hour of How? time. He went into the Orchid Suite and killed D'Courtney. The girl got mixed up in How did he kill D'Courtney? it, somehow, which is why she ran.
And last of all: why did he kill D'Courtney? I don't know. I don't know any of the answers... yet. You'll never get a Demolition that way. That I do know. You've got to show motive, method, and opportunity, Uh-huh. objectively. All you've got is a peeper's knowledge that Reich killed D'Courtney. Uh-huh.
Did you peep how or why? Couldn't get in deep enough... not with Jo maine watching me.
And you'll probably never get in.
Jo's too careful. Hell & Damnation! Jackson, we need the girl.
Barbara D'Courtney? Yes. She's the key. If she can tell I agree. us what she saw and why she ran, we'll satisfy a court. Collate everything we've got so far and file it. It won't do us any good without the girl. Let everyone go. They won't do Right. us any good without the girl. We'll have to back-track onI'm beginning to hate her. Reich... see what collateral evidence we can dig up, but--- But it won't help without that goddam girl. Times like this, Mr. Beck, I hate women too. For Christ's sake, why are they all trying to get me married?
Image of a horse laughing. Sar(censored)castic retort.
Sar(censored)donic reply. (censored) Having had the last word, Powell got to his feet and left the picture gallery. He crossed the overpass, descended to the music room and entered the main hall. He saw Reich, maine, and Tate standing alongside the fountain, deep in conversation. Once again he fretted over the frightening problem of Tate. If the little peeper really was mixed up with Reich, as Powell had suspected at his party the week before, he might be mixed up in this killing.
The idea of a 1st class Esper, a pillar of the Guild, participating in murder was unthinkable; yet, if actually the fact, a son of a bitch to prove. Nobody ever got anything from a 1st without full consent. And if Tate was (incredible... impossible... 100-1 against) working with Reich, Reich himself might prove impregnable. Resolving on one last propaganda attack before he was forced to resort to police work, Powell turned toward the group.
He caught their eyes and directed a quick command to the peepers: "Jo. Gus. Jet off. I want to say something to Reich. I don't want you to hear. I won't peep him or record his words. That's a pledge."
maine and Tate nodded, muttered to Reich and quietly departed. Reich watched them go with curious eyes and then looked at Powell. "Scare 'em off?" he inquired.
"Warned them off. Sit down, Reich."
They sat on the edge of the basin, looking at each other in a friendly silence.
"No," Powell said after a pause, "I'm not peeping you."
"Didn't think you were. But you did in Maria's study, eh?"
"Felt that?"
"No. Guessed. It's what I would have done."
"Neither of us is very trustworthy, eh?"
"Pfutz!" Reich said emphatically. "We don't play girl's rules. We play for keeps, both of us. It's the cowards and weaklings and sore-losers who hide behind rules and fair play."
"What about honor and ethics?"
"We've got honor in us, but it's our own code... not the make-believe rules some frightened little man wrote for the rest of the frightened little men. Every man's got his own honor and ethics, and so long as he sticks to 'em, who's anybody else to point the finger? You may not like his ethics, but you've no right to call him unethical."
Powell shook his head sadly. "You're two men, Reich. One of them's fine; and the other's rotten. If you were all killer, it wouldn't be so bad. But there's half louse and half saint in you, and that makes it worse."
"I knew it was going to be bad when you winked," Reich grinned. "You're tricky, Powell. You really scare me. I never can tell when the punch is coming or which way to duck."
"Then for God's sake stop ducking and get it over with," Powell said. His voice burned. His eyes burned. Once again he terrified Reich with his intensity. "I'm going to lick you on this one, Ben: I'm going to strangle the lousy killer in you, because I admire the saint. This is the beginning of the end, for you. You know it. Why don't you make it easier for yourself?"
For an instant, Reich wavered on the verge of surrender. Then he mustered himself to meet the attack. "And give up the best fight of my life? No. Never in a million years, Linc. We're going to slug this out straight down to the finish."
Powell shrugged angrily. They both arose. Instinctlively, their hands met in the four-way clasp of final farewell.
"I lost a great partner in you," Reich said.
"You lost a great man in yourself, Ben."
"Enemies?"
"Enemies."
It was the beginning of Demolition.
CHAPTER 7
The Police Prefect of a city of seventeen and one half millions cannot be tied down to a desk. He does not have files, memoranda, notes, and reels of red tape. He has three Esper secretaries, memory wizards all, who carry within their minds the minutiae of his business. They accompany him around headquarters like a triple index. Surrounded by his flying squad (nicknamed Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by the staff) Powell jetted through Center Street , assembling the material for his fight.
To Commissioner Crabbe he laid out the broad outlines once more. "We need motive, method, and opportunity, Commissioner. We've got possible opportunity so far, but that's all. You know Old Man Mose. He's going to insist on hard fact evidence."
"Old Man who?" Crabbe looked startled.
"Old Man Mose," Powell grinned. "That's our nickname for the Mosiac Multiplex Prosecution Computer. You wouldn't want us to use his full name, would you? We'd strangle."
"That confounded adding machine!" Crabbe snorted.
"Yes, sir. Now, I'm ready to go all out on Ben Reich and Monarch to get that evidence for Old Man Mose. I want to ask you a straight question. Are you willing to go all out too?"
Crabbe, who resented and hated all Espers, turned purple and shot up from the ebony chair behind the ebony desk in his ebony-and-silver office. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Powell?"
"Don't sound for undercurrents, sir. I'm merely asking if you're tied to Reich and Monarch in any way. Will you be embarrassed when the heat's on? Will it be possible for Reich to come to you and get our rockets cooled?"
"No, it will not, damn you."
"Sir:" Wynken shot at Powell. "On December 4th last, Commissioner Crabbe discussed the Monolith Case with you. Extract follows: POWELL: There's a tricky financial angle to this business, Commissioner. Monarch may hold us up with a Demurrer.
CRABBE: Reich's given me his word he won't; and I can always depend on Ben Reich. He backed me for CountyAttorney.
End quote."
"Right, Wynk. I thought there was something in Crabbe's file." Powell switched his tactics and glared at Crabbe. "What the devil are you trying to hand me? What about your campaign for CountyD.A.? Reich backed you for that, didn't he?"
"He did."
"And I'm supposed to believe he hasn't continued supporting you?"
"Damn you, Powell---Yes, you are. He backed me then. He has not supported me since."
"Then I have the beacon on the Reich murder?"
"Why do you insist that Ben Reich killed that man? It's ridiculous. You've got no proof. Your own admission."
Powell continued to glare at Crabbe.
"He didn't kill him. Ben Reich wouldn't kill anybody. He's a fine man who---"
"Do I have your beacon on this murder?"
"All right, Powell. You do."
"But with strong reservations. Make a note, boys. He's scared to death of Reich. Make another note. So am I."
To his staff, Powell said: "Now look---You all know what a cold-blooded monster Old Man Mose is. Always screaming for facts---facts---evidence---unassailable proof. We'll have to produce evidence to convince that damned machine he ought to prosecute. To do that we're going to pull the Rough & Smooth on Reich. You know the method. We'll assign a clumsy operative and a slick one to every subject. The cluck won't know the smoothie is on the job. Neither will the subject. After he's shaken the Rough Tail he'll imagine he's clear. That makes it a cinch for the slicker. And that's what we're going to do to Reich."
"Check," said Beck.
"Go through every department. Pull out a hundred low-grade cops. Put 'em in plainclothes and assign 'em to the Reich case. Go up to Lab and get hold of every crackpot tracer-robot that's been submitted in the last ten years. Put all the gadgets to work on the Reich case. Make this whole package a Rough tail... the kind he won't have any trouble shaking, but the kind he'll have to work to shake."
"Any specific areas?" Beck inquired.