Political Homicide: Slowpocalypse, #5

By James Litherland

Solving this murder might be the gravest mistake.

 

At the Northwest Federal University and Research Complex, where the community is sealed off from the crumbling civilization outside its walls, tensions are rife. So when the deputy director is killed during a brief blackout, knifed in the back while meeting with a handful of other highly important persons inside a secure conference room, it creates a political crisis. And Security Officer Duncan Kincaid, who's never handled a homicide before, is the one put in charge of the case…

 

A dystopian murder mystery set in the Slowpocalypse universe. (You can start the series with this as easily as with Book 1.) The series continues with Book 6: Seismic Disruption and returns to the Northwest FURC in Book 6: Catalytic Agents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outpost Stories
• Release date: Jun 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386682578

James Litherland

James Litherland is a graduate of the University of South Florida who currently resides as a Virtual Hermit in the wilds of West Tennessee. He’s lived various places and done a number of jobs – he’s been an office worker and done hard manual labor, worked (briefly) in the retail and service sectors, and he’s been an instructor. But through all that, he’s always been a writer. And after over thirty years of studying and practicing his craft, he took the plunge and published independently. He is a Christian who tries to walk the walk (and not talk much.)

Book preview

The Slowpocalypse

On the morning of Saturday, November 23rd, the director of the Florida FURC sent an encrypted communication to the Northwest Federal University and Research Complex director, Naomi Tekihara, to inform her he was sealing his compound and activating the emergency protocols to prevent the facilities from falling into the hands of that state’s secessionist governor. Despite the Northwest FURC facing no similar threat, she decided to take similar action—similar, but not the same. That was Day 1.

Prologue

Dumb Witness

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6:43 p.m. Day 1,261

Northwest FURC Community Council Conference Room

THE CAMERA FOCUSED a little more closely on the individual who had just started to speak, but not so tightly it couldn’t keep the other four people seated at the conference table in frame. Their profiles, at least, so it could show their reactions. The expressions on human faces apparently communicated much, otherwise its programming would not dictate it try to capture them. It wasn’t required to attempt any understanding of their body language, though, so it made no such effort. It simply showed what it saw to whoever was or would be watching.

The words they spoke were picked up by its internal microphone, meaningless as they were to the camera, and recorded along with the synchronized video. All of which was transmitted by the network it was only a tiny part of, to the pads of people connected to the system. And stored in digital archives for the future.

Well-positioned on the wall, a tiny servo on its arm could turn the camera in a small arc to capture the entire conference table, and adjusting focus allowed it to zoom in and out. When a single individual spoke, it could center on them while still showing the rest, and when multiple people talked at the same time—which they often did, and at increased volume—it could pull back and display the scene in its entirety. As long as everyone stayed seated.

But it experienced a kind of consternation, the mechanical equivalent of frustration, whenever one or more of these people stood and moved around—an activity they engaged in with, from the camera’s perspective, annoying frequency. Due to its inability to follow them far from the table.

That restricted range kept it from fully fulfilling its programmed responsibilities—there was a sixth person in the room who never sat down, for example, who seemed to spend most of their time standing near the cabinets against the wall on which the camera was mounted. Making that individual, the only one who was clearly performing a useful function, completely invisible to it. Thankfully, the person repeatedly left their station there, often to take binders full of obsolete paper records to the people at the table. Or return to remove those items when they were no longer required.

At least that person’s position when not in view was logically deducible, as well as the reason for the activity they engaged in. What the camera couldn’t comprehend was why the others would sometimes rise from their chairs and wander beyond its range to conduct whispered conversations. And since its microphone couldn’t pick up words spoken at such low volume, it was prevented from transmitting either video or audio of those encounters. Thwarted in the one job it was assigned to do.

Even worse, one or more of them would sometimes go into the lounge through a door on the left. If it were a single individual, the camera didn’t consider that a problem, as it was these people’s interactions it was tasked with observing. But when two or three went together, all communication between them would be lost. Unpreserved for posterity even as they remained inside the conference suite proper and so stayed within the camera’s remit.

Once these people passed out the main door, it was no concern of the camera’s what they might say or do, and most of the time they were outside. The machine somehow felt they should reserve such activities for those times.

Despite these limitations, the camera followed their exchanges as best it could, controlled by algorithms ranking the relative importance of different types of information. So it observed these humans impartially, but not without a sense of priorities.

What they said aloud to each other counted the most, apparently, but its programming also placed a high value on the gestures they made and the way they reacted physically to what they were seeing or hearing. And most of that activity took place at the conference table. So when one or more individuals left their chairs while others remained, the camera could only try to capture as much detail concerning where people went—and with whom, if anyone—as possible without missing any of the interactions of those who had remained seated. Still, so much information was never properly recorded.

At the moment though, the five were all sitting at the table and, as three of them had begun to talk at the same time, the camera pulled its focus back. Away from the one who’d started speaking first, to show them all equally. And waited for the sixth individual to come into frame.

If historical patterns held, these circumstances led to that person appearing with refreshments and interrupting the discussion. And while the camera had no particular interest in the reason for such an action—

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THE CAMERA REBOOTED the instant power was restored, at the same time the lights came back on, but it needed several nanoseconds to adjust its iris and refocus on the scene it had already started recording again. And only then could it attempt to process the picture it was transmitting.

For a few seconds it observed a frozen tableau, and during that extended interval the camera ran a swift systems check to make sure it wasn’t stuck on a static frame. One of the individuals was slumped forward across the top of the conference table, with a foreign object now protruding from that person’s back, while the others sat motionless. Or so it had appeared until proper focus allowed the camera to identify the tiny movements labeled ‘fidgeting’.

Comparing its internal clock to the time on the network, it calculated that thirty-nine seconds had elapsed while the power was out. And it had failed to perform its programmed duty. It had no way to obtain the vast amount of video and audio information lost during that prolonged period. All it could do was hope it hadn’t missed anything significant.

A full two and a half seconds passed after it had resumed recording before the person sitting to the right of the slumped individual suddenly stood and leaned over, reached out a hand to press its fingers to the other’s throat. At almost the same time, the one who had been outside the camera’s range darted into frame.

That person halted halfway along the trajectory which would’ve taken them to the individual whose upper portion continued to lie on the surface of the conference table.

The remaining three shifted in their seats, then all began speaking at once, momentarily confusing the camera’s processor before the person closest to the slumped individual said something at an unusually high volume. Then the others went silent.

The one who had left their chair stood straight and took a FURCS pad from their jacket pocket. It initiated contact with the network to connect with a second device outside the conference room. Which was no concern of the camera’s.

Though it did experience something akin to curiosity as it wondered why such a procedure would be necessary when everything which had been happening here would’ve been transmitted via the network to pads across the compound. It seemed to be an unnecessary communication.

But then, the camera couldn’t comprehend human behavior at the best of times. Not that it made much of an attempt.

Chapter 1

A Poisoned Chalice

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6:58 p.m. Day 1,261

Security Officer Duncan Kincaid’s Quarters

DUNCAN WOKE WITH a start, his FURCS pad buzzing at him with its annoying whine while flashing brightly in the otherwise pitch-black room. He struggled to untangle his limbs from the sheet he’d entwined himself in tossing and turning as he slept. Some dark dream had haunted his subconscious—and it was already slipping away. A nightmare best forgotten anyway, no doubt.

Freeing one arm, he reached his right hand out and fumbled for the device on the nightstand, belatedly realizing it wasn’t the ring of the alarm he had set but the buzz of someone calling. And only Security could override the mute function.

He finally managed to pick up his pad and turn it so he could see the screen, then groaned when he saw the time. Since his shift started at eight, surely whatever this was could have waited. He had to arrive at headquarters at least fifteen minutes before the hour anyway, to hear report from his colleagues going off duty. Was it really necessary to deny him half an hour of sleep, such as it was?

His alarm had been set for seven thirty as usual, allowing him time enough to shower, dress, and get to Security—downing a large cup of coffee along the way. That was all he needed. This had better be an emergency.

Then he checked the caller, saw who it was, and answered immediately. Yes, Chief.

Swindon’s voice grated out at him. What were you, asleep?

Of course he’d been sleeping. Even now he was little more than half awake. What do you want me to do?

Get out of bed, for one thing, and get over to the Community Hall as fast as you can. The building’s on lockdown, so make sure you bring your security key—I’m giving you higher clearance, temporarily—as well as that flaky partner of yours. And see she’s got her kit with her.

As much as the man didn’t care for Duncan, he positively disliked Julie. But since Security needed somebody trained in criminalistics, the chief tolerated her presence on the job. Even though she was a bit different.

Before everything had changed, Julie had been studying philosophy as well as forensics, and probably pursuing other odd pastimes too. But Duncan liked her. And as long as he, at least, was willing to partner with her, hopefully she’d be safe.

Yes, sir. But what—

Just get over here. Now. With that Swindon cut the connection—and revealed he was at the hall himself already.

Of course. The weekly meeting of the Community Council had been scheduled to start at six that evening, and the Chief of Security always attended. It should still be going on.

Swinging his legs around and sitting up on the edge of the bed, Duncan ran a hand over his face to help him think. He was accustomed to all the extra work these nights brought—so many getting drunk to deal with their frustrations, and then the heated political arguments breaking out into fights. Those calls usually came later though, and wouldn’t need Julie and her crime scene kit.

So, something unusual, and seriously bad, had happened. And dealing with whatever it was would be all the worse because of who would be involved. VIPs. He sighed and tapped on all the lights.

Duncan didn’t bother to check for ‘news’ on the FURCSnet to find out what it was all about. No way would the administration report the story until the situation was under control and they’d decided how to spin it. But while he’d soon find out for himself, he couldn’t keep from speculating.

The confrontations between citizens had never been considered emergencies before, but if anyone ‘important’ had been hurt that would be a different matter. Only, no regular citizens were permitted in the hall anymore, and security there was tight.

Maybe a mob had broken into the building. In which case Duncan might have been summoned to knock some heads together and help restore order, but he doubted the chief would’ve asked for Julie to come and collect physical evidence of that. Neither would it have been Swindon himself calling, but an automated alert ordering all available security personnel to arrive on the double.

Perhaps one of the politicians had snapped and throttled one of the others. But while that wouldn’t have surprised Duncan, it would’ve been witnessed by the hundreds of viewers who, inexplicably to his mind, watched the proceedings live. At least, they’d have seen it if the deed had been done in the actual conference room itself, for the camera there to capture it. Presumably, then, someone had committed a crime in another part of the building.

And considering who that somebody might be, and who the possible victim or victims might be, it would be necessary to be able to prove exactly what had happened. Particularly if any of those VIPs had been hurt.

He hoped no harm had come to Councilor Hollingsworth—she was the only one of them with any guts, the courage to stand up to the administration—but he couldn’t do anything about it if it had, not that would make any difference now.

So all the excitement was likely over. And only the tedious routine still to be done. By himself and Julie, apparently—with Swindon looking over their shoulders. Speaking of, Duncan had to stop sitting around thinking and get a move on.

Tapping the icon on his pad for his partner, he groaned when she answered right away in an alert, chipper tone. Maccabee here, sir. Ready and able for duty.

He stifled another groan. "It doesn’t sound like I disturbed your rest."

I’ve been wide awake for hours, sir. Been trying to limit myself to four hours of sleep a day.

Duncan shook his head at her even though she couldn’t see it. Why in the world— He stood and strode over to where he’d flung his uniform across a chair and stuck his pad under his chin as he started struggling into his pants. —would you want to do that? The twelve-hour shifts they worked left him exhausted by the end of the night, and in desperate need of at least eight hours. I barely manage supper before falling into bed. And always woke up a few hours later feeling like hell and having to work to get back to sleep.

Exactly. So I have to—

He cut her off as he shoved one arm into his tunic. No, don’t answer now. You can tell me about it later. He’d hear everything soon enough even if he discouraged her from sharing. Juggling his pad into his other hand, he shrugged the rest of the way into the shirt and started toward the kitchen. Get your crime-scene kit, hurry over to the Community Hall, and meet me by the back entrance.

Julie’s voice piped out of the pad. Sure thing, sir. Bet I beat you there.

I’m sure you will. Wait for me. Since the actual hall where the public were supposed to meet to discuss issues of common concern had been closed to reduce the risk of rioting, or of councilors having to face the irate citizens they were supposed to represent, nobody used the front door anymore. Still, security personnel were posted at both entrances—two men on each twenty-four hours a day every day and more whenever a council meeting was going on—just in case. He hoped they wouldn’t give Julie a hard time.

Slipping on the shoulder holster with his semi-auto, Duncan donned his black jacket and slid his pad into the breast pocket, then stuffed both hands into his pants pockets and felt to check that he had his security key and its cable. Yes, and a lot of lint, and a few other odd items. His uniform was a little wrinkled, true, but it would do.

Running his fingers across the slight stubble on his chin, he decided that would be alright too. Fine and light red, like the hair on his head, nobody was likely to notice. And he didn’t dare take the time to shave or shower.

But he did pop into the kitchen to grab a paper cup, squirt in some coffee concentrate, and fill it up with boiling hot water from the electric kettle which kept a supply ready. While the instant swill lacked the body of the real brew, he was too low on the totem pole to be allowed a ration of that. But at least he didn’t have to make do with caffeine pills like so many did. And however soon Swindon might want him to get there, Duncan wasn’t about to begin his day without downing some coffee to help. He’d rather get fired.

Not really, he chided himself as he stepped out of his apartment and into the dim light of a waning day, allowing the door to swing shut and lock automatically behind him. Not when he considered the potential consequences. But grabbing a cup of coffee hadn’t delayed him any, and he had need of the caffeine. Especially as he was going to have to deal directly with the chief.

Taking a swig of the still scalding liquid and ignoring the concrete walkways people were meant to use, Duncan started across the freshly mown grass straight toward the Community Hall. He no longer rated one of the few electric carts, now reserved for those officers who doubled as shift supervisors, but he’d get there faster this way anyway. And nobody would dare cite him, as he was answering an emergency summons from Swindon. But the thought of that made Duncan quicken his pace.

Though the sun had sunk below the shadow of the peaks behind him—dusk came early east of the Cascades—enough of its light still streamed across the sky to see how attractive and orderly everything here appeared. And quiet. Looking like the peaceful place the Northwest FURC had been advertised as. But it had turned out different.

Far emptier than it was supposed to be, for one thing,