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Chapter 3

 
"No matter how heinous a deed you contemplate, the operative question is not Is It Evil, but rather Is It Possible?"
—Conrad Bland

 

John Sable stood at the pentagonal obsidian table in the corner of his office, genuflected before the statuette of Cali, lit an oddly shaped red candle, and murmured a brief prayer to Azazel over it. This was followed by two more candles, with prayers to Asmodeus and Ahriman. He then held his amulet up to the baphomet that hung on the wall above the table, made a Sign of Five in the air, and walked over to his desk. He sat down, leaned back with a sigh, and once again promised himself that he really would make more of an effort to wake up early enough to go through his morning invocation at home.

After a moment he pressed an intercom button.

"Any word on that body yet?"

"Yes," came the reply. "Parnell Burnam, age fifty-seven. Lived at 834 on the Avenue of Despair. He was a welder by trade."

"Sect?" demanded Sable.

"Cult of the Messenger."

"Shit!" muttered Sable. He hit another button. "Get me Benito Vertucci on the vidphone." He waited a moment for the connection to be made, then turned and faced the camera that was positioned to the side of his chair. "Vertucci, this is John Sable."

"I know who you are," said the tall, black-hooded figure in stentorian tones.

"I thought we had an agreement," said Sable harshly.

"What do you mean?" asked Vertucci.

"Two ritual murders a year," said Sable, trying to control his anger, "That was the deal."

"We have committed only two this year," was the reply. "Both were registered with your department."

"Then explain Parnell Burnam to me!"

"The name is unfamiliar," said Vertucci.

"He happens to be a member of your cult!" snapped Sable. "At least, he was until he got his throat slashed last night. Murder happens to be a capital crime, even in Amaymon. We agreed to close our eyes to two killings a year apiece from your group and the Church of Baal, provided you kept it within your own sects. But you've crossed the line on this one, and I'm going to nail you for it."

"The Cult of the Messenger does not mutilate necks, ritually or otherwise," said Vertucci. "I am as anxious to see the murderer brought to justice as you are, Detective Sable. You must believe me about this."

"Are you willing to face the truthtell machine?" demanded Sable.

"I am."

"I'll have the dose turned up to lethal."

"Satan is with me," said Vertucci serenely. "Send one of your operatives by for me at your convenience."

"One hour," promised Sable, breaking the connection.

He hit another intercom button. "Have someone bring Benito Vertucci in for questioning, and find out if there's ever any variation of the standard procedure for a Messenger ritual killing. Oh—and tell Langston Davies that I want to see him."

He pulled out a cigar, was about to light it, realized that he would have to offer one to Davies, and put it back in his pocket with a wry smile as he realized that even the Chief of Detectives was starting to feel the pinch of inflation.

Davies entered his office a moment later, a tall cadaverous man in his mid-thirties who had been attempting to cultivate a beard with only moderate success.

"You sent for me?" he asked, pulling up a chair.

"You've been on the Burnam thing all morning, haven't you?" asked Sable.

Davies nodded. "Looks open-and-shut to me. The guy was a Messenger."

"What if I told you Benito Vertucci is coming in to face the truthtell machine?"

"He's bluffing," answered Davies firmly.

"I don't think so," said Sable. "I've got someone checking on it right now, but I think we're going to find that it wasn't a ritual killing."

"It's got to be. The man had three thousand yen in his pocket and one hell of a gold amulet around his neck. It sure as blazes wasn't a robbery."

"Lovers' quarrel?" suggested Sable.

"Not hardly," said Davies with a chuckle. "The guy lived alone, and according to his medical file he's been impotent for the better part of twenty years."

"Couldn't that produce a frustrated lover?" inquired Sable mildly.

"I'll check it out, but I think you're reaching," said Davies. "By the way, you wouldn't happen to have one of those wonderful cigars of yours lying around, would you?"

Sable smiled ironically and withdrew a pair, handing one to Davies and lighting the other himself. "Did Burnam have any problems at work?" he asked at last.

"I doubt it," said Davies. "The guy inherited a bundle a few years back. Gave most of it to the Cult of the Messenger, but he kept enough to live very comfortably. He'd refused a couple of promotions in his machine shop because he liked what he was doing, and I don't imagine letting people skip over you in seniority is apt to produce too many enemies."

"What was he doing last night?"

"Getting killed."

"Before that," Sable said irritably.

"I don't know," said Davies. "He lived alone, ate most of his meals out. Probably he was at some bar or watching a Tri-Fi. Or he could have been with the cult. They deny it, of course, but that's how I see it. They slit his throat for some reason or other and then dumped him downtown."

Sable shook his head slowly. "I've got a gut feeling that says the Messengers didn't do it. We get our share of murders in this town, but usually they're ritual killings or else very obvious crimes of passion or profit. This one smells different. It feels wrong."

"It's a pity you gave up voodoo when you married Siboyan," said Davies. "I understand they've got a ceremony that's really great for ferreting out criminals."

"You understand wrong," said Sable. "Voodoo's like any other religion; long on comfort and short on results."

"So you keep telling me," said Davies with a smile. "Yet it remains one of the most popular sects."

"Almost every black man starts out in voodoo," replied Sable. "Most of us leave it sooner or later. It's a little too barbaric for my tastes. And now perhaps we'd better get back to the subject at hand, equally barbaric though it may be."

"To tell the truth, it wasn't all that brutal a killing," said Davies. "It was quick, clean, efficient. I doubt that Burnam knew what happened to him."

"You'd better check the local bars and restaurants and see if anyone was getting out of hand last night," said Sable. "I'll handle the Messengers, but I don't think they're going to be able to help us on this one."

"Anything else?" asked Davies.

"Yes," said Sable. "See if the Church of Baal has any grievances against the Messengers. Maybe Burnam's murder was just a warning to them, though I doubt it."

Davies left the office, and Sable leaned back, folded his hands behind his head, and savored the aroma of his cigar.

It was puzzling. He knew he was sending Davies on a wild-goose chase, though of course he had to explore every possibility. But if Burnam was the Church of Baal's calling card they had forgotten to sign it, and he couldn't believe they were that careless. There was an order to the universe, a surplus of motives rather than a lack of them, and he knew if he proceeded methodically and vigorously he would come upon the motive for this murder sooner or later, and then everything would fall into place. In fact, he reflected wryly, that was his job in a nutshell: preventing the chaos of the human psyche from spilling over into the structured order of daily life. Still, it could have been worse; at least he lived on a world where the normal aggressions and hatreds of the race were channeled into spiritual outlets rather than suppressed to the point where they began popping up all over the landscape, and for that he was grateful.

His reverie was broken by a call from Siboyan, who informed him that their younger son had contracted a mild case of the flu and asked him to bring home some asafetida and vervain from the herbalist and to buy some more ceremonial candles when he had the time. He dutifully jotted down her requests, added a note to pick up a toy for the boy, and then explained that he had to get back to work.

He waited for Vertucci in the truthtell room, got the negative responses he had expected, and released him.

More information kept crossing his desk all morning and afternoon. The murder weapon had not been found. The Church of Baal didn't have any arguments with anyone. The Cult of the Messenger's ritual murders were always performed by a knife thrust through the heart while the victim lay on an altar. There were no fingerprints on the body. Burnam had eaten at the Roost, an inexpensive restaurant in the center of town, but his whereabouts for the next three hours were unknown. A fat redheaded man that no one could identify had been thrown out of a couple of bars, seemingly in too intoxicated a condition to hold a knife, let alone wield it like an expert, thought that would bear some looking into. Burnam was the most popular man at his place of work, without an enemy in the world. Burnam had not been seen in the company of a woman for almost two decades, nor could any homosexual contacts be uncovered. Burnam's rent was paid for three months in advance, and the bulk of his money was drawing interest in a local bank.

Yet there had to be a motive. Sable knew that this wasn't the work of a madman or some fanatic in a state of drug-induced or religious frenzy; it was much too cold-blooded and efficient for that.

He half wished that he himself had been a little less efficient in the past. That way, at least, there might be other unsolved murders to link this one to, other killers still prowling the streets of Amaymon. But there weren't. He had been Chief of Detectives for seven years, and his record was perfect: forty-three murders, forty-three arrests, forty-three convictions. There was nothing in the past to which he could tie this killing.

Sable lit another cigar—his fourth of the day, he noted guiltily—and concentrated on the facts before him.

All right. It wasn't the Cult of the Messenger. It wasn't the Church of Baal. It wasn't a lover of either sex. It wasn't a thief. It wasn't this. It wasn't that.

Then who could it be?

Sable lowered his head in thought, then sat bolt-upright.

Bland?

Sable considered the notion for a moment, then rejected it. Bland was still in Tifereth, and besides, they were on his side. More, they were the only people in the whole Republic who were on his side. He'd know better than to turn on them.

All right. If not Bland, then who?

And if it wasn't tied to the past, could it perhaps be tied to something else?

He started blankly at the baphomet on his wall, considering all the possibilities.

Then, suddenly, John Sable began to get very excited. He had a totally wild notion, a longshot among longshots, but deep down in his gut, where such judgments were weighed and made, it felt right.

 

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Framed