Up Against It - M. J. Locke [70]
12
Late that afternoon, Sean headed down to Zekeston’s main precinct to get an update from his buddy Jerry, the police chief, on the disaster investigation. The station was noisier than usual. Everyone wore parkas or coats. Food wrappers and coffee squeeze-packs floated in the cross breezes. Clearly, these people were as overworked as the Cluster Resources Division was.
Sean asked the sergeant at the desk to see the police chief. A moment later Jerry lofted out of his office. They shook hands Downsider-fashion, clinging to the bulkheads for stability: two military ex-pats from the CFAS.
“How’s the investigation coming along?”
“Nothing definite, but we’ve found some interesting leads. Come on, I’ll introduce you to my detectives in charge of the case.” Jerry took him to meet two young women: Janna Wilkes and Bella Duran, whom Sean had spoken to the day before.
Sean knew a handbrush made it easier to stay balanced in microgee than a handshake. But old Downsider habits died hard; he often found himself grabbing the proffered hand and throwing people—and himself—into a tumble. This time he managed to suppress the impulse to grab hold when Wilkes and Duran extended their hands, and merely slid his fingers across their palms.
“We’ve learned more since yesterday,” Detective Duran said. “Let’s head down to the labs.”
Jerry said, “Sean, I’m going to leave you with my detectives. We’re still processing the rioters, and I have the DA and the mayor’s office breathing down my neck.”
“Go, by all means.”
“Also, we’re deputizing some folks to help us with crowd control. Your name came up. Have you got time today?”
“Sure. I’ll stick my head in before I leave and you can do the deed.”
* * *
“All we have so far is circumstantial evidence,” Wilkes said, as they led him down the tubes toward the labs. “We’re still trying to get a line on Kovak and his spouses—nothing yet. But the forensics are coming up with evidence that this was no act of passion.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Sean said.
First they took Sean into a computer lab. The room was dim. Lights from the displays created waves of chromatic, dancing shadows. A young man sat at a display station running a video version of the incident, as well as animated mockups from different angles and zooms.
“This is Fidel Ramirez, our forensics programmer,” Wilkes said. “Fidel, will you play the original video sequence at normal speed?”
“You got it.” The programmer’s hands moved over the keys, and they all watched as Kovak climbed into the crane. The crane moved over to a dumpster, picked it up with a grappling arm, carried it over and emptied the trash into the chute above a vat. A moment later, Carl Agre entered the warehouse and suited up in coveralls. Meanwhile, Kovak’s crane picked up another dumpster and moved toward the vat.
This time, though, the grappling arms loosened. The dumpster fell slowly to the floor, spilling metal scrap. The grappling clamps came together, stiffened into a diamond-shaped wedge, and plunged into the throat of the trash chute. The rest of the crane followed. Kovak had to have triggered the maintenance unlock sequence, which would cause the crane to be released from the rails. Disassembler fluid erupted. Sean caught a glimpse of Carl ducking behind a dumpster, which deteriorated as bug juice splashed across it, and he felt rage as raw as when he had first seen the wreckage. The technician froze the image.
“That had to be deliberate,” Sean said. “He had to choose to put the grappler into that configuration. He had to choose to put the crane through the maintenance unlock sequence that would cause it to fall into the vat. Clearly it was a suicide.”
“Yes,” Duran said. “We interviewed your engineers yesterday.”
“And there’s more,” Wilkes said. “Supposedly Kovak was severely depressed. I believe I mentioned his marriage breakup to you yesterday.”
“I recall.”
“But we dug deeper and some of the facts aren’t adding up.”
“Oh?”
Duran replied, “Yes. One of his neighbors reports a very