Lacey triggered his implant. “Section six,” he called, naming the imaginary sixteenth portion of the scanner’s view which showed the guard rail of the elevator. “Twenty magnifications.” The image zoomed and Lacey could see that what appeared to be a single gleaming circuit was actually divided by four thin insulators, so that each of the verticals of the shaft was insulated from the others. The victim’s carbonized skin lumped two quadrants of the ring. Since the rods had to hold the power cables for the elevator’s motor, stripped insulation was the obvious cause of the death. As Billings had said, a five-minute job.
Suppressing a yawn under his helmet, Lacey ordered, “Okay, give me camera two at the time the line shorted.”
Obediently the Crime Service computer switched to data stored in the vaults that extended for miles under Greater Atlanta. In Lacey’s helmet screen the chauffeur stiffened as the jolt crossed him. A blue nimbus threw his screaming face into high relief. Behind him, rising from the big desk, was a man in conservative clothing with a face as transfigured by horror as that of the victim himself.
“Bloody hell,” Lacey whispered. He recognized both men. “Bloody hell,” he repeated. Then he flicked awake his computer link. “What’s the priority on this call?” he demanded.
“Tenth,” replied the computer. Its programming did not allow it to add, “Of course.”
“Well, better raise it,” Lacey said. “You’ve handed me a murder to clear, and I may need a hell of a lot of help to prove it.”
* * *
The car was waiting when Lacey swung through the outside door. On his mere statement the Net had rerated the assignment to Priority Two, a comment as to where his stock stood with the computer on the basis of his past performance. The new rating included use of a State vehicle and driver, which Lacey took immediately to the scene of the death. He loved the scanner helmets and did most of his work seated under one; but he could not use them to question witnesses, and he had some questions he needed answered.
Transit time between the pad and the Coeltrans Building was four minutes. Lacey did not waste them, using his implant to get an ID and economic data on the victim and the man behind the mahogany desk. The first was easy. “Terrence Oscar Silvers, age 23; licensed ground vehicle driver employed by the Company for Electrical Transmission for five years, nine months,” stated Lacey’s mastoid. There was a pause. “Robert Sawney Wilhoit, age 47,” the computer voice resumed. It halted. In a different timbre it requested, “Access code, please.”
Without surprise or concern, Lacey punched his 8-letter code on the panel set into the back of the driver’s seat. Wilhoit’s wealth and authority had been obvious from the setting of his office; it would have been unusual if he had not used his power to see that idle thrusts into his personal life should be turned aside. Lacey on a murder call did nothing idly, and he could be as difficult to turn aside as Juggernaut’s carriage.
Assured of Lacey’s authority, the data bank continued, “President and Chairman of the Board of the Company for Electrical Transmission. Developed and holds patents on three basic processes in DC voltage step-down technology. Extensive holdings in various corporations, primarily in the field of electronic components and design.”
Lacey’s driver was tapping him on the knee and calling, “Coeltrans Buildings, sir.” They were twenty meters above the roof pad of a modern cylindrical structure. One of the vehicles already parked on the roof was a ten-seater with leg shackles and wristlets on several benches: the van that had brought the uniformed police in response to a howl from the computer.
“Fine, set us down,” Lacey said. They stuttered to a halt at the stairhead. “Crime Service,” he muttered as he brushed past the uniformed man stationed there.
“Hey, why didn’t you just turn us loose through the Net?” the patrolman asked. “You didn’t have to show up yourself.” Lacey ignored him and stepped down the stairs into the greasy stench of the room below.
In the nervous chaos of the fifteenth level was a woman who had not been there when Lacey had scanned it minutes before. She was tall and fat, wearing stained coveralls. She sat on a wheeled toolbox and shouted angrily into a phone clipped to it, “You stupid son of a bitch, there can’t be a short. We were touching the bleeding line thirty seconds before this beggar fried!” Sweat was bright on her forehead and heavy jowls, and her knuckles were white with her grip on the phone.