“This isn’t gonna be like the rest of ‘em, is it, Nick?” Ames wondered.
“No, honey, it’s not. Not at all.”
“Damn.”
Just then, Ashton saw the third ampoule of drug come out of Dr. Martin’s bag.
“Oh shit,” he said. “Here it comes, guys. Zone out a little, if you can.”
When Carr continued to shout obscenities and fight, Mercer drew a deep breath, then met Dr. Martin’s troubled gaze. The two men stared at each other for long moments; both knew what was coming. And they knew there would be no going back.
“Do it, Doctor,” Mercer said in a low tone.
This ampoule had a label that was completely red. A brilliant crimson, warning kind of red, and for good reason. Martin loaded it into the injector and pressed it against Carr’s throat. Seconds later, Carr’s body went limp, and he stared at them with horrified eyes as his profanities silenced, apparently despite his best efforts.
Mercer drew another deep breath and began.
“What is your full name?”
This time there was no resistance to Mercer’s interrogation, and Carr’s eyes grew even more horrified, and more than a little haunted. Mercer tried to ignore his expression, knowing these moments were important, in many respects.
“William Harold Carr,” came the almost-monotone response.
“Were you a former IPD Headquarters staffer?”
“Yes.”
“How did you survive the destruction of the original Headquarters?”
“Out working on a crime scene with Captain Bradly and Inspector Arnold.”
“Where is Inspector Arnold now?”
“He said enough was enough, and retired.”
“Where did he go?”
“Off-planet someplace. Dunno. Home world, maybe?”
“I see. So you were not there when the missiles struck the Headquarters building?”
“No.”
“How did you come to be back in the IPD?”
“We went back to Headquarters at the end of shift. Marines were patrolling what was left of it, and digging out dead bodies. We got rounded up and interrogated… but not like this.”
“Did they ask you if you were a straight cop?”
“Yes.”
“What did you answer to them?”
“I said I was.”
“Did you lie when you told the Imperial Marines you were a straight cop?”
“Yeah.”
“Who told you about this ‘oldies’ gathering?”
“Cap’n Bradly.”
“Theodore A. Bradly?”
“Yes.”
“Was it his idea to kill Carter?”
“No.”
“Whose idea was it to kill Carter?”
“Mine.”
“Did you tell your idea to Bradly?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That it was a good idea and we should do it.”
“How did he say to go about it?”
“Put together an ‘oldies’ gathering.”
“So it was his idea to gather a group to conspire to kill Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Was that when he told you to organize the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you to organize it for him?”
“Yes.”
About then, a look of panic began to grow in Carr’s eyes, and his answers grew more and more terse and monosyllabic, seeming almost strained despite the drug, as if Carr’s brain were struggling to find the answers to the questions Mercer kept throwing at him.
“Who else was at the meeting?” Mercer continued.
“Uh. Peabody.”
“Investigator Winston Peabody?”
“Yeah.”
“Who else?”
“Holland. Seeger.”
“Officers George Holland and David Seeger?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Williams. Lowe. Wang.”
“Police officers Hunter Williams, Matthew Lowe, and Theodore Wang?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyone else?”
“Uhh… W-warner.”
“Officer Noah Warner?”
“Y-yes. Yup.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Co-couple en-enforce-enforcers.”
“Who brought them?”
“W-Williams.”
“Hunter Williams?”
“Uh. Ye-yeah.”
“Who asked Williams to bring them?”
“I d-did.”
“Were you ordered to do so?”
“Yeah.”
“Who ordered you to do so?”
“Ted.”
“Theodore Bradly?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember the enforcers’ names?”
“N-no.”
“Was one of them Joseph Hennig?”
“Ma-maybe. S-sounds fa-familiar. Um, yeah, I think… I think he w-was there.”
“What about Peter Brandt?”
“Yeah, I-I think so. Him too.”
“Do you know why Bradly wanted enforcers?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did Bradly want enforcers?”
“Do the d-dirty work.”
“What dirty work?”
“Kill C-Carter a-an’ Ashton an’ the others.”
“Why did your group need them to do the dirty work?”
“So it c-couldn’t be tr-traced back to us.”
“Did you run the meetings?”
“No.”
“Did you assist in running the meetings?”
“Yeah, uh, yes.”
“Who was in charge of the meetings?”
“T-Ted.”
“Ted’s last name, please.”
“Buh, uh, Bradly.”
“Theodore Bradly?”
“Yes.”
It was the last coherent word he ever said. Within moments, the experienced officer – who had fought the interrogation from the moment he was brought into the interrogation room, and as a result, had been taken through successively more powerful drugs – lost his mind and began to scream irrationally.
There was no antagonist for this.
“Dear God,” Carter murmured, even as Lieutenant Cox sighed heavily and began shutting down the telemetry equipment. “He’s become a screaming lunatic.”
“Exactly,” Ashton replied, then glanced at his wife, who sat beside him, silent and very pale. “Cal, honey, are you okay?”
“Um, yeah, Nick, I, um, I think…” Ames gave him a desperate glance, then looked at Peterson. “Uh, Colonel, ma’am, may I be excused?”
“Go,” Peterson replied in a slightly strangled voice. “I may join you.”
“Let’s all go,” Carter decided then. “Nick, you’re in the best shape of any of us, owing to experience; get us out of here to someplace we can unwind for a few minutes, and… well, and maybe barf.”
“Yes, sir,” Ashton said. “Been there, done that.”
Ashton rose, patting Cox on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Peter,” he told the guardsman. “Good to see you, even if the circumstances suck.”
“Likewise, and I feel the same,” Cox sighed again.
Ashton led the others out of the observation room.
In the interrogation room, Dr. Martin patted Mercer on the shoulder, then jerked his head over his shoulder at the door. Subdued and decidedly taciturn, Mercer nodded, then rose and left the room, as Martin called for medical assistance through VR. Within five minutes, several orderlies with ICPD badge-type patches embroidered on their scrubs entered the room with the appropriate equipment.
Carr was
