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  "And yet they don't," said Flint.

  "The killer had to have cleaned the scenes afterwards. Maybe they got rid of anything under the nails at the same time. But that doesn't explain the lack of bruising or discoloration anywhere on the body."

  "So, each one on its own would be a unique crime scene," said Flint. "The only problem is, there are two of them exactly the same."

  I continued to scan the hollo, looking for any clue which might jump out. He was right. On its own, each case would be odd, but not worth delving into below the surface. But two scenes in two different systems that looked so much alike?

  "It's obviously the same killer," I said.

  It wasn't a question.

  "Exactly. But what motive could he possibly have?"

  "How did they keep the Egypt one out of the media? It's the first I've heard of it."

  "Williams' family specifically asked," he said. "Due to the delicate nature of the crime, and his social standing. When Quon popped up last night, I put out the order to keep it on the down low as well, for the same reason."

  I understood where he was coming from. Media circuses are poison to a murder investigation, because by the time everyone has had their turn in the spotlight, whatever leads you might have originally had end up buried in conspiracy theories, red herrings, and just plain bullshit.

  "Two dead men, two missing penises," I muttered. "One big mystery."

  "So you're on the case?" he asked. "You know how much the brass hates these weird ones."

  I sighed.

  "I'll take the Calypso to Beijing right now."

  I headed for the door, but paused when he spoke again.

  "What did you originally come in here for, anyway?"

  I flipped him the bird behind my back as I stalked out, not turning around. He knew damn well why I was there, and he knew damn well he'd headed me off at the pass. I didn't need to see him to know he was wearing a shit-eating grin.

  Three

  The Calypso was a small yacht assigned specifically to me, one of the few perks which came with my post-retirement gig. I'm sure the ship was a huge line item in the ESPD budget, but it was worth every credit to be able to jump between systems without having to rely on the local departments, or worse, public transportation, especially when you're chasing a suspect, and time was of the essence. Earth sector was the biggest, and the need to move from one end to the other in a hurry, mandated I have my own ship.

  It never occurred to me at the time it would be my last moments on Earth Torus for more than six months. My fate was sealed that day for the next two years, when I finally came across the body of James Patterson, which set into motion everything which happened afterwards. Like they say, hindsight is 20/20.

  I stuffed some suits in a bag, and set off for Beijing less than two hours after I left Flint's office, and soon settled in for the long trip. Working alone was second nature by that point, so isolation was never a problem for me. I've since learned there are better ways to live your life, but back then, I never thought twice about it.

  I spent the time reading through peculiar case files that stretched back over several hundred years. Any that had something to do with genital mutilations were at the top of the list, followed by murders by bloodletting. Murder victims died of blood loss all the time, of course, but it was rarely the actual means of killing them. The MO suggested some sort of link to the occult, or at the very least a pathological origin.

  Between case files, I read novels. Entertaining as they were, reality was often more horrible, and thus more interesting.

  I can't tell you how many nights on that first trip I drifted off to sleep, only to snap awake at the last instant, clutching at my crotch, my pulse racing.

  Four

  Whatever answers I might have hoped to find on Beijing didn't materialize. All I ended up with were more questions. The trip did help establish what would become the basis for a two-year investigation of more than a dozen victims, but at that time, all I had was two.

  Augustine Quon was, by most accounts, a simple businessman. He was a divorced father of five, in his early forties, with deep ties to the community, and a long record of sharing the wealth. The local police department had been even more eager to keep the cause of death out of the public eye than I was, and they proved to be a big help in gathering evidence. They'd already finished the forensics by the time I arrived, of course, and they also made sure to check any vid sources from the surrounding neighbourhood for unusual activity around the house.

  Quon's home was modest but elegant, the kind of place you'd associate with someone who had good taste, but also understood the value of a credit. I later found out he'd worked his way up in life, and had amassed his fortune by being a risk-taker in his ventures. He and his wife had split two years earlier, according to Harry Kei, the local police captain assigned to the case. This might have been the Chinese sector, but name damage had already been done before anyone left old Earth.

  "We immediately questioned her," said Kei, as we sipped coffee in his office after I'd scanned the scene. "She was on the other side of the planet at the time, which is a pretty good alibi."

  "True," I said. "Of course, that doesn't mean she didn't have anything to do with it. Does she have a significant other these days?"

  "You mean a boyfriend with a grudge?" He shrugged. "By all accounts, the split was amicable. Quon didn't hesitate to give her custody of the kids, and a good chunk of his fortune. Apparently they still spend Chinese New Year together as a family."

  I'd been hoping that Quon or his wife had somehow been connected to Williams on Egypt, but the more I looked into it, the less they had in common. Both victims were well-to-do, heterosexual men, but Williams had been single, no kids, and something of a hermit in his circles.

  "Nothing unusual from the computer?" I asked.

  It was standard operating procedure to look for any unusual activity on the home computer or wifi, anything which might indicate someone besides the usual occupant had used it. Sometimes we got lucky, but far more often we came away empty-handed.

  Kei called up the details on his PC.

  "No glaringly obvious anomalies, anyway. Typical searches on business-related matters, calls for delivery food, and personal contacts with family members."

  "Any hunches? I'm willing to consider anything at this point."

  "Wish I could help you. To be honest, before I heard about the copycat on Egypt, wait, I suppose ours is the actual copycat, isn't it? I was going to write this off as a lone psycho. But now, I wouldn't hazard a guess. Same weird MO, totally different victims, two different systems? I don't envy you this one."

  I thanked him for his time, and we shook hands. Just before I left, he stopped me.

  "For what it's worth, if anyone's got a chance of solving this, it's you. I've heard a lot of good things about you, Burnside."

  I nodded.

  "Much appreciated, Captain, but to be honest, I'd take a solid lead over a commendation any day."

  Five

  I hung around Beijing for another two weeks, sniffing around in Quon's personal life as much as I could without drawing attention to myself. I'd found over the years the best intel was the stuff gathered with a smile over a beer, rather than shaken out of an informant, or browbeaten from a suspect. So I made my rounds of the bars, introducing myself simply as a buddy of Quon's from Earth, who'd just heard about his horrible murder.

  To a person, everyone I spoke to told me what a wonderful guy he'd been. Honourable, one fellow called him. Another said he was the kind of man you could set your chronometer by. If Augustine Quon said he would do something, then by God, you could believe him.

  Then I met Carey Lee in an upscale bar, and my perspective changed somewhat.

  Lee was Quon's lawyer, the type who takes care of a single client. Some call people like that fixers, though from what I could dig up, none of what Lee did for Quon was below board. But he did know a little more about the man's business style t
han the others I'd talked to.

  "Auggie was a gambler," Lee said over a beer. "The guy was willing to take risks and accept the consequences, you know? He never did things halfway. Sure, sometimes he lost his ass, but most times he raked it in. Like when he went all in on virtual vacations, and everyone said he was nuts. Then the AI revolution took off, and next thing you know, every working stiff in the galaxy is knocking down the door for a week of holidays at a tenth of the price of the real thing, courtesy of VR."

  I nodded, intrigued.

  "But what about when he lost?"

  "That's the thing," said Lee. "Win, lose, it didn't faze him. Auggie would take everything in stride. I think that's what made him such a good gambler."

  "You're saying he liked to partake in a game now and then?"

  I asked it as nonchalantly as I could. I didn't want to spook the guy. Turns out I didn't have to worry.

  "Did he ever!" Lee hooted. "I've seen him clean out a dozen players in a single night. Not surprising, given his IQ. But it took guts, too."

  "So he won more than he lost?"

  "Exponentially more. It got to the point where he had to go to other systems to get any action, because no one on Beijing would take him on anymore."

  I tried to keep my curiosity off my face, not wanting to alarm the man. Instead, I finished my bottle with a toast.

  "To Augustine Quon and his guts."

  We clinked bottles, and downed our drinks. I wouldn't have time to spend thinking about our conversation until weeks later.

  By then, instead of pressing on to Egypt, I was on my way to Honshu.

  Another body had been found.

  Six

  Honshu is deep in the Japanese sector, whereas Beijing is where the Chinese sector joins the spine. In case you haven't worked it out yet, the spine is the unbroken line of some two hundred systems, joining human space together, starting with Last Hope on the inner galaxy end, and Outback at the far end, along the Orion arm of the galaxy.

  Egypt was three systems down the spine from Beijing, but a fresh body trumps everything. Honshu was also three jumps away, but into a cul-de-sac in space. I passed through Nippon for the second time in weeks, and would need to again to get back on the spine wherever I went next.

  I spent the trip to Honshu deep in thought over what connections the first two victims might have had, and I came up short. The Egypt PD had done a passable job of collecting information on Peter S. Williams, and even going there, that was about all I was going to get.

  Like Quon, Williams had money, but that's where the similarities ended. Where Quon was outgoing and fun-loving, Williams was a quiet homebody, practically a loner. They were both technically single, but Williams, by all accounts, had never had a long-term romantic relationship. Quon gave back to his community, Williams didn't give anything to anyone. In fact, investigating officers had concluded the man was pretty much a misanthrope.

  Now there was a third victim to contend with, the corpse I was about to meet on Honshu, one Jeremiah Rourke, entertainer and producer. Married, openly bisexual, and believed to be a huge advocate for, and consumer of, mind-altering substances. Not Japanese, but apparently lived like one. Again, as different from Quon and Williams as he could be.

  Except for the missing penis, of course.

  Rourke's scene didn't tell me anything more than the other two had, but I made a thorough sweep of it anyway. It was still less than four days old, and for crime scenes, relatively untouched, since Flint had made sure local PD knew I was coming. He lived in a virtual funhouse, full of three-dimensional artwork, stairs that led nowhere, and furniture only a contortionist could sit in comfortably.

  This time, I was more concerned about the bedroom itself. Like the others, he'd been on his back at the time of death. I asked the forensic tech who'd joined me from the local PD whether there was any sign of blood on the floor.

  "Nothing at all," she said. "But we assume the killer used some kind of enzyme-based cleaner that essentially dissolved it. They use it in hospitals all the time. We do know that there was blood here, but there's no evidence left."

  "So you're absolutely certain of cause of death?"

  She nodded.

  "Mr. Rourke died from exsanguination of the penile artery, no question."

  Trust a CSI geek with a Japanese accent to make 'got his dick chopped off' sound boring.

  Seven

  I'd been on the road for well over six months by the time I got the call from Earth.

  In the end, I'd visited Egypt, but it proved to be a waste of time. I had it to waste anyway, and I was getting in some really good sightseeing on the ESPD credit.

  Heading back to the Earth Torus, I'd been detoured to Granada, and another killing, this time of one Dmitri Willis.

  Granada was in the French sector, and well off the beaten track. In spacial terms, as the ship's map showed me, it wasn't all that far from Honshu, but jump points went where they did, and not where was convenient. I'd had to backtrack to Nippon to regain the spine, gone down spine the other way to Egypt, hit Beijing again on the way back, and was sightseeing my way down the Scandinavian systems at a leisurely pace, when the word reached me. It was well over a week later I arrived at the crime scene.

  Willis had been a middle-aged financier with a long list of ex-wives and twenty children police were aware of, though that number might have been higher. He was a ladies' man who enjoyed flaunting his wealth, and was known to go outside the lines when it came to the law, in the pursuit of his goals. There were no indictments on file, but the local PD had more than its fair share of rumours swirling.

  A week on Granada had done little to advance the investigation, other than to make absolutely certain we were dealing with the same killer in each scenario. By now, any hopes I might have had of solving this thing quickly, and getting on with retirement, were gone. The killer was always two steps ahead of me.

  I spent the trip between Granada and Earth poring over the physical evidence of all four cases, and formulating the beginnings of a possible theory. That's essentially what detective work is, coming up with theories, and either shooting them down, or running with them. Unfortunately, you do a lot more of the former than the latter.

  In order to keep my mind fresh, I kept on sightseeing, taking a few hours off while over a planet, and letting my mind recharge with something pleasant. In space, it was all work, eat, and sleep.

  Each scene, as I've said, was basically the same. Every victim was male, obviously, and had money. They were found on their backs, without any sign of a struggle, unless of course, you considered a missing penis a sign of a struggle. The killing blow had been delivered with what amounted to surgical precision, which indicated the weapon had to be an incredibly sharp instrument, almost certainly metal, with a blade at least an inch wide and two inches long. Otherwise, and this is the kind of thing you learn as a detective which sticks with you way longer than you ever wanted it to, there would have to be a sawing motion with the blade, in order to sever all the muscle and tissue, which would leave scarring around the site. A laser was out, because there were never any signs of cauterization.

  All I knew was I was after a killer who sliced off the victims' trouser snake, and drained the blood without leaving any at the scene, or any marks on the corpse. Whether that meant they somehow cleaned the blood afterwards, or had a special means of draining it which didn't leave evidence, I couldn't say. What I could say is that every time a forensics person shrugged at me, I got a little more pissed off.

  Now I was on my way back to Earth. I'd like to say it was for a vacation, but it was to look into another murder. But this time, it was one Arnem Heissman, and there was something unusual about him.

  It was kind of sad that 'missing his penis', wasn't considered unusual in my job any more by that point.

  I found myself back in Harry Flint's office almost exactly six months to the day after I'd walked into it last, intent on dropping my badge on his desk. Now I was there to
talk about the latest victim in a series of cases I wasn't solving. Every ounce of leverage I'd had that day was gone, and it pissed me off.

  "Detective," the captain said as I entered.

  He made no move to stand, so I simply propped myself against the wall, and folded my arms over my chest.

  "Wish I was here under better circumstances," I said.

  "Me, too. I was hoping you'd have this killer in the bag by now, not be looking into a fresh victim right here on home turf."

  The tone in his voice was like a lecturing principal, and I'm ashamed to admit I let it get to me. Sure, I didn't have to be there, but damn it, catching this killer was turning into a matter of pride. And the fact I was back home with nothing to show for it, bugged the hell out of me.

  "Let's just get on with it," I said. "I need to see the murder scene."

  "We've managed to keep it unmolested, just like the others. But this one hasn't been easy. As you know, Arnem Heissman isn't exactly a low-profile individual."

  I'd heard of Heissman, of course. He was an industrialist with interests throughout the spine, mostly mining, but also some manufacturing. He was by far the wealthiest of the victims so far.

  "His family has been pushing to keep it under wraps," said Flint. "They're terrified a scandal might break over this. So far, they've made it sound like natural causes, and the brass has been going along with it. Giving out the actual cause of death before a killer is found, won't do anyone any good."

  And that's my order to get this fucking case solved, I thought grimly.

  "Maybe I can find something in this one that will trigger something," I said. "Something out of the ordinary. Barring that, maybe a pattern that'll help me predict the next one."

  Flint looked at me sternly.

  "I hope you find something," he said. "For your sake."

  For a brief second as I headed for the door, I thought about pitching my badge right into his face, and telling him to stuff his killer up his ass. But we both would have known it was just bluster.