Murder on Titan Station - Part 2

I timed my arrival at the Hamilton Estate for an hour after the party was schedule to begin. In my mind, that would ensure that Constance was neither involved with preparation; nor welcoming guests. Still, there was a steady stream of high society non-worker citizens entering the party at the same time as myself. The doormen were initially brusque, but wilted when I flashed my station enforcement badge.

This wasn’t one of Constance’s higher end parties; those only occurred once a month or so. This was just a regular soiree to keep the station elite occupied. Well-dressed men and women wandered the entrance hall of the estate, engaging in small talk. Finger foods and fancy cocktails perched on every horizontal surface, and I would be shocked if they weren’t of planet side origin. It made me wonder if the Hamilton’s didn’t have their own personal freighter trucking luxury goods from Earth.

Constance herself was nowhere to be found, so I flagged down a waiter. He directed me to a side corridor that led through the estate. The entire complex was built in a combination of old world and station style, slick white walls inter-spaced with deep mahogany bookcases. Antique books filled each and every one, with titles that assured me neither Hamilton had ever read them. I found her in one of the last rooms off the hallway.

She was sitting at the center of a small clutch of people, absolutely commanding their attention as she spun a story about one escapade or another. She was tall, nearly six feet if I had to guess. Her long, red hair lay in heavy layers across her shoulders, curling up just beneath her chin, and again at her collarbones. Her eyes were blue, and she was wearing a knee-length dress that complimented them. Flanking her chair on either side were marble statues of idealized figures. The conversation died when I entered the room. They all turned to look at me with quizzical expressions, but Constance quickly dispersed the awkwardness.

“Mr. Evans? Alex told me you’d be coming tonight,” She said, her voice measured, even and practiced through a lifetime of being a hostess, “Go along everyone, the detective and I need to have a chat alone. I’ll be along soon!”

The crowd dispersed quickly at her command, and we were left alone in the room. She waved her hand, a cool, controlled motion that caused the door to slide shut.

“I’ll tell you anything you need to know about Bea,” She said, focus slipping into her face, “So long as you promise me that you’ll catch whoever did this.”

“I appreciate the offer, Ms. Hamilton,” I said, “Maybe you can start by telling me how you know the victim’s name?”

“Please call me Constance,” She said, “And Bea is an old family friend of ours. I know it’s rather gauche to discuss with station enforcement, but she helped my father arrange high originality percentage purchases. Alex told us the instant he found out.”

“She worked on the gray market, then?” I asked. The gray market wasn’t illegal by any means, but it was extra-governmental. Items made from real materials – natural fibers, agricultural products, historical artifacts – fetched a high price. They were indistinguishable on a molecular level from something spat out of a matter printer, so they were valued based on the likelihood that they were originals. Entire security industries had cropped up based solely on how well they could preserve originality percentages.

“Yes, you could say that,” Constance said, “Mostly, in art dealing, she brought us a lovely sculpture just last week. 75 percent chance that it’s original Roman!” She sounded very excited, considering her 'friend' had just died. I glanced over her shoulder to the statues.

“Are these the sculptures?” I asked. Constance turned around in her seat, gazing at the two. One was a woman casually pouring water from a vase. The other was a man with a crooked staff.

“You must be trying to flatter me, Mr. Evans,” She said with a small laugh, her eyes lighting in amusement. “Certainly not, these are my work.”

“Ah, I see. I can’t say I have much of an eye for art,” I said, following with, “When was the last time you saw Beatrice York?”

“She was at my party,” Constance readily admitted, “In a gorgeous blue outfit. Sleeveless, with a bandanna around her neck.”

That seized my attention.

“Ms. York was found with a blue bandanna around her neck. Did you see her leave your party?” I asked.

“Oh, no.” She said, biting the very corner of her lower lip. She looked up and to the right, thinking. “I don't remember seeing her much, and I definitely didn't her leave.”

At that moment, the door behind me opened. George Hamilton slipped into the room, and the door shut soundlessly behind him.

“Mr. Hamilton,” I said by way of greeting, “I'd like to thank you for setting up this interview.”

“Mr. Evans, I trust you have found some information with your while?” George asked, moving around the perimeter of the room to place his hand on the back of Constance's chair. “Alex assures me that you will be able to find the killer.”

“There's nowhere for him to run,” I said sternly, “I realize you're a busy man, Mr. Hamilton, but would you mind if I ask you about Ms. York? Specifically, if you have any further gray market contacts that may have been working with her.”

George Hamilton's nostrils flared, his eyes began to narrow, and then a well-trained neutrality settled over his face.

“Certainly, I'll see to-” He was cut off by a scream down the hall. I reached the door first, but George was close behind. Constance hadn't moved.

We tore down the corridor, finding a small crowd assembling outside of a guest bedroom. Inside, the bed had been shoved against a wall, and a man was on his back in a bridge position. His knees and shins were on the ground, but he had bent backwards until his shoulders were also flush with the floor.

His back had been split open, and the blood had clearly pooled directly beneath him. It hadn't stayed there. Someone had smeared it across the floor in quick, masterful strokes. They formed the shape of wings, given depth, shadow and volume through a macabre artistic vision.

Beatrice York's murder had been cold, calculated and meticulous. This was brutal, fast and yet restrained. It was patience versus precision.

“No one leaves the building. I'm calling for the drones,” I said sternly to the crowd, “Who found him like this?”

“I-I did,” A young woman, early twenties.

“I'll need to speak with you, please take a seat in the entrance hall. I'll be there soon.” I said, and chimed the chief on my comm. I explained the situation, and he assured me that the drones would be there in no time.

I avoided touching the evidence, even going so far as to close the door to the room behind me. George was still standing in the corridor.

“Allen?” He said, peering over my shoulder, “Good god, that's Allen Barnes.”

“You know him?” I asked, spinning on one heel.

“Yes, he's a pharmaceutical developer,” George said, “He works – worked - in serotonin persistence medication.”

A small swarm of analysis drones flooded through the entrance hall of the estate. Several took up a perimeter, flashing their lights rhythmically. Like a school of fish, the others found the most optimal path through the air currents and into the room with Allen Barnes' body. They immediately set about gathering any and all data available.

“Mr. Hamilton, I am going to need a guest list for your party,” I said to the man, who ruffled visibly at being commanded.

“You'll have to speak with my daughter again, Mr. Evans, I don't keep track of her various acquaintances.”

“I'll do that,” I said. I returned to the entrance hall, where Constance was standing with her arms crossed over her chest and her back against the wall. She seemed to be pouting.

“My party is ruined,” She said, as soon as I came within earshot.

“And a man is dead,” I added, “Do you have a comprehensive guest list for this party?”

“Yes, of course,” She said, waving her hand at me, “I'll send it to your comm, Mr. Evans. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go lie down. This whole ordeal has been exhausting.”

I left her to her self-involved wallowing and found the woman that discovered the body. She was in notably worse shape than Constance. She sat in a large, overstuffed chair near the front door, staring forward with no focus to her eyes.

“Ma’am,” I said, squatting down in front of the chair, “I’m going to need a brief statement from you, and then you can go home.”

“Yea-yes, of course,” She said, her voice barely above a mumble. “What do you need?”

“Take a breath, and tell me exactly what you saw when you opened that door,” I said, pencil and notebook in hand.

“I was looking for a bathroom, there are so many rooms in this place,” She said, and I nodded in agreement, encouraging her to continue. “I tried a few doors, mostly bedrooms and an office. Then I opened that door and-“ She stopped, her eyes tearing up.

“Just a little further, ma’am. Did you see anything that you think might be important?” I asked, in a quiet, calm voice. She shook her head, and broke eye contact with me. I pushed myself to my feet. “That’s enough, you go home. Call a friend or stay with family, have them stay with you. It’ll help.”

“Thank you,” She said in a whisper, and practically ran from the room. I snapped my notebook closed and observed the aftermath of the party. A few stragglers were still meandering through the food tables and decor, but the room was mostly empty. Limp streamers and confetti dirtied the floor, but cleaning drones were already whizzing across the room.

Awaiting another murder report from the drone, two in two days now, I moved to leave the estate. I was stopped by a large man in dark, nondescript clothing. He had been standing just outside the door, and the lighting was dim enough that he practically materialized from thin air.

“Mr. Hamilton would like to speak with you before you leave,” He said in a voice made entirely out of gravel. “Please come to his office.”

It was clear that I couldn’t say no, so I followed the man back through the hall and down to an office that would easily dwarf the entirety of my apartment. Wisps of acrid, offensive cigar smoke assaulted my nose. Unlike the corridors outside, the few bookcases here were filled with curios and holographic images. They all depicted the Hamiltons meetings with the station’s other elite families. I could feel myself sinking into the deep, red rug as I stepped up to George’s desk.

He sat behind hundreds of pounds of rich, dark hardwood. The corners were protected by brass filigree, and a scale model of the station rotated weightlessly in the corner. A silver ashtray sat in the very center of a blotter. George set his cigar down on the ashtray and crossed his left leg over his right knee.

“Mr. Evans,” He said, locking eyes with me, “I have a request.”

“What request is that?” I asked, cramming my hands into my coat pockets. My shoulders hunched up towards my neck.

“This investigation appears to be headed in a very inconvenient direction,” He said, twisting the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m going to need you to wrap it up, preferably in a way that does not allow the sordid details to get out.”

“Are you asking me to close the investigation before I find the killer?” I asked, barely containing a derisive snort. “We have a serial killer on station, killing in your house, and you want me to drop the case?”

“That’s correct,” George said sternly, “And I’m sure you know how requests work on station, Jack.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” I said, taking a step forward. The guard that had escorted me to the office twitched reactively, and I stopped. “I have no intention of stopping until I find the man that did this.”

“That’s too bad,” George said, “But I’m sure we can find a few intentions for you.”

I stood up straight, my left foot falling back, but I had reacted too slowly. The guard had moved quickly, too quickly, and buried his fist in my stomach. He moved with inhuman speed and grace, hallmarks of someone with cybernetics. I bowled over, the air knocked from my lungs, and his fist came down between my shoulders. I dropped to the ground and curled into a ball, but it didn’t stop his foot from impacting with my midsection, sending me sprawling onto my back.

He grabbed my lapels with both hands and hauled me to my feet as easily as though I was a child. I kept wheezing, trying to catch my breath as he dragged me bodily out of the office. The entrance hall was completely empty now, so no one saw as he hurled me through the door and onto the front step.

“Forget what you saw, detective,” the man said in his gravel voice, and slammed the door.

I lay on the ground, gasping for air like a fish from the unexpected assault. Without further threat, I felt no need to rush myself to my feet. After a minute, I was able to think more clearly, and soon after I could sit up. The rapid, aggressive response from George Hamilton was troubling. The chief was wrapped around the man’s finger tightly enough that I could not expect any help from station enforcement.

If Hamilton wanted my investigation closed, it would be officially closed. I pushed myself to my feet, dusting the back of my jacket and pants off. I was sure Hamilton had to be involved, even if tangentially. I stumbled down the front steps and out onto the roadway. I found a convenience terminal at the street’s corner and punched in first aid. A hazy green scan whipped from my head to my feet and ended with a soft tone. The terminal dispensed a blister packaged set of two pills and a bottle of water. I took both.

Murder on Titan Station - Part 1

Murder on Titan Station - Part 3