Hannah Bronto - Lovers in paradise

"That doesn't prove anything," I said. "If this were a normal case, the computer would have pin-pointed the murderer a long time ago. Because it hasn't only proved that the killer is a lot smarter than we give him – or, her – credit for. He – or she – has either kept out of our files, or we have no record of that person at all. In either case, there is still no way to say for certain whether the rapist/murderer is a man or a woman."

Commissioner Moran nodded in approval. "Tell us about the three suspects, Miss Wolfe."

"Two of the suspects have since been eliminated from consideration," Jocelyn explained. "They are Henry Roylott and Daniel R. Baley. Roylott has since turned up dead of natural causes, and Baley has been located on Delta Centauri. He's a legitimate businessman now, completely rehabilitated. He hasn't left Delta Centauri for more than six months. There's just no way he could have come to Earth without our knowing."

"Who does that leave?"

"Dain Gutman. He has a record as long as my arm, everything from piracy to armed robbery. He's a habitual – something about him genetically that resists therapy. He's done time here on Earth in Reich Rehab, and he was three years in solitary on an asteroid. Nothing apparently helped. His present whereabouts is still unknown, but I've got several lines on him. It won't be long before he's run to ground. One other point in his favor: he has been known to use a weapon in the past. A blaster, sir."

Commissioner Moran grunted. "Hum. Sounds good. What do you think, Mal?"

"I think it's too soon to say for certain. He sounds as if he might be our man, but then so did the other two, Baley and Roylott, or the computer wouldn't have come up with their names. For all we know, the same may happen with Gutman. We can't know until we find him. So I think we should proceed with the investigation as if he hadn't even entered into our considerations. If we stumble across his name through some other avenue of investigation, then well know for sure. If not, and we find out he's not our man, then nothing will have been lost."

"Agreed." He turned toward Jocelyn. "Miss Wolfe?"

Jocelyn snorted angrily. "Yes – agreed."

Commissioner Moran nodded. "All right then, where does that leave us and this investigation? How does the murder of Effie Spade affect this case?"

"Well, for one thing," Jocelyn said, "we know the killer and the rapist is the same man. Gynecological Reports indicate the same type of bruises and battering of Miss Spade's thighs and curt that were found on the other women. They matched identically. So it's the same man."

"Or woman."

Jocelyn glared at me.

"What else do we know about this – person?" Commissioner Moran asked.

"Clearly," Jocelyn expounded, "our one time rapist has now degenerated into a murderer. Apparently his lust is no longer satisfied by simply attacking his victims sexually. Now he is resorting to murdering them as well."

Commissioner Moran nodded several times. "Yes, I wholly agree. Obviously this man is so filled with hatred for women that degrading them sexually no longer fulfills whatever perverse compulsion it is that motivates him. He has taken things one step further."

For the moment, I said nothing. The pieces seemed to fall in place the way Commissioner Moran and Jocelyn had arranged them. Everything they said seemed logical. But what if it weren't? What if they were looking at this whole thing backwards?

Commissioner Moran must have recognized the uncertainty in my eyes. "What's bothering you, Mal?" he asked. "You're too quiet."

"What if that wasn't his motive, sir?" I asked back. "What if the murder wasn't done in a blind, psychotic rage, but was, instead, a very controlled, purposeful act?"

"Oh, my God!" Jocelyn snorted cynically. "What kind of wild goose are you chasing now?"

Commissioner Moran shook his head. "I don't see your point, Mal. Clarify it for me."

I sat forward on my chair. "What if this murder is the first real break we've had in this case? Think about that for a moment. The pattern of these crimes has been altered, changed, disrupted. Our criminal has changed his behavior in a very significant manner."

"Go on…"

"Perhaps," I reasoned, "the murder is the key to this case. Maybe there was a reason why this particular woman was murdered and the other three were not. Hypothesis: maybe she was murdered because she saw the rapist and could identify him. I'll even take it one step further – maybe she even knew her attacker."

"What evidence do you have to even make such a suggestion?" Jocelyn demanded. "That's not even logical! I'm sure you could come up with any number of hypothetical equations that would 'fit', but I'm certain they'd be no more valid than the one you're offering now."

Commissioner Moran rubbed his lips slowly while he thought. "I don't know, Mal," he said finally. "In this instance I think I agree with Miss Wolfe. It's an interesting thought, but I'm not so sure it works."

"I disagree," I said frankly. "And I'm not going to give up on it until I'm as sure as you two seem to be that I'm wrong."

Commissioner Moran shrugged. "Well, I'm not going to tell you how to conduct your investigation." It was obvious that he disagreed with me considerably. "Mal, you do whatever you think is right."

Jocelyn was much more blunt. "I think you're wasting you time, but that's up to you. As for me, I'm going to investigate along other lines. And I'm going to start by getting a run-down on Miss Effie Spade from her neighbors. That seems as good as any place to begin."

The telephone on Commissioner Moran's desk rang. "Excuse me a moment," he said, inserting the receiver into his ear. It was a private communication, coming in on the top-priority channel. His face was grim when he rung off.

"What was it?" I asked.

"It was a call for Miss Wolfe," he explained. "I had it put through into here. I'm afraid it's bad news. Dain Gutman is in maximum security prison on Triton, and has been for the past two years. He's not our man. So now what do we do?"

I depressed the buzzer, and somewhere deep inside the apartment there was a sound like the swarming of bees. It stopped when I took my finger off the buzzer. I waited, thinking about nothing much. After a little while more, I pressed the bell again. This time, over the muted swarming of bees, there was the sound of softly padding feet coming toward the door.

"Who's there?"

I leaned toward the door. "Police, ma'am. Would you open the door, please."

The door slid back about three inches. Between the end of the door and the doorjamb a woman's face appeared. Her face was tilted sideways, and a rippling wave of shocking red hair tumbled across her pale blue eyes. She pushed the hair away with a nervous snap of her hand.

"What is this all about?" she asked.

"I'm Detective Malachi Browne," I said, showing her my I.D. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, Miss Poirot. It won't take long."

"But – what is this about?"

"It would be easier to talk inside," I suggested.

"You can't come in now. I'm right in the middle of – something."

"Well, Miss Poirot, it's about Effie Spade…"

"Oh, for Christ's sakes!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so in the first place! You had me scared to death. Jesus."

"Ma'am?"

"I couldn't figure out what I did wrong! I was wondering what the hell you wanted to speak to me for?" The door began to slide back, revealing the rest of Miss Poirot. She was stark naked. "Come on in!"

I stared in at her incredulously. She was standing squarely in the doorway, her thighs spread wide apart, and she was fingering her red-haired cunt. With the other hand she was cupping her pert apple breast, tweaking the pink nipple between her thumb and index fingers. Sloppy and wet was the sound coming from between her thighs as her middle finger slipped from her cunthole and began to vigorously massage the swollen bud of her clitoris.