The detective showed up in half an hour, carrying his inseparable briefcase. He opened the laptop and attached its modem to the phone. “The police will pay,” he said. “I need the help of our central computer.”
“Let me guess. I was the one who blew up the Davabel airport.”
A nervous tic played on Medved’s face.
“Lieutenant Tobiany is dead,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yesterday afternoon, he stopped a man in a dark alley and was stabbed. He was after a drug dealer.”
“That has nothing to do with me. I was at work, at the bookstore.”
Medved waved a hand, as if at a fly.
“I know. I checked. Tobiany crawled from the scene of the crime and bled for half an hour before someone found him. But even if he had been taken immediately to the hospital, his chances would not have been good. The autopsy showed that the blade of the knife had been coated with some poison.”
“But—”
“Let me finish,” said Medved. “Tobiany made a report before he died. He described his murderer. It was a tall, young white with a hangdog face. That’s not the end of the story, unfortunately. Yesterday, in the late evening, people broke into the Tobiany home and killed his wife, Marina, and his sons, Cyrus and Hans. There appear to have been two or three perpetrators of this senseless butchery. Marina was stabbed twenty-eight times, Cyrus and Hans both sixteen times. You’ll hear about it on the evening news.”
“This is all dreadful, but how does it concern me? You don’t think I killed Tobiany’s entire family? Yesterday, all evening, I was watching the airport disaster on television.”
“You were watching it?”
“Yes. In the company of several people.”
“From the beginning?”
“The entire coverage on channel sixteen. We were all glued to the set, because the daughter of one of our tenants works at the airport, Lorraine Patricks.”
“She was killed? I don’t recall a victim by that name.”
“Unfortunately, Captain,” Gavein said with sarcasm, “she only sprained her wrist and is otherwise in excellent shape.”
Medved gave him a sidelong look. He had not stopped tapping the keys of his laptop.
“Let’s put our cards on the table,” said Gavein. “Edda told you about my death-dealing ability, and you are linking that to the tragedy of the Tobianys? Even to Edda her theory no longer makes sense.”
“Cards on the table, that’s a good idea. Over the last six weeks, more people have died in this area than in the rest of Davabel. Actually, in the rest of Davabel not one person has died… These data come from the Division of Hierarchy and Classification. The people there supplied them at my request, and they are as amazed as I am. An independent analysis of the situation is under way. You still don’t want to help me?”
Gavein was silent.
Medved looked at his screen. “Does the name Bryce Beddow mean anything to you?”
Gavein shook his head.
“A baker. He fell under a truck.”
“Wait, I seem to recall. He rode a bicycle?”
Medved nodded yes.
“That happened right after I arrived from Lavath. Edda mentioned the accident.”
“Did you meet the man before that?”
“I see many people on the street I don’t know.”
“Please try to remember. Did you see him?”
“I heard of his death, at the table.”
“Interesting. That was the first death. The most poorly documented. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”
“You mean there’s a pattern?”
“The other deaths are connected. You personally knew or had met the victims beforehand.”
“I hope it wasn’t my breath that killed them. I use a fluoride toothpaste and brush after every meal.”
“It isn’t your breath,” said Medved, not smiling. “Each person died in accordance with his or her Significant Name. For every case of murder, the perpetrator is known.”
“Then what sense does this investigation make?”
“It’s not an investigation. There are no grounds to conduct an investigation. The perpetrators are all known. The causes of death are all clear. And you have an alibi.”
“I’m glad to finally hear it from you.”
“This is a study undertaken in part at the request of the Division of Hierarchy and Classification. I have no charges to press against you.”
Gavein decided to make the man tea. Ra Mahleiné, he thought, would have done the same. Medved had shown that he was not an enemy.
36
“There is something bigger going on here,” Medved said when Gavein returned with two half-liter metal mugs full of very strong and very bitter tea.
The tea will leave a deposit, Gavein thought. She’ll be angry with me when she has to scour the mugs.
“You flew to Davabel on the twelfth of December.”
“That’s right.”
“Have a look here.” Medved turned the laptop so both could see. Gavein took a swallow of his tea. On the screen was the face of a man wearing the cap of the airline. “That’s Captain Calvin Sallows, the pilot on your flight of December 12. He’s dead. The copilot, Roy Borchardt, died in the recent fire. Ossya Leblanc, navigator, burned to death with the others. He too was on your flight.”
Different faces flashed on the screen. There was a sweet girl with a snub nose, wearing the jacket of the airline. Gavein remembered her.
“Lorna DaCosta, flight attendant. She also died. Maude Calabash, another flight attendant. Also. Shelly Herbert, also. Do you understand? These people were to fly together for the first time since December 12, and they’re all dead. You see no coincidence?”
Gavein lowered his head.
“Still not convinced?” Medved took a sip of the tea, made the way the Throzzes liked it, and winced. “Among the passengers on that December 12 flight, one Bharr Thorsen died. During the explosion he was at the main terminal, taking care of some business.”
“I remember him. He sat next to me. We spoke.” Gavein felt like a butterfly stuck on a pin for display.
“There’s more.” Medved was without mercy. “The same ground crew was there, as on December 12.” Gavein’s only revenge was the tea: you drank to remove the bitterness, but the next swallow was even worse. The Throzzes drank no other tea.
“Do you remember this person?” On the screen now was the face of an elderly man.
“He certified my social classification. He gave me a three on my passport.”
“Tom Vantrook, fifty-seven. Died on the spot. And this one?” Medved pointed at a hatchet face with a jutting chin.
“I don’t know him.”
“Doug Waitz, customs official, also died on the spot. After you were done with Vantrook, you proceeded to him. Large, muscular, a red…”
“It’s possible. Wearing rubber gloves?”
“Customs officials all wear rubber gloves. And this one? Gummo Zuidema. He also worked there on December 12.”
“I don’t remember. He might have been the one who directed me to the second window. I’m confusing the faces. Do you have him at another angle?”
More pictures flashed in sequence on the screen.
“Yes,” said Gavein, growing grim.
“Shall we continue?” asked Medved. He saw that Gavein was tired.
“Let’s get it over with.”
Next, the photograph of a bald old man.
“Him I know. From the Division of Classification. He took me to Edda’s place. He complained that soon he would have to move to Ayrrah.”
“Rees Cozier. He didn’t have to move, he died. And this one?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Minibus chauffeur, Al Johnson. He was likely your driver. He’s in the hospital, fighting for his life. Do you recall anyone else on the airport staff December 12?”