Laughton waited.
Dunrich went back to his desk, and checked the tablet there. “Uh, Cindy Smythe.”
“Goddamn it!” Laughton said, his goodwill evaporating. “Why the hell didn’t you call me?”
Dunrich blinked at him, unprepared for such a quick change of mood.
Laughton could feel his anger was out of proportion but, like with Erica, wasn’t able to curb it. “Or forward me the message!”
Dunrich was still stunned to silence, confused how praise a moment before had shifted to yelling. He probably didn’t even know why Laughton was so angry. And the thought made Laughton realize that he was angry at Dunrich, yes, but angry at himself too, because he’d forgotten about tracking Smythe’s sister, and it was just another mistake piled on all the others he’d made in this investigation, and with help like Dunrich—one good thing out of how many dumb ones?—he couldn’t afford to make mistakes. “Did you at least talk to her? Get a statement?”
“She wanted—”
“Forward me the fucking message,” Laughton said. “Always forward me all my messages.”
“But you’ve said to not forward anything that wasn’t an emergency.”
“And now I’m saying forward me everything.” Laughton went into his office. There was too much blocking the door to slam it, so he left it opened. Kir leaned against the doorjamb. Laughton’s phone buzzed, and Cindy Smythe’s contact info popped up. He yelled from his desk, “Did she say anything about when it was a good time to call her?”
There was a delay, and Laughton was getting ready to get up and scream some more when Dunrich’s answer came back, “No.”
Kir said, “He did just do some real detective work.”
“Kir, you don’t know. You just don’t.”
Laughton looked at the time on the top of his phone screen: almost a quarter to four, or one on the West Coast. He tapped on the message, and then hit the icon for a video call. He hated doing interviews over the phone. It was so hard to read people, not being able to see their body language, and even in high definition, a face on a screen just wasn’t the same as a face in person, especially since their eyes were always downturned, looking at the screen and not the camera. He saw himself doing that now, his own face filling the screen as the phone rang. He was looking to see if he looked as terrible as he felt, but only someone who knew him well would notice.
At last, a ring stopped midtrill, the sound of a mic going live came through as his face was relegated to a small box in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. After a delay, a young woman’s face appeared. The little of her shoulders that were visible filled her shirt with the unnatural bulkiness of an exoskeleton. He could only imagine what her full body looked like. No wonder she chose to live off-preserve. Even on the phone, he could see that she’d been crying, the bags under her eyes puffy, her nose red. “Hello,” she said as she registered the chief’s face.
“Miss Smythe. My name is Jesse Laughton. I’m chief of police in Liberty on the SoCar Preserve.”
“Hello,” she said again.
“I’m calling about your brother.”
She nodded.
corners of lips turned down, eyes narrowed to slits—anguish
She was going to cry again, Laughton thought, but she managed to hold off. “Can you talk now?” he said. “Do you think you can talk?”
She nodded, but didn’t risk an attempt to actually speak.
“When was the last time you spoke to your brother?”
She closed her eyes, collecting herself, and when she opened them again, she looked tired instead of crushed. She took a deep breath before speaking. “Last Saturday, not this one just four days ago, the one before that. I try to call Carl every weekend, but he doesn’t always pick up and he never calls back.”
“So, did you call this past weekend and he didn’t pick up?”
“No, I was organizing a CBHC demonstration.”
The Cyborg-Human Coalition was a fringe human rights group that put an emphasis on equal cyborg rights within the context of human rights. They had been one of the lobbying organizations instrumental in the creation of the preserve system, but most members were dissatisfied with the inequality they still saw on the preserves that were established. They tried to ally themselves with the groups that represented peoples of color, but those minorities were just as prejudiced against cyborgs who they saw as voluntarily choosing to be part of an outcast minority, as opposed to the challenge of being born that way. They had little sympathy for people like Cindy Smythe, for whom becoming a cyborg had not been a choice. The most militant orgo groups, of course, would maintain that she should have accepted being paralyzed. The CBHC’s focus had turned to the creation of a separate preserve on the West Coast that they hoped would be more open-minded, given the much larger cyborg population.
“Was your brother involved in the CBHC?” Laughton asked.
Cindy Smythe shook her head. “Carl did everything he could to hide the fact that he was a cyborg. He wanted nothing to do with the CBHC. He felt he could get back at society other ways.”
“Get back at society?” Laughton resisted the urge to look at Kir. He didn’t want to let Smythe know he wasn’t alone. “What did he mean?”
“You know we were hit by robots when we were younger?”
“We were told there was a car malfunction.”
“No malfunction, and we weren’t in a car. Some robots purposely ran us down when we were crossing the street. They’d taken the car off auto, and had been looking for humans to hit, because why not? It’s not like they got in trouble for it or anything.”
There was bitterness there, edged with anger. It seemed more directed at the fact that robots could do that kind of thing with impunity than over the result of the attack: the death of her mother, the loss of her ability to walk, and what Laughton was starting to really understand, the poisonous rage that consumed her brother. It seemed most likely it was the last that got him killed. His artificial arm and leg was the lesser of the two outcomes.
He adopted the use of Smythe’s first name to keep it personal for her. “You said that Carl had ways other than joining protest groups to get back at robots?”
She tilted her head. “You know what he did, right?”
“Yes,” Laughton said, but he wanted to hear her say it.
“He liked sims because it meant he was controlling them, you know, everything they were experiencing, how they were able to act. He was playing them like puppets, it was that power that he liked. And taking money off of them, not that he used it for anything. I was proud that he was working at least, when most humans just sit around letting the government take care of them. I guess that’s taking their money too, you could say, but I think it’s more like being kept as pets.”
“Did he talk to you about sims, about people he worked with, names, places, anything?”
“I know Sam, of course”—she shook her head—“but otherwise, he never did more than allude to his work. Usually he sounded distant, and I knew he was just waiting until he could get off the phone.”
“When you talked to him last, did he seem like he expected something coming up?”
“No. Like I said, I could barely get him to talk most of the time. I just liked to know he was still okay,” she said, and her voice broke, her face flooded with the pain she’d been suppressing. “I’m all alone now,” she said, her voice tight and high-pitched.
“I’m sorry to put you through this,” he said. He knew that was trite, but it was what you said. He gave her a moment to come back to their conversation, but she was lost in a memory.
“Have you spoken to Sam?”
She shook her head, suppressing her tears, unable to speak. He wasn’t going to get any more out of her. Living on the other side of the country, she didn’t know anything anyway.
“If you think of anything else—”
“Had they really cut open his arm?” she said, almost a hiccough.
“Yes.�
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She closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them again, she was more centered. “Carl would have hated that,” she said. “He always thought he was weak for keeping it, that he should be true to his beliefs and live without an arm and leg, but”—and she smiled a knowing smile—“it’s hard to live with a disadvantage. It’s hard enough for us orgos as it is.”
The self-pity made Laughton uncomfortable. “Thank you for calling, Miss Smythe.”
“Find who did this. And I hope to god it was a robot. The last thing we need are orgos killing each other.”
Laughton didn’t want to get pulled into a political discussion. “Okay, then. I will. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Okay.”
“Goodbye.”
He hit the end button. The station phone was already ringing, but it cut off as Dunrich answered it out in the main room.
“Not much better than Enright,” Kir said.
“It’s like these guys were a pair of recluses,” Laughton said. He heard the sound of the officer’s chair sliding back, and then Dunrich looked in his office. “That was Marni, across the street at the Liberty Tavern. Caleb Mathieson got drunk and pulled a knife.”
“Goddamn it. Was anyone hurt?”
“He wasn’t even fighting with anyone. Just pulled the knife and waved it around. I’m going over to pick him up.”
“Fine. Okay.”
“Figured I’d just take him home.”
“Works for me,” Laughton said.
Dunrich nodded, then paused, seeming on the verge of saying something, but he didn’t like something about the way the chief looked, and in the end backed out of the office in silence.
Feeling guilty, the chief called him back.
Dunrich looked in.
“Good work before,” he said. “With the hacker. See if you can find Bobby Enright when you’re done with Caleb.”
Dunrich nodded, his features softening. He left without saying anything more.
Idiot Caleb Mathieson. Pulled shit like this at least once a week. Someday somebody’s going to get hurt. If only Farrah would hold him in check, but she was drunk out of her mind half the time too. She just liked to do her drinking in private.
Despite his frustration with the Mathiesons, Laughton wished that he was the one going down to pick up Caleb, to go back to that being the biggest event of the day. He wished he could just turn over this homicide to someone else. He’d left Baltimore to get away from catching bodies.
Kir said, “What do you want to do now?”
“I want to get in bed,” Laughton said.
Kir didn’t respond.
“I should probably eat something,” Laughton said.
The outer door banged open. “Chief!”
“I’m in here,” Laughton called.
“Chief.” Mathews appeared in the doorway. He pulled up when he saw Kir.
“Mathews, Kir; Kir, Mathews. He was my partner in Baltimore.”
Mathews held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
Kir shook. “Likewise.”
Mathews said, “Those women you sent me to interview didn’t know anything. They’d each met Smythe only once. One of them couldn’t even really remember him at all. She kept saying, ‘Are you sure? The guy that was killed? Are you sure?’ ”
No surprises there. Nobody knew these guys. “How’d the tech guys make out at the house?”
Mathews shook his head. “They said it could be days before they could find anything. They were actually pretty excited about it.”
“And the robots?” Kir said. “The ones staking out the place?”
“They took off when the tech boys showed up.”
“Did you get their plate?”
“Didn’t match the model they were in.”
“Of course not,” Laughton said.
“What do you want me to do?” Mathews said. “Where’s Dunrich?”
“Taking Caleb Mathieson home.”
“I guess life goes on,” Mathews said.
“That it does,” Laughton said.
The outer door banged open again. “Chief!”
“Jesus, what is this?” Laughton said. “Yeah, I’m in here,” he called.
Mathews had to squeeze farther into the room to allow Dunrich to come in. “He responded, Chief,” Dunrich said.
Who? Laughton thought for a second, then said, “The hacker.”
“Crisper,” Dunrich said, waving his phone like he was holding the man right there.
Then a face peeked over Dunrich’s shoulder. “Hiya, Jesse,” the man said.
“Jesus, Dunrich, I thought you were taking Caleb home.”
“But then this came in, and I thought…”
“Hey, are you a—” Caleb said to Kir, who answered, “Yes.”
“You got a robot on the Preserve, Jesse?” Caleb said.
“Get him out of here, Dunrich.”
“But Crisper. Willing to meet in person in Beaufort in an hour. I thought I could go.”
“No, you’re not going to go. You’re going to take Caleb home. Like you were supposed to. Mathews, go with him.” Let Dunrich be Mathews’s problem for a little while, Laughton thought. “See if you can find Bobby Enright. Robert. His wife was having a relationship with Smythe. But he supposedly didn’t know about it, so if you can sound him out without telling him…”
“Right,” Mathews said.
“You.” Laughton pointed at Dunrich. “Text me the details. I’m going to see the hacker.”
“You all know there’s a robot right here,” Caleb Mathieson said. “There’s a robot on the fucking Preserve.”
“Get him out of here,” Laughton said.
Mathews started walking toward the door, forcing Dunrich and Mathieson back. “Come on. Come on.”
Dunrich looked like he was almost going to cry as he was shuffled out of the office. “This was my lead, Chief. You should let me come.”
“He’s got a fucking robot in there,” Caleb Mathieson was saying from out in the squad room.
Kir said, “We could let him come.”
“No,” Laughton snapped. He stood up, and went to the door. The three men were heading out the front.
The text came through a second later. The meeting was at the national cemetery in Beaufort. “We’re on our way to Beaufort,” he said to Kir, opening the contact list on his phone. “I better check in with Tommy Tantino first. He’s chief of police down there.”
“All right.”
Tantino picked up himself. “Police?”
“They have you answering phones out there now?” Laughton said.
“Jesse. Jesus. You sure hit the jackpot. What’s happening?”
It was real concern in Tantino’s voice. They’d spoken over the phone a few times in the last nine months and met in person twice, and Jesse really liked him. Former New York City police, a good guy. “I’m on my way onto your turf. Meeting an informant. Hacker. Based out your way.”
“Name?” Tantino said.
“Just an online handle: Crisper. I was hoping you could tell me more.”
“Means nothing to me. Can’t think who that would be.”
“You got names for any of your hackers?” Laughton said.
“I treat that as ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ ” Tantino said. “I know there’s some sims business, but I’m busy enough worrying about local crime to worry about that. We’ve got a couple of groups that like to fight when they’re drunk, which is always. I think it’s just entertainment for them.”
That sounded about right, Laughton thought.
“You want some backup while you’re here?” Tantino said.
“I don’t want to scare the guy off,” Laughton said. “It’s got to be me.”
“I hear you,” Tantino said. “This murder sucks. Puts everyone on edge.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Place was a beautiful dream, wasn’t it? Guess we should have expected a wake-up call.”
&
nbsp; “Drinking and fighting’s not much of a dream.”
“Small price for kids playing with other kids.”
Laughton tried to measure the two against each other. He wasn’t sure the math worked out. “I guess we can only hope they’ll learn a different way,” he said, thinking about Betty and her school.
“All we’ve got is the future,” Tantino said.
“Plenty of ways to muck it up today.”
There was a pause as both men thought about that. Jesse wondered when he had gotten so cynical. One of his main gripes with his father was the way he disparaged Jesse’s optimism. But in this case, maybe it was evidence that the preserve had been a dream, and that robots were not humanity’s problem. It was each other.
“We just do our best,” Tantino said.
“What else you going to do?” Laughton said.
“Well, Jesse,” Tantino said, “you let me know if you need any help.”
“Will do.”
“Call anytime.”
“Thanks, Tommy.” Laughton broke the call. To Kir, he said, “He’s got our back if we need him.”
“We’re going to be late for Erica,” Kir said.
“Half hour there, half hour back, maybe an hour with the informant: should be plenty of time before picking up Erica.”
“Just as long as you tell Betty I tried to tell you.”
“I’m ignoring you,” Laughton said, heading out the door.
“I’m not the one you have to worry about,” Kir said.
“Are you kidding?” Laughton said. “I’m worried about everybody.”
Beaufort had remained the picture of a southern town from several hundred years ago, the robots having turned it into a tourist destination, cultivating an image as Charleston’s little brother. Large houses with screened-in porches fronted marshland. A historically preserved, brick downtown, built long ago around what was once an important harbor, had persisted, right up to the opening of the preserve, as a vibrant commercial center. Old robots, as they found themselves phased out, had congregated there, creating a quaint community that had added to the town’s charm. The town had also been home to one of the larger human populations on the East Coast, a result of the military’s former presence, a training camp and air base nearby. Unsurprisingly, the elderly robots were the ones who had been most resistant to relocation for the creation of the preserve, and their human neighbors had even argued for a dispensation, or more radically, to have the preserve’s borderline drawn around the town. But it had proven too good an opportunity for the government to squeeze the elderly, seen as pathetic sponges by most of society, and many of the aged robots had chosen deactivation over relocation.
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