Tropic of Death Read online

  ‘I developed the virus as a test program. Its release was an accident.

  One day you’ll all realise your mistake.’

  ‘Careful, Freddy. That sounds like a threat.’

  They were interrupted by a detective constable knocking and entering the room.

  ‘The monks confirm Freddy’s story,’ the officer said. ‘He arrived late afternoon, fixed their website and was caught on the island by the high tide. They put him up for the night in one of their monastic cells, would you believe?’ The officer gave a grunt of admiration. ‘I think that’s what you call a perfect alibi.’

  Freddy stood up. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Okay.’ Jarrett nodded. ‘But I know you’re lying about something

  - and I’ll find out what.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Freddy blew out a sigh of relief as he walked out of the police station and crossed the street. He was relieved to be away from the stifling interview room and out from under the penetrating gaze of the detective sergeant.

  As he dodged between pavement cafe tables in the shade of palm trees, Freddy pulled out his mobile phone and fired off a text to someone with special connections. It was a dealer who claimed he could get his hands on a military code-breaker, something Freddy was in the market for. With that sort of technology at his disposal, beating the Whitley Sands firewall became a real possibility. He was determined now to pull off a revenge mission against the research base. In the meantime, he planned a free fall into forgetfulness.

  8

  Rita was sitting in the squad room doing nothing in particular when Detective Inspector Jack Loftus called her into his office. She hoped it meant a decision had finally been made about her new role as a criminal profiler. She found Loftus watering the potted fern by his window.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he told her.

  She sat down and watched him remove a dying frond then check the moisture around the plant’s roots, before placing his china watering can on a shelf beside a framed photo of his grandchildren. His meditative ritual over, the head of Sex Crimes glanced at the clouds accumulating over the city skyline, sat down behind his desk and looked at her squarely.

  ‘The good news is they’ve created a new position for you, complete with a new title and a higher pay grade,’ he said.

  ‘Thank God, at last!’ said Rita with relief. ‘I was starting to doubt it would ever happen.’

  ‘You’ll be appointed the force’s Special Police Investigative Resources Officer.’

  ‘That’s a mouthful.’

  ‘Yes,’ Loftus agreed. ‘Not my choice, by the way.’

  ‘And it spells SPIRO,’ she observed. ‘Bit of a dubious honour.

  Which bureaucratic genius came up with that? No, let me guess.

  Nash.’

  ‘As a matter of fact it was Superintendent Nash.’

  ‘That figures,’ said Rita. ‘Does a big new office come with the title?’

  ‘Sadly, no. Nor will your new post come under the umbrella of the Intelligence Data Centre or the Behavioural Analysis Unit.

  Essentially, you’ll be on your own.’

  ‘Is that the bad news?’

  ‘Partly. And it means you’ll no longer have a desk in the squad room. There was even a suggestion of shifting you to another building in the city.’

  ‘Nash again,’ she said. ‘He’d like to sideline me, Jack.’

  ‘Well, I’ve forestalled him. The room you use for research is now our Criminal Profiling Archive. So you stay where you are. Nash isn’t the only one who can play with formalities,’ Loftus added with a rueful smile. ‘The announcement of your new appointment will be made tomorrow and you’ll start in the job six weeks from now.’

  Rita couldn’t help smiling broadly. ‘I can’t believe it’s really happening. All the hard work and study was worth it.’

  ‘You can be proud of what you’ve achieved. You’ve broken new ground at a difficult time for the force.’

  ‘I have, haven’t I?’ But as she relaxed she noticed he was frowning. ‘Do I detect a note of caution?’

  ‘You know as well as I do what’s going on around us - “the battle within”. We’re on shifting ground between reform and resistance to change.’

  ‘And I know which side I’m on.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Loftus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s just as well you’re staying where I can keep an eye on you.’

  ‘You’re worried I’m going to tread on people’s toes.’

  ‘Sometimes you need reminding about which battles to fight.

  And because I’m the one who set you on your present career path, I have a responsibility to watch your back.’

  ‘Relax,’ she laughed. ‘I know what I’m facing.’

  ‘Are you sure? Much of the foot-dragging over your appointment was because of concern about how to deploy you. After all, you’re one of a kind now - sui generis. ‘

  ‘Now that worries me, you quoting Latin. I can almost smell the incense.’

  ‘Very funny. What I’m saying is you face a potential pitfall. In a way you’ll be your own boss, with access to all the crime squads, but in another sense you’ll be a floating specialist, moving from one section to another.’

  ‘I take your point,’ she agreed. ‘I could end up being nomadic in an organisation structured around entrenched territorial loyalties.

  That’s the cops for you. It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. As a woman in a male stronghold I’m used to being cold-shouldered.’

  ‘As long as you’re aware of it.’

  ‘Of course I am. You know what the men in Homicide call what I do? White woman’s magic! That’s what I’m up against. Most cops are still old school. Anti-academic. Maybe I should go for broke. I’ve got the chance to do a PhD in psychology.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the right move. Anyway, there’s a better alternative in the pipeline. I’ve been on the phone to Quantico.

  The FBI is prepared to give you further training, with a six-month attachment next year.’

  ‘Now that’s great news, though I’m not sure my boyfriend would agree.’

  ‘So you and Byron Huxley are still going strong?’ asked Loftus.

  ‘We are,’ she answered with a smile. ‘And tonight we’re marking a milestone - a year ago today I moved in with him, symbolically at least.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, distinctly unimpressed. ‘I thought you were still flat-sharing with your Ecuadorian friend.’

  ‘I’m based at Lola’s during the week. Commuting from South Yarra’s a lot easier than the Dandenongs. But I stay at Byron’s place on weekends.’

  ‘I hesitate to ask, but what was the symbolic aspect of moving in with him?’

  ‘My books and CD collection. When I unpacked them at Olinda he saw it as a definitive gesture. It certainly would be for him.’

  ‘Is that so? Sounds like you’re both a bit light on emotional commitment. How are you marking this milestone?’

  ‘A champagne dinner at the Windsor,’ she said as she stood up to go. ‘And now there’s a double reason to celebrate.’

  Rita walked back to the squad room exhilarated at the prospect of her new post. It would release her from routine work and give her the freedom to pursue an independent course. Despite Loftus’s misgivings about office politics, she resolved to tackle any obstacles with her usual single-minded approach. As she sat down at her computer screen, she was distracted by a new email from Queensland. Detective Sergeant Steve Jarrett wanted her to contact him again, but this time there were no attachments. It was a week since the story of the head on the pylon had been the focus of national media coverage, and Rita wondered if something fresh had emerged.

  She picked up the phone and called him. ‘Hi, Jarrett. I hope you’re not about to hit the news again.’

  ‘So do I,’ he answered. ‘Thanks for getting back to me, Van Hassel - I’ve been waiting for your call.’

  ‘Any progress with the local cri
me wave?’

  ‘Not that you’d notice. I’ve had the boys from Homicide here to hold my hand. A bunch of hotshots telling me how it is. But they packed up and went back to the big city yesterday, none the wiser.’

  ‘Any suspects?’ Rita asked.

  ‘No suspects. No leads. No apparent motive. Nothing to tell me why people keep losing their heads around here.’

  ‘But the count still stands at two?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘That sounds ominous.’

  ‘We’ve got some sort of wacko on the loose,’ Jarrett said with a sigh. ‘What I’m about to tell you hasn’t been made public, and it won’t be. It’s about the way the two victims were killed.’

  ‘Both shot in the head?’

  ‘Shot, yes, but not with a bullet. The “man in the mud” had a hole in the top of his skull and a trajectory wound through what was left of his brain. The second victim, Rachel Macarthur, had an identical hole in her skull. This time, though, the pathologist found what caused it. There was a nail wedged in her ribs. It means they were both shot at very close range with a nail gun.’

  ‘Now that is interesting,’ said Rita. ‘But why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because your name is linked to the case. Because it looks like I’ve got a serial killer in my backyard. And because I’ve found out you’re a criminal profiler - and we haven’t got one of those up here.’

  ‘All right, I’m listening.’

  ‘I want my regional commander to put in a formal request for you to come up and help with the investigation. That’s only if it’s okay with you, of course, and if you haven’t got too much on your plate already.’

  ‘As it happens, I’ve got sod-all on my plate.’

  ‘Queensland Police would pay for your travel, accommodation and modest expenses,’ said Jarrett. ‘And you’d get to experience our tropical beach resort.’

  ‘That sounds like a sales pitch.’

  ‘You have to admit it’s tempting.’

  ‘I’ll have to check with my boss,’ Rita replied. ‘But your timing’s good.’

  ‘That’s what all the girls say.’

  Rita spent the next hour sorting through files, books and magazines in her small, glass-panelled office. It was like a minor ritual of adjustment as she prepared for her future role.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Erin, pushing open the door. ‘You’ve got the nod at last.’

  ‘That was quick,’ replied Rita. ‘It’s not supposed to be announced till tomorrow.’

  ‘What do you expect? This is a building full of detectives. Soon as I heard I guessed you’d be lying low in your cubbyhole.’

  ‘Cubbyhole, excuse me!’ Rita stretched back in her swivel chair, gesturing at the over-stacked bookcases, grey metal filing cabinets and cluttered pin boards. ‘From now on this is officially the Criminal Profiling Archive.’

  ‘And just a few years ago it was a storeroom.’ Erin laughed.

  ‘Anyway, there’s something else I need to talk to you about - or someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Steve Jarrett.’ She perched her backside on the edge of Rita’s desk. ‘He just phoned me. Says you’re going up to Whitley.’

  ‘That’s right, on Tuesday. Jack’s okayed the secondment. What did Jarrett want?’

  ‘He wanted to know if he could confide in you.’

  ‘About your relationship?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Erin gave Rita an affectionate slap on the knee.

  ‘He knows you know. That’s enough.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The case up there - the one you’re going to work on. It’s causing problems he hasn’t dealt with before. Political problems.

  He’s being given a hard time.’

  ‘And he’s nervous?’

  ‘Well, he’s not shitting himself exactly. But he’s definitely worried. So he wanted to know if he ought to fill you in.’

  ‘What’d you say?’

  ‘I told him to be completely open because you’d find out anyway. I said you’re like a fucking mind-reader at times.’

  ‘Thanks. You got any other input?’

  ‘Yeah. If it gets heavy up there, I want you to call me. Even if it’s just to talk things over.’

  ‘Okay. Is that all?’

  ‘No. One other thing.’ Erin gave her a sleazy smile. ‘When you see Jarrett you can say hello for me.’

  With nothing to keep her at work, Rita left the office early and made her way to the Fast Forward Science Convention being staged at the Docklands exhibition centre. The vast site was crowded with corporate displays from around the world, staffed by hyperactive sales people busy doing marketing pitches. The week-long convention had also attracted entertainment multi-nationals, with several halls devoted to computer games, sci-fi movies and tech toys. Streams of people moved through strobe and laser-lit sideshows with avid looks on their faces. The whole place projected a mood of overstimulation.

  Rita joined a queue of undergraduates and cyber-geeks filing into the main auditorium, which was filling up with people waiting for the guest speaker to arrive . Already a buzz of expectation could be felt in the hall. His reputation as an orator matched his growing fame as an apostle of cybernetics, and his young admirers had flocked from around the city.

  Rita was sliding into a seat at the rear as applause broke out.

  Professor Byron Huxley was strolling in, looking more like a sportsman than an academic in his polo shirt and chinos. He acknowledged the welcome with a nod, and Rita smiled to herself, proud of the man who’d been her lover and companion for the past year.

  During that time she’d seen his influence spread beyond the boundaries of academic life and scientific journals, with appearances on TV and even in the glossy pages of a women’s magazine. His youthful good looks and easy smile made him a natural pin-up, something Rita had mixed feelings about, although Huxley seemed oblivious to the distractions of glamour. His focus remained firmly scientific, even when he was playing the role of populariser, something which had drawn fire from critics within the university establishment. The disapproval didn’t bother Huxley, who saw it as validating his unorthodox approach. His breakthroughs in research, along with the international recognition he was gaining, were defence enough. Besides, he was strongly committed to making science accessible to the general public.

  He stepped up to the rostrum, opened his laptop and waited for the hubbub to subside. Then he spoke in a loud clear voice.

  ‘ Cogito ergo sum.’ He was met with puzzled expressions. ‘I can see from the blank faces that Latin’s a dead language to most of you, so let me translate: I think, therefore I am. ‘

  His words brought a hush to the hall. He let the silence linger, adding its edge, before he went on.

  ‘Human intelligence is a remarkable thing. Infinite yet organic.

  A source of genius, and corruption. It is consciousness floating in a biological soup, a sublime mechanism of thought housed in wet membrane and irrigated by a throbbing river of blood.’

  Huxley gripped the sides of the lectern as he gazed at the audience.

  ‘Imagine, by contrast, a smooth crystalline intelligence. Instead of relying on fluid secretions and soft tissue, it inhabits a cool silicon universe of thought. A mind that is serene, undisturbed by the tyranny of glands and hormones. It is free of the dark cesspits of the unconscious for it perceives everything throughout.

  An awareness that has no focus because it is total consciousness. An intelligence that is all-knowing.’

  A photographer fired off some shots, the flashes adding to the strangely electric atmosphere.

  ‘More than three hundred and fifty years ago,’ Huxley continued,

  ‘French scientist, mathematician and rationalist Rene Descartes founded modern scientific method. He also gave us the quote I used a moment ago. We owe so much to the discoveries of such people of genius, resulting in where we find ourselves today. Here and now, in the opening decade of
the twenty-first century, we are moving across the threshold of a radical change in which human beings will merge with their technology. We are, in a sense, on the brink of the post-human era, extending our mental capabilities with what we plug into our skulls.

  ‘Let me list some of the innovations … Neural implants will allow connections from people’s heads directly into computers.

  Swarms of nanorobotic machines will be injected into the circulatory system to help us reverse-engineer the human brain by exploring the maze of blood vessels and monitoring all electrical activities. Scanning techniques will reveal the intricacies of the neuro-biological structure within the brain, including synaptic connections and neurotransmitter clusters. Molecular robots will be able to reprogram the dynamics of cognitive processing to heighten perception, expand mental faculties and interface with virtual reality.

  ‘At the same time, neuromorphic engineering will analyse how individual neurons, circuits and architectures compute information, store knowledge and adjust to evolutionary change. This will enable the design of artificial neural configurations based on the principles of biological nervous systems. Self-organising and genetic algorithms will assimilate patterns of information in a way that corresponds to human learning. New architectures using nanotech circuits constructed of atoms, quantum processing and advanced neural computing will allow us to re-create the entire framework of the brain, including the structure of memory. Finally, we could scan someone’s head and download the replicated “mind program”

  into a computer.’

  Rita felt a tingling down her spine as she watched him. It was a side to Huxley she’d witnessed on only a few occasions: the charismatic teacher determined to spread enlightenment. For the next half-hour she listened to him expanding on his theme, detailing the future scientific breakthroughs he’d listed, convincing his audience that a new cybernetic order was already emerging.

  Then he looked at the implications.

  ‘So where does the science of intelligence lead? Let me put it this way. What’s the possibility of me, Byron Huxley, downloading my consciousness into a computer? Sound absurd? Then think about this. Molecular biology looks at information as the essential code expressed by our bodies. So the challenge is to decode the brain’s information-processing methods. With the devices I’ve just mentioned, it becomes possible for Byron, as a personality construct, to be programmed into a computer that stores my identity. This is the triumph of pattern over physical life. The being that unfolds within the machine will appear to have the same character and memories as the Byron standing before you now. And when this Byron is pushing up daisies and no longer exists in his organic brain, the machine Byron will endure. Post-human indeed! As long as the pattern exists in cyberspace, Byron has acquired a type of immortality.