III.

Dogs in space, Miller thought sourly. Sounds like some idiot's idea of a sci-fi show.

Bloodhounds, like most purebreds, were rare these days, so most outposts had to rely on half-breeds and mongrels--not as good at tracking as scent-hounds, but still dogs and therefore more reliable than any mechanical nose. Wally, who looked like he was mostly shepherd and beagle, had been leading his handler--followed by Miller, Lowell, and a handful of uniforms--on a merry chase around Level 27.

But now the dog came to the Hub, where forty-something free-fall lifts glided lazily up and down past hundreds of separate station levels.

"This is as far as we can take it," the handler announced. "Wally's not gonna find anything else for you--too many different scents in too many different lifts. Even if he did figure out which lift your perp got onto, there's no way the scent would still be intact on the level he exited to."

"The interstellar version of crossing a river to throw off the scent," Lowell quipped.

"Well, in the old days, bloodhounds would actually track a scent over water," the handler began with a gleam in his eye, but Miller cut him off with a short "Thanks," and strode angrily away.

"Where to now?" Lowell puffed when she caught up.

"To see what the autopsy turned up."

"Oh, gee. I feel better already."

* * *

"White female, age nineteen. Cause of death, three stab wounds to the chest; the weapon seems to have been a pair of bloody scissors found at the scene. As with the last two female victims, no signs of rape are present; however, the body has been mutilated: the victim's hair was cut off; blood in the remaining stubble indicates that the cutting happened after the stabbing. Also... her eyes have been removed.

"The victim's hair and eyes were not found at the scene.

"White male, age ten. Epithelials under the fingernails and blood spots on the clothing which do not match either victims' type suggest that he fought back. The same blood type was found on a baseball bat, along with blood matching the victim's. Cause of death--"

Agnes shut the recorder off as the door swung open, admitting the two detectives--and then swung open again as Miller's partner took one look at the bodies and walked back out.

Miller shrugged. "Marina's fine at crime scenes, no matter how bad. She just can't handle seeing..." He motioned to the occupied tables, and Agnes nodded in understanding.

"Not everyone can. I lost my lunch the first time."

The detective gave a short laugh, then said, "Get this. Nine-nineteen-twenty-four? It's our female vic's birthday."

"Cassie Branch's birthday?"

"No, Tess Harper's."

Agnes looked down at the girl's body and shook her head. "He already had this one picked out when he killed the last one." She sighed and handed over another small evidence bag. "And it looks like he's got the next one lined up."

"'Brown hair, blue eyes,'" Miller read off. "That's probably half the damn station population. But Tess Harper had blonde hair and green eyes. Maybe that's why he took them."

"He's never taken trophies before, Clarence. Believe me, I would know. Something else is going on here."

In the silence that followed, they both heard weeping from outside the door.

"Go see to your partner, detective."

* * *

There was no reason for Miller's heart to skip a beat when he heard Marina crying. No reason for the door to swing open in slow motion, or for him to suddenly feel every ache in every joint when he saw her leaning against the wall, her face in her hands. But there it was.

"Hey," he said gently. "It's late. Why don't I see you home?"

She turned away to wipe her face, as if she was ashamed to be seen crying over two dead kids. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Nothing to be sorry about." He threw an arm around her shoulders and ushered her out of the medical complex and into a waiting tram. It beeped a query for a destination, and he responded with, "Section 91 lift."

"I thought I could handle it," Marina whispered. Miller took her hand, and she clung to it, her grasp convulsively tightening and letting go. "I mean, I've seen dead bodies before--God knows I wore a uniform long enough before my transfer, but..."

After a few short minutes, the tram let them out at the Hub, where there was a lift waiting, fortuitously empty. "What level are you?" Miller asked, and she shakily keyed it in. They held onto the rails as gravity disengaged and the lift gently floated up toward the nine hundredth level.

"It doesn't get any better, does it?"

Miller took a deep breath. "Most of the time, either you catch your perp, or he leaves the station--or you have to kill him. And then... you move on to the next case."

"I think I prefer the third option," Marina laughed bitterly.

No kidding, Miller thought as their lift glided into the lock.

"This is me," Marina said as they reached one of the many anonymous doors. The last number swung loosely upside down, making it look like she lived in 92h. She unlocked the door, but turned back, her face pale and cadaverous against the darkened interior. "I don't want to be by myself tonight."

"I... guess I can sleep on the couch," Miller found himself saying.

"No. Clarence. I don't want to be alone."

He hesitated. "I snore."

"So do I."

"I wake up at three a.m. every morning."

"I wake up at two-thirty," she retorted, a smile beginning to play around her lips.

"Liar."

"So stay the night and prove me wrong."

He stayed. Three o'clock came and went, and neither one woke up.