The Scapegoat

1

For most people, death is something incomprehensible and mystical. Even the most reasonable can do nothing with those who believe once earthly life ends, there is still a certain "place" where a person will certainly go. Playing on the hole card of the unknown inherent in the people's thoughts at the funeral was a cheap parlor trick, but one which was quite effective.

Asking Mort to rev his motorcycle and pretend it was a sign was better than just suddenly pretending that idea had come into his head. It seemed that those present at the burial did not have the slightest inclination to believe that all of it was just a production.

Picture quality—what was significant. And symbolism—the more primitive, the better.

***

Returning to the department, Cord and Crane went to their office and began to look for the data they needed.

"Here!" exclaimed Crane, holding out the document to Cord. "Here are the parameters of the wheel, the trace of which you found at Familiar's summer house. And the possible alleged motorcycle models."

Cord skimmed through the text and looked at the photographs.

"Mother of God!" he exclaimed. "We have been looking at the wrong tracks!"

"Huh?" Crane stopped rummaging through the documents and went over to Cord.

"Look!" Cord showed him two of Force's photos: a top view, which captured the trail itself, a snowdrift and part of a metal fence, and an overview. "The motorcycle stopped at the fence, shaving off a little of the snowdrift. More importantly, the tire track and the edge of the snowdrift are just a couple of centimeters from each other. See?"

"Yes…"

"Now remember how motorcycles look and how they are sat on."

A deep wrinkle appeared on Crane's forehead.

"Are you getting at the fact that the snowdrift would not be so evenly disturbed by the motorcycle engine and the disturbed snow would be further from the wheel?"

"I'm getting at the fact that no one would park a motorcycle in a snowdrift. Because getting off it and getting one's boots full of snow would not be such a buzz."

"But there are no shoe marks at all!"

"Yeah."

"But… wait."

Suddenly Crane's face brightened.

"This is not a motorcycle tire track, but from a sidecar tire!"

"Exactly! Like a normal person, the driver parked on the side of the road and did not think that the sidecar moved close to the snowdrift. He calmly got down from the left side of the motorcycle, and the traces of both shoes and tires were later wiped out by fire engines and who knows what else. The only oversight is this unobvious track."

"Got it!" Crane exclaimed with abandon. "Listen, my brother would have got into the carriage…"

"Hmm…" thought Cord. "That's true, and the grandfather-poet heard the same motorcycle with a sidecar that came to get Familiar. That kind of bikes in our city is much fewer than normal ones, so there is a good chance on finding the killer… Well done, Crane! Let's go to statistics!"

The guy was already blushing. This, too, was part of the plan—get Crane so fired up with his own "finds" that he did not ask: why did Cord even start talking about motorcycles?

***

The statistician tapped on the keyboard. Cord and Crane stared at the pot-bellied monitor, watching the changing data.

"In our city, over one and a half thousand motorcycles with sidecars were registered," the statistician reported to them.

"Too many…" Cord muttered. "Oh wait! Do you have access to the anthropometric data of the owners?"

"Of course."

"What do you want to find using anthropometrics?" asked Crane.

"I was thinking. Force was a well-sized comrade, that is, to carry him away, you would need some real solid force. But we do not have information about the physical strength of each rider. However, it seems to me, we can safely exclude grandfathers over seventy… No, even sixty. Considering that our assassin moved dynamically in a duel with Familiar, he cannot be very old."

"One thousand one hundred and eleven people," the statistician replied after taking a sample.

"That number is beautiful," Crane chuckled.

"But it's still too big," Cord shook his head. "Let's exclude the short ones. Minus everyone with a height below one hundred and ninety."

"Three hundred seventy-six," the statistician reported.

"Oh!" Crane exclaimed. "That's better."

"Maybe not better. I'm hitting at random."

"Any other data?" the statistician asked politely.

"No, so far, nothing comes to mind. Print us out everything about those types. I think we have enough work for the near future."

***

"Look for tough guys," Cord said to Crane before starting work.

So, by evening they would finish. The list would probably be reduced three or four times. Then they would need to get permission to conduct interrogations, but this was unlikely to take long. It turned out that they would come for Mort either on Friday or Monday. As planned.

2

Mort waited.

He and Cord had agreed in advance with Tusk about the next few days. He had listened to Cord's proposed plan and grumbled and grumbled, but eventually decided, asking Mort if he trusted his friend. Mort trusted him.

The plan was as follows: when the police came for him, he should behave suspiciously and offer up a little resistance. This would be necessary so that he would be put behind bars for a short time.

"Don't overdo it," added Cord. "You don't need to beat the brains out of people."

3

The number of suspects of the "first wave", that is, potentially the most suitable for the role of thugs, has narrowed to eighty-six. Mort, as was needed, was among them.

"What about the rest?" asked Chief when on Thursday morning Cord and Crane brought him the list of the people they needed to question.

"Second wave," Cord replied. "Let's look at these first."

Yesterday, he and Crane stayed until nine in the evening studying the profiles of owners of motorcycles with sidecars. Now all that was left was to wait.

The hunt for innocent motorcyclists began. Fifty-six people were questioned on Thursday, and that was an excellent result, thanks to Chief, who had assigned almost all free employees to the task. Most of the motorcyclists reacted calmly upon their arrival at the Central Police Department, and many had an alibi on the day of Force's murder.

However, things did not go completely without problems. At the apartment of one motorcyclist, nobody opened the door. Just as the police officers were about to leave, suddenly one of them heard someone calling out softly. After consulting with his colleagues, who had heard nothing, the officer decided to call the Special Capture Group. The decision turned out to be a correct one: in the apartment, they found a stoned man, and a skinny, half-naked girl attached to a chain soldered to a radiator.

So quite by accident, a cold case concerning a schoolgirl who had disappeared without a trace almost a year and a half ago was finally solved.

***

On Friday's Operations Assignment Schedule, Crane got Mort. Cord had not planned this, but the guy himself volunteered to go to visit the Wolfpack.

"Are you sure, Crane?" asked Chief. "The Wolfpack are some serious guys, and difficulties may arise."

"I can handle it," Crane assured him. "Before now, everything has been fine."

This time it will definitely not be fine, Cord thought.

4

The evening was in full swing. There were more people than usual, although there were still free tables. Mort wanted the police to come as quickly as possible.

After about half an hour, his wish came true.

He immediately noticed them—a thin guy with a stupid haircut and a stern man with a sidearm on his right hip. He did not even hide it, and Mort knew he was not the only one who had noticed this.

They stood at the entrance and looked around. Cord had instructed him not to specifically attract attention to himself and to just engage in the normal functions of bartending.

"Good evening." Crane's partner showed his police ID to the bearded biker standing at the entrance. "We're looking for Mort. Is he here?"

"What do you want from him?" he narrowed his eyes, examining the ID.

"He is a witness in the Villain case. Have you heard of it?"

The biker chuckled derisively.

"Behind the bar."

Noticing that the police officers were heading towards him, Mort began to wipe the beer mugs. The young guy came forward first, and his partner stood a little behind.

"Good afternoon," Crane greeted him. "Are you Mort?"

"Yes, but what is this about?" the giant muttered carefully.

"We received information that you might be a witness in the case of the Villain. Please come with us."

"Where to?"

"To the Central Police Department. We will talk to you there and let you go."

Mort was worried.

"Uh-uh… But I didn't do anything and wasn't a witness to anything. And really, all I do is work here."

Crane felt hostile glares drilling into his back. His partner was rocking from foot to foot.

"We will not take much of your time," Crane continued to convince him, although he sensed that a confrontation could not be avoided. His partner stepped forward and demonstrated his sidearm.

"Oh, like that, aye?" Mort looked at it and nodded. "Then okay, but I need to tell my boss that I will be away."

Without waiting for an answer, Mort entered the kitchen and informed Tusk they had come for him. The man nodded.

Crane, meanwhile, nervously exchanged glances with his partner. Why did I volunteer to come here, was I a fool or what? And why did I beg my partner for permission to speak with the thug myself?

Then Mort returned, and Crane concentrated. The thug smiled and said:

"It's okay, let's do it." Mort began to plod along the bar. As soon as he approached Crane, he grabbed him by the lapels and, like a feather, threw him into the wall.

"Oh, you bitch!" yelled his partner and drew his weapon, but Mort threw a bottle at him before he could aim.

The man gasped. Mort, having reduced the distance in two steps, delivered a very soft blow to his face. The man collapsed to the floor, dropping the pistol. Mort kicked it away.

Cheers and applause were heard in the bar.

Crane began to rise. Mort moved towards him, lifted the guy by the shoulders, and shook him.

"I am leaving on business. When I get back, you shouldn't be here. Clear?"

Then he slapped the guy on the shoulder and left the bar, hoping that he didn't hurt the guys too much.

He headed for the parking lot, where he had previously parked his bike with the sidecar. Would I really have to part with it for a while?

He began to slowly start it up. He needed to give the guys time to come to and take him. That was the whole point of Cord's plan.

***

Crane looked with hatred at the back of the departing thug. That's him. That's the bastard we were looking for, the scum that killed my brother! He had dispatched us so easily! Here is the mercenary Cord spoke of and the biker Flaminga wrote about.

Crane gathered up his strength and walked to the pistol. His partner, with a smashed face, was trying to get up. Crane ignored him and picked up the gun. Officially, he still did not have the right to carry firearms, as he was not yet a full-fledged police officer, but right now, he didn't care.

I'll kill this bastard.

"Crane, no…" his partner tried to stop him, but Crane just threw an evil glance at him and went to the exit of the bar.

***

Mort started the motorcycle. Where are they? Did I beat them so hard that I can really leave? Mort growled a little with the engine, then started pulling out. Finally, a guy jumped out of the door of the Wolfpack, clutching a pistol.

"Stop, bitch!" he screamed, aiming at Mort.

He hit the brakes and reluctantly raised his hands:

"Don't shoot!"

Perhaps he had given up too readily and unrealistically, but the guy didn't seem to notice or care.

"Did you kill my brother?" he screamed.

Well, I had a hand in it, thought Mort, but answered as if amazed:

"What?!"

The guy cocked the pistol.

"I'll kill you, bitch!"

"But I surrendered!" Mort exclaimed in protest.

He knew that usually, when people shout "I'll kill you!" they were just bluffing. Real killers don't waste their time chatting.

"I'll kill you anyway," the guy croaked and put his finger on the trigger.

Oops. If he shoots and hits, it will be bad. If he misses, I will have to cripple the guy, which is also not part of the plan.

Wondering what to do next, Mort stared blankly at the guy. One second, two seconds… The situation was suddenly resolved: the partner stumbled out the door and yelled an order:

"Crane, stop!"

The guy's hand trembled.

"Wait, boy!" the partner went up to him and held out his hand for the pistol. Crane gave it away without resisting.

The partner aimed at Mort and said in an imperious tone:

"Don't move, Mort! You are arrested for attacking police officers on duty! Crane, handcuff him."

Mort calmly got off the bike, turned his back to the guy, and put his hands behind his back.

The plan seems to have worked.