Everything Falls Apart

by Micah B. Edwards

  “I've picked up after you!” he snarls. “Taking on the work that Peterson drops. Calling the news stations to get them to retract the story that you were dangerous, despite my instincts. Listening to half of the guys here get in fights with the other half over whether you're a hero or just another street scum con-man!”

  I take a calming breath. “Let me guess. At some point while he was working on his mayoral run, you shook hands with Evan Tanger.”

  “He was a pillar of the community,” says Williams angrily. “I don't know if you faked that video, tricked him into it or what, but that wasn't him. And it's a shame what you did to that man. A real shame.”

  “Faked it? Tricked him? Come on, listen to yourself. Tanger was the con-man, not me,” I say. “What's more likely? That I managed to trick Tanger into going on a threatening tirade on video, complete with actual violence? Or that what you saw is what was actually real? Keep in mind that Peterson, a man whose intuition and evidence-finding skills you claim to respect, buys it.”

  “Sure, after you got to him!” insists Williams.

  “I'm gonna guess that your experience shows that guys at the top are rarely any better than guys at the bottom. Worse, maybe, because less can be done to them, so they have less fear. And before you say that Tanger was different, answer me this: when I said his name just now, was your immediate thought 'pillar of the community'?”

  Williams looks uncertain, then recovers. “Sure, you're just saying that because that's what I said about him a minute ago. I just said that.”

  “Yeah, you did. So check it out later. Think of Tanger's name, see what pops into your head first. I bet it's that exact phrase every time.”

  “So what, you're saying he brainwashed me? I don't think so. That's some science-fiction mumbo-jumbo right there.”

  I shrug. “You accused me of doing that to Peterson, didn't you? If you're willing to believe that I got into his head, then you've gotta be willing to believe that Tanger could have gotten into yours.”

  I pause, then add, “You just thought 'pillar of the community' again, didn't you?”

  Williams frowns at me, looks like he's about to speak, and then sits back down and pointedly turns his chair away from me. I can see that he's still got me in his peripheral vision, but it's clear that he's done talking.

  I turn back to go retake my seat in the chair, only to find it occupied by Regina.

  “Hey!” I say, startled. “When did you get here? I didn't see you come in.”

  “Yes, you looked...occupied,” she says dryly.

  Williams hears her voice and looks up. “Miss, can I help you?”

  “I'm here to see Sam Peterson,” she says.

  Williams casts a dirty look my way. “Ah, more outside consulting. Well, if you need to know, you need to know. Peterson's not here yet.” He shoves the sign-in roster at her and turns away from both of us.

  “So,” Regina says as we both take seats. “You've been making friends here this morning?”

  “Despite how it looks, yes, I think so,” I say. “Look, he didn't punch me. That's a big improvement over the guys on the construction site.”

  “How long do you think you're going to be dealing with the fallout of Tanger's broadcast opinion of you?”

  “Honestly? I think I could get on national TV saving kittens from a fire, and there'd still be people here skeptical of me. I'm hoping that collaring Ichabot will clear my name at least in the police department, though.”

  “And hey,” says Regina, “if you're lucky, when we kick down the door of his lab, maybe he'll be just about to set fire to some kittens. I'll have my camera ready to film your heroics, just in case.”

  “Thanks. I can see you're taking this very seriously.”

  Regina’s smile drops, and she swallows suddenly before speaking. “Dan? Do you think we're really about to end this?”

  “I hope so. Oh man, do I hope so.”

  Our conversation dies off for a bit after that, and we sit and listen to the sounds of the police station gearing up for its day. Williams continues to cast baleful glares in my direction every few minutes, turning away when I look up to make sure I know he's still ignoring me. I figure I'll let him think about things in his own time. If it worked to convince the guys at the construction site that they were thinking about me all wrong, it should work here, too.

  Peterson walks in the door at 6:30 precisely. His gaze alights on us instantly.

  “I hope you're as eager to follow instructions today as you clearly are to get started,” he says to me, but Regina responds before I can say anything.

  “Please, I just want to get this done. I went to see Brian yesterday and he's – he's just a zombie. He moves so slowly, like he's drifting through water, and even with that you can still see the rage burning in him. He's just too slowed down for it to really activate. I just want him fixed.”

  I feel a stab of guilt. I didn't even think about going to see Brian yesterday. I mean, obviously I couldn't; the doc flat-out told me not to come anywhere near the hospital, and it wouldn't do anybody any good to rile him up. But I could have thought about it, considered the idea and dismissed it. I have bad ideas all the time, so I'm used to rejecting them. This one never even crossed my mind.

  Peterson looks like he's feeling a bit guilty too. At least, his expression softens from the thin, cynical smile he had on to something that looks much more like real sympathy.

  “Come on back with me,” he says. “You'll have to give me a minute to get set up, but then I'll show you the proposed plan of attack for today. Morning, Williams.”

  Williams mutters something noncommittal as we walk by. If I hadn't been looking right at the back of Peterson's head, I would have missed the almost imperceptible shake he gave as we passed out of Williams's sight.

  “Not getting along with that guy?” I ask. Peterson shoots me a glare.

  “Yes, Mr. Everton, there is some tension in this department. I hope to end that with today's investigation, which is why I'm allowing this only-technically-legal operation to go forward in the first place. I would really like nothing better than for things to go back to the way they were before I ever met you.”

  Choosing to ignore that slight, I ask, “Only technically legal?”

  “We're sending officers to go prowl around a civilian's businesses, in the hopes of finding something illegal enough that we can declare a hot pursuit and kick down the door. It's a complete fishing expedition. If it weren't for the fact that I believe this to be the best chance we have to catch Dr. Amun, I'd never go along with it. As it is, it doesn't sit entirely well.”

  Regina and I both start to say something at once, but Peterson holds up a hand, forestalling us. “I'm not looking for you to convince me or give me justifications. We're doing this. I am convinced of the necessity. I am just unconvinced that it's good police work.”

  We sit down in the chairs on the far side of Peterson's desk as he unlocks a filing cabinet and takes out a thin folder. He pulls out five sheets of paper and spreads them out facing us. Each has a picture of the front of a building, along with several paragraphs of text including the business name, its address, the general dimensions of the building and so on. I recognize one as the Rossum Medical Supply building.

  “These are the five properties owned by Rossum,” says Peterson. “I went out yesterday to see if anything stood out about them. Whether the location, neighborhood, ease of access, regularity of use, anything like that could give me a hint as to which one was most likely to yield results.”

  “What did you find?” Regina asks.

  “Absolutely nothing to distinguish one building from another in terms of what we might be looking for. I had nothing but a building sense of disgust that I was on a wild goose chase for Dan here. I wanted to punch a wall.”

  Regina sits back in her chair, disappointed, but Peterson raises a finger without lifting his hand off of the desk and continues.

  “And as I was heading back, disgusted
that I'd wasted my time, I suddenly thought: why am I disgusted? I knew going in that this was a long shot. I was simply going in an effort to improve the odds from picking the right one in five randomly. I should have had, at most, a sense of resignation that I had not found a break.

  “Mr. Everton, you told me at one point that Evan Tanger, Jr was meeting with Dr. Amun? That he had arranged a demonstration for him before giving him the nanomachinery?”

  “He called him Amici, but yeah, it was the same guy. And the email said something about how he'd want to go on with it as soon as possible once he saw the demonstration, yeah. But where are you – oh.”

  Regina says, “You think you were picking up some of Tanger's cast-off disgust, still being carried by the nanos. Like at Tanger's building!”

  Peterson nods. “Not Tanger's, necessarily, but the ones from the demonstration. We're not certain how long the suggestion nanomachines can lie dormant, but several of these businesses were in fairly low-traffic areas of town. It seemed possible that that's where this otherwise irrational emotion was coming from.”

  “So how did you figure out which one it was from?” I ask.

  Peterson offers a small smile. “I went back to each in turn and walked closely around the building, touching the walls and kicking up any dirt or trash that had gathered in the gutters. Anything that looked like it had been undisturbed for some time. As soon as I started feeling disgusted and like I really just wanted to punch a wall, I knew I'd found the place I was looking for.”

  He slides one sheet of paper closer to us. It's a warehouse with a roll-top door, set in a row of similar warehouses. It looks like a giant garage, dingy and utterly unprepossessing.

  “This is it?” I say, unimpressed.

  “What did you expect, Mr. Everton? A villain's lair?”

  “I mean, it would have been nice.” I study the picture. “All right, so this is what we've got. So what's the plan?”

  Peterson looks uncomfortable. “We're going to go ask to take a look around.”

  “That's it?” I scowl, and Peterson matches my scowl with one of his own.

  “There's still no evidence of illegal activity. We can't just barge in waving guns and confiscating machinery.”

  “Oh, come on! You know it's the building!”

  “Which is why we are going to investigate it, and hopefully something will turn up!”

  Peterson puts an odd emphasis on the word “we,” which interrupts my budding anger. I'm reminded of the way he answered my request for tips on a stakeout. He never acknowledged the question at all, but instead told a seemingly unrelated story about long drives. Coincidentally, his tips for staying awake on long drives were extremely useful for staking out someone's home, too.

  It's taken me a minute to catch up, but I think this is the same thing. Peterson can't, in good conscience as an officer of the law, ask me to snoop around while I'm there. And if I offer, he can't accept. In fact, he'll have to tell me not to. But if I just happen to do something without his request or approval, and it reveals what we need to catch Dr. A, then that's just him being in the right place at the right time. Sometimes you've got to set up your own right place and right time, is all.

  I take a deep breath. “Okay. We'll investigate. Got it.”

  Peterson fixes me with a gimlet stare, then nods. “Good.”

  “Wait here for a moment,” he adds. “I'm going to make sure everything's in order, and then we'll be ready to go.”

  Peterson walks off, and Regina leans over to me. “So basically he's counting on you to do something stupid once we get there,” she says quietly.

  “Okay, I would not have put it like that,” I say with indignation.

  “But he is.”

  “Yeah, fine, basically.”

  Regina smirks. “It's your time to shine, Dan!”

  I glare at her, and she says, “I shouldn't make fun of you. I'm zorry.”

  Then she cracks up as I continue to glare. And they call this friendship!

  - Chapter Thirteen -

  The police car pulls up in the alley outside of the warehouse, and Regina and Peterson step out of the front. Peterson opens the door to let me out of the back, and we walk over to knock on the normal-sized office door next to the large roll-top that covers much of the front of the building.

  I'm tensed for action as the door starts to open, but the man opening it is not Ichabot. He's average height, has short sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, and is dressed in standard button-down shirt and khaki pants office wear.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, looking the three of us over.

  “I'm Officer Peterson,” says Peterson, showing the man his badge. “If it's all right, we'd like to have a look around inside.”

  “Of course, Officer!” says the man, stepping back from the door and gesturing in. “Come on in. I'm Zane. Would you like some coffee or water or anything?”

  That was significantly easier than I expected. I'd almost think Peterson had gotten the wrong place, if it weren't for one thing. There's a faint but nagging desire in the back of my mind. A feeling like I'd really like to punch a wall.

  Inside the building is a small reception area with two worn chairs and a wooden end table. The floor is covered by a thin industrial carpet which does little to hide the feel of concrete underneath. Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the area, which looks to be less than ten feet on a side. Hardly the cavernous space that the large outer door suggests.

  Past the reception area, several desks are visible with people working at them. These aren't lab-coated scientists, but just regular office workers. One woman looks up at our arrival, notes that Zane is handling it, and returns her attention to her computer. The others don't even bother to glance our way, as far as I can tell.

  We stand awkwardly in the lobby for a moment. At least, I stand awkwardly. Peterson is scanning the area intently, as if Ichabot is hidden in the walls and might come leaping out at any moment. Or maybe he’s just taking in the details of the scene, I don't know. He doesn't appear to be awkward or ill-at-ease, is my point.

  Regina, too, looks more tense than awkward. Maybe she's feeling what I'm feeling, a sense that something is indefinably wrong here. Then again, it could be that I just think that because I've come expecting to see a laboratory and instead found an office. It's left me off-balance, and I'm slightly disgusted with myself for being so slow to adjust to the situation.

  Or am I? Are those the suggestion nanos talking? This disgust might be artificially induced. There's really no way to be sure, unfortunately. The whole situation makes me want to punch a wall. Or is that the nanos again?

  Zane snaps me out of my reverie with a question. “So, what brings you to Rossum today?”

  “We're conducting an investigation,” says Peterson. “It would be helpful to take a look around the office.”

  “Sure, sure,” says Zane, still smiling. “Let me just get you to sign in here, and then I'll show you around.”

  He leads us to a logbook, where Peterson prints his name and the time of our arrival. Zane holds the pen out to me, and I write my name as illegibly as possible. I'm not really sure why, but possibly I'll need to deny being here at some point, and that'll be easier to do if my name isn't clearly written in my handwriting in their logbook.

  I pass the pen to Regina, who signs in like a normal person. Zane closes up the logbook and, motioning us past the desks, says, “Right this way.”

  “So what is it you do here?” Peterson asks conversationally, as Zane opens a door at the back of the room and leads us into a slightly claustrophobic hallway. It's lined with doors, most marked with nameplates and all closed.

  “Mainly medical transcription,” Zane answers, walking leisurely down the hallway. It's narrow enough that although we probably could technically walk two abreast, we go single file. Zane continues talking, but I tune him out and read the names next to the doors as we pass by. Mrs. Martinez, Dr. Sorenson, Lab A, Dr. Arora....

  Tha
t last one fits with Ichabot's A-name pattern, and since an aurora is a bright light, matches his self-aggrandizement theme, too. On a hunch, I swing the door open. Inside is a small office, windowless like the rest of this building. The walls are lined with bookshelves, which are in turn filled with books and binders and topped with stray pieces of laboratory equipment. A small wooden desk sits at the back of the room, and behind it, an Indian woman who looks to be in her early sixties looks up at me quizzically.

  “What are you doing in my office?” she asks, her tone somewhere between hostility and genuine curiosity. Zane pushes past me to take hold of the doorknob.

  “Sorry, Dr. Arora! We have some visitors looking around. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He gives me an affronted glare as he pulls the door shut. “I'm sorry, please don't open the doors around here. Some of the work being done here is delicate and should not be interrupted.”

  “Nothing dangerous, I hope,” says Peterson as we begin walking again. He says it casually, but I see Zane flinch a bit.

  “No, nothing dangerous,” Zane replies, forcing a laugh. “Really, the bigger problem here, though I probably shouldn't say so, is the egos. If you upset some of our doctors, they'll grouse about it for the rest of the week. I like to say we should put up 'don't tap on the glass' signs, like at the zoo.”

  He laughs again, sounding a little more natural. I nudge Regina.

  “Did you see that flinch?” I mutter to her, keeping my voice low so that Zane won't hear.

  “What flinch?” she whispers back.

  “Zane's. He's hiding something.”

  Regina looks dubious. “I've gotta say, this place looks fairly innocuous.”

  “Yeah, but is that what you think, or is that what you're being made to think?”

  Regina raises an eyebrow at me, and at the same time Peterson turns around to shoot a stare in my direction, so I quiet down and go back to reading the nameplates. Nothing else jumps out at me, though; it's just more random names interspersed with occasional lab letter designations.