“I further submit that if there is to be a medical discussion that Dr. Witherspoon be asked to join us,” Muzzfor continued.
“And Dr. Aronobal, too,” Kennrick added. “She and Witherspoon are the only ones with access to hypos.”
I felt a surge of relieved affirmation. I’d hoped he would fall for that one. “And how exactly did you know the three Shorshic bodies had hypo marks in them?” I asked.
If this had been a proper dit rec mystery, Kennrick would have inhaled sharply as he belatedly realized the folly of his revelation. Unfortunately, here in the real world, he was right on top of it. “How else could the poison have gotten into their systems?” he retorted without hesitation. “Besides, whoever jumped you and Witherspoon wanted that replacement hypo for something.”
“He’s correct,” Muzzfor said. “Such obvious deduction is hardly proof of any wrongdoing.”
“No, the murderer wanted the hypo for something, all right,” I confirmed. “But not as a replacement. Kennrick knew I was sniffing around the other possible methods for introducing poison into someone’s system, and he decided he needed to send me off in the wrong direction.”
Worrbin grunted. “You make no sense.”
“Actually, I make perfect sense,” I countered. Kennrick’s expression, I noted, was still walking that realistic path between bewilderment and outrage.
But there should have been something else there, too, a hint of concern as I backed him slowly into a corner. Only there was no such concern that I could detect.
What did he know that I didn’t?
“His best shot at a wrong direction was to make me think the cadmium that killed Master Colix and the others had been injected,” I continued. “So the night I was attacked he hid under the sleep canopy in di-Master Strinni’s vacant seat, knowing either Dr. Aronobal or Dr. Witherspoon would eventually show up in answer to Osantra Qiddicoj’s call for medical help. It was just my bad luck I decided to stick with Dr. Witherspoon that night. Kennrick waited until we’d passed, clobbered both of us, and stole the hypo.”
“I was in my compartment,” Kennrick said in a tone of strained patience. “The Spider who came for me will testify to that.”
“By then you were, sure,” I said. “After you got the hypo, you slipped past the activity in the dispensary and beat it back to your compartment so you could pretend to be asleep when we sent for you.”
I looked back at the three Fillies. “But later that night, once things had calmed down, he went back to the morgue and made needle marks in the bodies. He also made sure to break off the needle tip in di-Master Strinni to make us think that was the reason the murderer needed a replacement hypo. After that, he probably just dumped the rest of the hypo down the toilet into the reclamation system.”
“You say he wanted you to think the poison had been injected,” Muzzfor said. “What makes you think it wasn’t?”
“Because I availed myself of the services of Logra Emikai,” I told him. “He’s a former law enforcement officer who specialized in forensic investigations, and he confirmed that the hypo marks had been made postmortem.”
The three Fillies looked questioningly at each other. “Is that the sum of your evidence, Mr. Compton?” Worrbin asked.
“Isn’t it enough?” I countered.
“No, it is not,” Worrbin said flatly. “I’m not convinced.”
I grimaced. That wasn’t really surprising, I conceded, given that Kennrick had avoided all my guilty-reaction traps and I couldn’t afford to give them my actual evidence. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I told Worrbin. “But that’s certainly your privilege. This was just a courtesy call anyway.”
“What do you mean, a courtesy call?” Worrbin demanded, his blaze darkening ominously.
“I mean that I really don’t have to convince any of you of Kennrick’s guilt,” I said. “Here inside the Tube, the Spiders are in charge. Thank you for your time—we’ll take it from here.”
“Like hell you will,” Kennrick said, standing up.
“Don’t try it, Kennrick,” I warned, motioning Emikai to step in a bit closer. “It’s two against one, and we’re both former cops.”
“This has gone far enough,” Worrbin said, his voice suddenly gone lofty and imperious with the weight of thousands of years of Filiaelian history and thousands of planets of Filiaelian geography. “This Human is associated with us, and through us with the Filiaelian Assembly. I forbid you to imprison him without incontestable proof of guilt.” He pointed to Emikai. “I further call upon this former enforcement officer to support my decision.”
“Logra Emikai is with me,” I reminded him.
“Not any more,” Emikai said softly.
I turned to look at him, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “We’re not in Filiaelian territory, Logra Emikai,” I reminded him carefully. “You’re not required to obey their orders.”
“Unfortunately, I am,” Emikai said. He looked decidedly unhappy about it, but there was no wavering in his voice. “He is an esantra of the Filiaelian Assembly. No matter where in the galaxy we find ourselves, I have no choice but to uphold his legal decisions.” His eyes flicked to Worrbin, then back to me. “It is what I am,” he added.
And so it was. Retired or not, he’d been genetically engineered to be a cop, and the absence of his badge and gun didn’t change that.
I looked back at Kennrick. His arms were crossed over his chest, a righteously indignant expression plastered across his face, a hint of a smirk lurking behind his eyes. Was Worrbin’s interference the back door he’d been counting on? “You want proof, Esantra Worrbin?” I asked. “Fine.” I held out my hand toward Kennrick. “Your reader, please.”
Kennrick’s expression didn’t change, but the subtle smirk was suddenly gone. “Why?” he asked.
“Give it to me and I’ll show you,” I said.
“Not a chance,” he said flatly. “All my personal records are on it.”
“Consider this a subpoena,” I said. “Let’s start by showing them who Whitman Kennrick really is.”
Kennrick looked at the Fillies. “Esantra Worrbin?”
Worrbin looked at him, then at me, then back at Kennrick. “Give him your reader,” he ordered.
Kennrick’s lips puckered, but he nodded. “Fine,” he said. “But let it be noted that this is under protest.” He reached his right hand into his jacket, got a grip on something, and started to pull his hand back out.
And without warning, he leaped in front of Bayta, his left fist snapping in a short punch from the hip into her solar plexus.
She gasped and bent forward, grabbing for her stomach. Kennrick kept moving, sidestepping around behind her, and I saw now that he was holding a pair of small cylinders in his right hand. As he turned back to face me he flipped one of the cylinders to his left hand, his hands tracing a quick pattern over and around Bayta’s head. As I belatedly started toward them, he jerked both hands back toward his face, Bayta’s head snapping backward in perfect synchronization.
And as her hands grabbed at her neck, I saw the glint of the thin wire wrapped around her throat.
“Careful, Compton,” Kennrick warned, his voice quiet and deadly, as I came to an abrupt halt. “That goes for the rest of you, too.”
“Do as he says,” I croaked out through a suddenly dry mouth, my heart pounding in my throat. Oh, no. God, no. “Take it easy, Kennrick.”
“Take it off easy, did you say?” Kennrick asked. He twitched the cylindrical handles of his garrote a little, making Bayta twitch in response.
“Damn it—” I broke off, clenching my teeth, fury and terror bubbling in my throat. Bayta’s face was tight and pale, a hint of pain in her eyes from Kennrick’s gut punch, her fingers trying uselessly to force their way between the wire and her throat. “Don’t hurt her.”