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“And you pick the mood?”
“That’s part of it. With standard equipment, you don’t have as much control, not nearly the depth of field. With what I’ve developed, you can turn it on and off like a light. Sexual need or satisfaction, euphoria, melancholy, energy, relaxation. Name it, you got it.”
“A death wish?”
“No.” He shook his head quickly. “I don’t play those games.”
“But it’s all a game to you, isn’t it? You push the buttons, and the people dance. You’re the electronic god.”
“You’re missing the big picture,” he insisted. “Do you know what people would pay for this kind of capability? You can feel anything you want.”
Eve opened the file Feeney had brought in. She tossed photos out, faceup. “What did they feel, Jess?” She pushed the morgue shots of four deaths at him. “What was the last thing you made them feel so that they killed themselves with smiles on their faces?”
He went white as death itself, eyes glazing before he managed to shut them. “No. No way. No.” Doubling over, he retched out his health center breakfast.
“Let the record show the suspect is momentarily indisposed,” Peabody said dryly. “Should I call for maintenance and a health aide, Lieutenant?”
“Christ, yes,” Eve muttered as Jess continued to heave. “We’ll break this interview at oh ten fifteen. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, record off.”
“Great brain, weak stomach.” Feeney went to the dispenser in the corner and poured a cup of water. “Here, boy, see if you can choke some of this down.”
Jess’s eyes watered. His stomach muscles were raw. Water sloshed in the cup so that Feeney had to guide it to his mouth. “You can’t hang that on me,” he managed. “You can’t.”
“We’ll see about that.” Eve stepped aside so that the incoming aide could cart him off to the infirmary. “I need some air,” she muttered and walked out.
“Hold on, Dallas.” Feeney hurried after her, leaving Peabody to direct maintenance and gather up the file. “We need to talk.”
“My office is closer.” She swore lightly as her knee throbbed. The ice bandage was wearing off and needed to be replaced. Her hip was murderous.
“Took a beating with that CEC hit yesterday, didn’t you?” Feeney clucked sympathetically as she hobbled. “Been looked over yet?”
“Later. I’ve been pressed for time. Let’s give the creep an hour to get his stomach back in place, then hit him again. He hasn’t cried lawyer yet, but it’s coming. Won’t matter a damn once we match those brain patterns to the victims.”
“That’s the problem. Sit down,” he advised when they stepped into her office. “Take a load off that leg.”
“It’s the knee, and sitting’s making it stiffen up. What’s the problem?” she asked and headed for the coffee.
“Nothing matches.” He studied her mournfully when she turned. “Not one match in the whole lot. Plenty as yet unidentified, but I’ve got the prints on all victims, no autopsy scan on Devane, but I got the one from her last physical. There’s no match, Dallas.”
So she did sit, heavily. There was no need to ask if he was sure. Feeney was as thorough as a domestic droid searching for dust in corners. “Okay, he’s got them someplace else. Did we get the warrant for his studio and quarters?”
“A team’s going through it right now. I haven’t gotten a report.”
“He could have a lock box, some safe hole.” She shut her eyes. “Shit, Feeney, why would he keep them when he was done with them? He’s probably destroyed them. He’s arrogant, but he’s not stupid. They’d hang him and he’d know it.”
“The possibility’s high there. Then again, he could have kept them as souvenirs. It never fails to surprise me what people keep. That guy last year that cut up his wife? Kept her eyes, remember. In a damn music box.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Where had this headache come from? she wondered and rubbed uselessly at her temples to erase it. “So, maybe we’ll get lucky. If we don’t, we’ve got plenty now. And a good shot of breaking him.”
“Here’s the thing, Dallas.” He sat on the edge of her desk, reached into his pocket for his bag of candied almonds. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t feel right? We’ve got him cold.”
“We’ve got him cold, all right. But not on murder.” Thoughtfully, Feeney chewed a coated nut. “I can’t resolve myself to it. The guy who designed that equipment is brilliant, twisted some sure, self-absorbed. The guy we just shook down is all of those things, and you can add childish. It is a game to him, one he wants to make a big profit on. But murder . . .”
“You’re just in love with his console.”
“That I am,” he admitted without shame. “He’s weak, Dallas, and not just his stomach. How’s he going to make himself rich by killing people off?”
