Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

As Dar shot images, the young patrolman tried to explain, pointing happily to the various pieces of evidence—the broken windows on the car, the cracked windshield, dents in the hood of the Prelude, slimy gray matter on and around the front of the car, as well as blood on the shattered windshield, the hood, the fenders, the front bumper, and pooled in a wide, dark stain on the asphalt. Obviously it had not rained very hard here during the night or morning.

“Well, this guy, Barry, he’s mad at his girlfriend—Sheila something—she lives upstairs in 2306, she’s down at the station now making out a statement,” said the cop. “Anyway, Barry’s a biker, big fucker with a beard, and Sheila gets tired of him and starts seeing other guys. Well, at least one other guy. Barry, he doesn’t like that. So he comes by here, we figure about two-thirty A.M., the reports of a disturbance come in about two forty-eight, and the first report of shots fired came in to 911 at three-oh-two A.M. At first Barry is just, you know, screaming up at Sheila’s window, shouting obscenities at her, her shouting obscenities back, you know. The main entrance, it’s got an automatic lock so you gotta buzz to get in and go up, only Sheila doesn’t buzz him in.

“This really pisses Barry off. So he goes back to his truck—that’s it, the Ford van parked over there—and comes back with a loaded shotgun, double barrel. He starts using the butt of the shotgun to bash in the side windows of Sheila’s Prelude there. Sheila starts shitting bricks and screaming louder. The neighbors call the police, but before a black-and-white can answer, Barry gets it in his mind to get up on the hood—he must’ve weighed about two sixty, you see how he dented the shit out of it just standing on it—and he begins bashing in the windshield with the butt of the shotgun. We figure, to get a better grip or something, he somehow got a finger inside the trigger guard…”

“And shot himself in the belly?” said Lawrence.

“Both barrels. Blew his guts all over the hood, headlights, front bumper—”

“He was still alive in intensive care when I got the call this morning,” interrupted Lawrence. “Do you have an update?”

The cop shrugged. “When the detectives came to take the girl downtown, word was that the medics had pulled the plug on Barry. Sheila’s comment was ‘Good riddance.’”

“Love,” said Lawrence.

“It’s a many-splendored thing,” agreed the uniformed officer.

They stopped for three obvious slip-and-fall scams—two at supermarkets and one at a Holiday Inn where the claimant was famous for slip-and-falls near ice machines that leaked—and a slow-motion parking-lot swoop-and-squat where five family members were all claiming whiplash. The last accident scene was in San Jose itself. On the way, Lawrence and Dar stopped for lunch. Actually, they just went through a Burger Biggy drive-through and ate their Biggies and slurped their Biggy milk shakes while Lawrence drove.

“So how did Barry’s shotgun sepaku relate to any of your insurance carriers?” Dar asked between sips.

“First thing Sheila did this morning was file a claim on the Prelude,” said the big insurance adjuster. “She says that it’s totaled—that State Farm owes her a brand-new car.”

“I didn’t see that much damage,” said Dar. “Some broken glass. The dents in the hood. Nothing else that a car wash won’t take care of.”

Lawrence shook his head. “She claims that she would be too traumatized to ever drive the Prelude again. She wants full payment…enough to buy a brand-new SUV. She’s had her eye on a Navigator.”

“She told the insurance people all this this morning before going to the cops to give her statement?”

“Sort of,” said Lawrence. “She called her insurance agent at four A.M.”

The last accident site was also in a run-down condo complex, this one right in San Jose. There were uniformed officers on the stairway and an obviously bored plainclothes detective on the third floor. There was also the smell of death.

“Jesus,” said Lawrence, pulling a clean, red bandana out of his hip pocket and holding it over his nose and mouth. “How long has this guy been dead?”

“Just since last night,” said Lieutenant Rich of the San Jose PD. “Everyone heard the gunshot about midnight, but no one reported it. The apartment’s not air-conditioned, so things have been getting ripe since about ten A.M.”

“You mean the body’s still in there ?” Lawrence asked incredulously.

Lieutenant Rich shrugged. “The ME was here this morning when the body was discovered. The cause of death has been established. We’ve been waiting for the meat wagon all day, but the county coroner has jurisdiction on this and his vehicle’s been busy all day. Real mess on the freeways this morning.”

“Shit,” said Lawrence. He gave Dar a look and then turned back to the lieutenant. “Well, we have to go in and take photos. I have to do a scene sketch.”

“Why?” said the detective. “What the hell has the insurance got to do with it at this point?”

“There’s already threatened litigation by the deceased’s sister,” said Lawrence.

“Against who?” said Officer Rich. “Do you know how this guy died?”

“Suicide, isn’t it?” said Lawrence. “The lawsuit is against the deceased’s—Mr. Hatton’s—psychiatrist. His sister says that Mr. Hatton was depressed and paranoid and that the psychiatrist didn’t do enough to prevent this tragedy.”

The detective chuckled. “I don’t think that’s gonna fly. I’d have to testify in court that the psychiatrist did everything she could to keep this poor nut happy. Come on in, I’ll show you. You can take your photos, but I don’t think you’ll want to hang around long enough to do too careful a scene diagram.”

Dar followed the plainclothes officer and Lawrence into the small, overheated apartment. Someone had opened the only window that would open, but that was in the kitchen and the body was in the bedroom.

“Jesus Christ,” said Lawrence, standing next to the blood-soaked bed and pillows, looking at the crimson spatters on the headboard and wall. “The. 38’s still in the poor bastard’s hand. The ME says that this isn’t suicide?”

Lieutenant Rich, who was trying to hold his nose and look dignified at the same time, nodded. “We have testimony from the shrink that Mr. Hatton was definitely depressed and paranoid, also schizophrenic. The psychiatrist was aware that the late Mr. H. always slept with the. 38 Smith and Wesson on his nightstand next to his bed. He was afraid the UN was planning an invasion of the United States…you know, black helicopters, bar codes on road signs to show the African troops where to go to get the gun owners…the usual shit. Anyway, the shrink—she’s a woman, by the way, and quite a looker—says that the short-term goal of her therapy was to have Mr. Hatton bring in the pistol for safekeeping.”

“Guess that goal won’t be reached,” said Lawrence through his bandana.

“The shrink says that Hatton was extremely paranoid, but in no way suicidal,” said the detective. “She’s willing to testify to that. But the poor schmuck was on about five types of meds, including Doxepin and Flurezapam to sleep. Knocks him right out. According to the doctor, Hatton always tried to get to sleep by ten-thirty P.M.”

“So what happened?” said Lawrence as Dar shot some regular thirty-five-millimeter stills with high-speed film.

“Hatton’s sister called him at three minutes before midnight,” said Lieutenant Rich. “She says that she usually doesn’t call him that late, but that she’d had a terrible dream…a premonition of his death.”

“So?” said Lawrence.