by L M Rozycki
‘Of course. Mr Lankome will see to your needs. I’ll contact the coroner’s office and let them know you’re coming.’ The Mayor said, leaving the flustered Mr Lankome to tumble over his words until he started to gobble.
‘Much Obliged. Otis.’
Carter waited until they were out of earshot in the hall. ‘The Mayor?’
‘We need rent. I got a tip off and thought it would be, how do you say? Right up your street.’
Carter sighed. ‘Then we’ll divide and conquer. The other victims. Go to the crime scenes and create a data bank.’
‘But they’ve given us access to the case notes.’ Otis exhibited a digi-pad.
‘Exactly. This is all cloak and no dagger.’ And their chief benefactor was a politician. Enough reason to consider any and all information they’re given to aid their search, no matter how transparent, with a high degree of suspicion. I’m not the Mayor’s first muse. ‘No. We’ll go off our own findings. Call me when you’re done and we’ll go through it. I’ll head for the morgue.’
Otis gave a subtle nod and they parted.
Four
Carter walked into the Los Milos morgue and took it in at a glance.
Look at this place. Where’s the portrait of Mary Shelley hanging over the autopsy table?
Two bleached tables took centre stage flanked by a bank of fridges. Sterilised trays stood at the ready lined with bone saws, a sternal saw studded with intimidating teeth, and scalpels. A birthing woman’s nightmare sat spread open. Syringes pumped full of clean fluid were next to the forceps. An eerie chill passed over his skin. I feel like someone’s just run over my grave.
The district coroner was shorter than he expected and turned on hearing the double doors swing open like a tavern in the cowboy movies. Sheltered behind a bleached apron, the short, grey haired Frankenstein sported thick black rubber gloves upto his elbows. He glared at Carter from behind plastic goggles.
‘Who are you? And what are you doing in my lab?’ he asked maniacally, drawing out the last word to highlight his ownership of the place.
Torture chamber would be more accurate.
Carter swallowed hard determined not to be beaten down by the two all-seeing eyes. Eyes that stare into the dead everyday. He talks to the dead too. Anything I say as a living person is incomparable.
‘Well?’ he barked impatiently.
‘I’m here on the Mayor’s authority. To look at the bodies.’
A lead silence set in.
The all-seeing eyes narrowed. ‘You want to examine one of my patients?’
Patients? He is a medical practitioner after all. He must’ve spent his time around the living at some point. The thought churned his stomach. I can’t decide which is worse, having him touch me when I’m alive or dead.
‘Yes.’ Frankenstein drawled. ‘I received the Mayor’s phone call. Very well. Over here.’
He crossed to the fridges, opened one with a tug, and pulled out a draw. The white cloud dispersed from the chamber to reveal the cold pale body on the slab. Water dripped from the flexible tap overhanging the table landing with a hollow echo.
‘Thomas Laferty, 31 years old. Single. Both eyes and hands were augmented. Forcibly removed just prior to death. Cause of death, major blood loss and shock. Anything else?’ Dr Frankenstein banged down the clipboard from which he’d callously prattled off the details.
‘Sorry, I missed that.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ his granite faced remained unmoved and unimpressed.
‘Just trying to liven up the place.’
There wasn’t a hint of a smile on his face. It would take the same power God used to part the Red Sea as it would to break that face open with a smile. Maybe he and Mr Lankome were drinking buddies.
‘What was the augment on his hand?’
‘Do I look like a technician?’
‘You look like someone who has information. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll be out of here all the quicker. Or do I get to take a look at your fancy clipboard?’
Dr Frankenstein glared malevolently refusing to relinquish the clipboard. ‘5 minutes.’ He grated out.
‘The augment?’
The all-seeing eyes scanned the paperwork. ‘A multipurpose claw with exchangeable digits.’
‘Did he work in industry?’
‘No.’
Could be a hacker. A hacker and a clinician. No apparent connection but the two have been known to swim in the same circles. Carter looked down. What secrets are you hiding? ‘What’s that? Under the hairline?’
The doctor reluctantly pulled back the hair to show a discreetly hidden access port; a universal port capable of fitting most jacks. The good doctor wouldn’t know, and if he did know, he wouldn’t be happy about sharing the information of whether this Thomas Laferty had suffered forced entry. But it was a serial killing. And his recent acquaintance, Mr Callahan, hadn’t suffered it either. But the keypad to his apartment wasn’t exactly the entrance to NASA. A digi-pad, a black market programme and the same rudimentary understanding of numbers a three-year old has and you’re in. Simmer and serve.
‘Okay. Five minutes is up. Did you not hear me? Time’s up.’
Carter leaned closer.
‘Right. I’m calling the-’
‘Listen, doc. I get it. You don’t like the living. To be fair, I’m not too enamoured with them myself. But right now, this living one needs to see what that dead one is hiding on his shoulder. So, if you could oblige?’
The clipboard echoed in protest as the doctor threw it down and begrudgingly pulled on the deceased to show his shoulder. A white lotus flower. Same as the other. He’d spied one on Mr Callahan too.
‘A tattoo.’ The doctor said very matter-of-fact. ‘Not deep enough to be permanent. And the bruising says it’s posthumous.’
‘That’s what the puritans use. Sign of absolute human purity.’
‘Your mother must be proud. Pay for your education?’
‘And here I thought you’d gutted the humour from this place.’
Both legs below the knee where missing too. To forcibly rip augments from their holdings like this would take significant power. A hydraulic tool no doubt. The metal protruding from the legs were bent and twisted into sharp ends. The metal stretched and sheered. He remembered Mr Callahan.
‘Any drugs in his system?’
‘Only enough to fuel a race horse. Where you spend your days, I have no doubt.’
‘Something wrong, doc?’
‘No. But if someone wants a dead body they come here. Anyone want a ranger, and I tell them to visit the local. Or the races. Money runs through your hands like water.’
Ah, a jibe about rangers and their ill-gotten reputation. Stop me if I’ve heard that before.
‘Tell me your number. I’ll be sure to put some credits down for you.’ Carter hated horses.
Whoever had grappled with Mr Laferty had relieved him of his augments while he was alive, just like the other. But the stimulants. The killer wanted him to feel it. Carter glanced at the doctor.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ He said. And made a mental note to introduce the killer to Frankenstein. I might have found him another drinking buddy.
Carter straightened up as the doctor slid Thomas Laferty back into his chiller with a decisive thud.
‘We’re done here.’
Carter made for the door. The phone buzzed in his pocket and he dug it free. ‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Carter. It’s-’
‘I know.’ Mayor Goldstein’s voice was unmistakable.
‘It’s Mr Lankome. His personal security alarm has been triggered.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Carter put the phone down and pushed the door open.
The name of the doctor on duty was written on the duty-rosta and Carter allowed himself a smile. Dr Vic Franc.
Five
The brakes locked and the wheels screeched. Carter nimbly left the car. Otis’ motorcycle was
parked ahead. He’s like Superman. You call him and poof! There he is. Carter fled up the steps outside City Hall. His boot steps echoed in the foyer as he took the steps two at a time and arrived outside the Mayor’s office. Mr Lankome’s name was on the door in gold letters. Carter flung it open.
‘Oh, thank god. There. Out the window. He went out the window.’
It seemed he was the last one invited to the party. Otis was surveying the street from the window while the distraught Mr Lankome was being tended to by a plump security guard.
‘You all right?’
‘Do I look all right?’ Mr Lankome shouted. He squirmed getting up like an upturned spider. He reached for his wrist and silenced the alarm. The drone of shouts wafted in through the open window.
‘There’s no sign of anyone.’
‘Because you let him get away. You idiots.’
Carter ignored his protests like he ignored most of Mr Lankome and instead, looked hopefully at the guard.
‘Mr Lankome’s alarm went off. I came up the stairs-’
‘Not nearly fast enough! What is your salary even for? You are paid to protect me!’
‘When I entered,’ the guard continued, evidently used to Mr Lankome’s dramatics. ‘There was no-one here.’
‘I told you, he came in through the window and demanded information off me at gunpoint. Do you see this?’ he highlighted a dripping red line centre-fold on his forehead that come tomorrow would be the hub of a nice purple bruise. ‘He heard your ogre steps running and hit me. Damaged my person! Then fled the same way he came in. No. Get off me. I don’t need an ambulance.’
The guard retreated with open palms and returned the first aid kit to the box on the wall.
‘I need to draft a report.’ He said to Carter, itching to leave. A report never sounded so good.
Carter went to the window.
Outside, groups of people waved billboards and shouted into megaphones. Some jargon and babble about augmentation. Religiously motivated, these pure bred people were augment free. In a city with as many religions as recipe books it just depended on your taste. And these spewed about the unblemished sanctity of the body. They’re 100% human. No nuts, no bolts. Yes, sir. Top tier butcher meat.
‘You’re all right, Mr Lankome. This’ll bruise but you’ll-’
‘I don’t give a damn about bruises.’ He snapped. ‘I want this perpetrator found. Arrested. He might attack again. And what then? I have no arms. I’m a man of peace dammit. An instrument of change.’
‘Hopefully.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
There was his corpse-hard face again.
‘You’ve not got any augments have you, Mr Lankome?’
‘Well, no.’
‘But you’re in the employ of someone who is chiefly financed by a cybernetics company. In their eyes you’re a hypocrite. Makes you a prime target.’
Mr Lankome was pleasingly quiet. But his brow soon furrowed. ‘Do you mean to tell me you knew all this? You knew I’d be a target and left me to-. You hung me out as bait, hoping he’d attack.’
‘No. Just a happy accident.’
‘I protest-’
‘I’m sure you do. Look, Mr Lankome. You’re not safe here. And until the perpetrator is found I suggest you be put under guard. You’re the most recent target and were interrupted. You should come with us. Otis.’
Mr Lankome was livid, but couldn’t refuse Otis’ iron grip.
Carter had spied the data terminal on his way in and took advantage of the opportunity. He thumbed one of the few keys below the screen, something whirred and whizzed inside, and the screen flickered alive. Civil Service Data Terminal it read, and presented an empty space for the key. Carter took from his pocket a digi-card, a couple of inches long. It was black with an exposed chip at one end. This he slid into the waiting receiver. It prompted a response from the terminal. The screen changed again turning green.
“Ranger Access Card Recognised. Please Enter Password”, it bleated at him. Carter punched the keys and jabbed his thumb over the pad. And just like that, he was in. The civil servants database, but with ranger privileges.
‘Unhand me you fiend.’ Mr Lankome struggled down the stairs.
‘Please sir, allow me to escort you to the car.’ Otis said mechanically, oblivious to the commotion.
Carter opened a search parameter to cross-reference any purchase made of the type of tool capable of separating man from augment. It would be hydraulic. Handheld. Otherwise used in industry or heavy rescue work. He detailed the search parameters. Computers were excellent tools when they worked as intended. But if these kind of search engines didn’t have specific enough details, well, he might as well be signing to a Gorilla. On the other hand, that could be insulting to Gorilla’s. He finished and let it do its work. The bane of every search, the “pending” symbol with an accompanying 10 hour countdown until the results were ready, pinned on the screen. He bit his lip.
‘Dammit.’ and yanked out his card plugging it into his phone. ‘10 hours.’ Did he have time for a movie?
‘That’s far enough. I’m injured, not disabled.’ Mr Lankome’s bark travelled on the breeze.
Maybe not.
Six
‘And you expect me to stay here? For how long?’
Carter sighed exasperated. ‘Mr Lankome, you’re a target of the puritans. Until we’ve apprehended the suspect you must be kept sa-’
‘In this place? I hardly think so. City Hall has armed guards and police on speed dial. I hardly think this place will be half as safe. I mean look at this. It’s not even got a digital lock.’
Carter yanked the key free of the door kicking shut behind him. The infuriating bang shut the loud Mr Lankome. Good job too because he was eyeing up his fist to do the job.
‘Exactly.’ Carter said. ‘No-one will think to look for you here. It might not be the Ritz but it’ll keep you safe. There’s a bed in there.’ And jabbed a finger.
Mr Lankome peered doubtfully into the box room with the single stained mattress on a rusted bed frame. He turned mouth open gawking, but swallowed his protest.
‘This way please, Mr Lankome. I’ll show you where the rations are.’ Otis sounded polite and dignified.
Not grating it out through your teeth will do that.
‘Rations? You shouldn’t have.’
Carter threw his bag onto the coach littered with holes, and perched on the windowsill. You should be grateful they aren’t poisoned rations. I just might take an ounce of delight in seeing you foam at the mouth. Oh, I wouldn’t let you die. I’d just withhold the anti-dote long enough to imprint the look of terror on your face onto my mind. Carter smiled to himself at the thought.
He spent the next hour reading the coroner’s report on the victims from a digi-pad and periodically peeked through the metal blinds to the miniature vehicles below. The eighth storey apartment was the closest safe house to City Hall. Best to keep the bait close at hand. He cracked the window open and soaked in the cooling breeze.
Soon, Mr Lankome’s snoring wafted through from the bedroom every few seconds.
‘Any progress?’
Otis leaned against the back of the coach and folded his arms over his chest nonchalantly. Strange. Otis exhibited human characteristics seemingly rare in real humans. Will the robots outgrow us?
Carter rubbed his stinging eyes. ‘Not sure about progress. But take a look at this. I’ve gone through all your images of the other crime scenes.’ He didn’t comment on Otis’ efficiency or thoroughness. It came with the product. ‘The white lotus flower was printed on all four victims. It’s not just the symbol for purity of the flesh, but it turns out its the patron symbol of the puritans.’
‘So, it’s definitely them?’
‘We still can’t discount a copy-cat, or them being used as a diversion. But, if the evidence is to be believed. The perpetrator is for certain a religious fanatic who believes augmentation to be a sin. Contorting of the flesh.’
; ‘Historically, purging of sin has been violent and ruthless, the passing of divine justice. The Inquisition, etcetera. The perpetrator’s no different.’
‘Yeah. All victims were alive as their augments were being removed leaving these tears in the flesh. He pumps his victims full of stimulants to keep them awake. He likes to watch. Don’t shame a kink. But, it gives us a textbook masochist.’
‘A male?’
‘Stereotyping. Could be a female kink.’
Otis’ amber eyes glowed in the darkness and studied the case pictures closely. ‘The puritans have been holding regular protests outside the convention centre hosting the cybernetics seminars where Mayor Goldstein is arranged to speak. They’ve already targeted Mr Lankome. It only goes to serve the Mayor will be the next target. We’ll have a hard time finding the culprit in such a large venue.’
‘I thought so too.’ Carter said. ‘I did some research on the puritan attacks. They’re not only particular about whom they target, but also about how they attack. Scroll down. Here. June last year. Mr John Goodland, one of the leading cybernetic technicians who’d crawled out of his lab for a day, was interrogated, robbed, and left with broken fingers. Two months later and he’s back at work. The other cases are the same.’
Was Otis surprised? He couldn’t tell.
‘No killing?’
‘Just maiming, robbing and defamation of character. They’d rather ruin someone than kill them. Make an example. This is a significant escalation. That’s why I think, if they choose to target the Mayor, they’ll do so in a specific way. We don’t need to look for a rogue bomber. They’ll be seen by the scanners before they get through the door.’
Otis passed him back the digi-pad. ‘The Mayor is giving the keynote speech. That would be the opportunity to target him.’
‘He’s not just a perfect target. Turns out he’s been losing traction during this term and his opposition is promising to introduce strict control measures on the use and import of augments. Get rid of Mayor Goldstein and the opposition reigns. The puritans will back it.’
‘This has been planned over a longtime.’