Davis nodded. “So why keep this quiet? Why hush the call today so soundly?”
“Best way to catch someone is to not let them know they’re being chased.” Maria grimaced. “This will blow up soon enough. We might as well keep this out of the news as long as possible though, right?”
There’s more to it than that, Davis thought, scrolling through a window, scouring notes and reports. Dangerous, one of them read. If people lose faith in Snapshots, the tool could be undermined in court.
“You still should have told us,” Davis said.
“Why?” Maria said. “What would be the point?”
“When we’re in Snapshots of certain days,” Chaz said, crunching on M&M’s, “we could go poke at things. Get more information.”
“Where?” Maria said. “When? Didn’t you hear that the killer is specifically working to make you two irrelevant?”
Davis glanced at his partner. Maria was being too defensive. She often got this way, as did the others. He and Chaz, they weren’t supposed to poke into the business of real detectives. To the rest of the department they were errand boys, sent to retrieve specific data and nothing else.
But the truth was, nobody seemed to know what to do with the Snapshots. The city had been pressured into buying the program, and so had sunk a ton of money into it—but privacy laws had then tied their hands tightly. It was a wonder that even two detectives were allowed in. And if the general public knew how much leeway Chaz and Davis took with their job . . .
Well, either way, it was a tool that—even years into the program—nobody understood, let alone knew how to properly exploit. But that still didn’t explain why they’d hide so much from the cops working in them.
“What aren’t you telling me, Maria?” Davis whispered.
She met his eyes defiantly. Then those eyes darted to the side as Chaz lifted his gun to her temple.
“Chaz,” Davis said, sighing. “Don’t kill her again, please.”
“Again?” Maria demanded.
“Just talk to me, Maria,” Davis said. “We usually don’t kill you. I promise.”
“It’s a Snapshot, Maria,” Chaz said. He shrugged. “Nothing we do in here matters. Tell the nice man what it is he wants to know.”
“I don’t know why they didn’t tell you,” she said, stubborn. “No, they didn’t tell you about the case. No, they didn’t want to use you to investigate it. I don’t know why.”
“You’re lying,” Davis said.
“Prove it.”
Davis looked to Chaz, sighing.
Chaz shot her.
Bodies don’t jerk as much as people think they do, even when shot in the head. They just kind of slump, like Maria did. A little puff from the gun blowing her hair, head bobbing as if tapped, and then . . . her body drooped in her chair. There wasn’t even much blood—the bullet didn’t exit the other side of her head. Some blood did come out her nose, and out the hole in her temple.
Chaz calmly held aloft his badge for the few people who were still there, those who hadn’t wandered out at seeing the badge originally—or who hadn’t been scared away by what the chief had done.
“You bastard!” Davis said, standing and stumbling back from the cubicle. “You actually did it!”
“Yeah,” Chaz said. “I’ve always wanted to, you know? That smug look on her face. Treating us like she’s a babysitter and we’re a pair of three-year-olds.”
“You actually did it!”
“What? You implied we’d done it loads.”
“That was an interrogation technique!”
“A piss-poor one, judging by results,” Chaz said, shoving her body off the chair and sitting down. “You going to help me look through this stuff? She’s got better access than us. We might be able to learn something.”
Davis spun about, scanning the precinct office over the cubicle walls. A few had remained at their stations, despite everything that had happened so far. Those had stood up at the shot, and now backed away from him. Friends . . . well, acquaintances. The fear in their eyes dug into him—like he was a terrorist.
Officer Dobbs had his gun out, and he looked at it, weighing it. Davis could almost read the conflict. If I shoot him, Dobbs seemed to be thinking, I’m shooting a real person. A cop who didn’t do anything illegal. But if I’m not real . . . who cares, right? I can’t be punished, not really.
Dobbs met his eyes, and Davis had the sudden instinctive feeling that he should draw his own sidearm and gun Dobbs down before the man could make the decision. But, frozen, Davis couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Dobbs proved to be a better person, even as a dupe, than Chaz was. Dobbs holstered his weapon and shook his head, then stumbled away.
Davis breathed out a long sigh. Not relief, exactly. More weariness. He ducked down beside his partner, trying to ignore Maria’s body bleeding on the floor.
Chaz wasn’t looking at the case with the serial killer. He’d pushed all those windows to the side, and was instead looking up something else. Personnel files.
His own.
“Damn,” Chaz said. “We should have done this ages ago, Davis. You see? She has full access to our records.”
Chaz had only been in the New Clipperton force for a year before being assigned to Snapshots. Before that, he’d served in Mexico City, with which they had an immigration treaty and transferable citizenship. His Mexico City record commended him for eagerness and enthusiasm in training, though it also contained this line at the end: Overly aggressive.
“Aggressive,” Chaz snapped. “What does that even mean? Rodriguez, you bastard. I mean, shouldn’t a cop be aggressive? You know, in pursuing justice and the like?”
The rest of the record, which Chaz scrolled down, had notes from New Clipperton officers.
Eager. Strong willed. I think he’ll cut it, Diaz had written before retiring.
Is a bully, Maria herself had written a few months into Chaz’s tenure in the city, when he’d been a traffic cop. I have seven complaints on this guy already.
Treats being a cop like playing a video game. That from his former partner.
It was followed by another note from Maria. Recommended for Snapshot duty. We can’t fire him, not without a concrete incident. At least in there, when he inevitably shoots someone, it won’t be grounds for a lawsuit.
Davis glanced at her corpse again.
“Huh,” Chaz said. “You read that?”
“Yeah.”
“Diaz,” Chaz said, raising his chin. “Hell of a guy, that man was. Strong willed? Yeah. Yeah, I’m strong. And I could have cut it, you know? If she hadn’t stuffed me in here.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s see what yours says,” Chaz said, sliding his fingers across the desk to start the search.
Davis tapped the desk, freezing the windows. “Let’s not.”
“Come on. Don’t you want to see?”
“I can guess,” Davis said. “Bring those other windows back, the ones with the case notes about the Photographer. Load them to my phone.”
Chaz sighed. “It would only be fair to read your record, Davis. You know why I’m here. What about you?”
“Aggression,” Davis said.
Chaz looked at him, then laughed. Though it was technically true; aggression was his problem. Not enough of it.
They got the files loaded, then Davis tugged Chaz’s shoulder, nodding for them to leave. “Let’s get out of here before someone decides that being a dupe means they can gun us down with no consequences.”
Chaz didn’t argue. He slipped out, almost tripping over Maria’s legs. Davis gave her one last glance, then—because he couldn’t help himself—he grabbed her little change bowl from the desk and dumped the coins into his hand.
Together, the two of them left the precinct. Davis felt better standing out on the steps, under the sunlight—even though it was as fake as everything else here.
“What now?” Chaz asked.
Davis checked his phone. 14:07.
He had six hours left. “I’m going to stop a monster. You with me?”
“Of course. I can cut it, Davis. I’m telling you, I can. This is our chance, you know. To prove ourselves. But where do we go?”
“Back to the apartment building with the corpses,” Davis said, calling an autocab with a tap on his phone.
“To get information from the cops there?”
“No, I’ve got their report,” Davis said. “We’re going to talk to the people who own the building.”
“The bank?”
“No,” Davis said. “The real owners.”
Five
Davis spent the ride sorting through the coins that had been on Maria’s desk, absently raising each one to the sunlight shining through the cab’s window and checking the date it had been minted. American money; most city-states had adopted it, though the one- and two-dollar coins had both originally been Canadian.
It felt relaxing to study something like coins that was basically an anachronism. You could know everything there really was to know—now that no new ones were being made. Funny, how quickly they’d started to vanish. It had only been two years since the last coins had been minted.
Still, the story was finished. You could have all of the answers.
Wait, he thought, stopping on a nickel. He scanned through the list on his phone. 2001, Denver mint? He felt a little jolt of excitement. They’d both been missing the 2001 nickel. With this, he completed a set.
“What did you do, Davis?” Chaz asked. “Everyone else seems to know what landed you in here, but nobody will ever tell me. Did you shoot a kid?”
Davis ignored him, pocketing the coin, stupidly excited.
“I still don’t get why you like those coins so much. They’re old now, meaningless. Practically worthless.”
“That’s what my wife always said.”
“Your ex-wife, Davis.”
“That’s what I meant.”
He sifted through the rest of the coins, but didn’t find any of interest. Unfortunately, they reminded him of Maria, lying on the floor of the precinct office. Her dead eyes staring at the sky, the neat little hole in her temple leaking blood.
He dug out his phone and, just to reassure himself, texted the real Maria outside the Snapshot.
Hey, he said. Have you guys managed to catch the serial killer IRL? The one they call the Photographer?
There was a long pause where no reply came. Finally, the message bounced, and—annoyed—he sent it again. This time it went through. Then a direct line opened to IRL.
How do you know about that, Davis? Maria sent as soon as it opened. He could sense the sharpness of her tone.
Your dupe told us, Davis wrote. She considers it important, for some reason. I don’t know. Said maybe we should poke into things while we wait.
You aren’t authorized for that case, IRL Maria sent. If my dupe is talking about it to you, it means you’ve created a Deviation in her. Go to a saferoom. You’re supposed to be there anyway. Are you ignoring protocol again?
We’re on our way now, Davis sent. But did you catch him? The swimming pool corpses in the abandoned apartment building, they helped you track him down?
Pause.
No, Maria admitted. Those corpses haven’t led to anything so far. Really, there’s nothing you can do.
He believed her, at least on the facts about the corpses. Maria didn’t lie. She withheld information all the time, but would just stare at you if you tried to pry something out of her. She’d never lied to him about anything important.
That was far more than he could say about some people.
He showed the screen to Chaz, who nodded. “You ever wonder if the thing that powers this whole operation can see what we’re doing?”
“I think it’s supposed to be unconscious,” Davis said, pocketing the phone. “It dreams up a re-creation of the day, and we slip in.”
“So we’re in its dreams.” Chaz shifted, uncomfortable. “We pretend this is all technological, like we’re in some simulation. But . . . I mean . . .”
“Close enough,” Davis said. “Powered down with a button, powered on with some computer code. What’s the difference?”
“Feels different. When I think about it. Maybe the thing is watching us.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so. The way this all plays out . . . it doesn’t feel like anything is watching. Otherwise, why the Deviations? Feels like the code instructs the thing to create an exact representation of the day, then just lets it play out naturally.”
So far as they could tell, Snapshots proceeded exactly as the original day had, so long as nothing interfered. But that was hard to prove, as they couldn’t monitor it. It had been tried before—they had let it run all day on its own, then checked at the end of the day by sending some drones in to look things over. But even that was suspect, as entering or leaving the Snapshot at any time except when it was just created tended to cause huge Deviations.
The best they could do was send two cops into the system, live it through and try to muddle along, hoping they didn’t accidentally send the Snapshot running in the wrong direction. Of course, that plan didn’t take into account the two of them shooting anyone or sending scores of people into chaos.
Davis sighed as the autocab pulled to a stop. He’d chosen a place a block or two from the run-down apartment building. He climbed out, taking a bottle of water from the cab’s mini fridge—his account would be charged, but it was a fake version of his account. Outside the cab, he fished in his pocket for the nickel. His fingers touched crumpled paper—the woman’s number, from the diner. He pulled out both, then shook his head and stuffed the paper back in his pocket.
“What’s that?” Chaz asked.
“I found a nickel I don’t have IRL,” Davis said, washing off the nickel. Then he tried to swallow it. That wasn’t as easy to do as he’d thought. He ended up on hands and knees, coughing the nickel onto the sidewalk, where it rested defiantly on the pavement.
“Damn,” Chaz said. “Never thought you’d actually try that.”
“Maybe,” Davis said, swallowing a gulp of water, “I’ll just ask the IRL Maria if I can trade for the one in her coin jar.”
“Yeah,” Chaz said, sounding amused. “Might be easier.” He paused. “You’re a weird little dude, Davis.”
Once Davis had recovered himself, Chaz started off toward the apartment building. Davis took him by the arm, shook his head, and pointed the other direction.
His search took some time—the cops showing up had scared off his targets. Still, after fifteen minutes he spotted a likely candidate: a kid standing on a street corner with hands shoved in the pockets of his longball jersey. He was wearing a ball cap and combat boots, the latest irrational fashion choice of kids on the street.
Davis wagged his phone at the kid, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Davis jogged over, Chaz following, curious.
“How much?” the kid said.
“Ten hits?” Davis said. “Stiff.”
“I got five,” the kid said, sizing him up.
Davis nodded. “You a Primero?”
“What’s it to you?” the kid asked, getting the drugs from his pocket.
Davis stepped backward, raising his hands. “Look, I know what the Primeros do to people who sell on their turf. I’ll find someone else.”
“Settle your boots,” the kid said. “I’m Primero.” He flashed the proper sign. “Damn chippers. You shouldn’t care who you buy from.”
“I just don’t want to get into trouble,” Davis said, tapping his phone against the kid’s, holding his thumb over the authenticator and transferring fake money for fake drugs to a fake person. “There’s an apartment building three streets over,” Davis added. “Old beat-up place. Has Primero tags sprayed all over it. Who’ve you guys been renting it to?”
The kid froze, five large white pills clutched in his hand.
“You cleared out the homeless people living there,” Davis said. “Let someone else in. Kept
everyone else away for him, right? Who is he?”
“You’re a cop?” the kid said.
Davis took the pills, then popped one in his mouth and washed it down. “Would a cop do that?”
The kid stepped backward, then frowned.
“This guy,” Davis said. “He’s trouble. Big trouble. You don’t need to know why we’re hunting him, but I’m willing to buy information. Go tell your narco what I’ve said. I’ll wait here for you to come back with him. He’ll want to talk to us.”
The kid bolted, and Davis looked back at Chaz.
“Damn,” Chaz said softly. “Did you just take a full hit of stiff?”
In response, Davis popped the pill from his cheek and spat it out. He dropped all five pills and ground them beneath his shoe. He then took a long pull on his water bottle, hoping that he hadn’t gotten too much of the stimulant into his system.
Chaz laughed. “So, you think the gang will actually come talk to us? I think that kid will just bolt.”
“Maybe,” Davis said, then settled down on a bench near the corner to wait.
It didn’t take long. Six of them came together: the kid they’d been speaking to, four older teens, and one man in his thirties. That would be the narco—the head drug dealer for this little area. Not the head of the gang, but leader to a couple dozen kids on the street here. Half boss, half parent.
Davis stood and held his hands to the sides in a nonthreatening way, and smothered his nervousness. The narco was a tall man, lighter skinned than Chaz or Davis, with buzzed hair. Davis could almost imagine him wearing a polo shirt and slacks on business-casual day at the office, rather than jeans and combat boots.
Davis and Chaz followed the group into an alleyway, and the narco pointed. Two of his men hopped up to Davis and Chaz, probably to search them.
“I’ve got a gun in my right pocket,” Davis said. “My friend has one in the under-arm holster beneath his jacket. We’ll want them back. Don’t touch our wallets, or there will be trouble.”
The gang members took the guns, to Chaz’s obvious annoyance, then searched them for other weapons. But they left the wallets alone. Davis suffered it, eyes closed, trying to calm himself. Finally, the two cops were allowed to approach farther down the alleyway, which smelled of trash and stagnant water. Chaz looked back toward the street longingly and patted at his holster, already missing his gun.
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