Sagramanda, a Novel of Near-Future India

man's hand, but he wanted to. Not only did he know what a break like this potentially might be worth, he had a pretty good idea what the old man received in the way of take-home pay after forty years of standing around watching tourists.

Leaving the museum and stepping back out into the appalling heat, Bubba commented as he put away his recorder. 'Good to have a lead on this one, sir.'

'Yes. We were going nowhere fast.' Keshu headed for their car, secure in the no-parking zone at the base of the entry steps.

'Do you think if we find this other woman she might lead us not just to the murderer of these two unfortunate visitors, but to the serial killer himself that everyone in the department is talking about?'

Avoiding the visitors both ascending and descending the steps around them, Keshu paused halfway down the marble staircase. He ignored the effusive, recorded greetings being spoken by virtuals of the Mahatma and assorted other Gandhis to stare hard at the junior officer. 'What makes you so sure, Corporal, that the third person is not the killer we seek? Do you not think a woman could commit these crimes? Or is it because the very informative old guard-wallah said he thought she might be white?'

Bubba was not afraid to meet his superior's gaze as they continued toward their car. 'Neither one, sir. But the pictures from Forensics show very extreme wounds. It would take an exceptionally strong woman, of whatever background, to inflict those even with a very sharp weapon.'

Raising his right arm toward his lips, Keshu uttered a terse command toward his bracelet pickup. The police cruiser unlocked, allowing them both to enter. The silent fuel-cell-powered electric

engine started up instantly. Leaning on the accelerator, Corporal Bubba guided it toward the parking lot exit.

'We know nothing of the physical capabilities of this killer,' Keshu made clear. 'There are some physically very strong women in this world. There are also other ways of enhancing one's strength. Steroids, vitamins. Banned substances. Of course,' he added with a nod, 'you may be perfectly correct. This third woman may only be a lead in the deaths of the two tourists. Or she may have nothing to do with it at all. But she is by far the best lead we have had so far.'

'I believe she is the only lead we have, sir.'

'Thanks for reminding me of that, Corporal,' Keshu said dryly. He gestured to where his subordinate's recorder now rested in its charging slot in the console between them. 'Thank Rama for the acuteness of the old man's memory. When we enter it all into the reconstructor, we'll at least have an image of someone to look for. And if this other woman is not directly connected to the killings, maybe she can supply us with additional useful information.'

Without activating the car's siren or lights, Bubba pulled out onto a main street and slid over into the services lane, heading north. Effort lessly, he eased in between a garbage truck and a service transport carrying a team of power line technicians. The in-dash AI smoothly synchronized the cruiser's speed to that of the other vehicles. Overhead, the double-decked lanes of the same expressway vibrated slightly with the hum of southbound traffic.

'I think she should not be too difficult to locate, sir, if the recon structor can re-create a reasonably accurate portrait. There are not that many Europeans who are resident in the city. I would think there would be very few tall European women.'

Typically, Keshu was brooding again, always focused on the worst-case scenario. 'She may not be resident in the city. Maybe she lives in Delhi, or Bangalore, and only comes here to visit. To kill-if she is our killer. Which reminds me that once we have an image, it must be disseminated to every police department in the country. So we have a country to search, not just Sagramanda.'

'Yes sir.' Bubba was clearly disheartened by his superior's coldly professional analysis.

'Furthermore,' the inspector continued, 'it is also possible that she lives outside the country and only visits to commit murder.' He was deep in thought now, arguing with himself. 'But I think that less likely, since it would be too easy to pick out such an individual at points of entry. No, I think our serial killer lives in the country, though not necessarily in the city. I am less certain the witness we seek is European. Perhaps she is mixed. That would extend the list of possible suspects into the many tens of thousands.'

He sighed and leaned back against the cushioning seat. It had been designed and built by Maruti to comfort and protect a body at pursuit speeds up to 300k an hour. Given the population density within Sagramanda, however, chase speeds tended to be in the single digits.

'If our quarry is a woman,' he went on, 'it would go a long way toward explaining the killer's success. Most people would not expect from a woman the kind of violence on display in the official Forensics' recordings. And she might successfully slip in and out of places with a large knife or sword where local Security would immediately detect a gun.' He could not keep from thinking of the ceremonial kirpan at his waist whose function was purely religious.

'She could be working with the actual killer,' Bubba suggested as they dove off the expressway and back onto city streets. 'Maybe she serves as the bait.'

Keshu nodded slowly. 'But to what end? None of the victims who have been slain in this manner, including our unlucky Australians, had anything missing from their person. So robbery is not a motive, either for a solo killer, a pair, or a group. Neither have any of the victims been sexually assaulted. They do not appear to be linked by anything: gender, age, ethnicity, caste-nothing. The only thing that ties them together is the method by which they were murdered.' He looked over at the corporal. 'We are faced with the worst kind of serial killer: one who slays arbitrarily, and generates no pattern.'

'Well, at least now we have, if not a direct link to the killer, a potential witness, sir.'

The corporal was being disingenuous, Keshu knew. Trying to offer a glimmer of hope to a senior inspector notorious for his pessimism. He ought to be grateful for the thought, but he was too depressed.

Instead of someone performing random acts of kindness they had someone, or several someones, at large in the city intent on carrying out random acts of murder. If resourceful in hiding their tracks and good at leaving no clues, such an individual would be difficult enough to track down in a town of ten thousand. In Sagramanda, such a task was more than daunting. It was also a challenge; something that had driven Keshu since before he had undergone the sacred Amrit ceremony. Whether the challenge would prove too great for him and for the entire department to handle remained to be seen. Meanwhile, he had already come to one certain conclusion about their killer or killers.

They were not going to stop killing of their own accord.

Motive, he thought furiously. If only they could come up with a motive. Even serial killers had reasons for the outrages they committed. What bound the blade-slain victims together? What link was he overlooking?

Corporal Bubba said nothing more during the remainder of the drive back to headquarters, addressing himself neither to the car's AI nor to its other human occupant. He knew that both were deeply engaged in the business of pro cessing information.

*7*

Chal was a patient man, but the lack of leads was beginning to irritate him. Never particularly fond of Indian food, he was also growing tired of eating at the numerous Western fast-food franchises that had extended their french-fried tentacles throughout the city. He could afford better, but preferred to avoid the fancier restaurants. For one thing, such destinations were among the few where despite his assiduous lifelong efforts to main tain his anonymity, he might be recognized. For another, he took an almost perverse delight in subjecting his body to the corruption fast food could engender. Lastly, the very act of eating wasted time. The dour tracker regarded eating as akin to putting fuel in a car: a necessity to ensure forward motion best completed in the least possible amount of time.

Yet it seemed as if the time thus saved was being wasted. None of his contacts had brought him anything useful. That was the conun drum he was mulling over in his mind as he walked down Park Street.

It was natural that he would take his time; not only because he enjoyed walking, but because he was on his way to report his lack of progress to Mr. Nayari. It was from Mr. Nayari's company that the much-sought-after