by Brian Parker
“Not quite. We’ve had four murders in four different clubs over the last four weeks.”
“I’m not a criminal psychologist, Zachary. My role is to discuss problems with police officers, not their cases.”
“I know this is outside your lane, Doc, but the mayor wants to keep the investigation out of the fed’s hands. If it turns out that they’re linked and we have a serial killer on the loose in New Orleans, the FBI will be all over the department.”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds and then she relented, “I can look at the files to see if I can give you a few pointers, but it would only be my opinion.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and then explained my burgeoning theory about why I thought that the cases may be related and went over the generic details of the murders.
“Hmm…” the doctor muttered. “The murder-suicide is a stretch, but it does fit the timeline, and I agree with you that they seem to be getting progressively more violent. Stabbing is less protracted than beating someone to death and I believe it could be considered not as violent on a scale of this sort. Switching up an M.O. is not unheard of with serial killers. The method a killer uses may change, but the underlying reason of why they’re doing it doesn’t.”
“Yeah, so that’s what I need help with. So far, the location and the timing of the murders are the only consistent elements. I’m not even sure that they’re related, but the evidence points toward that possibility.”
The muffled sounds of the natives getting restless in the background reminded me that she had somewhere to be. “Hey, sorry. I’ll let you get back to the birthday party,” I said. “I just needed a second set of eyes on this before the feds get wind of it.”
“Send the files to my house. I’ll look through them tonight and tomorrow. We’ll talk Monday morning.”
“Will do. Thank you, Doc.”
“No problem. Bye, Zachary.” She hung up before I could reply.
I wasn’t happy about the morning meeting since I typically worked nights, but I was off on Sunday, so maybe I’d be able to rest a little. I tapped a few more keys on the dash and Andi’s voice came through the radio. “Good afternoon, boss. My satellite interface says you’re in Venetian Isles. Did the navigation system malfunction in the Jeep again?”
I grimaced. The last time that happened, I’d ended up north of Slidell before Andi could override the car’s computer.
“No,” she stated immediately in response to her question. “Diagnostics show the vehicle is working correctly.”
“I’m meeting with a witness down here.”
“That’s acceptable. I was worried for you.” Andi made statements like that sometimes and I often wondered if her AI was developing faster than I thought possible. Computers could emulate human emotions, but they didn’t truly experience them.
“Can you have N.O.S.T. pick up a package I’m going to place in the external cargo deck?”
“Contents of the package and delivery location?” she asked.
“Police files and Dr. Jasmine Jones residence.”
There was a slight pause before Andi returned. “New Orleans Secure Transfer has been notified. They’ll pick up the package while you’re interviewing the witness. There’s a courier three blocks away on another call, he’s been rerouted to your location.”
I picked up the bundle of files from the perpetually empty passenger seat and wrapped a big rubber band around them. The courier was close; it didn’t make any sense to take the time to prepare the external cargo system. “I’ll meet them in person since they’re nearby. Can you change the method of pick up?”
“Done.”
“Thanks, Andi. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
“You’re welcome. Be safe.”
She clicked off and I saw the flashing orange lights of the N.O.S.T. truck speeding toward me through the windshield. These bots were fast.
The truck pulled up beside my door and extended a canopy over the Jeep to keep the rain from damaging the paperwork. I hit the automatic window button.
“Good afternoon, Detective Forrest. I am from New Orleans Secure Transfer to pick up a package for transport to Dr. Jasmine Jones, 8332 North Broad Street, New Orleans, Louisiana 70119.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I replied. I didn’t know where the doctor lived; Andi had set up the delivery location. “Hey, do you have a large letter-sized envelope?”
“Yes, sir,” the robot answered and produced a plain manila envelope.
I took a moment to slide all of the files together inside the package and secure the flap. “Here you go,” I said, holding the package out the window into the funnel of dry air created by the canopy.
“Thank you, Detective Forrest,” it said, handing me a small receipt. “Estimated time of delivery to the residence of Dr. Jasmine Jones, 8332 North Broad Street, New Orleans, Louisiana 70119 is…nineteen minutes in current traffic. You will receive a confirmation message when it is delivered.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, rapidly rolling up my window as the canopy retracted and the N.O.S.T. truck sped off toward the Tremé District.
I opened my door to get out and the phone rang. I slammed it shut against the rain. “Forrest.”
“Hey, Detective. It’s Drake.”
I glanced at the car’s display. He was calling me from his office line. “Little late in the day for you—or are you working early?”
“Both. The review of the robot’s memory bank at the Diva came back clean.”
“Explain ‘clean’ for me,” I said.
“There wasn’t anything in the bot’s video feed that’s of much use to us. After Wolfe finished fucking the thing, it went to take a shower. There’s some interesting behind the scenes, first-person point of view video of other naked women showering—until you remember that they’re all goddamned sex bots.”
Drake was firmly in the anti-robot camp and wasn’t afraid to let anyone know about it. It was a growing movement as people rebelled against the increasing number of robots in our society. Some pointed to popular fiction which said the bots would rise up to be our overlords one day. It was a bunch of garbage if you asked me, let them do the menial jobs like cleaning the sewers and scraping barnacles off the seawall.
“I’m sure the video of Chuck was riveting as well,” I chuckled.
“Yeah, no,” he replied. “I also reviewed the hallway footage.”
“And?”
“Nothing. There are people who walk by the room with sex bots heading for their room, but nobody goes in or out of Wolfe’s room until the robot leaves to get cleaned up.”
“Shit,” I muttered. There still weren’t any leads besides my crazy OCD killer idea.
“I’m having the tech guys analyze all the video properties to see if anything was deleted or spliced together, but that’ll take a few days.”
“Okay, thanks for the heads’ up. Can you send that over to my place? I’ll watch it when I’m done with this interview.”
“When are you gonna get any rest, sir?”
“Tomorrow’s my night off, so I’ll catch up then,” I replied.
“You’re not a spring chicken anymore… Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Don’t worry about me, Sergeant Drake. I’ll get some rest after I meet with the widow. Just don’t call me for another investigation tonight and I’ll be fine.”
“No promises,” he stated.
“Okay, I’m running late for a meeting with Miss Himura. I’ve got to go.”
“Sure thing, sir. Talk to you later.”
He disconnected the phone and I stared blankly out at the rain for a moment. I sighed and opened the door.
The Regal Apartments lived up to their name. When I walked in, a doorman took my hat and coat, offering to dry the fabric while I was upstairs speaking with the building’s resident. I didn’t know what they used to accomplish that task, but I hoped that whatever they did would get out the dried patch of white shawarma sauce from lunch. A dried stain like that near my crotch
would evoke the thought that I’d sampled what The Digital Diva offered its clients instead of a simple sandwich accident.
The Regal Apartment’s lobby was more reminiscent of a Victorian Era hotel than the usual type of apartment building that I was used to. High-backed chairs and couches, dimpled with tacks, sat around wooden tables arranged for social gatherings. Faux fireplaces burned at various points around the room and most of the pictures on the walls had oversized gilt frames.
Classy joint, I thought as I walked across the marble floor to the elevators. Another employee stood by the elevator and pushed the up button. I could have pushed the button myself. I wondered how much this place cost per month—and where did the manager of a sex club in Easytown get that kind of money?
Inside the elevator, another employee pushed the button for the twenty-second floor. I rode in silence with him as classical music played softly over the speakers; some number that sounded vaguely familiar, but I honestly had no clue what it was. My elevator companion announced our arrival and I bid him a good afternoon when I stepped out onto the empty twenty-second floor. Who’s going to push the button for me to go back down when I’m done talking to the witness? I wondered sarcastically.
The older styling from the lobby continued upstairs as well. Several nice-looking pieces of furniture lined the hallway, but everything nearby looked new, like no one had ever sat in them. I turned both ways in the hallway. Nothing was marked, so I wasn’t sure if Paxton Himura’s apartment was to the left or right. I chose to go right and after a few even-numbered apartments on both sides, I turned and went the opposite way.
Her apartment door was light blue. If my memory from high school could be believed, I think they called it robin’s egg blue—not too different from the color of her hair. Thick, gold molding surrounded the doorway and an elaborate brass knocker completed the look.
The mistress answered a few seconds after my knock. “Hello, Detective. I was expecting you half an hour ago.” She wore a pair of maroon sweat pants and a black long-sleeve shirt, which was offset by her vivid hair. She’d taken off the blue lipstick, but her eyes remained the same.
“Sorry, Miss Himura,” I replied. “I got caught up with some details of the case.”
She stepped aside and allowed me to slip past her into the apartment. “Do you have any idea who did it?” she asked.
“I can’t discuss that with you, ma’am.”
“Please, Detective Forrest, we’re alone. You can call me Paxton. I’m not comfortable with all the formality.”
“Miss Himura, I’d—”
“No. I refuse to talk unless I can be comfortable around you.”
I stared at her for a moment, giving her a stern look; maybe she’d flinch. She didn’t appear to be intimidated. “Okay, Paxton. May I sit down?”
“Of course,” she gestured toward her couch. As she walked away from the door, she called over her shoulder, “Please, take your shoes off.”
Crap. I hope my feet didn’t smell. I followed her directions and pressed the auto-tighten button on my left shoe. I gritted my teeth as I crouched down to untie the second Oxford manually. It was slightly embarrassing for me that she saw my shoe was broken. Highly unprofessional.
Thankfully, my feet didn’t smell that bad after being trapped in leather for almost twelve hours and I walked gingerly across the wooden floor to the sitting area where a chair was placed across from the couch. Miss Himura disappeared around the corner and I heard a few dishes rattle lightly in what I assumed was the kitchen.
I glanced quickly around her apartment while I waited. The furniture was the sleek, modern style that young professionals seemed to prefer, contrasting with the building’s décor and the traditional dress she’d worn earlier at the Diva. It wasn’t that I disliked the style, but I preferred my overstuffed couch and comfortable blankets on a chilly day off from work.
Miss Himura returned carrying a tray with a steaming teapot, a covered bowl and two demitasse cups. She set the tray down on the coffee table and filled the small cups with tea. “Would you like sugar, Detective?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
She shook her head, sending her hair flying outward. “Don’t be rude. In my culture, you must drink tea as a part of every meeting. It’s considered poor form to skip this,” she added.
“Okay, I’ll have a little bit of sugar,” I relented.
I watched as she kneeled to prepare the tea. The tiny spoon dipped into the sugar bowl and she stirred it into one of the cups. Then, she rotated on her knee and handed me the cup on a saucer.
Her movements seemed to be some type of Japanese tea ritual, but if there was significance to her actions, it was lost on me. I took a sip. “Mmm, this is good. Is that…a flower?”
She smiled, nodding her head. “Jasmine, vanilla and some cinnamon. It’s my own take on a traditional drink. Too much of it will make you sleepy though, so only one cup.”
She stood and repositioned to the couch as I drained the cup. It was really good and made me want more. I set the saucer back down on the tray and opened my notebook. “How are you, ma’am?”
“Detective, call me Paxton.”
“Sorry. How are you? Are you experiencing any problems dealing with what you saw?”
“I think I’m alright, Detective—what’s your first name?”
I briefly considered telling her that it was ‘Detective.’ Instead, I settled on the path of least resistance. “It’s Zachary, but I go by Zach.”
She smiled. “See, we can be civil to one another, Zach.” Paxton shifted on the couch, placing a pillow across her lap and hugging it to her chest.
“You’re right.” I pointed at the pillow. “You sure that you’re okay?”
“It’s a shock to see a dead body—and that one was… Well, you know.”
“If you’d like, the department has some counselors you could talk to.”
Paxton shook her head. “No. I just need to get some rest. The club is closed tonight while the remediation team does their work, so I’ll be able to sleep once we’re done talking.”
I took that as my cue to carry on with my questions. “I have a few questions for you, if you feel like you can talk.”
She rolled her hand. “Of course. Let’s get on with it so I can move past this.”
My notebook page was a jumbled mess of notes and questions that I wanted to ask her, so I’d taken the time during lunch to write numbers beside the questions in an attempt to put them in order. I found the first one and read, “When I asked if it was typical for someone to shower in the club after sex, you said that it was for this client. How often did Mr. Wolfe come to The Digital Diva?”
“Mmm… Probably twice a month. I think it depends on the month, but that’s about average I guess. He’s one of our regulars.”
“How long has he been coming to the Diva?”
Her eyes flicked upward in thought. “A year? He first started coming in about six or seven months before we got the new girls.”
“The…” I checked my notes. “The CS98 Pleasure Droids?”
“Oh, good,” she said, her smile returning. “I’d hoped we wouldn’t have a repeat of this morning’s rude slang term for the droids.”
“It’s semantics. If you prefer them to be called by their manufacturing name, then I can do that for you.”
“I’d prefer them to be called by their names,” she countered.
“Uh, okay…” That’s odd. “So, Mr. Wolfe was a regular that you’ve seen for a while. I’ll need you to run a search of your records to determine exactly how often and when he came in. How long have you worked at the Diva, Miss—excuse me—Paxton?”
“Let’s see, I started in 2089 right when the club opened, so… What is that, ten years?”
I blanched. “I’m sorry. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight, Zach… And no, before you ask, I didn’t work as a prostitute before switching to management.”
“That’s not relev
ant to our discussion. I wouldn’t have asked you.”
“I just want you to know. I started in environmental services assisting the previous model droids with their cleaning. They required much more hands-on attention than our current girls do. Then, I worked as the Diva’s tech manager before the owner elevated me to the position of House Mistress two years ago.”
I began to feel slightly light-headed. I glanced at the empty cup longingly. I needed to drink some water, but I’d never ask the witness for it. I tried to focus. “Forgive me if I’m stepping on your toes here, why do you feel so strongly about these pleasure droids?”
“I… I don’t know. I guess I feel a little sorry for them.”
“They’re robots,” I interjected.
“I know that; and I know they don’t have feelings, other than those that have been programmed into them, but it’s a sad ‘life.’ We had the older models, the CS90s, before these. Those girls were worn out by the time the owner replaced them. As a tech—both environmental and programming—I spent a lot of time with them. I really developed a connection with them.”
“Are you this empathetic toward human prostitutes?”
“No. My girls didn’t ask to be designed as a sex slave. The humans have a choice.”
I chuckled. “That’s certainly not the case about most of the human prostitutes that I’ve met. Circumstances have basically forced them into their role.”
“But, they can leave,” she countered. “Start a new life somewhere else. Go to school and get an education, work at a grocery store, whatever. If it got bad enough, they could even kill themselves. Robots can’t do that; they’re stuck and their programming doesn’t allow self-termination.”
“Hmm, I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms before,” I admitted.
“Most people don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating suicide. I’m just saying that there are options available for humans that aren’t there for robots.”
I agreed with her. Suicide was a choice, although not a good one.
The conversation had gotten way off track. “Okay, fair enough. Getting back to the questions in my notebook, what time did Mr. Wolfe come in last night?”