SERGEANT SILEX: The Frehardt Case

Sergeant Silex sat at his desk sorting, alphabetizing, and re-sorting the files that were in a constant cycle of being removed and replaced. It seemed to him that the files come back faster than they could go out. He would leave his desk for ten minutes to put away a few files and take a few out, and every time he came back, without fail, the stack in the “In” bin would double. The files themselves were near-field data drives that looked similar to 8-tracks. They were stored in single rows in shallow drawers, and there were many drawers per column and many columns to a unit. Silex maintained a room that was similar in size to a small convenience store, a library with file units for bookcases.

Detective Ravenguild poked his head through the door and said, “Hey! I’m going to lunch. Come with me, Andy.”

Silex cast a glance at the “In” bin and was relieved to find it empty. “Sound good. Gimme a sec.”

Simultaneously, he stuffed his arms through the beige trench coat and hit control-S on the computer, then locked up.

Thunk! Closed the metal and glass commercial doors behind them, as they left the precinct. Ravenguild's car merged into the cars on the electro-lane street, that blazed by in mechanized efficiency. Ever since the 1960’s people had been dreaming of flying cars. But because levitation technology seems to be an elusive white rabbit, engineers explored different avenues. They experimented with jet engines but the fuel was too expensive to be economic. Next, they tried multirotor crafts, a venture that finally took off. So a city was dedicated as a test bed for these VTOL vehicles. But a new problem arose. A city full of thousands and thousands of spinning rotors made a wind tunnel of the streets. Light things had to be anchored or else blown away. Clothing had to be tight or held in place by hand. Then commercial buildings were forced to construct foyers to the entrances, because every time the automated doors opened, the turbulent wind wreaked havoc in the store’s interior. The engineers opted for a less windy form of transportation, electro-lanes. Nanotechnology, which was mixed into the paints that the D.O.T. marked streets, was then paired with the latest generation of auto-steering automobiles. Clean interiors. Minimal driver controls, for emergencies only. Like Apple devices on wheels. End of vehicular discourse, and just in time too!

Tom Ravenguild pressed one of the few buttons on the dash and the doors swung upward.

“What is this place?” Andy straightened the hem of his coat and followed Tom up the stairs to what looked like a passenger coach suspended in the ally.

“A food-tram! They serve the best burgers and fries.” They slipped passed the waitress and slid into the red upholstered bench seats. “Their chicken sandwiches are also really good.” Tom unbuttoned his coat, leaned back, and stared out the window. “When… When are you going to apply for field work again?”

“No.” Andy shook his head, “Not going to. I had my moment of glory. I don’t think they’d let me- neither should you.”

“That wasn’t-”

“Good afternoon,” said the waitress in a smart dress and apron. “What can I get you two?”

“Saved by the belle,” Tom said. They gave their orders, never to return to that subject. The burgers and fries were indeed good as was the service.

“What are you working on?” Silex handed his card to the waitress, who just waved her palm implant over it.

“I’m going to the courthouse when we get done here.- Extract ten for yourself, Sweety.” He said, with a smile.

“Thank you, detective. You two have a not-too-adventurous day!” She handed back their cards.

“Same to you… Yeah, I gotta go to the courthouse to testify in the state vs Faust case.” They squeezed passed the waitress and patron and descended the stairs. “This Faust guy walks into the clinic and gets his vaccine. You know, the one that has the narcotic in it. One periodic shot won’t bother you, but any more could make you high.”

“Did he have a prescription?” Andy fell into the passenger seat and closed the door.

“Yeah! And I’ll get to that, a little later.”

With the destination set and a push of a button, the autonomous car waited for a break in the traffic, then merged.

“He walks to the clinic up the road and does the same thing. Two more times he does this, but at the last, he hands the nurse his ID and she says that he doesn’t appear in their system. So he lays out seven IDs-- Seven, now! On the counter and tells her to find the right ID that he uses there.”

“Ha-haa! He’s so high.” Andy shifted in the inward-facing chair.

“Yeah. Needless to say, the nurse called Vice, and that’s where I came in.”

“Whatever happened to junkies? Dealers, pushers, and buyers? Now, all we have is people addicted to ‘medicine’. Crooked pharmacists selling the stuff. Vaxxies breaking into clinics to get their fix. Or even forging IDs as with Faust.”

“Preach it…” Tom said as he perused his device. “Hey, we gotta ‘detour’. Boss-man wants to meet up at the Brighella Theatre.

“That’s only a few blocks from the office, I’ll walk back.”

As the new coordinates were entered, the car fluidly shifted lanes and then slowed to the curb, two blocks down. The Brighella Theatre stood out like a steeple in the city and easily was the city’s most renowned landmark. The theater was decidedly Brutalist-Futurism, but the architect messaged such graceful details into the angular structure, as to put the Palais Garnier to shame. Andy, approximately following Ravenguild, ambled over the red velvet carpets, with his hands in his trouser pockets, which caused his coat to bunch up like a bustle. High overhead in the copula, angles and demons waged a motionless war. Maidens that stood watch by the grand stairs held aloft pearl spheres with fiery coronae.

“Ravenguild!” Called the broad-shouldered man, standing with two others. Captain Bancel’s speech was fast and frank. Gesturing to the well-dressed man with him, he began. “This is Anton Peretti, the owner of this establishment. He requested police protection on the night of the twelfth. From suspicious activity caught on the security cameras, Mister Peretti has reason to believe that someone intends to attack the theater.”

Andy’s eyes roamed over the luxurious intricacies in the lobby and settled on a sign that heralded the special unveiling of Franchot Bardau’s latest sculpture, which was to be preceded by a ceremonial opera. “On the twelfth only.” He read. Franchot Bardau. “Man, oh man, what I’d give to see that! A true artist, if there ever was one.”

Ravenguild came back over and looked at the sign, “Bardau, huh? Never went for his stuff; Too… surreal? Something like that.”

“Don’t knock him. That man’s a genius. I’ve admired his work since I was a kid.”

“You must have been one messed up kid,” Tom grinned. “I gotta get to court. Catch you later.”

The doors clicked closed behind Tom, and a new man entered the room. He was tall and hairy and wore thin glasses. Silex stared in awe.

“Mister Bardau, it’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“Honor?” He chuckled, “I’ve been a lot of things to lots of people, but never an honor.” He addressed the man beside Peretti, “Did you see to the invitations? Was everyone on the list invited?”

The theater manager nodded, “All said and done. Commissioner Drummel and E. J. Heinsin have already accepted.”

“Good, good. Now! What can I do for you, son?”

“You’ve already done enough. Your masterpieces and now actually meeting you in the flesh… No one will believe me.” Andy was so excited he was forgetting to breathe.

“Lest you be called a liar…” Bardau flipped over the paper in his hand and autographed the backside. “Positive proof, sergeant, that will stand up in court.”

“Thank you, so much, sir. I-I’m late for work. Goodbye. It was great meeting you.”

He pushed out the doors and strolled along the sidewalk, weaving in and out of people and crossing three intersections without realizing that he had been staring at the paper in his hand nearly the whole time. He unlocked the File Room and hung up his coat, then turned his attention to the towering stack of drives that had been deposited through the chute beside the door and into the “In” bin. That stack was soon put away and another stack had replaced it, but Andy paid no attention to what he was doing. Much like when you’re seriously pondering something while showering and before you know it, you’re dressed and you can’t remember if you washed well enough or not. Something was caught in his craw, and every little bit he returned to the autograph. Plus the names Drummel and Heinsin swirled in his mind like a Buddhist chant. Drummel and Heinsin. Drummel and Heinsin. Commissioner Drummel and E. J. Hein- He looked up from the file drawer and his arms fell limp.

“Frehardt trials. That was… four years ago.” Silex sat down and stared into space. “Drummel was the District Attorney and Heinsin was the judge.”

That was a strange case, he recalled. The city was in an uproar after the bombings and everyone wanted the culprit caught. A solemness sat heavily on the city like the industrial park smog for the whole two months of trials. Frehardt was convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. That was an especially hard time for Andy, it had barely been a month since the ‘incident’ and he had just been transferred to the file room. As a welcome gift, the Frehardt case exploded and the files flew in and out like planes at L.A.X.

Silex’s mind drifted to the time before the file room and the Frehardt trials and he shuddered. His shift ended and locking up the office, he met everybody’s well-wishes and goodbyes and left. The glass and metal doors clicked closed. A group of colleagues grew on the sidewalk; Some waited for taxis, others waited for their carpool, and some walked to the nearest car garage. Silex was part of the latter. He climbed into his car, hit the “Home” preset, and closed his eyes for a twenty-minute nap. A low beep told him that he had arrived at his apartment tower and he groggily rode the elevator to the fifty-sixth floor and, forgetting the events of the day, entered his apartment and began cooking supper. He was not terrible at it, but there were a lot of things he was better at. Timer set, he strolled into the living room to rest. His eyes fell on his six-inch replica of a Bardau sculpture and remembered the autographed paper in his coat pocket. Why was Bardau’s signature so new to his mind? He picked up the statue and looked at its base.

“Andrew, you idiot! He signs his work with a lighthouse… I’ve never, seen actually seen his signature.”

He plopped into his computer chair and searched how much Bardau’s autographs were selling for, not that he entertained a ghost of the thought to sell it even if it were worth millions. But the quarry came up empty, the same goes for the next few searches. Finally, he unearthed an article published fifteen years back, explaining that Bardau never gave out autographs because, he said, his name on paper is worthless, his art was the only autograph that anyone needs obtain. He reclined the chair and gnawed the eraser of the pencil that he had been mindlessly toying with.

“But he gave me a-” A particular odor reached his nose. He threw the pencil across the desk and scrambled into the kitchen. A quarter of an hour later, he sat at his steel table and chairs. In front of him a bowl of burnt goulash. He stared out the large window at the over-stimulation display of lights and signs, which one might call the Neon Jungle.

“Why would Bardau give me an autograph when he abhors it? And what has the Frehardt case got to do with anything?” Eyes locked on a distant, blinking light, he blew on his spoon and took a bite but instantly regretted it. Dispensing the contents of the bowl into the garbage, he proceeded to make himself a sandwich, which distracted minds cannot burn. Sitting down at the table again, he took a satisfying bite out of the sandwich and found himself gazing at Bardau’s scrawl. On impulse, he flipped it over. It was the invitation list.

“Yep. Drummel, Heinsin, first on the list… Cardwell, Gregson, Banks, Brolin, Yang, Firth, Kristinson-- Could it be Ivar Kristinson, the prosecutor on the case? No- Now you’re seeing ghosts. There are hundreds of Kristinsons in the city.” He finished then cleaned up supper all the while mulling over the peculiar coincidences.

The next morning, after clearing the tower of data drives, he retrieved DD-5.7003, Frehardt Trials, near-field drive and laid it on top of his computer. It was as Silex had suspected. Everyone on the invite list played a role in the conviction of Gregor Frehardt, the notorious bomber; The judge, prosecutor, twelve jurors, and several witnesses. Except for one. Neo-Senator Augustino was also on the list but he had no role in trials.

“But why? Why would Bardau insist that these people be present at the unveiling of his latest sculpture? What has Bardau to do with Frehardt?” He inserted the pencil between his teeth and chewed it like a nutcracker.

After a call to his captain failed to reveal anything, he contacted Geneva Frehardt, the convict’s mother, but the phone service said she had been disconnected. Shoot! I’ll stop by her place during lunch… What right have you to barge in on the lady? Is this necessary or are you just being a busybody? Regardless of the answer, he left the precinct at twelve and headed for the slums. Boomtown of fifty years past; like the gray ashes that remained after the fire has long gone cold. A city of outdated architecture, dirty streets, overgrown parks and sidewalks, and broken economies. Next to the elevated Mag-Train rails, by which Sergeant Silex arrived, was a five-story, brick apartment complex where Mrs. Frehardt lived, or so he hoped. If she had moved he would have squandered his lunch break on a sightseeing trip of the city’s ugliest district. The automated desk clerk said she was still residing on the fourth floor and that the elevator was out of order. Andy sighed, unbuttoned his coat, and engaged in the four-flight hike.

“Come in, Detective. Make yourself at home.” Said the graying woman. To his relief, she held no hostilities for law enforcement. “I’m not a detective, Ma’am. Just a plain desk sergeant.” He flipped open his badge.

A deep whirring grew in volume and the apartment began to shake. Mrs. Frehardt continued to prepare the tea, as if deaf. Suddenly the Mag-train whizzed by, and his leather-bound badge was violently snatched out of his fingers and clattered against the wall nearest the train.

“I’m sorry, officer. I should have warned you about the Electro-Magnetic Train.” She said as he went to retrieve the badge.

“I don’t understand why nothing else was attracted.” He sat at the table and then realized nothing in her humble abode was metal, except for a few aluminum utensils and objects.

He took a sip from the thick, plastic cup. “I came to inquire about… Gregor, do you mind? Do you know if Franchot Bardau, the renowned artist and sculptor, had anything to do with your son?”

“Franchot… I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of him.” She said with a frown but offered nothing more. She appeared genuine so he dropped the topic.

“You say, you were a detective, why did you transfer?” She said after a span of polite conversation.

He paused with the mug nearly to his lips. “Cowardice… My partner and I were in pursuit of an armed suspect. We cornered him in a building and we were going to enter from both sides, but I froze. My partner didn’t know and went in. He paid for my cowardly mistake.”

“Oh…” Her face bore the anguish of personal contact with such pain. “I’m sorry you lost your partner.”

“He didn’t die. He was severely injured and his face had to be entirely reconstructed.” He stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup. “My lunch break is nearly up, so I had better say goodbye.” He thanked her for her time and headed for the door but something on a shelf caught his eye. “This statuette, it’s a Bardau!”

Mrs. Frehardt smiled warmly. “No, that is from my son. He’s been taking sculpting lessons while in prison.”

“Really?” Andy held the item in better light and muttered, “The style is perfect. I could have sworn it was a genuine Bardau.”

He bade her goodbye and returned to the Mag-train depot. “Mrs. Frehardt knows nothing about Bardau. Gregor is mimicking Bardau’s sculpting technique. Bardau is unveiling a new masterpiece and inviting all of those involved in Gregor’s conviction.” He thought aloud. He had forgotten how exhilarating it felt to be on the scent again. “I should question Frehardt himself!”

Getting Captain Bancel’s permission for the rest of the afternoon off, he bought a round trip ticket to the station nearest the federal penitentiary. An hour and a half later, he entered Grallheim prison, an oppressive facility, marked by angular walls with grotesque bastions and tall, straight buildings. After his request was known he was led to the Warden’s office.

“It must be kept with the utmost discretion… Gregor Frehardt has escaped nearly two weeks ago.”

“What? How can one man get out of such a fortress as this?” Gabriel Holt clasped his fingers on the desk. “It is beyond us. All we know is ‘he’s gone’. We’ve questioned every inmate and guard but found nothing.”

“Why wasn’t it broadcast?”

Warden Holt leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Do you remember the trials, Sergeant? If news of the world’s worst criminal escaping reached the public, you would have a global riot that would dwarf the Insurrection of ‘34! I have notified law enforcement in the areas.”

Sergeant Silex excused himself and retreated back to the train station. He regretted lingering so long at Mrs. Frehardt’s because the delay put him in the middle of rush hour. The train, which usually skipped many stations, stopped at each of them; and its capacity fluctuated greatly with each stop. Silex stared out the window sorting his thoughts in the same way he spends his days sorting data-drives. “Why, sergeant. You are still in my neck of the slums?” He jumped and saw that it was Mrs. Frehardt.

“Yes, ma’am. I Paid a visit to… The warden at Grallheim”

“Oh? And how is Gabriel doing?”

Andy looked shocked. “You know Warden Holt?”

“Yes, of course. He is my nephew.”

“Gregor’s cousin?”

“Step-cousin. Gregor is only my son by marriage.” She sat down and he shifted in his seat and eagerly formed his question.

“How well do Gabriel and Gregor get along?”

“Like cousins. I remember these two went to the university, and not long later they were spouting radical anti-bureaucracy. You know, the stuff kids are, trying every new philosophy. Thankfully, Gabriel grew out of it in his senior year… Gregor held to it and now he’s in prison.”

“How does Gabriel running the prison his cousin is in affect all your relations?”

“We avoid the topic. Gregor did wrong and he must reap the consequences of his decisions.” They slowed to a quick stop at Mrs. Frehardt’s destination and she bade him farewell for the second time.

Now it’s even more convoluted! Frehardt and the prison warden are cousins and both had radical ideals. He attached his tele-communitcator around his temples and thought-dialed Tom Ravenguild.

“What’s up, Andy?” His friend’s voice resounded in his mind as clearly as if they were face to face in a dead silent room.

“What do you know about Augustine of the 53rd NeoSenate?”

“Not much. Why?”

“He’s on the invite list along with everyone responsible for convicting Gregor Frehardt. I don’t have any proof but I think someone is scheming foul play with Bardau’s ceremony.”

Andy could hear Tom’s excitement. “What do you suspect? Level with me.”

“It started with my chance meeting with Franchot Bardau at the theater. He gave me an autograph, which Bardau never does, and on the paper was a list of specific people, whom Bardau insisted on inviting. Every name on the list was instrumental in the Frehardt trials. The judge, D. A., witnesses, jurors-”

“Whoa, there! Stop thinking so loud, you’re making my brain hurt.”

“Sorry- As far as I can tell Bardau and Frehardt are not connected, as I spoke to Geneva Frehardt and she confirmed it. But Gregor Frehardt has been taking sculpting lessons in prison and replicating Bardau’s work, no less.”

“But what’s the point? The members of the Frehardt trials get invited to a sculptor ceremony. The man convicted by those people is learning to sculpt… I’m not calling you crazy, but I also don’t see the smoke to your fire.”

“Frehardt escaped from Grallheim two weeks ago.” As Andy suspected, it silenced his friend.

“That’s different… Why hasn’t the public been notified?”

“The Warden feared the outcry; more like, feared losing his job.”

“Recalculating presuppositions… Mad-bomber is at large and all his rotten eggs will be in one small basket.”

Silex felt the train decelerate. “Here’s what I think: Frehardt picked up some dirt on Bardau while in stir. You know, prison scuttlebutt.”

“No, I don’t; How is it?”

“-He escaped and is blackmailing Bardau into gathering his targets into one location. Motive: Revenge!”

“Circumstantial but plausible.”

The train stopped and at the mellow tone, the passengers began to disembark. Andy quietly joined the flow with his hands in his pockets. “I wonder, how Frehardt could plant a bomb in that place? It’s sealed up tighter than a bank vault.”

“Just so, but banks get robbed. Mina said supper is ready.”

“Right, but before you go, can you help me out with the Augustine aspect?”

“Sure thing, and sergeant… Welcome back to Homicide-Div.”

Andy laughed. “Tell Mina to slip some poison in your food for me.”

“I wouldn’t dare because she’d do it for her own reasons. Bye now!”

He removed the device from his temples and slipped it into his trouser pocket before falling into the driver's seat. The neon accent lights on the parking garage columns blurred by as he jetted out into the white street lights dulled by a growing fog. On impulse, he switched the destination coordinates to the Brighella Theatre; Stage Entrance. His car joined the surge, on the urban streets; like a thousand track runners weaving and racing to their peculiar finish lines.

The fog defused the evenly spaced, bright, cones from the streetlights that contoured with the winding roads, which then morphed into a glowing atmosphere as he passed between the high rises with their endless displays of advertisements and flashy exteriors. The cathedral-like theater stood in indifference to the ostentatious spires of steel and lights. Warm light gracefully revealed the exquisite walls and ornamentation. The fog augmented into a mizzle, making the streets mirrors, which reflected the crimson brake lamps and piercing headlights. His car slowed and pulled around behind the lavish face of the building to its ugly utilitarian posterior. He flipped his collar up and, wasting no time getting to the entrance, swiped his police card and pushed open the buzzing door. The concrete and steel corridors were silent and eager to resound every noise he made.

“Where would he put a bomb if he could get one in?” He muttered. Meandering through the entire backstage, then ambling within the luxurious lobby, his search brought him to the auditorium. The ceiling was so high it made him dizzy to look up at, and the rows upon rows of scarlet seats were beyond his ability to estimate. In the center of the stage was a large object shrouded reverently in velvet drapes. Silex pursed his lips and studied it.

“It is in the middle of the entire building… The acoustics of the room is built to force all the sound out into the crowd.” He climbed onto the stage and circled the cloaked giant. His ears rang in the silence of that grand void.

Lifting the velvet, he saw the sculpture was on a cubic stand, the back of which was open.

“Ah-ha! Frehardt could put the explosives in Bardau’s creation.” He lay on his back and reached up into the hollow sculpture, but felt nothing but the soft clay that got under his fingernails. “Another hunch, gone up in smoke…” He looked at the time. “And an hour and a half wasted. I’m going home!”

The halls echoed with his impatient steps, and the door slammed as he darted through the drizzle to his car. The soft, white noise of the rain on the roof made him long for the comfort of his apartment. He pressed the ignition button and made a face.

“I forgot about that.” He held up his hand in the dappled light through the rain-covered window and looked at the malleable, gray clay under his nails. “Why is it still soft? Don’t that bake it or something?”

He drove the short distance to his precinct and strode across the polished floors of the lobby to the glassed-in octagon that was embedded into the back wall between two security doors that were closed because of the late hour.

“What are you doing here? The time chart says you were clocked out at noon.” Said Sergeant Asia Smith.

“I had to see my favorite desk sergeant of the night shift.” He leaned against the glass and grinned.

She smiled incredulously as she gnawed her gum. “Barlow and Chaim will be upset to hear that.”

“Say, sweetie, have you any more gum; I could borrow?”

She rifled through a drawer and then slid a stick through the space in the glass. “I don’t go for ‘borrowed’ gum, so you can keep it… Chaim won’t notice any gone anyway.”

“A thieving cop? Gads! What’s next?” He popped the gum into his mouth then flicked out his jackknife and began cleaning under his nails. “You know, one of these days I’ll have to pay the debt I owe you in borrowed gum, by giving you a ring!”

She raised an eyebrow as she studied what he was doing. “A diamond ring or a ring on the phone?”

He collected the nail scratching in the foil wrapper and slid it back to sergeant Smith. “Got me there! Can you have the lab analyze that?”

She smirked. “Are you serious? The lab boys will have a fit.”

His genial smile faded. “I’m dead serious. Lives may depend on the results.”

She dropped the wrapper in an evidence bag and labeled it. “It’s as good as done, Andy.”

He relaxed again. “This is all a farce, you know. I really came to ask if you’d have dinner with me sometime.”

Asia put the bag in the lab’s drop box and then returned to the desk. “What’s with the sudden advance of our abstract relationship? You’ve been less than encouraging of late.”

“Honestly, I’m sorry. I’ve been… am! carrying a heavy burden-”

“Guilt?”

He shrunk back internally at her pointedness. “Uh-huh. I don’t want it to spill onto anyone else.”

“Then drop it like a hot potato. It’s not yours to carry anyway.”

“Sounds easy…” He turned to leave.

“As for lunch, anytime is good with me!”

He smiled and said over his shoulder, “Fine. I’ll give you a ring.”

The next morning, Andy anxiously passed the hours of his day off by cleaning his apartment, while he waited for the results from the laboratory. Twice he called them, but they only said it was in the queue along with many other things and that the results would be ready when they are ready. As five o’clock rolled by, he called Captain Bancel and explained everything from the invitation list to the contents of the gum wrapper.

“Not enough evidence to postpone the ceremony… Unless the lab analysis supports your theory.” He said in his bulldog manner. “I’ll call the boys in the lab and have them fast-track your parcel.”

“Thank you, sir.” Silex hung up and before he knew it the clock was striking six-thirty and he was standing out front of the Brighella Theatre watching the city’s richest arrive.

“What’s the word from the lab?” Ravenguild appeared at his side.

“Nothing… yet.” Andy watched another luxury car stop and dispense a billionaire couple as he struggled with his words. “Tom, I- uh… Thanks for coming. I know, I have no right to ask for your help.”

“Forget it, Andy. You have every right as a friend and a colleague. The only one who holds you responsible for the incident is you!”

“Mina blames me.”

Tom laughed, “She did blame you, but not anymore. She said just last week, that she’s come to love this face more than the old one… She also said she misses having you around.”

“Humph! I just can’t face her.”

“You can’t face my wife because of what happened to me, yet you talk to me every day?” Tom raised his voice after Andy, who joined the crowd that was entering the lobby.

“What’s taking them so long?” Andy muttered with mounting frustration. He flashed his credentials and zoomed past the gate guard with Tom close on his heels.

The crowds of ladies in elegant gowns and gentlemen in striking suits loitered in conversation and some meandered to their seats Andy retrieved his tele-communicator from his pocket.

“No! No, no, no! Its battery ran down.” He dashed over to the desk and flung his badge upon it. “I need to use the phone” He dialed the lab. “This is sergeant Silex, have you finished the analysis?”

“Yes, about an hour ago. I tried to call but-”

“My communicator died. Can you tell me the report?”

“Sure. Common aluminum foil with a confection wax paper with particulates of chewing gum. The material inside had components of keratin, soap, and some other disinfectants… and uh, traces of plastic explosives.”

Andy dropped the phone and said to Tom, “The statue is the bomb…” He looked around wild-eyed. “Evacuate the building. I’ll-I’ll get Frehardt.”

He pushed through the meandering crowds and strode backstage. Tom fumbled with his tele-communicator as he tried to keep up, then called Captain Bancel. He conversed in silence but as the urgency grew, he began to think aloud.

“Yes, sir. It is the statue… Andy,” He whispered, “Why is Bardau doing this?”

“Bardau is probably dead in an alleyway somewhere. Frehardt mastered Bardau’s style then impersonated him to pull off his scheme- I think.”

“Right.” Tom lapsed into silence again then removed the headset. “He’s taking care of the evacuation. Let’s find Bardau- or Frehardt.”

Andy’s feet began to feel heavier with each step, and his heart began to race. Fear of the confrontation or fear that he would freeze again, Silex could not tell, except that it was poisoning his judgment. Their eye scanned the sea of faces of performers and stagehands.

“Excuse me,” Andy addressed the stage manager, “Have you seen Franchot Bardau?”

“Uh, yeah.” He looked behind then around. “I think, I saw him heading for the stage door. Probably needed a smoke.”

“Probably.” They squeezed through the chaotic swarms that barred the way to the door. Silex put his hand on the door but Ravenguild stopped him.

“You’d better go out alone. I think it would look bad if two cops came at him, especially to an already suspicious mind.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “I don’t have the courage to go alone. You know what-”

Tom grabbed Andy’s forearm. “You do have the courage! I remember a fearless, academy graduate that was ready to clean up this city single-handed. What happened to him?”

“He woke up to reality long ago!”

“The accident? It was my fault! I saw your hesitation. I should have gone in with you or verified your location before going in, but I didn’t.” His gaze fell to the floor. “Honestly, it was my arrogance. I wanted the glory of taking him… alone. It was my call, and I paid for it. Thankfully it was only my face instead of my life! Now, go out there and get close to him so he can’t trigger the bomb!”

Andy swallowed and pushed the door open. The night air, as fresh as a city environment can distill, was quiet and still compared to the noisy, crowded backstage. He looked around at the vehicles, dumpsters, and whirring utilities behind a chain-link fence. Suddenly something caught his eye moving behind a car.

“Mr. Bardau!” He tried to calm his voice.

He leaned up and smoothed his hair. “Huh? Oh, sergeant… What do you want?”

“I was…” Think, think, think! “I just wanted to catch you before the ceremony..” He cringed at his word choice.

“Sorry, son. I’d love to talk but I’m extremely busy-”

The door clicked closed, and Ravenguild stepped out nonchalantly and took a deep breath. “Hey, Tom. I want you to meet someone.”

“Sergeant, I really don’t have time!” He slammed the passenger door and went to the driver's side.

“I know, you’re in a hurry, but I have a small favor to ask; My friend wants an autograph.”

Bardau gave him a look of disbelief, then grabbed the pen and tablet from Silex. With both his hands occupied and exposed, Andy seized Bardau’s wrists as Tom scanned him with an EMF wand.

“What on earth?” Bardau roared, “Let me go right now and I won’t sue your department for your jobs!”

Ravenguild retrieved a small remote from their prisoner’s suit pocket.

“I wonder what this controls?” Tom held it up in the light. Bardau’s eye widened. “I don’t know what that is! You planted that on me.”

“Why would we need to plant a remote on you? And why are you so afraid of us finding it on you?” Andy clapped the silver restrainers on him.

“Gregor Frehardt, you are charged with attempted genocide. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

He was dumbstruck. “I-I-I’m Franchot Bardau!”

“Bardau was found where you left him.” Ravenguild bluffed.

Frehardt stopped resisting and hung his head and muttered, “Guilty.”

“I don’t know how we could have been so fooled. You don’t look a thing like Franchot Bardau,” Andy said, as they escorted him to the front of the theater where the police force and the bomb squad had gathered. The metropolitan gentry filed across the street and waited for the valets to bring their vehicles.

“By the way, Tom, did you find out why Neo-senator Augustino was on the list?”

“Nope. Zero connection.”

“Why’d you put Augustino on your list, Frehardt? He wasn’t at your trial?”

“Not my choice. It was part of the deal.” He grumbled, “And I’m not saying any more till I see my lawyer.” The police officer put Frehardt into the car and shut the door.

“There’s Augustino now.” Tom strolled toward the crowd of retreating guests and brushed past Captain Bancel who was making a bee-line for Andy.

“Good work, Silex. You’re responsible for saving everyone’s lives. Including mine.” Andy grinned. “It was nothing really.”

“Are you saying my life is worth nothing?”

“No, I mean-”

“Forget it! Does this mean you leaving that shabby office and rejoining my Homicide-Div?” Though Bancel was eager to have him back, his stern face, as always, looked like he wanted Silex’s resignation.

“I’m contemplating it, sir. Frehardt insinuated that he has a partner. I’d like to stay on the case.”

“Good, good. Consider yourself transferred.”

A moment later, Tom reappeared. “Hi, Captain. It took a little probing but, I think, I’ve got it. As we know, Augustino had done nothing directly nor indirectly against Frehardt, but when I asked him about Grallheim prison he came through. Warden Holt was angling for the position of District Commissioner of the Department of Correction.”

“A great step up, if he could have landed it.” Bancel postulated.

“Yes, sir, but when the decision came before the committee, it was Augustino’s counsel and ultimately vote that lost Holt the position. Men have been killed for less.”

“That’s a good motive,” Andy said. “Holt could have arranged for his half-brother’s escape in exchange for Frehardt to add Augustino to the hit list.”

“It will be tricky to prove,” Captain Bancel added.

“Tricky but never impossible, if true.” Sergeant Silex grinned and stuffed his hands in his trench coat pockets.

THE END