SINthetic

by J. T. Nicholas

  “Don’t know,” Hernandez admitted. “I’ve got facial recognition running, but nothing so far.” Her grin turned into a broader smile. “But I had Cyber check their logs on Manny. A couple of days before that guy shows up, guess who our boy Manny cooks up in his little computer lab?”

  I shrugged. “Who?”

  “Guy by the name of Jeremy Fowler. Only, the real Jeremy Fowler is an engineer that lives on the West Coast and had his identity stolen a couple of months ago.”

  Jeremy Fowler. The name immediately rang a bell. “Shit,” I muttered. “Fowler’s on my list. When was this video taken?”

  “About a week ago.”

  Which would line up nicely with my timeline. Get a false identity. Plan out the killing. Maybe find a place to dump the body. Then contact Party Toys to set up the meet. The mutilation was elaborate enough that it would probably take a few days to set up.

  Something about it was bugging me, though. “It’s too neat,” I said, at last.

  “Come again?”

  “Look, I think there’s a major—and I mean major—corporation behind all this. Why go to a two-bit crook and get a stolen identity? I’m pretty sure that they have the resources to create their own fake IDs. Why risk working with an outside man?”

  “You sure it’s this corporation, and not just some sicko?” Hernandez replied.

  I thought of Silas, and the lengths he had gone to get into my apartment. It was possible—albeit extremely unlikely—that Silas had sold me a bill of goods. It was possible that he really was “defective product” and he was the one committing the murders. Identity theft didn’t make this Fowler—or whatever his real name was—a killer, and showing up in Party Toys’ client list wasn’t a crime. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a serial killer tried to get close to, and even drive the investigation.

  I considered it, mentally reviewing what I knew about the big synthetic. Silas was mentally capable of murder, synthetic programming notwithstanding; I had no doubt of that whatsoever. But would he be able to bring himself to brutalize and murder a fellow synthetic? And would his mental capability allow him to overcome the physical limitations imposed by his programming? On the first count, I didn’t think so. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but when he spoke about his own kind, there was something in his voice, an anger at how they’d been treated, yes, but also pain and something akin to reverence. Besides, much of what he told me rang true. Too much of it confirmed things I thought I had known since that day so many years ago. And the man on the video was definitely out of place; something about him set my detective sense tingling.

  “No real evidence,” I admitted. “Nothing solid, anyway. But my gut says we aren’t talking lone wacko.”

  “Well,” she said with a grin, “there’s one way we can find out who this pendejo is and why he walked into that shop.”

  “Go and question Manny?” I suggested.

  “Go and question Manny.”

  * * * *

  Manny’s Barber Shop wasn’t exactly in the best part of town. It was a better area than Floattown, but not by much, and had the added unpleasantness of sitting in the shadow of one of the city’s sewage treatment plants. The smell wasn’t as bad as one might think—the city did make some effort to combat it, after all—but it was still a long way from pleasant. It was a little after noon as we rolled up on the place, the unmarked cruiser that Hernandez rated as part of Guns and Gangs looking out of place among the beaters and rust buckets that lined the streets here.

  “Let me do the talking,” she said as we exited the vehicle.

  I just nodded. We were in gangland, and that wasn’t my territory. She knew the scene much better than I did. This was Hernandez’s show, and I was pretty much just along for the ride. I could live with that.

  Stepping into the interior of the barbershop was like stepping back in time. There were four deluxe barber chairs, laid out in a neat row, and another line of simple plastic chairs for people to wait. All four of the barbershop chairs had people in them, each being tended by an actual, real-life human being—which is to say, none of them boasted the kind of symmetry of features or self-effacing mannerisms of synthetics. In fact, the barbers, two black men, one Latino man, and one Asian woman, were all engaged in boisterous conversation with their patrons and each other, lending the shop an almost festive air.

  That conversation stopped as Hernandez and I entered the establishment. It’s not like we were dressed in a way that screamed “cop,” or anything. I was wearing a suit, sure. And, OK, maybe it was a little rumpled and on the cheap side. But apart from the wrinkles, the suit could have just as easily pegged me for a teacher or poorly paid and underappreciated law clerk. Hernandez, on the other hand, looked like her suit had been tailored for her, not bought off the discount rack like mine. It had a light and airy look about it that not only highlighted her fitness, but did a much better job of concealing her service weapon.

  OK, so maybe Hernandez’s clothes didn’t scream cop...mine, on the other hand...

  “I’m looking for Manny,” Hernandez said.

  “He’s not here,” the Asian woman replied at once.

  Hernandez sighed. “Is that right. So, if I go into the back room there”—she nodded at a closed door—“I’m not going to find him?” She took a step in that direction, eyeing the woman as she did.

  “You have no right to do that,” the woman replied. “No warrant. Your business is not welcome here. You can leave now.”

  “Or what?” Hernandez asked. “You’ll call the cops?” She smiled a sardonic little smile and took another step.

  I almost winced at that, but I didn’t interfere. Gangs was a different world from Homicide, and I knew that Hernandez couldn’t afford to look weak out here on the street. I kept my mouth shut and did my best to look intimidating, staring hard at the patrons and the other barbers who had, so far, contented themselves with glowering at us.

  From somewhere in the back came the sound of a door opening and then slamming shut.

  Instinct kicked in and I was moving before my brain had a chance to catch up. Three quick strides took me to the door leading deeper into the barbershop, and I tore it open. There was a small office beyond it, but not the kind I would have expected to find in a barbershop. In my frenzied dash across the small space, I counted no fewer than seven computers, and a half dozen printers and magnetic strip writers of various kinds to boot. I didn’t let that slow me down, though—I wasn’t here to catch a forger.

  I tore open the back door, which exited into an alleyway running north and south. A quick glance to the north showed nothing, but as I looked south I caught a glimpse of Manny—at least of a man the right height and build running from me at maximum speed. I took off after him, trying to keep my eyes a little beyond the fleeing form, so I didn’t miss a twist or turn in his attempt to lose me.

  I wasn’t a runner. Hell, I hated running. The best thing about getting out of being a beat cop and into Robbery and Homicide was that I was no longer expected to go dashing pell-mell through streets and alleys in pursuit of suspects. But I still spent a lot of time on the mats, and even if I was no marathoner, I had plenty of endurance. The distance between me and Manny closed at a satisfying clip.

  As I neared, I could see him throwing frantic glances over his shoulder every few steps, gauging how much I’d gained. Which is why he didn’t see Hernandez dart out from between two buildings half a block ahead of him. Hernandez was a runner, and her lithe frame handled pounding the pavement far better than my bulk. She did this kind of thing—the running, not the chasing—for fun. Poor Manny had never stood a chance.

  Hernandez was fairly petite. Manny was no heavyweight, but he probably had fifty pounds on the detective. She didn’t try to stop him by main force. She didn’t have to. As soon as Manny realized she was there, he did his best to dart around her. She let him pass, but flicke
d out one foot as he did so, catching the heel of his trailing leg. The foot she clipped clashed into Manny’s other foot, and he stumbled and went down. Hard enough that the poor bastard slid face-first and then rolled once or twice along the pavement before coming to a groaning stop.

  I was on him as soon as he stopped moving, flipping him onto his belly and slapping the cuffs on him before he had even regained his senses.

  “Neat,” I said to Hernandez between gasping breaths for air.

  “Pretty routine,” she replied. She wasn’t even breathing hard. Couldn’t she at least pretend to be winded?

  A crowd had started to gather, curious citizens drawn by the commotion. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where cops were welcomed with open arms, so we were getting a fair amount of hard stares and low mutters. And the inevitable array of recording devices. “Let’s get Manny here back to his shop,” I suggested.

  “I didn’t do anything, man!” Manny said, having apparently regained enough of his senses to start protesting his treatment.

  “Then why did you run?” Hernandez asked, her tone disarmingly reasonable.

  “I want a lawyer,” was the man’s reply.

  If the forger clammed up on us, it would take weeks to get anything out of him. Not to mention blowing the sting that Guns and Gangs had running on his operation. Better cut that one off forthwith.

  “Sure thing, Manny,” I said. “If we take you in, you can bet that the very first thing we’ll do is get you a lawyer. And that lawyer will do a wonderful job of advising you right up until the point that we throw your ass in jail for the next twenty years.” I gave him a sort of considering look. Manny was in his early twenties, thin, and with features that were almost delicate. He tried to hide his fine bone structure behind a scruff of beard, but it had come in thin and patchy and, if anything, made him look even younger. “I don’t think you’re going to like the joint much, Manny.” I shoved at his shoulder to get him turned and gave him a light push in the direction of his shop.

  “Of course,” Hernandez said, picking up the thread as we walked along, playing good cop to my bad, “you may not have to go to jail. We don’t even have to take you in. This could all just be a big misunderstanding.”

  I couldn’t see Manny’s face since I was walking behind him, half propelling him back up the street toward his shop, but I could feel the tension in his body and sense his sudden interest. It seemed the kid was smart enough to know that hard time could be pretty damn hard indeed. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “We don’t care about you, Manny,” Hernandez said sweetly. “You’re small time. Two bit. Not worth the paperwork. You understand.” She made a flicking gesture, like brushing away an annoying gnat as we turned the corner and made it back to his shop. I pushed him—not too roughly—through the back door and into his office. I shoved him into a chair and leaned against one of the desks covered in various computer equipment. Hernandez shut the door behind us.

  Manny was sweating now. Not just from the run, or from being collared. No, he was sweating because we had so casually invaded his most holy of holies. We were relaxing in his office, his sanctum, which was, unquestionably, full of all kinds of evidence that could put him away for a long time. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice hovering somewhere between hope and fear.

  From what Hernandez had said, he worked for some pretty bad people. The kind of people who probably had lots of eyes in the neighborhood and likely knew already that their favorite forger was having a little talk with the police. Hernandez looked over at me. Guess it was my turn.

  I pulled my screen from my pocket and unlocked it. A few quick swipes had the enhanced version of the shot of the mysterious Mr. Fowler exiting the barbershop. I held the display up in front of Manny’s face. “We need to know who this guy is, where he is, anything you have on him.”

  Manny made a show of studying the picture for a minute. Then he shrugged. “Never seen him.”

  Hernandez smacked him—lightly—across the back of the head. “Come on, Manny. You don’t expect us to believe that, do you? We photographed him coming out of your shop.”

  A clever little twinkle lit in Manny’s eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t here that day. Or maybe I was stuck working in the office. You know how it is, chica.”

  I smiled to stop myself from grinding my teeth. Manny and his IDs were a lead, my first real lead, but if he was smart enough to stonewall us, there wasn’t much I could do. I could only lean so far on him before I fell flat on my face.

  “That’s OK,” Hernandez almost purred. “If you can’t tell us, we’ll go talk to Michael Gutierrez. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure to tell him Manny sent us. Chico.”

  I didn’t know who Michael Gutierrez was. It was clear, however, that Manny did. At the mention of that name, the blood drained from his face and a new sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. I pulled Manny to his feet and turned him around. “Hey, what are you doing?” he demanded.

  I pressed my thumb to the pad on his cuffs and they beeped, then clicked open. “Letting you go,” I replied, tucking the cuffs back into their holder at the back of my belt. “Sounds like we don’t need you, after all. We’ll just go have a nice long chat with Mr. Gutierrez instead.”

  Hernandez was already walking to the back door, and I moved to follow her.

  “Wait,” Manny exclaimed. “Just wait, OK? Maybe I did see that guy.”

  I stopped and turned back. “Jeremy Fowler,” I said. Once more, Manny flinched back, as if from a blow.

  “How do you know...” he started, but then trailed off again.

  “Assume we know everything about your little operation, Manny,” Hernandez said. “And assume that, for the most part, we don’t give a damn. You can make your little fake IDs all you want. We don’t care about forgers. We care about murderers. And that’s what your Mr. Jeremy Fowler is shaping up to be.”

  As Hernandez spoke, Manny had gone even paler. “You...you know?”

  “What, you think we thought all these computers were for balancing your books? You’re not nearly as smart as you think, ese. Spill it, Manny,” she said flatly. “Or we go have that little talk with your friend.”

  “OK, OK. I need to get to my computer.”

  That raised a few red flags. In Manny’s shoes, I would certainly have some kind of kill switch baked into my gear to send it all into meltdown at the touch of a few keystrokes. But Hernandez didn’t even flinch. “Just remember, Manny,” she said, “nothing you do on those computers will save your ass if we go have that little conversation with Mr. Gutierrez.”

  He paused for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keys. Then, without a word, he began typing.

  It only took a few seconds. “He paid me with a wire transfer,” Manny said as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “I didn’t ask his real name. Didn’t care, you know? But sometimes people try to pay with bogus accounts or with...” He paused. “Let’s say money that isn’t properly cleaned, OK?” I snorted at that. “Yeah, well, I can’t have an electronic trail leading back to me, you know?” Now that he was working, Manny seemed almost to forget that we were cops. I could see why Hernandez had referred to him as a savant. He didn’t even seem to be paying attention to what he was doing. His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, slamming down on the keys with abandon while he kept talking.

  “So, I do some checking, you know? Follow up on the trail, make sure the money I’m getting paid is clean. And you know what?”

  He seemed to be waiting for an answer, so I said, “It’s clean.”

  “Squeaky clean, mano. Squeaky clean. Straight up corporate clean, if you know what I mean. The accounts traced back to a company called Translantic, a shipping company. That seemed weird, so I kept digging, you know? And it turns out, this Translantic is owned by another company, and that company is owned by a third company, on and on up through like
a dozen different corporate entities. And do you know who all those companies traced back to?”

  “Walton Biogenics,” I said.

  “Walton...damn, you really do know everything.”

  “How does this help me find Fowler?” I asked.

  “So, the company. Translantic. I figured it would be an abandoned building or something. But I got curious, you know? I don’t do many corporate jobs. So I looked them up. And it turns out, they’re right here in New Lyons.” My screen suddenly chimed. “And I just sent the address and other information to you.” He gave me a smile that almost begged me to ask him how he’d gotten my number. I didn’t bother. “So, we’re good, right?”

  I looked at Hernandez. She shrugged.

  “Yeah, Manny,” I said. “We’re good.”

  Outside, Hernandez and I exchanged a long, silent look while we waited for the car. “Too easy,” Hernandez said.

  “Way too fucking easy,” I agreed.

  “So, what now?”

  “I guess we go pay the people at Translantic a visit. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Luck hadn’t seemed to have been on my side for most of this investigation. But without any other leads to fall back on, it was my best bet.

  Chapter 15

  The docks of New Lyons were a strange affair. The rising waters had changed the character of the bottom as the oceans reclaimed land that had, at one point, been covered with a bustling, industrious city. You could still see remnants of that city, if you looked out over what passed for New Lyons’ harbor—the tops of decaying buildings thrusting like rocks from the waters, decorated with antennae and satellite dishes. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of ruins lurked out there, some making their presence known, others hiding just beneath the waves.

  There were clear avenues, of course. Places where streets had once stretched, providing channels for the harbor pilots to guide the container ships through the maze, sometimes with just feet between the hulls and the steel-and-glass reefs waiting to rip out their sides or bottoms. It made the approach of the ships into a twisting and ponderous dance that could be beautiful to watch. The harbor was close enough to Floattown that I sometimes did exactly that, perched atop the roof of my building with a glass of whiskey and a pair of binoculars. It was better entertainment than most of the offerings on the screens.