The Prometheus Incident, A Martian Murder Mystery Read online

  Chapter Ten – Accusation

  That night Richardson lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to his wife’s soft breathing. He was exhausted but his mind wouldn’t sleep. He kept going over the case in his head. He was pretty sure that he knew who the murderer was but he just couldn’t see a convincing motive. It was while he was reviewing the data for perhaps the twentieth time that he remembered a chance comment by the space agency director and another comment by Lisa Proctor. He put the two together and thought about the crew and their motivation for going on the mission in the first place. They weren’t all driven by a thirst for adventure, or for money, or for popular fame. Some were driven by altogether more austere and obscure motives and not all of those ended up in a monastery. This formed the germ of an idea, one he could test.

  He carefully got out of bed and whispered some instructions to his data link, careful not to wake his wife. Sherlock smiled almost immediately. He reviewed the data: publication dates and citations. It all fitted. He lay back in bed and now drifted easily towards sleep. He knew what he had to do tomorrow. One small doubt nagged in his mind: this was such a small motive for such a large crime. Also, it was too easy. He gave a mental shrug, he had seen people killed for far less and sometimes you just got lucky.

  The next morning, Professor Freeman looked at the untidy detective in front of him, and his offsider standing casually by the door, with barely concealed contempt. He used all his twenty years of experience on university and government committees to control his impatience and dislike.

  “While I like to be cooperative, I hope this visit isn’t going to become a regular occurrence,” he said testily. “It upsets my schedule.”

  Detective Inspector Richardson smiled. “I’m sure it won’t,” he said. “We have almost finished our investigation. We just have a few things to clear up.”

  Freemen relaxed back into his soft leather chair. “Good. In that case, how can I help you this morning, Detective?”

  “Well,” Richardson said, “this has been an interesting case. We started off with a short list of suspects and I have interviewed those most likely to have been involved. On the first day, I was offered three theories about what had happened to the Prometheus. Samuel Carter thought it had been sabotaged by the Chinese and Dr O’Connor, or Brother Columba as he now is, was sure that it would turn out to be a bizarre accident caused by the technical ineptness of Dr DeWitt. Dr Proctor, on the other hand, thought that Dr DeWitt was so upset that no one would believe his theories that he deliberately murdered his two companions, accidentally killing himself in the process.”

  “As I told you yesterday, all of these seem equally possible and equally implausible,” Freeman said. “Which have you decided is the answer?”

  “None of them,” Richardson answered. “As you say, they are all implausible and none fit the circumstances of the Prometheus crew members’ deaths.” Richardson paused and seemed to be consulting his wrist data terminal. “You didn’t offer any theory, Professor. Why is that?” he asked casually. Freeman remained silent. “I think it’s because you knew precisely how they died. You knew that because it was you who killed them.”

  “What utter nonsense,” the professor said sharply. “What do you base that on? You accuse me of murder just because I didn’t offer some crackpot theory, a theory that could only have been based on wild speculation? Well, that’s just crazy. Look, you really want a theory? Well, here’s one. It was Mars. They were on an alien planet that we still don’t understand and it was dangerous. Unexplained things happen and there are any number of ways in which electrical systems can be burnt out: a violent electrical storm or the sort of electro-magnetic pulse associated with volcanic action.”

  Detective Inspector Richardson seemed to consider the reply for a moment. When he replied it was with a tired and rather sad voice. “Unfortunately, Professor, there is no indication that such storms occur on Mars. You, an atmospheric physicist, should know this. Also, there was no volcanic activity recorded anywhere near the Hellas Basin at the time. There was, however, a substantial power outage recorded on the orbiter Ares II that can’t be accounted for. I think it was caused by the MMS suddenly drawing a lot of power. At about the same time as this power use occurred, the recording of your instrument log was disabled for nearly five minutes. Long enough for you to reconfigure the MSS and send a microwave beam to the surface with sufficient power to destroy a spacecraft’s electrical systems.”

  Freeman felt his heart go cold inside him. He’d been stupid. Still, there was one card he could still play, one secret he knew no one would tell. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Why would I do that? What motive could I possibly have? I pointed this out to you the other day. I have no motive to do such a thing. I’m good at what I do. I would have had a successful career no matter what.”

  The detective nodded, considering the questions. “Yes, but maybe not the one you wanted,” he said. “I’ll admit that motive was a real puzzle. There you were, a young astronaut who could expect to return to glory and adulation no matter what happened. Why would a delay of a few months be so important that you would kill your friends to avoid it?”

  “Exactly,” the professor said. “The whole notion is ridiculous.”

  “Not that ridiculous, actually,” Richardson said. “When I thought about your current position as Professor of Atmospheric Physics, I realised that you were primarily a scientist and an academic. For you, being an astronaut was mainly a way of gaining data, of increasing your academic standing. The praise of the popular press, while undoubtedly pleasant, would mean little to you. What did mean something to you was the praise of your peers, your professional colleagues. What you wanted was the prestige of being the author of the definitive book, the glory of making that fundamental discovery and carving out your own piece of scientific history. What do they call it? The Freeman Effect? Orographic microconvection in the Martian atmosphere – you discovered that, didn’t you? It changed the way we think about Martian weather.” Professor Freeman remained silent. “In the face of that, the academic power, position and even money that would go with all this was all just a happy bonus – the cherry on top. To achieve these aims, however, you had to kill that crew on the surface.”

  “Oh, and why was that?” the professor asked with scathing sarcasm. Even as he was talking, Detective Inspector Richardson was watching Freeman closely. Alarm bells were ringing in the back of the detective’s mind. The man’s body language was wrong, his reactions were off. Richardson’s instincts told him that he was missing something important, something central to the case, but his mind couldn’t isolate what it was. He continued with his explanation, trusting that any problems would sort themselves out in time.

  “The Prometheus had suffered a propulsion failure and your ship had been ordered to stay in orbit and provide support until a relief ship could be organised,” Richardson said. “Since the next mission, a Chinese effort, as it happened, was already well advanced, there was nothing terribly difficult or dangerous about this. It was an inconvenience, nothing more. It did, however, mean a delay of about eighteen months in your return to Earth.”

  “So what?” Freeman asked. “I already had my data.”

  “But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Richardson insisted. “You already had your data but so did everyone else. If your return was substantially delayed, your data would have been transmitted, in their entirety, to Earth. This would mean that, for a further eighteen months, you would have had to work with the limited computing available on board a spaceship while your rivals on Earth would’ve had far better facilities. They would’ve been able to interact with the world’s best supercomputers, to work on the data that you collected. Of course, you would have some unique advantages, but the extra time gap could have been sufficient to make the difference between being the expert in the field and being an expert. You might even have been relegated from the position of the chief scientist of Martian atmospheric physi
cs to that of the field hand: the man who collected the data that others analysed and interpreted. The Freeman Effect may have had a very different name.” Richardson was worried. Freeman wasn’t reacting properly. In fact, he wasn’t reacting much at all. He was becoming more and more disengaged.

  “So you killed the stranded surface crew, knowing that when their radio went silent and stayed silent your ship would be allowed to return home,” he continued. “It’s all a bit more complicated than I would like but I think a jury will accept it.”

  “Really?” Freeman asked. “Will they really believe that I am a person so cold, so devoid of feeling that I would kill for the contents of a scientific paper?”

  Richardson shrugged. “They might, they might not,” he said. “But they will certainly know that a delayed return would have worked against you professionally. They will know that you benefitted from the deaths of the crew on the surface and that you knew you would at the time. No one doubts that you are talented but your publication record clearly shows that your career is built on the wreckage of the Prometheus.” Richardson noted that Freeman didn’t react with outrage or anger. He wasn’t even afraid. He seemed to have relaxed into a sort of detachment.

  “This is all supposition,” he said in a flat, calm voice. “You have no proof, and,” he added softly, “you don’t understand anything. You are quite wrong.”

  Detective Inspector Richardson also answered calmly. “Well, now, Professor, you had motive and that microwave sounding equipment made you one of only three people who had any real opportunity. Then there is the business of the power use and the disabled instrument log. There is something else also. When I came into this room there were only eight people who knew that the Prometheus crew had suffocated because a total electronics failure had caused the breakdown of their life support systems. The four expedition members who found the wreck and carried out the preliminary investigation knew. They sent a special coded message to the director of the United Nations Space Agency who personally briefed me. I personally briefed Detective Sergeant Wilson here. Besides the seven of us, the only other person who could know was the murderer. You, Professor Freeman, didn’t offer a weird theory for the deaths because you knew how they had died. You knew of the electronics failure. Professor Freeman, I arrest you for the murders of Doctors Cole and DeWitt and Colonel Prentice. You have the right to remain silent …”

  Memory is a strange and wonderful thing. In his mind’s eye Freeman could still see her as she was when they had first met, with her blonde hair tied up to fit beneath her flight helmet: a pilot first, second and third. He didn’t remember the other two that clearly. Still, it was the three of them together who condemned him by their death. Suddenly, he knew the answer to his question. It had not been worth it. The price was too high. This was going to cost him everything. He felt something break deep inside his soul.

  “No!” he yelled. He stood up suddenly, as if catapulted from his seat by the force of his exclamation. Richardson stopped giving him his rights and looked at him in surprise. Sergeant Wilson moved to block the door.

  Professor Freeman stood behind his desk shaking. Darkness began to close around the periphery of his vision. Then ... then he knew what he had to do. Only three more steps and he would be free.

  It was spring and the elm trees that dotted the campus were a vivid green. Behind him the bulk of Detective Inspector Richardson moved with surprising speed, but too late. The morning sun was brilliant and it reflected brightly from the broken shards of glass as they fell to the ground. He was weightless again, as he had been twenty years ago, dreaming a nightmare behind his instrument panel. With a sharp crack the darkness closed completely on his mind.