Saverly didn’t have to call for Moses, who appeared on cue, having evidently finished attending to Atterman, or letting her die happy, one or the other. “I got this, doc. Go attend to your business.”
“I appreciate it, Moses. Remind me to give you a raise when this is all over.” Moses raised his eyebrows, apparently delighted just not to have his robots taken away from him. But Saverly had found in the robots another tool to put in service of the game. It was a winning day all around for him.
Stepping into the nurse’s station, Saverly found Fontanegro and Carmichael going about their business as if nothing had happened. “How are you two holding up?” They both looked at him as if he were from Pluto. “You spent the entire night in the nurse’s station, didn’t you?” As they both should have known better, they regarded him guiltily. They were paid to interact with the patients, not hide behind their nurse’s station. His doctors had precious little time to spend with patients; that meant the nurses were the first line of defense. They were the canaries in the coal mine, signaling trouble before anyone else. “Never mind. Your self-serving natures probably kept you alive.” Saverly didn’t bother to be reprimanding, figuring the ambiguous expression on his face would be torture enough as they tried to plot and scheme their way around an unclear signal.
Margie turned out to be the most difficult to console. Saverly found her whimpering like a lost puppy inside Rupert’s room, kneeling on the floor. Rupert, in fact, seated at the edge of the bed, was petting her head, and trying to feed her a dog bone. He kept them for visiting animals day, when the social workers brought pets in as part of healthy socialization for the patients. Saverly reminded himself Rupert was virtually blind.
Saverly got Margie away from Rupert, and sat beside her on the neighboring bed, currently unoccupied, his arm supportively around her shoulder. “There, there. It’s been a terrible ordeal. You’ve earned a good cry. I want you to recall the last time something this dreadful happened to you, how much stronger you emerged on the other side of it. How effective you became at warding off danger. This time you’ll rebound better than before.
“If it weren’t for these little trials from time to time, we’d stop growing. There’s nothing worse than getting too comfortable with your coping mechanisms. Not in today’s world where you never know where the next shock is coming from.” He held her in silence and gave her time to sob. The incident was a good reminder that the staff benefitted as much as the patients from scenario games.
FORTY
Santini depressed the buzzer on the door, and waited expectantly, holding his breath. The house had a south-of-Mission-in-San Francisco vibe to it, but then much of the Oakland-Berkeley fringe was dressed down relative to the Berkeley heartland, closer to south Berkeley in flavor. The wrought-iron handrail was flaking. So was the faded gray and white paint adorning the house, like skin peeling off a fire victim. It was a frumpy, faceless, forgettable house.
As a way of dulling the expected shock, Mort read from the Wikipedia display on his cell phone. “‘Hypertrichosis—also called Ambras Syndrome—is an abnormal amount of hair growth on the body; extensive cases of hypertrichosis have informally been called werewolf syndrome. There are two distinct types: generalized hypertrichosis, which occurs over the entire body, and localized hypertrichosis, which is restricted to a certain area.’ I wonder which type this one has,” he said, before returning to his comforting clinical assessment. “‘Hypertrichosis can be either congenital—present at birth—or acquired later in life. The excess growth of hair occurs in areas of the skin with the exception of androgen-dependent hair of the pubic area, face, and axillary regions.’ I really didn’t need to know that last part.” He tucked away the cell as he heard steps approaching the door.
Wolf-Boy’s wife answered, or possibly his sister. She was naked, but clearly had no need of clothing with the garment of body hair covering her from head to toe. All Santini could think was it was just too damn hot to stand around in an outfit like that and not shave it off. But, this being Berkeley, if just barely, it probably wasn’t the PC thing to do, so wolf-lady probably felt confined by social mores just like the rest of them. Her husband was literally bouncing off the walls like a caged, angry chimpanzee, grunting to suit. He ripped the curtains off the windows.
“Sorry about that,” she said, sounding bored. “He always feels a need to show off for company.”
The cops’ reaction was entirely deadpan.
Wolf Girl noticed Santini struggling with the step as she parted the door for him. “Arthritis of the hip. You’ll have to move to Berkeley soon if you want to stay a cop. They won’t tolerate that shit in Oakland.”
“I’m thinking a replacement hip will make his mind last longer.” Mort held his nose as he stepped into the house. “Is that the cat, I smell? Or just the price you pay for being so hairy?”
“My friend hasn’t graduated charm school yet,” Santini said, covering for him.
“No, he just acts like an obnoxious asshole as a defense mechanism. Welcome to the land of coping strategies,” her hubby said, after climbing off the wall. He poured the two cops a brandy from his crystal bottle, resting on top the alcohol cabinet, without asking if they wanted a drink.
Santini and Mort took the drinks. Mort downed his and handed the glass back for a refill. Wolf Boy accommodated him without batting a particularly hairy eyelid.
“If you’re going to drink like that, you should move to Berkeley. They’re more permissive,” Wolf Girl said.
“I’d rather be looked down on by my own kind, thank you.” Mort swilled the second round.
“Forgive her,” Wolf Boy said. “She can tell you don’t like that ‘we’re not in Kansas anymore’ feeling, and is just toying with you.”
“I’m beginning to see why you’re together,” Santini said. They both appreciated the comment as opposed to why most people probably thought they were together.
“Let me guess, you want to know if we go around eating brains out of people’s heads at night.” Wolf Boy set the cap back on the brandy bottle. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”
“If you think you’re superior to normal humans, you might feel justified.” Mort set his glass down, feeling betrayed by its emptiness. “Not to mention, quite the outlet for all that rage… And maybe the fatty acids in the brains helps you keep the shine on your coats.”
“We use pickled pig’s feet for that. But thanks for the suggestion,” Wolf Boy said.
“Shit! Asshole! Pisser!” Mort blurted, expectorating spittle and whipping his head around enough to give a chiropractor shivers.
“A cop with Tourette’s. Talk about good cover.” Wolf Boy laughed. “See, people want me to pass, too. Tell me to shave. But I’m like your friend here. I prefer to be offensive. Speaking of… Get the hell out of my house. I can be glared at and condescended to in public. My house is where I draw the line.”
“Where were you last night, if you don’t mind me asking?” Santini said.
“Sacrificing virgins up on the hill in Caesar Chavez Park.” Wolf Boy returned to his button-pushing behavior; he combed flees off his coat, chewed on them like chestnuts roasted on an open fire. “The mountain bikers breezing by can attest to that, so can the local fishermen casting for dinner. You can’t blame me; the view of the Golden Gate is to die for.”
Wolf Girl stepped closer. “He was with me.” She sighed. “We were at Denny’s on Hegenberger Road. All night. If you can find someone who doesn’t remember us, invite them over. We could use company who isn’t blind, just indifferent.”
“What do you two do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?” Santini said.
“I work with kids with cancer,” Wolf Girl said, delivering the revelation like a punch to the face. “The fact they don’t have any hair and even less time to live makes me a local celebrity. They can’t wait for me to come in the mornings.” She sounded sincere. “I help out on pet day with the senior citizens too, and let them pet me
for therapy. They’re too addled to know the difference, and so, all is forgiven. I’m not beyond getting over myself for the sake of others.”
“And you? Or does hating take all your time?” Santini said, aiming the remark at the husband. Graduated up from flees, Wolf Boy picked ticks off himself, squished them between his fingers, and licked the blood to provoke Santini.
“I work the dispensing machine at the yogurt shop on Durant,” Wolf Boy replied crisply. “Business is up twenty percent since I started. Though everyone’s so politically correct, they pretend not to notice. You’re selling yourself short living in Oakland. If you’re going to hate life, there’s so much more life to hate in Berkeley.”
“He’s got a point,” Mort said, taking in the décor, littered with high-end antiques. Santini wondered if it was one more way for them to thumb their noses at tradition, or if, like the rest of them, they had no shortage of contradictions.
“Okay, we’ll scratch you off the list, providing your story checks out,” Santini said with resignation. “Although that means I won’t make my quota this month, and could be facing unemployment. Maybe you two bleeding hearts can rescue me by finding the killers for me. Could do worse than having a couple pit bull cops in your back pocket.”
“And rob you of your chance of touring Oz before you meet the big bad wizard? Wouldn’t think of it,” Wolf Girl said, a cruel smile keeping her face company.
The two cops exited into the very gray world outside. The overcast sky echoed the camouflage motif the Wolf family had gone with on the house’s exterior, to hide all the color inside.
“Shit, they’re more well-adjusted than we are,” Santini said.
“What’s that got to do with murder?” Mort retorted.
“Nothing, I suppose. Your piercing psychological insights into human nature aside, we’re nowhere on this case.” The glare was getting to Santini. He was going to have to purchase a pair of shades. Squinting robbed his face of any energy he needed to smile.
Mort stared in the direction of the rising sun without even blinking, evidently assuaged the harsher and more bitter-tasting his reality got. “I guess the Cal Berkeley science labs it is. We can pick one of the more promising geeks to trail.”
“That’s the bitch about reason; have to follow it where it takes you. I’ve been cursed with reason long enough. I think I’m going to be a schizophrenic when I retire.”
Mort tucked his pen and notepad in his pocket. “A walk up Telegraph should cure you of that idea.”
FORTY-ONE
Santini and Mort had been seated at Saul’s deli on Shattuck Avenue for some time. Mort had gone with the House Smoked Pastrami, Santini with the Niman Ranch Corn Beef. But the feast for the eyes was definitely upstaging the feast for the stomach.
They were eying Suspect Zero. Zip Cunningham. Male. Caucasian. Nineteen. Asian. “Lime green and flamingo pink hair. With white streaks,” Mort whispered to him in deference to his color blindness. “Looks like a dog’s chew toy.” Silver earrings all over. Santini had seen war vets who had taken less shrapnel to the face and lived to tell about it, and they were certainly no prettier.
Zip was managing to upstage the Scarlet Macaw perched on his shoulder for flamboyance. He had on a pair of shades that weren’t anything like the pair Santini was contemplating getting. And Santini figured they did a lot more than hide his eyes. Zip kept staring up at nothing and smiling. As in maybe they were virtual reality shades. The kind Santini had only read about.
Santini and Mort had followed Zip here from the science lab, after getting pics and bios from the campus blue book, auspiciously created to help students acclimate to campus, but really more of a meat rack for dating purposes. His was one of the bios that stood out a little more than the others. He designed robo-pets for Roverly, one of the biggest, if not the biggest, robo-toy manufacturer in the world. Maybe he’d trained one of them to kill and elude the police in the process as part of some intellectual exercise. Maybe the robo-pets shed their freaky-designer-hybrid hair due to first generation stitchery not being entirely up to par. That moved Zip to the top of their list of freakazoids to hopefully lock away in prison somewhere, far from sight, and buried deep down enough in the back of Santini’s mind to qualify as a genuine Freudian Id-repressed demon.
“You think I’m callow?” Mort said.
“No.”
“You think I’m old fashioned?” Mort pressed.
“In a good way.”
“You think I’m intolerant?” Mort was undeniably entertaining a rare introspective moment.
“Only in the way Christ was.” Santini took a sip of his Diet Pepsi and a bite out of his corn beef sandwich.
“Then why are my hairs standing on end?”
Santini washed down the latest mouthful with another pull on the straw. “We’ll add it to the Tourette’s as just one of those things.”
The sandwiches may just have been serving as cover, but they had bought them out of their own money, so Santini hoped, for whatever else Zip may have been guilty of, it wasn’t for eating too fast. Santini liked to slowly chew his food and let things digest a while before sprinting after serial killers. Though, with his arthritic hip, he sprinted like a sloth, explaining the tranquilizer gun he used to take down runaways. Also explaining why he had become a crack shot to compensate for failings in other departments. Although Mort’s pistol prowess put him to shame at certain distances, owing to Santini’s astigmatism.
Mort, not able to relax into his sandwich, the sight of the flamboyant kid disturbing his digestion too much, marched over to his table. He plopped down next to the lad and eyed his laptop monitor. So far the kid had taken no notice.
Let’s hear it for virtual reality, Santini thought, when it comes to coping with local color. “You’re not going to believe this shit, Santini,” he uttered bombastically, loud enough anyway for the entire restaurant to hear. “He’s running software that strips the girls in the restaurant naked, ties to their online photo-albums to supplement the erotica, and hacks their dating histories. And then he sends, the cuddly, cutesy animals to go warm up to them as an ice breaker.”
A Thai girl, burying her nose in her pet Lhasa-Apso, set the dog down. She was so enamored by it, Santini had assumed it was hers, all along – and, like her, never thought for a second it wasn’t real. The animal made more convincing cooing sounds in response to affection than any of Santini’s dates. Its eyes were moist and wet and could turn a rabid revenge murderer into a huggable cupcake at a hundred yards. Santini decided to scoop it up under the pretense of holding it as evidence if only to brighten up his sorrowful flat, which made cockroaches weep and flee to more verdant pastures.
Another girl scratching the scruff of her Pharaoh hound, pulled back from her pet in a similar manner. So much for Santini’s powers of detection. This much genius in the service of getting laid? Really? No wonder they sent teens to fight wars, Santini mused. They’d devise some way to end it quickly so they could get back home to screwing their way into delirium.
The girl with the pet Koala bear, peeled it away, gave it a betrayed look. Santini had never questioned her license to own an exotic pet. This being Berkeley, he didn’t question much of anything, and assumed most everything was legal.
As the animals lumbered their way back to Zip, Santini had to admit, sans the furry distractions, it was evident the kid had good taste in women. And, in all fairness, if Santini was a robo-wizard, he’d probably have hit on the same come-on tactic. The male genes they shared evidently did more to smooth over the differences between them than any amount of whacko brain chemistry to the contrary. Apparently, boys with toys was true at any age.
“Thanks for blowing my cover, asshole,” Zip said indignantly. Mort had the frame needed to intimidate a linebacker, but the kid didn’t seem impressed. Moreover, Zip was either not concerned about breaking laws, or was convinced he hadn’t done anything illegal. Santini strolled over to Zip’s table as he set down the shades. They served
as camera feeds as well, with the laptop storing the digital video, and evidence, Santini thought smugly.
Mort folded up the kid’s laptop and tucked it under his arm. “Now we get to go on another fun ride,” Mort said.
“I’m a diplomat’s son, asshole. You want to cause an international incident with China, go right ahead. Not like you can find another job in this market. I, on the other hand, will do well, wherever I land, on any shore, with any number of girls, even assuming you can make anything stick.”
Mort’s feathers looked more ruffled than the ones on the presumably fake robot parrot perched on Zip’s shoulder, chirping, “What a dickhead.” Mort prided himself on being the one to be throwing people off balance, and wasn’t used to having the tables turned on him. He was once a Golden Gloves winner, and specialized in getting the other guy to erupt so he could pound them into humility. It wasn’t an admirable way to hold on to self-esteem, but it was effective. Mort was paradoxically trying to hold on to what human decency he could by such backwards methods as his way of dealing with the fact the bad guys these days were all smarter and better connected than he was. And there was so much bureaucratic red tape tying his hands in any other context, feeling like a Neanderthal just added to the blazing fire consuming all self-respect. But as a Neanderthal bully, he seemed right with the world.
Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5) Page 67