Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  For two years, it had felt to Susan as if nothing good could ever happen to her again. Love and loss remained inextricably entwined, the agony unspeakable, unendurable. Far simpler never to open herself to the terrible possibilities, to prevent another devastating loss by avoiding intense attachments. Yet here she was again, foolishly in love, secretly hoping, against her better judgment, that circumstances would not crush her again. Her gaze went naturally to Pal Buffoni, a feast for her eyes even soaked to his core, and Dr. Peters’ attention followed hers.

  Susan could not tell Peters the truth. Her way would not work for a man who had a wife and family, grandchildren on the way. “You know it’s a matter of time and introspection. For the first few days or weeks, you go through the motions until the pain dies down enough for you to concentrate again. We all muddle through it in our own way.” She did not tell him anything he did not already know. Like Dr. Goldman, Peters had earned his MD before his PhD and had worked with patients before turning to research full-time.

  Dr. Peters nodded, releasing Susan. “And who’s this handsome young man? Yours?”

  “Mine, yes.” Just claiming Pal awakened an unexpected tingle of excitement, and Susan smiled despite the grimness of the circumstances. She introduced them. “Pal Buffoni, Dr. Cody Peters, Dr. Goldman’s long-time lab partner.”

  The two men grasped hands and both mumbled, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Susan could feel her heart rate quickening as she made the other introduction. “And this is my cousin, Layton Campbell.” If anyone might see through the disguise, it would be Dr. Peters, who had worked with Nate longer and more frequently even than Kendall.

  Dr. Peters removed his hand from Pal’s to accept Nate’s.

  Susan held her breath as Peters studied Nate through the mist. He had taken off the cap out of respect for Dr. Goldman, and the rain parted his hair into uncharacteristically dark tendrils. “Have we met before?”

  Nate answered smoothly, “Only if you’ve been to Iowa, sir. This is my first visit to New York City.”

  “Never been to Iowa,” Peters admitted.

  Susan could not help adding, “He does bear a resemblance to my father.”

  A moment later, she wished she had not said it, since it caused Dr. Peters to stare at Nate even longer. “Yes,” he said halfheartedly. “I can see it.”

  A distant call interrupted the discussion, to Susan’s relief. “Cody!”

  They all turned to see a woman in her fifties wearing a dark dress. About a hundred yards away, she gestured at them from the doorway of a small building with an engraved Star of David.

  “My wife, Cait,” Dr. Peters explained. “Excuse me, please.” He hurried off toward her.

  Susan expelled a puff of breath she did not realize she had been holding. “So far, so good.”

  Pal tapped her on the shoulder, and Susan turned to him quizzically.

  “Did you know Jake would be here?”

  “Jake?” Surprised, Susan started looking randomly.

  Pal placed a hand on each side of her head and turned her face in the proper direction. Jake leaned against a tree in the grassy area just before the start of the graves and headstones. He wore black dress khakis and a dark green, long-sleeved polo. Wet, it clung to the well-defined muscles of his arms. As Susan’s gaze found him, he waved a greeting and headed in their direction.

  When Jake reached conversational range, Susan asked, “What are you doing here?” She tried, but failed, to keep accusation from her voice.

  Jake tipped his head and joined the group. “When I can, I always attend the funerals of my cases.”

  That surprised Susan. “You do? Why?”

  Pal simultaneously pointed out the more pertinent, “I thought this wasn’t your case.”

  Jake answered them in reverse order. “The murder isn’t my case, but I’m working on a related matter.” His gaze flicked to Susan. “Because the murderer nearly always attends. If it’s a friend, family member, or coworker, their absence might be conspicuous, at least in their own minds. Psychopaths thrive on pain and chaos, and they love reliving their crimes or seeing what it’s inflicted on others. Other types of killers may come out of curiosity or even penance.”

  Jake had a point Susan could not deny.

  “Occasionally the perp gives himself away by his behavior at the funeral.”

  Susan considered the information, and it made sense to her. She wondered if it was common practice for undercover police to attend the services of murder victims or if it was a peculiarity of Jake’s.

  “Plus,” Jake added, “I was hoping to run into you.”

  Susan found that harder to believe. “You know my number and where I live.”

  “Yes,” Jake admitted, “but I also knew you wouldn’t be there because you’re here.”

  Susan could hardly deny it. “Why did you want to see me?” Does he know? A worse thought struck her. Did Kendall spill the beans? She could not keep her heart rate from quickening again, but she did refrain from looking in Nate’s direction, refusing to give Jake acknowledgment or clues. She suddenly wished they had left the robot back at the apartment, although their reasons for keeping Nate with them were sound. She did not want cops barging into her apartment with a warrant and finding Nate alone or, worse, turned off. At the time, she had not known the main officer on the case would be taking the day off to attend the funeral.

  Jake’s gaze went to Susan’s entourage. “You know, Susan, it’s difficult for a man to spend twenty-four/seven with the same person, no matter how charming he or she might be. At some point, if he doesn’t get a break, resentments start to grow, and it can harm an otherwise perfect relationship.” He paused there, as if hoping Susan would grasp his point so he did not have to continue.

  Susan was not at all sure she did. The words were clear enough; the subtext less so. It was not like Jake to spontaneously hand out relationship advice, especially at a funeral. “You’re saying you think Pal needs some time away from me.”

  Pal stepped up beside her. “I’m fine, Jake. Really.”

  Jake’s smile seemed genuinely kind. “I’m just thinking of your future. And Susan’s. Don’t you find yourself craving ten minutes alone in your own, familiar shower? Wouldn’t you like to grab some fresh clothes so you’re not stuck borrowing things from Susan’s giant cousin?”

  The last comment confused Susan momentarily, until she remembered that, the day Jake had come to her apartment, Pal had changed Nate into his jogging suit because he had no other clothing. She also realized that, were she and Pal not in the first hot and exciting stage of love, the need to spend every moment together could drive both of them crazy. She knew from her studies that, if they continued to do it, without at least an occasional short separation, it just might drive a permanent wedge between them. “He’s right, you know.” She turned to face Pal, to gauge his reaction. “A little bit of time apart would probably do both of us good.”

  Pal’s features tightened. “It would also give the SFH the opening it needed to turn you into a leadsicle.” He shook his head. “No way, Susan. I’m not leaving you defenseless.”

  “Except,” Jake said, “she wouldn’t be defenseless. I took the day off, and I’m proposing that Susan spend it with me. Surely you trust me to keep her safe.” When Pal’s expression did not change, Jake added, “Yes?”

  Suddenly, Susan realized Jake was trying to let her know he wanted to spend some time alone with her without making Pal, or anyone else, aware of his desire. He knows. Her heart skipped a beat. And he wants to arrest me without a fight. She quickly discarded the thought. Jake might believe he had an important or innocent reason for separating Susan from her man, and refusing him would only make her appear guilty. She addressed Pal. “It would give you a chance to gather more of your things.” Pal had fewer of those at Susan’s apartment than even Jake knew. “You could
reassure the friends and neighbors who’ve been looking for you and let them know you’re going to be busy for the foreseeable future so they’re not reporting you as a missing person.”

  Finally, Pal’s face relaxed, and he turned pensive. “I could take my mom to dinner. She’d appreciate that after I blew off lunch. Plus, I can put away my bike.”

  Jake threw a hand up in a “there you go” motion. “So it’s settled. After the funeral, I’ll take Susan and Layton wherever they want to go. I’ll even drop you off somewhere, Pal, if you need a ride.”

  Pal shook his head. “Not right after the funeral. We’re going to Goldman’s lab to look over the scene, and I want to see where it all went down and try to help find anything the police might have missed.”

  Jake lowered his hand. “That’s even better. I’ll drive us all there, if you like. The Sapphire seats four comfortably. After we’ve finished our examination, I’ll drop you off and take Susan and Layton out to dinner.” He added, “My treat.”

  Susan opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. Though objecting would have been the polite thing to do, she had no money to spare, and Nate had none at all. “Thank you, Jake. That’s very kind.” She remembered something else. “I’ll need to let Kendall know. He asked to be part of any investigation.”

  Jake glanced off toward the graves, looking for someone or something. Apparently, he did not find it, because he turned back to Susan and her companions. “I ran into Kendall earlier. He’s here with his . . .” He struggled for the word, then tried, “Mentor?”

  “Attending physician,” Susan supplied.

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Anyway, they drove in together, and they’re leaving for work right afterward. He’ll have to settle for us telling him what we found.”

  The youngsters who had handed out the programs headed toward the graveyard, herding the mourners onto the burial grounds where the funeral would take place. Susan knew what to expect. There would be no viewing; Jews consider it disrespectful to look at a person who cannot look back. The funeral home would have dressed the corpse in a simple white garment, without pockets or possessions of any kind, and placed it in a plain wooden casket to express the belief that God judges a person by his deeds, not his wealth. Even flowers were considered frivolous. After the casket was lowered into the grave, first relatives, then friends of Ari Goldman would participate in the actual burial by placing shovelfuls of earth on top of it in what was considered the ultimate unselfish act of love and kindness, the final honor. After everyone took his turn, a backhoe would take over, since no one was supposed to leave the site until the casket was fully covered.

  Taking Pal’s hand in one of hers, and Nate’s in the other, Susan headed toward the funeral.

  • • •

  Jake ushered Susan, Pal, and Nate into his Subaru Sapphire, insisting that Nate take the front passenger seat because of a dearth of legroom in the little car, particularly the back. Susan took the seat behind Nate, and Pal squeezed in behind Jake. With a few minor adjustments, they were all reasonably comfortable and gliding toward Manhattan Hasbro Hospital.

  Susan tapped her Vox off silent mode; she had no messages. Pal apparently did, and he busily responded to something as Jake spoke into the silence. “You know, when my time comes, I think I’d like a funeral just like that one.”

  Still looking at his Vox, Pal asked, “Are you Jewish, Jake?”

  “No,” Jake admitted, “but I liked the whole aesthetic. No greedy funeral director guilting your relatives into buying the jewel-encrusted coffin with the silk interior to prove they really loved you. Any fancy clothes and jewelry go to the living instead of rotting in the ground. No throwing money away on flowers that won’t last the week. Rather, donations go to your favorite charity or, at least, your loved ones’ favorite.”

  “I could have done without the rain,” Susan offered.

  Jake bobbed his head as he drove. “I kind of liked the rain. It kept things dull and gray, the right atmosphere for a funeral. Who can concentrate on mourning on a bright, sunshiny day? All my friends would be dreaming of a soccer game in the park.”

  “Given recent events and situations,” Nate said, softly but firmly, “I would appreciate a different topic of conversation.”

  It was such a normal thing to say, it stopped Susan cold. Not because Nate said it; she had grown accustomed to him seeming utterly human. It startled her more because it had taken the robot to say it, the only one who had nothing whatsoever to fear from death. He had spoken purely out of concern for his companions, demonstrating an empathy, a basic humanity, the rest of them seemed to lack.

  “Sorry,” Jake said, sounding truly contrite, with just a hint of amusement. “Cops and soldiers and doctors see so much death in their daily lives, they become inured to it. We shouldn’t forget to guard our tongues around civilians.”

  It surprised Susan nearly as much that Jake had the word “inured” in his vocabulary.

  The Subaru Sapphire turned into the parking lot, and Jake waved his Vox at the pay stick. Once settled into a spot, the group exited. Wordlessly, they threaded their way through the ever-present mob of protestors and into the main entrance where the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Manhattan Hasbro Hospital assailed Susan, their impact heightened by her relatively long absence. Once inside, Susan led the way, deliberately avoiding the psychiatric areas in the hope that she would not run into anyone she knew.

  At length, they found themselves standing just outside the door to the Goldman/Peters laboratory, room number 713. There, Susan paused, studying the familiar door, which looked exactly like every other door in Hassenfeld Research Tower but which held both special and dreadful memories for her. Two years earlier, she had taken part in the nanorobot research project for refractory mental illnesses, donating most of her spare time and barely able to contain her excitement at working with Psychiatry’s famous duo. Delighted and intimidated, she had paused so many times, waiting for her knock to be acknowledged.

  Pal cleared his throat. “Susan, the door’s not going to unlock itself.”

  Startled from her reverie, Susan tried the knob. It did not yield to her touch, definitively locked. Although Dr. Cody Peters had handed her an old-fashioned metal key, she found herself instinctively searching for a touch pad or scanner. She realized the transient nature of research and the tendency to swap partners, equipment, and coordination made a key system more practical. The door had never been locked when Peters, Goldman, or both were using the laboratory.

  It was Jake’s turn to spur Susan. “Are you delaying deliberately?”

  Susan realized the policeman had struck to the heart of the problem. “Subconsciously, actually. My mind’s telling me to wait for Dr. Peters before entering.” She forestalled an argument. “And, yes. I know he wouldn’t have given me the key if he didn’t want us to go inside without him, but it still feels wrong.” She used to suffer the same sensation as a young child when her mother asked her to fetch something from her parents’ usually off-limits bedroom.

  Far down the hallway, the elevator doors slid open with a ping, and Cody Peters’ lanky frame emerged. “Ah, perfect timing.”

  More so than he knew, Susan realized. Now she had no trouble taking the key from her pocket, fitting it into the lock, and turning it. The lock yielded easily. By the time she removed the key and twisted the knob, Dr. Peters had joined them. She stepped aside, handing him the key.

  Accepting it, Peters explained, “I locked the door as soon as the police left. The right maneuver can prevent even the maintenance keys from working. I didn’t want anyone moving anything or cleaning before you had a chance to examine the scene.” He shoved open the door and pocketed the key.

  As they entered, the lights snapped on, revealing the familiar arrangement of desks and laboratory tables. The regular chemical and cleaning odors wafted to Susan, accompanied by a greasy, sour smell, probably
something the police had used. Everything looked much as it had the day she had tried to help resuscitate Ari Goldman. The four large laboratory tables, shoved together, still filled the center of the room. Desks at opposite corners belonged to the researchers: Goldman’s neat and tidy, Peters’ a study in chaos. A smaller, closed door led to a storage area, Susan knew. Dark, dried blood still streaked the central, combined table area where Goldman’s body had lain, interrupted in patches that indicated samples had been removed. The floor held puddles of congealed brown liquids, probably a combination of blood, mucus, and cerebrospinal fluid with just a touch of chlorhexidine from the residents’ futile attempts to keep their resuscitation efforts sterile.

  Susan turned her attention to other objects on the desks, things she had not noticed when the dying man and arrest of Nate had demanded all of her attention. Some of the equipment had gotten swept from the table to make room for crash-cart items and portable monitors, leaving dented canisters, a few shattered tubes, and other bric-a-brac on the floor. A blood-splashed book sat on the pushed-together tables, and several wheeled stools occupied various places around them.

  “Yuck,” Nate said, a glaring understatement.

  “Yuck,” Susan agreed, turning to Jake, who had already started looking everything over, hands clenched behind his back. “What do we do first, Detective?”

  Jake sighed, then shook his head. “I’m going to have to assume the police took anything they thought might prove useful to the investigation, including appropriate samples. What we’re looking for is something they missed.”

  “Like this book?” Pal suggested, tipping his head toward it.

  “Those’re Ari’s notes.” Peters stepped up beside Pal. “The police did inspect them, asked my opinion, and we then looked over them together. They took a ton of pictures.” He chuckled at something private, then explained. “Ari would have been writing in it around the time he was killed. I think the youngest guy on the force was hoping it would be like one of those old novels. You know, where the killer catches his victim writing, and the victim manages to scrawl some cryptic clue that identifies his killer.”