Bob’s tone turned more serious, “I think you did the right thing by calling me.”
Alana squeaked, “Help?”
“To clarify, your son’s name is Gabriel Stone, and... which hospital is he in?”
“Camarillo Medical Center.”
Bob paused momentarily before replying, “I probably won’t be able to get started until in the morning. Can I reach you at this number?”
Alana said, “Yes. I’m up to my eyeballs in a case right now, and the doc said they could only keep him on life support for seventy-two hours. I need to know whether or not this is legit, and if it is, what I need to do, as well as what I can do.”
“I’ll start gathering up the facts as soon as I can. I’ll need you to e-sign a document giving me permission to investigate, access to the relevant records, et cetera.”
“After you pulled my ass out of Limbo last month, I can’t help but trust you with that. Email me the paperwork and I’ll turn it around ASAP. Can I get a guesstimate on the charges?” Alana climbed into her car and shut the door.
Bob said, “I’ll attach a rate sheet with the forms. The consultation was free. I think this might also be a new precedent in cybernetic case law. If it is, I’ll give you a discount in the name of advancing cybernetic rights. Call you tomorrow.”
Alana told her car to return to Precinct 3. She ignored an incoming call from Chief Bennett, letting it roll over to her voice mail. To the extent that her safety belts would allow it, she slouched in her bucket seat. She rolled her head to the side and watched as she passed the world by. Twilight turned to night, and streetlights flickered to life, illuminating the tarmac roadways and concrete sidewalks. Cars and trucks lined up, pausing at intersections as the traffic control grid guided them through on autopilot. Pedestrians—couples, groups, and singles alike—strolled by, some emerging from or ducking inside shops and restaurants before the hour of their closings could come. A pizza delivery drone flew past, headed the opposite direction but remaining within the constrained paths of the ground traffic, itself guided by the city’s traffic control computers. The old power transmission lines all ran underground now, and coupled with almost all communication being wireless, there were no overhead wires in which the drones could become entangled. The car soon whipped into the parking deck of Alana’s destination, guiding itself into one of the delineated parking spaces.
Before she left the car, Alana played the message from Chief Bennett. He said, “DCI Graves, my slightly junior counterpart in Precinct 3 called to tell me that she thought you were out-of-line with her earlier tonight. While I expect that you will fully explain the matter to me and refrain from antagonizing Chief Rhoem any further, I wanted to let you know that I’m looking over the preliminary incident reports. They’re telling me that you might have caught the last two perps who fled the explosion site yesterday. So, off-the-record, she can go climb the Eiffel Tower and spin on it. I’ll be at your morning briefing. Good night.”
Alana smiled as she reached for her door handle. As she walked toward the police station, her Vira pinged again with an incoming call from Brett Crabtree. She said, “Answer,” stopping just outside the door.
Brett’s voice oozed weariness as he said, “Hey, ma’am, I just wanted to let you know I was in Boston in case you needed anything.”
“I’m fine. Did you need anything from me?”
“No, ma’am, I’m just checking in. With you, I mean. I already checked in here. It’s after midnight here, and there’s this teeny little bottle of amaretto and a truffle shitting on my pillow.”
“What on your pillow?”
“Sitting on my pillow! Did I say that other word?”
Alana asked, “Where did you check into, the Ritz?”
“No, but when I got here, they’d overbooked my reservation, and they ended up putting me in a sweet suite. I’m looking out over Logan airport from the thirtieth floor, and it’s aweshome. Should I feel guilty?”
Alana could tell that there was something off about Brett’s manner of speech, “Did you drink the amaretto already? Like, all of it?”
Brett said, “No, but when I was on the shuborbital, I was shitting next to this really nice old lady who was on her way home from LA. I was telling her all about Wen Jing and I think it got her thinking about her dead husband ‘cause she shtarted buying me drinksh.”
Alana closed her eyes. She hadn’t been drunk since well before she had died, and hearing Brett speak from the podium of inebriation compounded the odd thoughts she had been having since she learned that Gabriel Stone might be the son she never had. It also occurred to her that for Alana to have birthed Gabriel, she would have been in her late forties when she got pregnant. Even around 2065, that would have been unusually late in life for her to bear a child.
Brett said, “Are you shtill there, ma’am?”
“Yes, I’m here, Brett. Did you have anything important to ask me?”
“No, ma’am, I jusht wanted to say how much—”
“Vira, end call,” Alana said, curtly, and Brett was cut-off mid-sentence. She shook her head, an old life habit that carried over into her retirement, as she reentered the police station. If only all her incoming calls from colleagues could be like the last two.
Alana returned to the interrogation rooms to find Detective Rhys sitting across the table from the second suspect. No one was saying anything. Rhys leaned forward slightly in his chair, staring at the criminal. The criminal tried to return the gaze, but his eyelids were heavy. He was probably still under sedation from having his leg amputated. Alana used the control panel to call Rhys, “Ben, I’m back.”
Rhys stood, saying, “Detective Rhys is leaving the interrogation room. Recording is suspended.”
The suspect’s head tilted as Rhys walked past him on the way to the door, but it quickly rolled back, resting his chin on his chest, and he closed his eyes. When the door closed behind Rhys, Alana asked, “Learn anything?”
“Not yet. He said he wants to talk to the crazy robot chick.” Alana glanced askance at Rhys, who shrugged, “His words. I assume he means you.”
Alana said, “Get a medbot down here with some stimulants. If he squeals, I want it on the record.” She opened the door and stepped inside, allowing it to slam shut with a clang. She announced, “DCI Graves has entered the interrogation room. Recording resumes now. Any statements made by the suspect can be used against him in legal proceedings.” Things were so much simpler in the American Republic than they were in the United States, even simpler than under the old military UCMJ. There was no longer an absolute guarantee of legal counsel for accused persons. Alana didn’t agree with all of the changes, but in this case, they worked in her favor. Even though she knew that the man’s statements could not be used in court while he was still groggy from anesthesia drugs, it wouldn’t prevent her from getting what she wanted, which was a plea bargain.
Alana sat down across from the man and began, “Are you ready to talk, or do I just turn you over to Security Division and let them ask you the same questions in private?”
The man mumbled, with a distinctly French accent, “I want things first. Guarantees.”
“Like what?”
“Asylum—”
“I can’t guarantee that. I don’t have that much authority. What I can grant is, if you cooperate, I can ensure that you are tried in a Republic court and sentenced domestically. There is no death penalty here anymore. I can’t say the same for offshore interrogation facilities.”
The man closed his eyes and pursed his lips. His English was poor, half-broken, possibly exacerbated by his sedation, “If I go jail, I want different jail from others.”
Alana nodded, “I can do that. What else.”
He raised his hand and let gravity drop it upon his half-severed leg. He winced, but continued, “I want pretty new cyborg leg. Good Zumpco machine. No cheap knock-off.”
“I can do that as well. But you’ll have to answer every question I ask you. Do you und
erstand?”
The man nodded. Alana said, “The video will show that the suspect has nodded in agreement, making this a legally binding plea agreement, as long as the suspect continues to cooperate.”
Rhys’ voice whispered in Alana’s ear, “Medbot’s here.”
Alana turned her head, looking at the surveillance camera. She waved, beckoning Rhys to bring in the device. The door opened, and a wheelchair-sized robot rolled in, a bank of four mechanical arms extending from the base of a domed superstructure. Rhys followed behind it, closing the door and standing beside it. Alana said, “Medbot, apply a local anesthetic to this man’s left leg. Then administer enough stimulants to counteract the sedatives in this man’s system.”
The suspect was in no condition to resist, and in fact, he barely flinched when one of the robot’s arms stuck him in the upper left arm, extracting a blood sample from which to check his blood chemistry before treating him further. Another of the machine’s arms stuck its patient in the leg with another short needle. A third arm then jabbed him in the arm with a longer syringe. It retreated to the back corner of the room and folded its arms neatly against its frame.
Alana did not need to wait long until the man’s eyes began to show signs of clarity. He sneezed once, then again. He wiped his upper lip with the back of his right wrist. Alana asked, “You have agreed to provide testimony in exchange for fair treatment within the American Republic legal system and a genuine Zumpco replacement leg. Do you remember doing so?”
The man nodded, “Oui—yes. Yes.” He looked at the table, his will to resist apparently broken. “Can I have water?”
Alana said, “Rhys, would you please bring a bottle of water for Mister...?”
“Tremblay. Rémy Tremblay.”
Rhys was already opening the door when Alana nodded to the man who had shot her son, “Mister Tremblay.”
Tuesday, 11 July, 06:00
Brett snapped awoke at just after 6:00 AM Eastern Time, two hours before he had intended to rise, and could not return to sleep. He had overdone it the previous evening, and was well out of practice when it came to drinking. His pulse pounded out a regular, painful rhythm inside his head. The hotel minibar held a packet of mouth-dissolvable hangover pills, which he made quick work of before flopping back down in the bed. They worked quickly, and he managed to doze off for another hour before his alarm clock buzzed him back to consciousness.
One long, hot shower later, Brett donned his spare suit, leaving his traveling clothes for the robotic concierge to collect and launder. He worked his tie around his collar, deliberately keeping it loose with the collar button undone as Boston was still expected to reach thirty degrees Celsius by one o’clock in the afternoon, the time he had arranged to meet with Phil Robertson at his Beacon Hill townhome to discuss his death. He sent an email to Wen Jing that read, ‘Hi. In Boston. Only 6 AM your time, so didn’t want to wake you. Expect to be home tomorrow. Will call if I get delayed. PS, do you like chocolate truffles?”
Brett took advantage of the hotel’s shuttle service to take him to his first stop, the Boston Central police precinct, where he checked in with the local authorities and sequestered a car. The jurisdiction limitations of the old, state system of the US Constitution were no longer an impediment to law enforcement officers under the Republic Constitution, but they still had to advise their local counterparts as to their operations and intentions. The local district attorney, when presented with Brett’s evidence and theory, surprised Brett by granting him a warrant with sweeping authority to inquire into Phil Robertson’s past and, if necessary, interview his family and search his living spaces and records for clues. By the time he was finished lining up his ducks and confirming via phone that Robertson was still available for questioning, Brett didn’t have time to try any of the local restaurants, so he settled for a robotically prepared meal from the police cafeteria. His bowl of New England style clam chowder and soda crackers was unremarkable, but filling.
Once Brett’s car had exited the freeway and descended into the neighborhood of Beacon Hill, he was very glad to have a functioning autopilot. The streets were antique, still cobblestone, built for horses and carriages well over three hundred years before. Traffic was constrained to single lanes of one-way traffic. The lanes were mazes of red brickwork rowhouses packed with townhomes and occasional shops mixed in among the dwellings. Side alleys were restricted to foot traffic only. Brett had to park at the bottom of the block in a specially designated parking deck and walk almost a kilometer, uphill, to reach the white, wooden door. The architecture on Robertson’s block was almost entirely pre-revolution, although there were many reconstructions of modern materials made to look historically accurate. The homes were small, but the location and nature of the dwellings likely placed them in a price range well beyond what Brett would ever be able to afford as an honest policeman.
No fancy security devices were visible around the front door, which opened onto a small stoop recessed less than a meter in from the sidewalk. Planters adorned neighboring windowsills, and ivy seemed to grow from gaps in the mortar to climb wrought iron railings and gutters. One elderly gentleman three doors down raised his second story window and eyed Brett suspiciously. Brett simply ignored him, and not seeing any buttons or other indications of signaling devices around the doorjamb, he raised the brass knocker and rapped three times, sharply.
An older woman, perhaps in her early sixties, with dyed auburn hair and crow’s feet from at least one facelift, opened the door wide. She was wearing a white sundress with bright pink and red print flowers. Drawn more tightly around her waist than was healthy for her love handles was a wide patent leather belt with a gold buckle. None of her clothes looked inexpensive, but they told Brett that she was likely the beneficiary of what most others in the area would call, ‘new money.’ The woman said in an exaggerated local accent, obviously adopting airs of a dubious pedigree, “Good afternoon. Are you Inspector Crabtree?”
Brett nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” He opened his badge for the woman to see, but she did not scrutinize it.
“Oh, do come in. Please pardon the mess. Things have been so hectic this week, what with Philip’s resurrection and all. I’m Philip’s mother, Manon.” The woman took pains to pronounce her name with a French accent. She led Brett into the modest living room, which was poshly furnished in mismatched styles ranging from Eighteenth-Century Colonial to Twenty-First Century Neo-Colonial, with some Art Deco and Bauhaus pieces providing accentual dissonance. A red-upholstered Victorian sofa was flanked by two white-print Queen Anne chairs, with a Georgian coffee table placed before them all. Manon said, “Please sit and I’ll fetch Philip.”
Brett sat down in one of the chairs and removed his notepad from his pocket. As he pushed the power button, Manon yelled up the adjoining stairwell, “Philip! The detective is here to see you!” She then retreated to the adjoining kitchen, asking through a gap over the breakfast bar, “Would you like some something to drink? It’s frightfully hot outside.” Brett thought he detected a tinge of an underlying southeastern accent in her voice.
Brett replied, “I could use some water, if you have some.”
Manon slid open one of her refrigerator drawers and looked down at the contents, “Is Evian acceptable?”
Brett wanted to roll his eyes, but he simply chose to say, “That would be fine. Thank you.”
A series of footfalls stomped down the stairwell, and Phil Robertson, retired to a cybernetic body, emerged from the second floor. He looked just like his photos. He was wearing blue jeans, athletic shoes, and one of his Red Sox jerseys, with his number, 54, emblazoned on the front. He looked unhappy.
Brett stood. Robertson neither looked at Brett nor approached him until he had flopped down in the other chair, a full eight feet away from Brett. Then he finally made eye contact. Brett said, “I’m Detective Inspector Crabtree.”
Robertson did not try to hide his folksy, southern accent. While his records showed that he had gone to college
in Boston, and while he had played baseball for their Human League team, he had not adopted the local dialect, “I’ve already talked to a cop about that stuff. What more do you want?”
“After reviewing the details of your death, I came across a number of questions I wanted to ask you in person.”
“Well, like what?”
“Was there any reason you can think of as to why Greg Veedock might wish to do you harm?”
Robertson shrugged, “Not that I remember. Unless it happened after I was saved in the off-season. I’ve kind of lost about five months of my memory. Why do you ask anyway? Are you saying that it wasn’t an accident?”
“There were some inconsistencies surrounding the event that made me want to investigate further before I closed the case.”
Robertson scratched his nose, which had to be reflexive body language, as cyborg noses didn’t itch, at least not to Brett’s knowledge. The ball player said, “Wait... Didn’t Veedock die too? That doesn’t make sense that it was deliberate.”
“Our investigation is, as of yet, inconclusive on that point. But that’s why I wanted to speak with you. It’s possible that there might have been some aggravating factor from your past career, an event where you and Veedock might have argued about something that was important to him—”
Robertson shook his head, waving his hand dismissively, “Nope. Nothin’. Was there anything else? I’m still trying to get a new job with a Cyber League team, and my agent’s supposed to call me back soon.”
A proverbial light bulb manifested above Brett’s head. Now that Robertson was retired, he wouldn’t be able to play for the same, human baseball team anymore. Could that have been a motive for his murder? Brett quickly typed a note to that effect on his tablet. It was a straw, but without any other solid leads to grasp, he was glad to have even the shortest. Brett continued, “I’d still like to ask you some more questions about your background. I’m of the opinion that there may have been foul play involved, and I was hoping you might be able to tell me something which might connect some dots.”
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