Dark Ararat - Brian Stableford [55]
“The second from the left on the top row’s Ikram Mohammed,” he said. “A first-rate experimental genomicist. Did some remarkable work on intron architecture and functional gene-nesting. I met him a dozen times at conferences. Bernal would have known him fairly well too—whatever Bernal was working on or thinking about, he’d have shared it with Ike. More of an acquaintance than a friend, but I feel confident saying that he’s not a likely murderer.”
“I’ve looked at his CV,” Solari said, noncommittally. “Do you know any of the others?”
“Lynn Gwyer, directly below him. Genetic engineer specializing in agricultural pharmaceutical production. Did a lot of work on bananas. Regarded by some—but certainly not by me—as a plague-war draft dodger, mainly because she dedicated her efforts to attempts to protect Third World innocents rather than First World software engineers. Bernal probably knew her better than I did, maybe better than he knew Ike Mohammed. Again, an acquaintance rather than a friend, but also not a likely murderer, in my opinion. In fact, a highly unlikely murderer.”
“None of them is a likely murderer,” Solari said, a trifle impatiently. “Few murderers are, alas—especially when it comes to domestics. This has to be reckoned a domestic of sorts. They’d all been living together for months. One big happy—or not-so happy—family.”
“Why not so happy?”
“There’s always friction in living space that small. There were disagreements. Personal as well as theoretical.” He didn’t elaborate, presumably because it was gossip rather than real evidence.
“Who are the others?” Matthew asked.
Solari started at the top left-hand corner, with a man who might have passed for Shen Chin Che’s son in a dim light. “Tang Dinh Quan,” he reported. “Analytical biochemist. Very accomplished, apparently. Two daughters still in SusAn, but no partner—just like you. Reported to be showing signs of strain and acute anxiety in the last few months, becoming increasing vocal in his support for the Base One party advocating withdrawal from the world.”
“Reported by whom?” Matthew inquired.
“The resident doctor, Godert Kriefmann,” Solari said, passing on to the image on the other side of Ikram Mohammed’s face, of a solidly built, square-jawed man whose head had been comprehensively depilated. “He’s a medical researcher too, of course, but the doctors on the surface have had more work to do than they expected. The smartsuits designed for surface use are reasonably strong, and they seem to work very well inside the body, protecting the lungs and the gut from orthodox invasion, but some of the local wildlife is pretty dangerous. Some wormlike things have nasty stings and surprisingly powerful jaws, and some of the mammal-equivalents have tongues like harpoons. To make a smartsuit capable of resisting all the local armaments would inhibit movement considerably. Fortunately, the toxins are more painful than life-threatening, and Kriefmann’s working to develop antisera with Maryanne Hyder, toxicologist.” Solari’s finger dropped to the image beneath Kriefmann’s. It was a study in contrasts: Maryanne Hyder’s face was slender, almost elfin, and she had an abundance of carefully coiffed blond hair.
“She seems to be the one that Bernal was playing happy families with at the time of his death,” Solari reported. “Very cut up by his loss, apparently. Quiet and methodical beforehand, now more hysterical than Tang. On the surface, the least likely of all the suspects—but if it is a domestic, she’s the closest thing we have to a spouse, which might put her under the microscope ahead of all the rest if this weren’t such a bizarre crime. In my experience, domestic murders don’t often involve alien artifacts, real or faked, and they almost always take place inside the home, not in a field two miles away.”
The policeman’s finger moved on to the only remaining woman,