Underbox: Six
© 2021 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  capt_hairball



It hadn’t started raining yet, but the clouds were getting darker. The two detectives made their way down the street to the autocab stand, and while Hamo slipped on a jackglove Joachim remarked, “Parents, eh?”

“Yeah,” the cross-fox said as they wiggled their fingers, selecting a two-seat autocab and directing it to their location, adding the code for police use and their authenticator. “I’m glad I didn’t have that hanging over my head.”

“Oh?”

Hamo gave their partner a sidelong look and a brief chuckle. “When I told them, Father said he’d always thought I was more son than daughter anyway, and Mother was supportive.”

“Better treatment than the Felders gave their boy.”

“Yeah.” This last was a sigh as the autocab, a rounded cube on wheels, coasted silently up to the pair and its doors slid back to let them get into it. The two detectives took seats and put their restraints on.

“Destination?” the autocab asked in a rather pleasant alto voice. Hamo told the cab, and it closed the doors and started off down the road.

“Something about this is bothering me,” Hamo muttered.

“What?” the boar asked.

“I left the Butterflies when their leaders decided that we all had to kill ourselves,” the cross-fox said, and Joachim nodded. “There were no reports of any increase in the number of deaths in the Underbox at the time, so I figured that they simply went their separate ways.

“But that Lorenz butterfly on Gerstein’s arm, and what his mother says he told her – could they have come back?” Hamo asked, glancing down at their forearm.

“That’s an uncomfortable question,” Joachim said, looking out the windows as the autocab went around a curve. “Maybe we’ll find some answers after we search Gerstein’s apartment.”

Hamo nodded. “We’ll arrange a crime scene team to meet us, after the Finance Ministry.”

“And after lunch.” The boar gave the cross-fox a look, and both detectives began to chuckle.


***


“Detectives?” the rather young male secretary, a red fox, opened the office door. “Frau Burger will see you now.” Hamo and Joachim stood and entered the office. They hadn’t been waiting long, maybe ten minutes.

Lunch had been tasty, Japanese-style chicken katsu with ponzu sauce, served with a salad and rice.

Frau Burger was a mare with a white coat and a black mane that held streaks of gray. “Please, detectives, sit down.” She nodded to the young tod, who left the office and closed the door behind him. “I’m very sorry to hear that Paul had been killed. I’m sure that you have questions.”

Hamo nodded. “We do, Ma’am. What can you tell us about Herr Lobel?”

“Started with the Ministry right out of university,” the mare said. “Quite an asset to the organization. He was a senior auditor in the Tax Bureau, and looking forward to retiring.” Her lips puckered briefly, as if she tasted something bad. “We’re going over his work now to see if there was anything irregular. Honestly, going into the Underbox, of all places . . . “ She flicked a loose lock of her mane out of the way and smiled. “Of course, I don’t need to tell you how they are.”

The cross-fox kept a straight face. There was no need at all to get into an argument. “How was his work? Any problem in his evaluations?”

“No,” Burger said bluntly. “Makes his activities all the more surprising, really.”

“How so?”

“As soon as I heard about his death, I accessed all of his evaluations, and there’s nothing that could indicate that he’d – well, that he’d gone bad.” She slid a piece of paper across the desk to the two detectives. “From his latest evaluation. It’s a list of organizations that he – that he said – he belonged to.”

Joachim picked up the sheet, and Hamo asked, “Would Herr Lobel’s position in the Ministry allow him to be issued a cyberway?”

Burger’s eyes widened and her ears went straight back. “Certainly not!” she said. “Cyberways are only issued to senior people at the top levels of the Ministry. I don’t even have one – are you saying that he had one?” At Hamo’s nod the mare said, “I can only think that he must have come by it dishonestly. If he was planning on any financial crimes, all I can say is that his death might have stopped a great deal of trouble.”

The cross-fox asked, “Would it be possible to obtain a copy of the search you’re doing into his work, Frau Burger?”

“Of course, Detective. Will that be all?”

Joachim glanced at Hamo, who had the same level expression on their face. “Yes, Frau Burger,” the cross-fox said. “If you can think of anything else, or if your audit finds anything – “

“I’ll contact you immediately.” After shaking paws, the two detectives left the Ministry offices.

It had started raining, and the two took shelter under the canopied entrance to the building while Joachim called to arrange a crime scene team and Hamo summoned another autocab. “Classist,” the boar remarked.

“Yeah,” the cross-fox replied, their fingers waving through empty air. “She wouldn’t last five minutes if she had to live down there.” Hamo sighed. “Sad, really. You’d think people would be more tolerant.”

Joachim nodded. “Some things never change.”


***


The area where the late Karl Gerstein (born Felder) had lived, Ub4 Sector 10a-2, was four levels under the surface and in an area where the former Tempelhof district had once stood. He had lived in a hostelry originally set up as a disaster shelter.

Hamo and Joachim, a three-person crime scene team at their backs, paused to look up at the sign over the entrance. The original name of the place, ‘Friendship Hostel,’ had been crudely spray-painted over with the words ‘Rat’s Nest.’ Like most housing areas in the Underbox, it was crowded with families that sometimes shared several rooms. The hostelry itself had its entrance at Level 4, but actually extended down a further three levels.

The cross-fox rapped on the office door, and rapped again when there was no answer at first.

A slightly dented intercom grille buzzed, followed by a deep, raspy voice. “What?”

“Polizei,” Hamo growled.

“That you, Horst?” the voice asked, clearly unimpressed. “Fuck off.” The intercom shut off.

The cross-fox glanced back at Joachim, who shrugged. “Certainly not very friendly.”

“Hmm.” Hamo rapped on the door again, and barked into the intercom, “This is Detective Hamo Suleymanoglu of the Berlin Police. Open up or we blast the door down.”

The threat seemed to work, as they heard heavy footsteps approaching. The door was flung open, revealing a rat easily four centimeters taller than Hamo and just as easily three times the cross-fox’s weight. He was wearing none-too-clean boxer shorts and an equally stained sleeveless undershirt. One of the crime scene technicians looked shocked, because apart from a long, dense band of fur running from his ears to his chin the rodent was completely shaven.

He had a steel bar in one fist, but Hamo had their badge out and one paw on their pistol. “I’m Detective Suleymanoglu,” the cross-fox growled. “Put the backscratcher away, Shorty.”

“I ain’t done nothing,” the rat said, but he tossed the bar behind him. “What d’you want?”

“For starters, your name,” Joachim said.

The rat smirked. “Name’s Outside McBeard. I run this place.”

Hamo’s ears flicked. It was obvious that it wasn’t the man’s actual name, but that wasn’t an immediate concern. “Glad to hear it. We’re looking for Karl Gerstein’s place.”

McBeard glowered at him. “He’s down third level, Number 14.” He turned to go.

“We need you with us,” Hamo said.

The rat paused. “Why?”

“He’s dead.”

McBeard glowered at the fox. “All right, give me a moment.” He stamped further into the room, before coming out wearing a pair of denim pants and closing the door behind him. “Come on,” and he set off down a hallway with the policefurs following him.

“So,” Hamo asked, “what do you know about Gerstein?”

McBeard grunted. “Whore. Used him myself, a few times, when he couldn’t make rent.” They started down a staircase, getting off at the third landing and heading down the corridor. “Kept to himself when he wasn’t out working, figured he was jacking or flying.”

“He ever talk to you? Apart from paying his rent?” Hamo asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head after thinking about it. “Like I say, he kept to himself. Pretty good worker, though; he didn’t have to, heh, ‘talk’ to me about his rent very often. Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of a door. He pulled a keycard out of his pants pocket and swiped it across the lockpad. A red telltale glowed green, and there was a click as the door unlocked.

Hamo eased the door open, and the lights came up. Looked like a typical one-room flat with a bathroom. The place looked almost painfully neat and clean.

Almost a shame, but there were things to do.

Hamo stepped back and waved the crime scene people in, while he and Joachim stayed outside and talked with Outside McBeard a little more.



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