by Brian Parker
I thought drunkenly about my answer, and how I wanted to respond. I chose to answer her sincerely. “I believe in helping people. In my job, I see the absolute worst of the human spirit. Every damn day. I don’t get the benefit of meeting the good ones and interacting with the community like a beat cop, but I do get to help them. I go out there each night and every day, to get the worst of the worst off the street so regular people can go about their lives without fear of getting murdered for whatever’s in their wallet or on their credit implant.
“It’s changed me over the years, I’ll freely admit that. I’m still a single guy with no family, while everyone I grew up with, all of my friends, are married with children. I can’t even keep a pet because it’d be cruel to leave them alone for so long.”
I paused. “I don’t regret it, though. I’ve been one of the most successful homicide detectives that the Easytown Precinct has ever had.”
Katheryn smiled, but somehow managed to appear sad. “Hey, what is it?” I asked.
“It’s just… You seem like such a good man, I—”
“Whoa!” I said, holding up my hands and cutting her off. “I’m not without my faults.” I lifted my nearly empty glass. “For starters, I drink way too much, and I’m not particularly nice with the perps.”
“Both are coping mechanisms for dealing with what you’ve seen and done. The same with your relationship problems, it’s probably—”
“Alright, that’s enough,” I cut her off again. “You’re a nice woman, Katheryn, but I already see a shrink. I don’t need another person trying to analyze me.”
She ducked her head, sending her hair flying once more. “You’re right. Sorry. You don’t realize it, but I really am trying to help.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Sorry,” she said, standing from the table on unsteady legs. “I’ve got to go, Zach. Early morning at the evidence locker.”
I stood as well. “I can walk with you to the garage and we can get that weapon from my Jeep.”
“You left it in your car?”
“Uh… Yeah. The security system in the Jeep is top-of-the-line, protected by a secure garage facility. I wasn’t in the best shape to retrieve it Friday or Saturday. The hospital only did a small amount of regenerative genetic stimulation since, as you said, I’ve been injured so much and the docs are worried about the long term effects of so many procedures.”
“I’m sorry, Zach,” she said, leaning into me, sliding her hands around my waist.
I wrapped her in my arms. Dizziness from the alcohol and antibiotics mixture intensified and before I realized what was happening, Katheryn and I were kissing. My brain screamed for me to stop; my body urged me further along toward the impending disaster.
Katheryn broke away first. “I—I can’t do this.”
“Why not?” Jackass, I thought.
“I just can’t, Zach. It’s complicated.” She stepped back and put a hand on the table to steady herself. “Can you please bring the weapon to the evidence locker first thing in the morning?”
She didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, she stumbled to the apartment door and hurried into the hallway.
I sat back down at the table to think about the mess I’d made, both in my personal life and at work. I needed to get things straight, but first I needed another drink—which may have been a contributing factor to some of my problems. I sure as hell wasn’t prepared to give it up, though.
EIGHT: MONDAY
“Zach, it’s time to go to work.”
“Can it, Andi. I’m on convalescent leave,” I grumbled into my pillow.
“Technically, you’re leave ended at six o’clock this morning. The hospital gave you forty-eight hours after you came out of surgery. You’re back on the clock, Zach, and there is a message waiting for you from Dr. Jasmin Jones.”
“Mother fucker,” I groaned. “Turn the lights on to the dimmest setting we have.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“And tone down the cheeriness. I feel like crap.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Andi replied with a distortion filter superimposed over her normal voice, although it didn’t hide her standard voice protocols, which were annoying to me right now. “Do you want me to make this voice profile standard?”
“No, goddamn it. Just talk normal, but quietly.” I rolled over and my waistline hurt. “What? Aww, crap.”
I’d slept in my clothes and the jeans I’d worn yesterday had bitten into my hips, scraping away the scab where the knife had sliced me. “Andi, what have I told you about reminding me to take my clothes off?”
“You have said, ‘Do not let me go to sleep in my clothes, Andi.’ However, I can do nothing besides provide verbal cues to remind you to remove your garments, Zach. I do not have a physical presence at this time. If you want to provide me with a synthetic body, I would ensure that your every need was taken care of.”
I turned on the shower and stepped inside. “I wish I could afford something like that, Andi. I’d buy you a robot skin and just be done with it. But I can’t, so stop bringing it up.”
I showered in peace after that and toweled off when I was done. Andi had coffee ready and said a breakfast delivery droid was on the way. As I waited, I contemplated what had happened last night.
Katheryn had acted a bit strangely—or maybe that was normal for her, I didn’t know. She seemed insistent to hear about my background, and what was that she said about trying to help me? What did I need her help for? And the kiss… She’d been into it for a moment and then changed her mind, leaving suddenly.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, wondering if she was another fucking droid. “Andi, access the vitals from last night, verify that Katheryn Townlain is human.”
“She has a regular heartbeat and exhibits normal breathing patterns associated with a sober individual when she arrived versus the breathing patterns, body heat, and heartbeat of an intoxicated person later in the evening.”
“Compare that information to the Paxton Himura droid. Is your assessment that Katheryn is a robot?”
“No, Zach. Unless there are major advancements in the field of robotics that I am unaware of, Miss Townlain is a human.”
I was being paranoid again. Every woman I met was not secretly a droid trying to infiltrate my life. I needed to move on from that major fuck-up and focus on the present.
“Play the message from Dr. Jones.”
“Zach, it’s Jasmine Jones. I’m getting automated reports that you’re under investigation for police brutality. I thought we were past all that. I have some time on my schedule this morning at 10 a.m. Why don’t you come down to HQ and meet with me? It’ll go a long way in your defense that you’re actively seeking treatment for mental health issues.”
“Actively seeking treatment?” I muttered. “Andi, dig around Mainframe, see what you can find out about the investigation that Dr. Jones mentioned.”
“You got it, boss,” she replied.
I walked into the closet, accidentally kicking a pile of clothes that the collection droids had knocked to the floor when they checked brands and sizes for Teagan’s clothing. Her leaving the way she did was bad enough; the droids trashing my apartment was inexcusable.
“Andi, have the maid service come in here while I’m gone,” I said, sliding a white t-shirt over my head. “I want everything put back the way it was before those droids came through.”
“Excellent. I will display pictures for the cleaning droid for reference.”
“Good idea,” I replied. “How much time do I have?”
“You really should be leaving in the next ten minutes.”
“So I have time to sit and eat my breakfast and have a cup of coffee?”
“As I mentioned, the coffee is ready, however the breakfast is running late. You may be required to eat in the Jeep.”
I pulled my pants on, but didn’t bother with my button-down shirt or tie. If I was eating in the car, I’d wait to put those
on until I was finished. Andi poured a cup of coffee and I sat down at the table. I liked being able to see the surface, normally every square inch was covered in papers except for the space occupied by my keyboard and my coffee cup.
“What’s happening in the world,” I whispered, pursing my lips as Andi brought up the daily news, displaying it at my eye level. I started to read the first headline and then my mind processed what I was seeing.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed.
The headline stated, “THIRTY-TWO DEAD IN EASYTOWN NIGHTCLUB.” I read the article quickly. It happened last night at around 11 p.m., when Katheryn was here. Several cyborgs—the article didn’t call them that, but I could tell from the description what they were—walked into Liquid Genesis and opened fire, killing twenty-eight on site and injuring another seventy-three; four more patrons later died of their injuries. Chief Brubaker was interviewed saying it was a tragedy and that the mayor had ordered the district on lockdown. Several different organizations claimed responsibility for the shooting, which likely meant none of them were actually behind it.
“Andi, what the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“You were still on convalescent leave when the incident occurred, Zach. I was ordered by dispatch not to alert you about the activity in Easytown while you were on convalescent leave.”
“Who’s the detective?” I asked. With both me and Cruz out of the picture, the chief would be dependent upon whatever the other precincts could give.
“Detective Doug Sanders, from the New Orleans Police Department Headquarters.”
“Mother—I hate that guy!” I groaned. Doug Sanders was a dickhead—the same dickhead who’d arrested me back in October on trumped up charges of rape and murder. Good thing those crimes got sorted out.
“Any arrests?”
“Negative. The report hasn’t been submitted yet.”
“What the hell is Brubaker doing? He’d have demanded a report from me by 6 a.m.”
“It is unclear how Chief Brubaker is at fault, Zach.”
“Never mind,” I grumbled. Andi had a damn good AI, but sometimes things slipped past her.
“Where’s Sanders at now?”
“He is at the Easytown Precinct.”
“Then, that’s where I’m going,” I said, grabbing my coffee, shirt, tie and suit jacket.
“Your breakfast is scheduled to arrive in four minutes.”
“Cancel it. I’ve got more important things to do. Also, cancel with Dr. Jones.”
Liquid Genesis was the same club where Dale Henderson worked. I’m not saying they were related, but it was awful suspicious that the two events occurred within days of each other. With Ortega dead, I needed to figure out what his associates Gonsalvez and Karimov knew. Dr. Jones would just have to wait.
“Look who decided to show up for work,” Doug Sanders said as I limped into the office, pushing the hovertray with Branch Corrigan’s weapon toward my desk.
“Hey, Detective,” Sergeant Drake grunted, taciturn as always.
“Drake,” I acknowledged, choosing to ignore Sanders for the moment. “I saw there was a mass-cal event, why didn’t you call me?” Mass-cal was the emergency responders’ term for a mass casualty event, one with more injuries and security needs than there were medical providers and police officers.
“Did they have some type of work release from Sabatier?” Sanders continued to press my buttons.
I whirled on him, pivoting on my injured leg. I immediately regretted it as my leg buckled at the knee and I fell backward. Only Drake’s quick reactions, drilled into him from two decades of football at all levels except the professional league, saved me from falling on my ass like a jackhole. He reached out and caught me by the shoulders, his massive hands grasping my duster.
Sanders chuckled as I dangled inside my coat for a moment before getting my good leg under me and then I stood on my own. Fucking doctors should have used that regenerative genetic stimulation, I had a job to do and this injury was going to hold me back. “Thanks, buddy,” I told Drake.
“No problem, Detective.”
I glared back at Sanders, attempting to put as much venom in my voice as possible. It was slightly successful by channeling the pain. “Those were bullshit charges and they were dropped against me, you fucking piece of shit. You know that.”
“The ones coming up will stick, though. You’ll be back on the island before the week’s out. Mark my words.”
His statement passed over me, unheard. “Are you holding a grudge against me specifically or are you just a massive douche canoe to everyone? I bet it’s all the time. You know you’ll never be value added to the city. That’s why they have you working up at HQ. You’re too fucking pathetic to be assigned to a district. They just flex you out to cover down when the real cops are on vacation.”
Sanders stood up and took three rapid steps toward me before running into the brick wall of Drake’s chest as the big man slid in between us. “That’s far enough, Detective Sanders,” his voice rumbled.
“Move out of the way, Sergeant.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that, sir. It’s my duty to keep the peace between you two, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to defend my partner, doesn’t matter who the person is.”
Sanders was a jerk, but he wasn’t an idiot. He recognized Drake’s veiled threat and backed down. “Can’t wait to get out of this shithole precinct,” he muttered, going back to his desk.
“You gonna keep it civil?” Drake asked, turning to me.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I replied, hobbling to my chair. “I’ll just sit here and go over the case load.”
Drake nodded and sat back down. I glanced over at his hologram. “Whatcha watching?” I asked.
“Video feed from last night’s shooting,” Sanders stated. “I asked Sergeant Drake to review it while I compile a list of questions for witnesses.”
I blanched. “You didn’t get statements before you let people leave the scene?”
He shrugged. “There were a lot of uniformed cops that got statements and the people had been held for more than an hour by the time I even got there. I wasn’t supposed to be working Easytown, but your little assault got you put into the hospital and instead of investigating the inside of my wife’s pussy, I’m stuck down here with you two.”
“Classy, Sanders,” I grunted. “I’m sure she’d love to hear you talking about her like that to strangers.” I took a breath to steady myself before continuing. “Did you at least get a list of witnesses, plus a collection of their biometrics, along with their home and work addresses?”
“I got names and email addresses. Mainframe can track ’em down with that.”
I shook my head. “That may work over in Lakewood or Audubon, or wherever you call home, but it’s fucking useless over here in Easytown. Three-quarters of those people probably gave you fake information. They come over here to get away from the real world—a lot of them without the knowledge of their significant others or parents. Given the opportunity to lie to you, they would do so in a heartbeat.” The imbecile had let key witnesses leave without giving up their biometric data. “Drake, you let him do that?”
“I was inside, going over the crime scene when he released everyone, Detective.”
“Shit,” I yelled loudly. Sanders had fucked this up, by the numbers. I took another moment to compose myself. I needed to work damage control on this and get Doug Sanders out of my precinct as quickly as possible. “Any of the names and emails matching up in Mainframe?”
“I haven’t checked the results yet,” the dumbass replied. “I’m working on my questions.”
“Goddamn it. Andi, query Detective Sanders’ request through Mainframe,” I grumbled into my phone. “See how many of those witnesses match up to the email addresses provided.”
“You got it,” she answered happily.
I rolled my chair to Drake’s desk to see the video footage he was examining. “Results are in, Zach,” Andi stated.
“No email addresses were collected from the seventy-three victims sent to the hospital. Of the one hundred and eight names and emails collected at Liquid Genesis, ninety-three do not match. The fifteen that do match are all employees of the thumper club. Eighty-seven of the emails are blatantly false or are associated with someone from out of state or out of country. The six email addresses that belong to a New Orleans resident, but do not match the name given are displayed on your computer screen now.”
“Thirty-five seconds, Sanders,” I said. “That’s all it took for me to find out that you’d potentially allowed witnesses to slip through the department’s grasp. This isn’t some dead hooker, these were tourists that got killed, a lot of them. We can’t sweep that under the rug.”
“One more thing, Zach,” Andi continued.
“What is it?”
“I’ve examined the video feed that Sergeant Drake is reviewing. Facial recognition of one of the patrons,” she said as the silhouette of a person at a table blinked red, “is assessed as a ninety-eight percent probability of being Farouk Karimov.”
“Ring a bell, Drake?”
“It sure as hell does, Detective. When are we gonna pick this guy up?”
“Today, tomorrow at the latest. Andi, push a warrant through Judge Hennessey’s office. I want one for Karimov’s residence and place of work.” I paused, thinking about the other connection to Ortega that I knew about. “Also, get one for Hector Gonsalvez. He’s the third leg of the tripod supporting this whole anti-droid riot.”
“What are you doing?” Sanders cut in.
“Police work,” I scoffed. “Maybe you should stand back and try to learn. These two are connected to Carlos Ortega, the organizer of last week’s anti-droid march that turned into a riot. Ortega might have been connected to the death of Dale Henderson, a doorman at Liquid Genesis. Now Karimov is in that club when it gets hit by fucking cyborgs. We are beyond coincidences at this point.”