It expanded to fill the entire screen, giving me a good, if distorted, view of the synthetic’s face. The video program had a filter to fix the distortion, and I applied it to the best frame I could find. The resulting image was almost perfect. The synthetic was looking down—at the palm pad, probably—and his hat obscured everything from his eyebrows up, but I got what I needed. There were enough points in that picture for facial recognition to go to work. With luck, I would find an ID somewhere, in some manufacturer’s records. But even without it, I could start searching the web of cameras around New Lyons and see if he showed up again. Or, rather, the computers could.
There were tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of cameras scattered across the landscape of New Lyons. Old traffic cameras—largely useless since the advent of automated vehicles—had been repurposed to serve as “public safety” cameras, no longer aimed solely at the roadways, but actively panning and searching for trouble. Security cameras covered the approaches to all city- and federal-owned buildings. Retail shops, bars, and finance centers all employed security cameras as a matter of course and, in an affront to privacy everywhere, most gladly gave the NLPD access to their exterior feeds, in the hope that it would move them to the front of the line if they ever needed our help. Pick a company, and odds were good that they had electronic eyes upon you, eyes that someone, somewhere, could access and review.
My mother—who still taught psychology and philosophy courses at LSU—called it the “modern panopticon,” stealing the term from nineteenth-century theoretical prison design where the inmates could all be watched by a single guard. A lot of her work centered on how the idea of being constantly observed affected the psyche and the myriad neuroses that could spring from it.
Well, New Lyons hadn’t—quite—achieved a true panopticon. There were still a few blank spots in the city where the prying eyes didn’t reach. And a good number of the cameras were on private networks not subject to intrusion by the auspices of the New Lyons Police Department. But still, if the synthetic was anywhere within the city, the odds of finding him were very, very good.
With the computer doing the heavy lifting, I turned my attention to the other cases I was working. There wasn’t much. I had just closed a domestic violence case that ended in death, and the feds had swooped in and picked up a triple homicide that I had been working. That one had been industrial espionage gone wrong; the targeting corporation dealt with sensitive government contracts, so there was no way the federal government was going to leave the job to the locals. The feds had let me do all the grunt work to build the case, and then taken it from me with a smile and a “Thanks for the support. You have the thanks of a grateful nation.” That and a fiver could get me a coffee.
That left just one—an apparently homeless man who had been beaten to death on the docks. It was a rare occurrence, not only because that kind of brutality most often flowed toward synthetics, who couldn’t fight back and couldn’t press charges, but also because they were, usually, easy to solve. But I didn’t have a lot of hope in this case. Whoever had done it had either known where the eyes in the sky were or had gotten very, very lucky. Either way, they had kept everything firmly off camera. The crime scene technicians hadn’t found any meaningful physical evidence—which was unusual in a beating case; normally there was at least some DNA transfer involved. But whoever had done it had done it clean. Uniforms had canvassed the docks, and, of course, no one saw or heard anything. The case was going cold fast, and unless a new lead sprang up, I wasn’t going to make much progress.
And that was it. One case recently closed, one taken by the feds, and one where the bad guy was probably going to get away with it. The only new thing on my desk was the eviscerated synthetic from last night. I had to write a report for that one, and as a murder investigation, all I could do was flag it “case closed.”
Instead of doing that, I changed the file code, reclassifying it from murder to felony criminal mischief. Synthetics were expensive, after all, and if anyone other than the rightful owner had killed the girl, a crime had still been committed. It was sophistry, and without a formal complaint filed by the owner, whoever that might be, it wasn’t something I should be “wasting” my time on.
Eight dead girls, and nobody cared. How many synthetics died every year? I realized that I had no idea. It was a number I should know.
It was a number the whole world should know.
Chapter 6
I stretched my arms over my head and unleashed a yawn as I watched the computer continue to churn through the parameters I had set for the various forensics programs. It would likely be hours yet before they returned any meaningful results, and I had just sent off the last bit of paperwork of the morning. No new cases had come in. I was officially out of work to do.
I pushed my chair back from my desk and stood, continuing to stretch. It felt good after a short night spent sleeping in a chair—a comfortable chair, but still a far cry from an actual bed. I felt something low in my spine release with an audible pop that chased a moment of visceral worry with a feeling of relaxing warmth. I sighed and dropped my arms back down by my sides.
“Hey, Campbell.” I wanted to curse as I heard the whining edge of that voice, but I managed to keep my tongue in check. I turned and found myself facing a group of four other cops. Fortier, the one whose voice made me want to swear, was a pudgy, sweaty troll of a man. A cheap suit hung poorly from his hunched shoulders, and as he moved, I caught sight of the dark circles of sweat staining the shirt beneath. His face was close and pinched, rodent-like but without even the charm of the meanest sewer rat ever to crawl from the shit and darkness.
There was a reason for the cheap suit, of course. Rumor had it, every dollar he had ever earned had been spent buying not one, not two, but three synthetics, all high-end toys. That thought was enough to make my skin crawl by itself, but Fortier was also one of those who bought in wholesale to the idea that I was a synth-sympathizer. And somewhere along the line, he had decided it was his job to give me shit about it. Not surprising, given his own proclivities, but annoying nonetheless.
Normally, I met his petty comments with a flat stare. He was such a little weasel of a man that that was all it took, most days. But today he was not alone. I recognized two of the three other officers with him. One was Robert Stevens, a decent enough guy most of the time, but young and, from what the rumors said, he spent way too much time down in the red-light district, spending his hard-earned salary with reckless abandon. Maybe he was supporting Fortier in an attempt to get some free time playing with Fortier’s toys. It didn’t seem too likely; Fortier didn’t strike me as the type to share.
The other officer I recognized was Melinda Hernandez. Petite, dark hair, early forties, Hernandez was a hard-nosed cop who worked Guns and Gangs. She was also one of the few people at NLPD that I considered a friend. She stood a little apart from the other three, shadowing them. I could just make out the faint echo of worry deep in her slightly tilted eyes. There was a warning in those eyes, but something else as well. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was encouragement. Or maybe the better word was hunger.
The final officer was young, fresh-out-of-the-academy young. He looked like a rookie, but with a set to his shoulders and jaw that belied that moniker. Actually, he looked like two, or maybe three, rookies. He stood a towering six foot three, and had to be carrying at least 240 pounds of lean muscle. A regulation crew cut sat over eyes that bored into me, giving me his best championship fight weigh-in stare-down. He didn’t wear a uniform. Instead, he wore a loose-fitting T-shirt and a pair of nylon shorts. In short, he was one scary bastard, and he was dressed to kick the shit out of someone—me presumably—in an NLPD-sanctioned fashion.
So, I did the one thing that was sure to piss the towering giant off. I ignored him, and smiled at Fortier.
“What do you want, Fortier?”
“You look like you could use som
e exercise.”
“Of the two of us, I’m pretty sure everyone in the department could say which looked like they needed to get some exercise.”
Something only distantly related to a smile stretched Fortier’s lips. “Oh, don’t worry, soldier boy. I get plenty of workouts at home. Lots of cardio.” He made a crude motion with his hips that made me want to throw up in my mouth a little. “You know, I’ve been doing some digging around. Something about you always was a little off. I found some anomalies in your records. There were a lot of words like ‘redacted’ and ‘expunged’ floating around. Wonder why that is?”
The thought of Francois fucking Fortier digging his greasy fingers into my files brought a snarl to my face. The last thing I needed was the fat little fuck prying too hard at the edges of my juvenile records. Sure, they had been expunged, but my stint in the military told me just how much that was worth. I couldn’t have Fortier digging too deep. My hands curled into fists, but Hernandez gave a little shake of her head.
I could take Fortier out in about half a second, even with Stevens and the rookie goon at his side. But no matter how much the squalling bastard deserved an ass kicking, if I handed him one, it would mean a suspension at the very least. And, probably, a couple of weeks without pay. I forced a deep breath and unclenched my fists.
“Fortier, the only secret around here is who you blew to make detective. Smart money’s on the commissioner, but I figure even he wouldn’t give you a pass. I’m guessing you had to blow all the way up to the mayor.” Hernandez snorted and even Stevens cracked a faint smile. The goon just continued giving me his best impersonation of a thousand-yard stare. Easy to see where this one was headed, but I suddenly found myself welcoming it. “But if you want some exercise, I’d be happy to go down to the gym and beat a few dozen pounds of stupid off of you.”
Fortier just smiled, a smug little smile that I would have loved to wipe off his face. With my boot. “That so, soldier boy? Well, I’m not really looking for any exercise—but my new friend here”—he gestured to the giant by his side—“heard somewhere that you were some kind of hot shit when it came to…what do you call it? Sparring? Hand-to-hand? Whatever bullshit play fighting you do.” His smile took on a harder cast, and I felt a stirring in the pit of my stomach.
When I had been seventeen, like most teenagers, I’d been completely certain I could “handle myself” in a fight. Not that I’d ever actually been in one, not until Annabelle. But, horrors of that night aside, I had taken on two-to-one odds, and come out the other end relatively unscathed. The human mind is a strange wasteland, and despite the nightmares that plagued me to this day, I also walked away from that house with the belief that I was some kind of martial arts savant.
The military had quickly and brutally disabused me of that notion. My close quarters combat instructors had taken me apart with an ease that would have been crushingly embarrassing—if the “workouts” had left me any capacity to feel anything other than the pain of strained muscles and contusions. As the bruises healed, I discovered something about myself—I loved the thrill of physical confrontation. I loved the artistry and brutality of the techniques. I didn’t enjoy inflicting pain on my opponents, or receiving it for that matter, but I did enjoy the sense of confidence that came from knowing I could defend myself at need.
For the most part, my reputation as a fighter stayed within a small community in the department—those who, themselves, were interested in learning martial arts, either for enhanced self-defense or to help them in the furtherance of their chosen career, or for the pure enjoyment of the art. While one might expect that every officer would seek out such training, one would be very sadly mistaken. Firearms, Tasers, and pepper spray were the weapons of choice, and the firing ranges saw much more use than the training mats.
“Unless, of course,” Fortier said with a sneer, “you’re scared or something? Maybe we can find you a nice docile synthetic to spar with instead.”
Hernandez stepped forward and placed a hand on my arm. I couldn’t quite tell if it was meant to be comforting or restraining, but it did remind me to release the breath that I had drawn in a long-suffering sigh. Despite having been born and raised in New Lyons, Hernandez spoke with a slight Mexican accent as she said, “You don’t have anything to prove to these pendejos.”
The words were conciliatory, but I could see the fire smoldering in her dark eyes. Hernandez was one of those who did seek out additional hand-to-hand training. We’d been on the mats together, and she had some idea of what I could do. I smiled at her, a real smile this time. “Thanks, Mel, but maybe some exercise would be a good idea. Take my mind off things.” Not that I had anything against the rookie, despite the Friday Night Fights stare-down look he was still giving me, but if I let Fortier pass on this one, I’d never hear the end of it. Not from anyone that mattered, but the rumor mill already had enough of my grist to grind. And if he saw—really saw—what I could do, maybe it would discourage him from digging deeper into my records.
I winked at the big guy and gave Fortier my shit-eatingest grin. “After you, Francis.”
* * * *
The basement of the precinct was divided up into a set of locker rooms, a firing range, and a gym. Most of the gym was dedicated to weight machines and treadmills, not unlike what you’d find in any fitness center in the country, but nearly a third of it had been set aside for hand-to-hand training. A variety of bags hung from the rafters, and mats covered the floor. There was no formal ring or cage, just white circles that stood out prominently against the blue backdrop of the mats. I stood within one of the circles, wearing gi pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt. The rookie—I still didn’t know his name—kept his shorts and tee. We both had donned shin protectors and pulled on three-ounce MMA-style gloves.
A crowd had formed around us, some people who had been working the mats, others drifting over from the weights and cardio equipment. I heard the low buzz of excitement coursing through them, and did my best to ignore it. Some fighters like to get wound up, to feed on the onlookers or their own anger, to get their adrenaline surging before the first blows fell.
I preferred to be calm, relaxed. Fluid. Anger and adrenaline might make you throw harder, but it also made you stiff. It coerced you to attack when you shouldn’t, and prevented you from backing off when that was the right move. So I took a long, calming breath and did my best to forget about the watchers, forget that Francois Fortier had set this whole thing up, forget everything else and just focus on the fight and the opponent before me.
The bell—really an electric chime—sounded, and we both dropped into our fighting stances. He went with a left lead, right hand hugging his right cheek, left extended before him, elbows tight. Classic boxer-style striker. His knees were slightly bent, and though his shoulders were mostly square, he set his hips with the lead hip turned slightly toward me. That was pretty common for practitioners who had started in tae kwon do and then moved on to other arts. He’d be a powerful kicker, maybe not quite as fast as most TKD guys, not at his size, but with his muscle mass any kick that landed could end it.
I crouched low, sitting deep into my stance, finding my balance and center. I matched him lead for lead, though I was just as comfortable with a right lead as a left. My hand positions mirrored his own, only I pushed my right hand out a little farther and I kept my hands open and loose. I had a strong suspicion he’d come wading in, throwing hard and heavy, so my initial play would be defensive.
We both shuffled forward, meeting in the middle of the ring. I extended my left hand, making a fist, and he touched gloves with me. Then we both sprang back, popping our hands back up. He moved well, keeping his knees bent, staying on the balls of his feet. And he was quick, especially for his size. I saw just how quick as he turned into a side stance, brought his trailing foot up to his lead in a quick shuffle, and snapped out a straight-legged side-thrust kick that, had it landed, would probably have sent me c
areening into the spectators.
But it didn’t land. As soon as he’d turned his hip, I angled off line, pivoting out of the way as I let him pass. I ended up with me behind him, and I snapped out a kick of my own, knee turned outward, using the flat of my foot to stomp down into the back of the knee of his base leg. At the same time, my left hand shot out, hooking his left shoulder and pulling backward. The two opposite vectors of motion—pushing one way at his knee and pulling the other way at his shoulder—proved too much for his balance, and he toppled to the mats.
I could have followed it up with a ground and pound, but I didn’t know enough about my opponent yet, so instead, I pivoted away from his fall, keeping my hands up and making sure to stay safely out of range of his lashing feet. I was glad I had chosen the more cautious course, since he hit the ground and immediately rolled, coming to his feet in a smooth motion that spoke of years of either jujitsu or aikido. I guessed jujitsu, probably Brazilian, and decided right then that I didn’t want to try to grapple with the behemoth. My own ground game was decent, but it wasn’t my best set of techniques, and I didn’t want to take on someone twice my size who was as least as well trained.
He came at me hard, throwing a series of fast punches. Heavy, but controlled, each snapped out and pulled back again with a precision that belied the fury darkening his face. I parried and slipped for all I was worth, throwing an occasional counterpunch. Those were quick, short jabs, a few of which got through, but it was like punching a slab of granite. They didn’t even slow him down.
I let him move me around the mats, giving ground slowly, holding myself in the transitory range that was too close for kicking, too far for knees, elbows, or grappling, forcing him to rely on pure pugilism. It bought me time, a few seconds, and it had the expected effect of feeding his anger. No one liked a target that refused to be hit. If he couldn’t get through my defenses, he really had only two choices: step back and kick, or lunge forward and grapple. He elected to kick.
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