Glasshouse - Charles Stross [140]
It’s been half an hour since I opened the door, and the cops have surrounded the churchyard. They’re not letting people go until Yourdon says so. He’s clearly in a foul mood. Cold-blooded murder isn’t something our community has had to deal with so far, and if we’re to stay in the spirit of the experiment, we must remember that to the ancients it was as grievous a crime as identity theft or relational corruption. It’s at this point that the deficiencies of our little parish become apparent. We have no real chief of police, no trained investigators. And so the Bishop is forced to tend his flock in person.
“I saw her arrive with her husband, she was present throughout the service, and numerous witnesses saw her approach the door and go inside, then heard her scream. She was alone inside for all of ten seconds, and if you think she could have committed the offense in that space of time . . .”
“I’ll ask for you to second-guess me when I can’t be bothered to make up my own mind.” Yourdon’s cheek twitches, then he switches his attention to Martin so abruptly I feel my knees weaken. An invisible pressure has come off my skull. “You. What did you see?”
Martin clears his throat, and is stuttering into an account of finding me screaming before a corpse when a cop walks up to Fiore for a brief, mumbled conversation.
Yourdon glares at his subordinate. “Will you stop that?”
Fiore shuffles. “I have new information, Your Excellency.”
“Yes? Well, out with it! I haven’t got all day.”
Fiore—the bumptious, supercilious buffoon of a priest who likes nothing more than to lord it over his congregation—wilts like a punctured aerostat. “A preliminary forensic examination appears to have revealed DNA traces left by the killer.”
Yourdon snorts. “Why did we wait to commission a squad of detectives? Come on, don’t waste my time.”
Fiore takes a sheet of paper from the cop. “PCR amplification in accordance with—no, skip that—determines that the fingerprint on file is congruent with, uh, myself. And nobody else in YFH-Polity.”
Yourdon looks furious. “Are you telling me that you strung him up to bleed out?”
To his credit, Fiore holds his ground. “No, Your Excellency, I’m telling you that the murderer is playing with us.”
I lean against Sam, feeling nauseous. But that was my fantasy, wasn’t it? About how to deal with Mick. And I never told anyone about it. Which means, I must be the killer! Except I didn’t do it. What’s going on?
“That’s it.” Yourdon claps his hands together. “Action this day—you, Reverend Fiore, will coordinate with Dr. Hanta to select, train, and augment a chief police constable. Who in turn will be empowered and authorized to induct four citizens into the police force at the rank of sergeant. You will also discuss with me at a later date the selection of a judge, procedures for arraigning criminals before a jury, and the appointment of an executioner.” He glares at the priest. “Then you will, I trust, return your chapel to the pristine condition it was in before I entrusted it to you—and see to the pastoral care of your flock, many of whom are in dire need of direction!”
The Bishop turns on his heel and sweeps back toward his long black limousine, trailed by a trio of police zombies bearing primitive but effective automatic weapons. I sag against Sam’s arm, but he keeps me upright. Fiore waits until the Bishop slams his door shut, then takes a deep breath and shakes his head lugubriously. “No good will come of this,” he grumbles in our direction—us, the proximate witnesses, and the zombies who discreetly hem us in. “Police: dismissed. Citizens, you should attend to the state of your consciences. At least one of you knows exactly what happened here today, before the service, and staying silent will not be to your benefit.”
The police zombies begin to disperse, followed by a gaggle of curious parishioners. I approach Fiore cautiously. I’m very disturbed, and I’m not sure this is the right time, but . . .
“Yes, what is it, my child?” He narrows his eyes and