Revolutions: A BRITE Alliance mystery novel

By Roxanne Barbour

Detective Sergeant Tarine Dominion of the RCMP is set to participate in the Intergalactic Bowling Congress competition on Earth when a dead body is found in the men`s washroom at the Revolutions bowling alley. Her superior insists she take over the investigation and resign from the competition. Much mayhem, murders, and intergalactic politics ensue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Nov 12, 2021

Book preview

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) for their exemplary devotion to the citizens of Canada.

Chapter 1

I dropped my ball at my feet as I mentally changed gears from Team Canada bowler to detective in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I entered the washroom and found a Tristorian in the corner, cloven feet splayed every which way. A drop of green blood fell from its wide, slack mouth. Its eyes were closed beneath drooping straight hair, and I detected a whiff of cinnamon.

I barked orders at my two teammates. Chrissy, wait outside by the lanes. Mike, go get the medical crew waiting near the front entrance. The Intergalactic Bowling Committee had decided on proactivity for the course of the competition.

Mike ran out, relieved to be given something to do after the shock of discovering the alien.

Chrissy stared at me for a moment before she started to speak. Tari, my… Then she turned on her heel. The men’s room door swung closed behind her, shutting out the bowling alley’s babble of voices and clatter of pins.

Only in the line of duty did I get to spend time in a men’s washroom.

I drew a deep breath and retied my ponytail. My fifteen years’ experience in the RCMP would get me through even this, I told myself, even though I’d never seen any of the four known alien races before last month. And I hadn’t heard of one being assaulted. I knelt over Keepe Style’s tangle of legs and felt for a pulse. His hairless green-tinged skin was warm to my touch but his broad chest lay still.

My heart fluttered. Is this murder? If so, would I, Detective Sergeant Tarine Dominion, be asked to take over?

A Bremen stuck its head in the door, its universal translator swinging loose around its wet-looking wrinkled neck. The odor of rotting raspberries added subtext to the cinnamon scent cast by the Tristorian.

Happened? it asked in the usual abbreviated way of a Bremen. Its nictitating membranes blinked in succession over each of its three golden eyes.

Damn. I should have stuck Chrissy on door patrol until Brian, my partner, arrived. On second thought, I now suspected everyone in the bowling alley, even Chrissy, I shook my head. Training for the Intergalactic Bowling Congress competition during the past month of vacation time meant my arm muscles had developed impressively but I had apparently lost my cop edge. Although, the six previous months on sick leave for wounds caused by a shooting were probably the real reason.

Out. I pointed at the door, holding my finger steady until my universal translator spat out the single word. The Bremen gave a rather human-like Harrumph and left, probably to make a complaint to its embassy.

Again I poked my head through the doorway. Chrissy paced outside.

Help me out by shooing spectators away, I said. I don’t want anyone entering the washroom. Not that I was going very far from the doorway. Actually, before you do that, run over to my bowling case and get my camera, please.

Helping me would take her mind off the scene she’d witnessed. Chrissy grabbed my holocam and brought it to me. In 2041, the sophistication of holocams amazed me. Sights, sounds, smell—everything could be recorded. My plan had been to record some of our practices, competitions, aliens, and whatever else proved interesting during the bowling competition. A crime scene had not been on my list.

Before I took any images, I called homicide dispatch to get the usual medical responders and my crew to Revolutions, the bowling alley. Although on leave, I still considered homicide my crew. I wanted top-notch personnel, my own people, on this one. Violent death against an alien, occurring in a Terran setting, would be a tricky situation to handle. Of course, I could only speculate about cause of death.

The sound of raised voices had me glancing out the doorway. Chrissy stood with her arms stretched out trying to stop a much larger Smith Cannon, the owner of Revolutions, from entering.

What’s going on? Smith asked me.

I needed to pull out my detachment. Smith and I had been lovers for a few years, in the recent past.

Ah, just the person I was thinking about. We have a body in here, I said, as I gestured to the washroom behind me. Most likely dead.

Smith’s head jerked backwards.

I need you and your staff to guard the front and back doors and not let anyone leave or enter, other than the medical staff Mike’s gone outside to get. It’ll only be for a short while. Mounties are on the way, and emergency responders.

Two different alleys in Greater Vancouver hosted the practicing, and also the eventual competition. Each location had twenty-four-hour medical coverage by an oversized ambulance filled with representatives from all races. The bowling authorities’ cautiousness bordered on the extreme, but I thoroughly agreed with their concerns.

Smith’s shoulders relaxed and his spine straightened. He strode off to organize his staff. Having been involved with me, he knew what RCMP investigations involved.

Only a short moment passed as I took an exhaustive set of pictures for whoever would take the lead in the investigation. I wanted to be involved but bowling was important. Who was I kidding? Solving murders was my life.

My perusal had revealed green blood on the wall behind the body. The stalls were open, and the garbage cans appeared mostly empty—not a lot of obvious clues. The washroom exhibited the usual dull tones of gray and beige, and the frosted windows let in a little light. A row of urinals graced one wall, but I had no idea if aliens used them. Most washrooms in the Lower Mainland had been modified to accommodate the large frames of the Tristorians and also any special needs.

I stood and eased my back. Was there anything else I needed to record? Then a cough alerted me to the arrival of the on-site medical crew.

Since there was only so much space, I escaped the crime scene and waited for the medical staff to complete their examinations. I asked Chrissy and Mike to park themselves at a table and then I made a call to Thomas Hayden, my direct supervisor in the RCMP.

Thomas, we have an incident at Revolutions. An alien body has been discovered in one of the men’s washrooms. I rolled my shoulders after I uttered that statement. Up to that point, my instincts had taken over and I had relied on proto- col. Now my feelings started to surface—what is going to happen?

I knew there was a reason I put your link on high priority even though you’re on leave, but you aren’t making my day, said Thomas. My com showed him rubbing his right temple.

Making security arrangements for this intergalactic event had been a complicated affair. Coordinating with the security forces from Bremen, Rheine, Itla, and Tristor proved nearly impossible. Their alien ideas created misunderstandings, or perhaps we humans did.

For example, the Itlans were from a water world and their homes floated on the oceans. They saved their land for crop growing. As a result, they refused to join the other bowlers, officials, and diplomats in a hotel which had been set aside for the competition. In the end, two very large houseboats provided a home for the Itlans—bowlers and officials alike—close by in Burrard Inlet. Security would have been simpler if the Itlans had been housed with everyone else.

The Bremen had created the most interesting problem. Even though we all had universal translators, their speech patterns tended to trick us. Secretly we called them Terses. They left out connecting words, so the translator often gave us garbled versions of their thoughts. One time, during our initial shakedown security meetings, one of the Bremen security contingent said Echo death. This led to all sorts of confusion until we discovered they meant We hope news of any death is not copied.

Of course, my removal from the security committee during my leave of absence meant I had knowledge gaps. Finding out what new security arrangements had been made might be one of my next steps.

Numerous times during our planning sessions, I had internally questioned the wisdom of joining the BRITE Alliance. Some of the arguments and suggestions had been most bizarre. Of course, only humans discussed the BRITE Alliance: Bremen, Rheine, Itlan, Tristor, and Earth, combined in an acronym English speakers would understand.

In addition, my mother had recently indicated she thought I was xenophobic. Mom had been involved in first contact with the BRIT Alliance, and I knew she hadn’t revealed everything to me.

Is the alien dead? asked Inspector Hayden.

Most likely. I activated the waiting IBC medical team and called homicide dispatch since I was on the spot. Thomas, I may have overstepped my bounds. My apologies. Who’s going to lead this investigation—the Tristorians? My fingers crossed.

A Tristorian is dead? His voice rose while he uttered those words.

I tried not to react to his chilly voice. Sorry, I don’t have the official confirmation of death yet, but there’s definitely a Tristorian bleeding green stuff all over the floor.

The inspector took a moment, and then shook his head. The incident happened in Burnaby. So, for the time being, Burnaby RCMP will investigate.

Inspector Hayden avoided my gaze as he said, I need you to take charge immediately. So, Tari, you’re off Canada’s bowling team.

Are you sure? I’m closely involved with the most likely suspects—alien or otherwise.

I know, but you’re my most experienced officer. Much to my surprise, Thomas added, Do you have an alibi?

Alibi? I thought for a moment. Actually, I do. I know where Smith has his camera coverage, and they point to the lanes. I never left the lanes all morning, so I’m sure time-of- death will confirm I never entered the scene.

As my mind mulled over the thought of being a suspect, the emergency responders appeared and I waved them towards the washroom.

I understand your concerns about knowing the possible suspects, but I’m convinced of the need for your involvement. With your background, you’ll have a head start on any other investigator I could assign.

His statements rang true, but being taken off Team Canada disappointed me. I had been away from work for six months and most recently on leave for bowling practice, but I really did look forward to the investigation. I might be a little rusty but trying to find a murderer amongst acquaintances would not be easy.

The inspector’s shoulders slumped. I need to go and notify…hmm…everyone, and he abruptly hung up.

I had much to reflect upon, but my homicide team started to arrive, so I hurried into the washroom. An over- whelming aroma filled the room, and not just from the body on the floor. Washrooms were always smelly places but with a room full of humans and aliens—including a presumed dead one, the mixture was pungent.

And I assumed human scent was as noticeable to aliens as theirs was to us. Under normal circumstances I found the Tristorian hint of cinnamon the most pleasant, but not today.

What’s the verdict? I asked the huddled medical staff.

A Tristorian doctor, with the nametag Dr. Kyne Barb, said, Keepe Style is indeed dead. Blunt trauma from a bowling ball killed him.

I tried to be diplomatic. It does appear a bowling ball caused the head wound. Is everyone finished with their examinations?

Various appendages moved.

Right. So I need all of you to leave the washroom. Personnel from the bowling ambulance will need to be finger- printed and interviewed, and then you’ll be allowed to go back to your ambulance. The local medical personnel can take the body to the morgue. Send me your reports as soon as possible. I handed out business cards.

None of us is responsible; we were outside in the ambulance, said Dr. Barb. Although the Tristorian upper body physique was in some ways similar to humans, their body language was hard to read.

I caught the gaze of each of the resident medical staff. So you will confirm each other’s alibis? No, just let us do our jobs. I’m sure we’ll eliminate all of you in a very short time. Wait out in the bowling area and we’ll get to you quickly. I gestured towards the door. Apparently, the arrogance of doctors wasn’t limited to the human race.

Lighten up, idiot! He probably didn’t mean what you thought he did.

My inner voice was often correct. In that case, I had made a fool of myself.

I followed the medical staff out of the washroom. My team of technicians and detectives grappled with setting up their equipment out- side the washroom, and waited to get inside. I looked around for my partner, Brian Chen, and noted his absence.

Mike came within my view so I walked over and said, Tell me what happened.

I just came in to use the washroom, and the alien, I mean the Tristorian, was lying there. I almost wet my pants. He took a couple of quick breathes. So I ran outside to find you because I knew you were a detective. I didn’t touch anything. What’s going to happen? He rubbed his hands on his pants. Although a slight man, Mike could throw a wicked curve ball.

Realistically, everyone’s a suspect. You’ll have to answer some questions, but I know you’d never kill anyone. Go wait with Chrissy—someone will talk with you shortly about your experience. I know it must have been a shock.

Yeah, well, it’s not every day I find a dead Tristorian in a washroom. Mike’s voice cracked as he tried to find the humor in the situation.

Then I spoke to Harrison Cost, a senior homicide detective. We need to get this show on the road. The fingerprint and evidence guys are going to have fun in the washroom. I used my cam to take pictures of the crime scene before I let the medical team in. We have a number of people we need to interview and with most of them being alien, it’s not going to be fun.

Harrison laughed. You got that one right, Sarge.

A good natured and experienced detective, I relied on him heavily.

Are you in charge of the investigation?

Temporarily. Hayden is looking into the jurisdictional problems. And I must apologize, Harrison. I know you’ve been in charge of the squad while I’ve been away, and I just jumped in and started issuing orders when I saw the body. Instincts, I guess.

No problem. I’m happy to have you back. In fact, we’ve all been in a kind of holding pattern waiting for you to get over your bowling mania.

We both cracked up. I had never before been accused of being a maniac.

Harrison continued. Back to the body—a dead alien brings up a multitude of questions. And how are you going to handle your bowling?

Oh, I’m off the team—at least for now.

Harrison gave me a sympathetic look. That sucks.

It does, but I want to get to the bottom of this murder. We both became lost in thought for a short moment. My mind focused on the ramifications of aliens being involved. What’s at stake, other than the bowling competition?

Finally, with a shake of his head, Harrison said, Any particular group you want me to start with? Maybe the bowling teams?

Yes. I paused. No. Start with the medical staff from the big ambulance outside—they’re a little antsy. We’ll also need a canvass around the bowling alley. Unlikely that’ll be useful, but we need to give it a whirl. And you just reminded me I need to talk to the IBC.

The IBC? Harrison asked, as he made notes on his com.

The Intergalactic Bowling Congress. They run the tournaments, enforce the rules, and handle any problems with bowling and bowlers.

I glanced about the second floor. The practice sessions need to be rescheduled. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair to the bowlers, especially the Tristorians. This situation is traumatizing and will affect their bowling, assuming aliens react as we do. I paused. Harrison, Revolutions will need to be out of bounds for the rest of the day. That should be enough time for our initial investigation. I’ll let Smith know.

Harrison gave a half-wave before he turned away to organize the crews. He’d been with the department for many years, and I considered him a competent detective. In fact, his expertise exceeded my partner’s, who was nowhere to be seen. Brian’s absence pissed me off. I jammed my com back in my pocket and cursed my way down to the far end of the second floor.

This area of Revolutions consisted of sixty lanes. Each lane boasted a table with chairs. The chairs had previously been attached but with the addition of the aliens to the bowling circuit, the chairs were now loose and could be removed altogether. The Tristorians, with their four legs, had no need to sit.

Although the ball return between every two lanes remained as before, the bowling pin setup had changed to accommodate the twelve pins and their new pattern. Happily, humans had adopted the aliens’ mini-transporters to accomplish the reset of the pattern after the pins were knocked down.

The rest of the second floor consisted of a restaurant, kitchen, and washrooms.

From the lack of commotion, the news of the accident—or murder—hadn’t spread far. It took me only a moment to locate the IBC officials standing behind one of the lanes.

Although their real job would come during the competition, I knew they watched to understand the techniques being employed, and to support their own athletes.

A Bremen was the first to speak. Happened?

The extremely dry planet of Bremen had produced twelve-fingered humanoids with thick moisture-retaining skin and no hair. I knew they had red blood like ours.

I am Detective Sergeant Tarine Dominion of the RCMP, the local police authority, and I have been put in charge by Inspector Hayden. A bowler has died in the men’s washroom. The RCMP, the Canadian police, will be investigating, and the bowling alley is off limits until tomorrow. I presume you will need to reschedule today’s practice times and produce an updated tournament schedule. Also, everyone will be interviewed by the RCMP since you were here during the incident. A bit of a stretch, but I was comfortable with it.

Suddenly, voices overlapped. The overwhelming indecipherable volume produced by the universal translator made my ears ache.

I stood still for a moment, and when the noise didn’t abate, I yelled, Quiet!

Slowly, the voices died away. The Tristorian official rippled his flanks. The Bremen wove his fingers in a complex pattern I could not decipher and Carl, the human official, bit his lips.

Carl held up his hand. I gave him a go-ahead motion.

Who died? he asked. He continued to bite his lips.

One of the Tristorian bowlers, Keepe Style, was discovered deceased a few minutes ago.

I tried to read the reactions of the aliens to my statement but some of the body language still proved difficult.

A Tristorian official spoke up. Ma’am, I am sorry to ask but how did he die? How do you know these things? I watched him put his two hand appendages in the pockets of his