The Day Before

by Liana Brooks

  “Not all Hispanics look alike, sir, but it’s an easy mistake to make. All white ­people looked the same to me until I took the bureau’s sensitivity course about racial differences in the workplace.” Her commentary sailed over Marrins’s bald head with room to spare.

  “Go on, MacKenzie.”

  The ME cleared his throat. “The victim . . .” His lips worked around the words. “Tortured,” he spat out. “The body shows evidence of torture.”

  Marrins made a circular, hurry-­up motion.

  “Evidence of electric shock, mutilation, and legs skinned over a period of days. There are bedsores on the back and right hip. She . . . she didn’t die quickly.”

  “Are you sure none of that was postmortem?” Sam asked, taking notes. “Vultures could have skinned her while she was lying in the field.”

  MacKenzie shook his head and shut down the screenful of gruesome images. “Not the way it was done. She was alive, but . . . that wasn’t the cause of death. Jane Doe was severely malnourished. There are early signs of desiccation. Atlanta is testing for toxins. I-­I don’t have cause of death yet.” He gulped, grimaced, and looked at the floor. “I don’t have time of death yet. There were inconsistencies. Her body temperature was near zero, but she showed no signs of cyanosis around the fingers or lips. The body went into rigor mortis forty minutes after the original call came in.” He shook his head.

  “So, Jane was freshly dead when she was discovered.”

  MacKenzie tilted his head from side to side. “Rigor mortis sets in usually within an hour or two of death. Postmortem lividity, the blood pooling, hadn’t occurred when she was found, but her body temperature should have been close to normal. It’s was eighty-­nine degrees outside when she was found.”

  Sam frowned. “You said she showed signs of prolonged confinement. Could she have been kept in a climate-­controlled area? Moved in a refrigerated truck? Extreme temperatures are often used as a torture device.”

  “Possibly,” MacKenzie conceded.

  “Doesn’t really matter,” Marrins said. “Let’s get the signatures and send it up to Agent Anan in Birmingham.”

  Sam hesitated, far more interested in the nature of Jane’s death than Marrins seemed to be, before nodding. “The blood work came back clone positive?” She felt the sting of regret. The bureau wouldn’t waste time or money on a clone. But oh how she wanted to sink her teeth into this one and get some answers. Voicing that desire would only be another black mark on her record. Clone sympathizer wasn’t a title the bureau approved of.

  MacKenzie stared with bulging eyes. “Um . . . it did?”

  Sam glared. “You don’t have the test results yet?”

  “Atlanta,” MacKenzie said. “I’m sending samples to Atlanta.”

  “Fine,” Marrins drawled. “Rose, if you want D.C., wrap up this case. Suicide or clone, whatever you want, but I want that paperwork by Friday.” He tapped the diagnostic screen for emphasis, then nodded to MacKenzie and walked out, whistling.

  Sam waited until the autopsy-­room door thumped shut before turning on the ME, who was slumped against the wall. “What was that? You said you were ready, that the autopsy was done. This isn’t done. No test results, no cause of death, you can’t even give me an accurate age!” She pointed at his emaciated frame. “Do you want a medboard out? Is that it? You looking for an excuse for the bureau to drop you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did you even run the fingerprints yet?”

  “The interns did. She’s not in the system as a runaway, missing person, or on the open-­access registry.”

  Saint Jude, give me patience. “Did you check the clone registry and the secured registry? Anyone with the money can pay to have their fingerprints put in the secure levels, and they’re the ones most likely to have clones.”

  “The . . . the interns don’t have clearance. I . . . I was . . .”

  “Busy,” Sam finished for him. “Do it as soon as you can or send me the files so I can check it.”

  “Suicide doesn’t fit the . . . the evidence. We can’t . . . You can’t . . .”

  “I don’t want to list Jane as a suicide, but I will if we can’t find anything else.” She took a deep breath. “I need to close this case. Understand? I need a promotion in the next six months if I want a career with the bureau. Right now, all I have is the original statement from the trucker who found her. Give me more. Give me test results. Give me fingerprints. Give me something to work with, or I won’t be able to do anything other than close the case Friday as a suicide . . . and recommend you be dismissed.”

  Sam left the morgue with a sour taste in her mouth. If Agent MacKenzie was right about Jane Doe’s age, there was a serious problem. The first clones produced in the early thirties had died within a decade. They’d been early experiments, the result of scientific hubris and curiosity rather than something the world needed. Second-­wave clones lasted longer but had a tendency to . . . melt was how Sam always thought of it. The cells lysed rapidly, resulting in catastrophic organ failure.

  No one had cared. Cellular printers were available in every hospital to grow new organs if a replacement was ever needed. It was expensive, but quick and virtually risk free. Until the Yellow Plague swept across the globe, cloning was simply a curiosity and a McGuffin in a legion of spy thrillers. Then, almost overnight, cloning went from underfunded oddity to a mainstream necessity.

  Because the plague shut down the hospitals.

  They’d started as quarantines for the fast-­killing virus, and by the time the research team at the Centers for Disease Control discovered that the virus had a twenty-­seven-­day incubation period, it was too late. The hospitals were sealed with their dead, mausoleums with the names of plague victims etched in stone memorials outside.

  As humanity rebuilt, the survivors realized they no longer had an easy way to replace organs, and the fear of a second plague outbreak kept ­people away from new hospitals. The superstition that the organ printers had caused the plague hadn’t helped. Cloning took off, a safe, private way to ensure that any damage done to your body could be repaired. In 2048, the Clone Stabilization Gene, CSG, gave clones life expectancies that matched those of their human counterparts. When the Caye Law preventing the breeding of new clones and the indentured ser­vice of unwanted ones went into effect in January 2070, though, cloning would end. A strange footnote to the history of the reconstruction of society.

  Sam could only hope the old Central American Territories’ tracking program had a list of missing women born in that narrow window of time between when the first stable clones were created and when the CSG markers became a legal requirement.

  The CAT list was a nightmare of overlapping files, missing data, and six languages. The updated, translated files headquarters had promised in January had yet to appear.

  Pulling up the file, she saw a date stamp with an update made two minutes before. At least MacKenzie was sharing his test results. The autopsy notes were there along with a copy of the fingerprints and the eerie computer simulation of Jane’s face. Sam dumped all the new data and set search parameters for women living in a three-­hundred-­mile radius born between 2040 and 2048. Hopefully, Jane was a girl who had stayed close to home.

  Her phone buzzed. “Agent Rose, how can I help you, sir or ma’am?”

  “Agent Rose? You must come at once. At once! I am in terrible danger. Things are quite violent. Quite violent.”

  Her heart rate picked up as adrenaline surged. “Please stay calm, sir. First, may I ask who I am speaking to, and where you would like me to go?” she asked in a carefully practiced, neutral tone.

  “Don’t you know me?” the man demanded.

  “Not by voice alone, sir, no.” The number didn’t match any of the bureau phones from nearby districts, and it didn’t sound like any from Altin’s department.

  “This is Dr.
Emir. I’ve spoken to you about my work.”

  She relaxed a bit. She had a hard time thinking Santa from the lab was in that much trouble. “Yes, I remember you now. Is this about Detective Altin’s case, Doctor?”

  “No. Yes. Possibly. My work is . . .” Emir trailed off. “I am in danger. My work is threatened.”

  She perked up again. “Can you describe the threat, Doctor?”

  “The history of the world is in danger.”

  She relaxed . . . again. Repressing a sigh, she asked, “Could you possibly be a little more specific?”

  “Someone is attempting to steal my research.”

  “Yes, we discussed that on Monday. Have you found any evidence that your computer was tampered with? Mr. Troom was doing a keystroke check on the computer when I left.”

  “Henry found nothing.”

  “I see. So this isn’t about your research, it’s about the vandalism?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And, you’re aware Detective Altin is handling your case? It’s out of my jurisdiction unless we find evidence there was a violent crime committed or national security is at risk.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you call Detective Altin?” She drew a few stars on her notepad.

  “I did.”

  A few more stars appeared while she counted to ten. “Did Detective Altin say anything about the threat?”

  “He said he would look into the matter.”

  “I see. Has he?”

  “No!” Dr. Emir said triumphantly. “I have waited patiently, yet nothing has been done.”

  She glanced at the time on the large city clock. “Tell you what, Doctor—­Detective Altin should be back from lunch by now. Why don’t I call the precinct and have a chat with him?”

  “You must tell him how important this is. Impress upon him the vital nature of my work.”

  “I will talk to him about it,” Sam promised as she hung up. With a sigh—­this time very audible—­she dialed Altin’s number. This would make his day.

  “Agent Rose? Is this urgent?” Altin made it sound like anything less than a definitive yes wouldn’t be worth the interruption.

  “Dr. Emir just called.”

  “He called me twenty minutes ago,” Altin said, sounding annoyed.

  “He’s the type who wants things done yesterday.”

  Altin mumbled something under his breath.

  “Is there anything I need to know right now?” Sam asked.

  Altin sucked air in with a hiss. “Yeah. I was going to call you in an hour or so. We can’t find Mordicai Robbins.”

  “He’s the security guard who left early, isn’t he?” Sam pulled out the case notes to confirm.

  “That’s him.” Altin paused, then added, “A fisherman reported a sunken truck in the water this morning up past the dam.”

  “Mr. Robbins was in it?” Sam guessed.

  “Not that we can see yet, but it’s the same make and model as his truck. I was waiting for them to finish hauling it up so we could check the plate numbers. If Mr. Robbins is in there, I’ll let you know, but I have a nasty hunch we’re going to have a truck sans driver.”

  “What about the girl, Melody Chimes? Have you found her yet?”

  Altin chuckled. “That one, Lord above, no. Her primary address is the campus dorm, but they’re on summer break, and she’s not enrolled for class. None of the ­people in the dorm admit to being her roommate.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Accomplices maybe?”

  “That would be the place to get them, and one of them has a rap sheet—­underage alcohol consumption, speeding tickets, busted with a fake ID—­nothing major but enough that we’d pull her in for a second questioning if we found a connection.”

  “A cheesy fake driver’s license to vandalism of government property is a big jump. Unless she’s with part of a radical antigovernment organization, I doubt she’s involved.”

  “It’s tenuous. I’ll have someone look into it more, but I’m not sure that’s the angle.”

  Sam bit her lip, thinking. “Have you tried catching Melody at work?”

  “Miss Chimes put in for a week’s worth of leave two days before the break-­in. She won’t be back until Monday.”

  “Next of kin?”

  “Way ahead of you there,” Altin said. “Miss Chimes didn’t list anyone on her work record or insurance. I had my lieutenant do some digging, and we found a number for her last known address before she left for college. The property is owned by her parents, but the phone number goes straight to an answering ser­vice, and no one is calling us back.”

  “Where do you see this going?”

  “It’s anyone’s guess right now. I half expect to see her body in the truck, but it doesn’t fit. Robbins and Chimes worked together, but they only worked the same shift a few times in the past three months. The ages and backgrounds don’t make them a natural partnership. I just—­”

  There was an incoherent shout from Altin’s end of the line.

  “Rose? I’ll call you back. We have the truck out. The crew’s hosing it down now. Give me an hour to get a body count and figure out who’s still missing.” He hung up abruptly.

  Grumbling under her breath, Sam called Dr. Emir back. The phone rang twice before switching over to voice mail. She left a succinct message telling the doctor that everything was being done and that he could request extra police drive-­bys if he felt they were warranted. Then, in preparation for Altin’s return call, she pulled the files on Mordicai Robbins and Melody Chimes. The missing person report was easy enough although she left a few slots blank until Altin could fill in the details. Then she pulled out the report on Jane Doe.

  Minutes ticked by as she stared at the forms. For a fragile moment, everything hung in the balance—­justice, her career, truth—­Jane deserved more than to be buried in a pauper’s grave under political red tape.

  In class exercises, there was always a right answer. There was always something. You didn’t find bodies with no ID and no evidence. Jane Doe was a statistical anomaly turning into a major roadblock. She felt bitter defeat rising in her. Shaking it off, Sam started to fill in the forms to close the case. On the question about type of death, she hesitated.

  Homicide was the correct answer, but a homicide case couldn’t close until the killer was prosecuted and found guilty. Her pen hovered over the right answer. Just underneath, taunting her, was Class Five Suicide—­a suicide with questions. Something she could close now and reopen whenever she wanted. Feeling guilty, Sam put the paper at the back of the pile. The cause-­of-­death pages were enough to keep her busy while Atlanta finished the blood tests.

  She was finishing the report when Altin called her back.

  “The truck belongs to Mordicai Robbins,” he reported, “but there’s no body. Somebody dropped a block of concrete on the accelerator to make the car run. I want a missing person investigation opened by the bureau. That truck’s a classic, beautiful detailing work. It’s not the kind of thing a man abandons of his own free will.”

  “Not what I wanted to hear,” Sam said, “but I have the paperwork filled in. I’ll send a copy to your office so you can fill in the details on the truck. I’ll run a public database search for his bank activities and online activity, see if I can build a timeline of what happened when he left the lab.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What about Melody Chimes?” Her hand hovered over the button to submit the report she’d already prepared.

  Altin muttered a curse. “Hold off. Technically, she’s not missing. I want to talk to her, but it can wait until she comes to work on Monday. Unless Mordicai shows up dead, I’d rather let her have her vacation in peace, ya know?”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “No.” Altin cursed again. “But I’m having trouble pinning th
is on her. She had a good reputation with the company, good grades at school, no criminal record. At the most, I think she skived off work to go on vacation early. Maybe she meant to call the replacement guard and forgot. Maybe she dialed the wrong number. I just can’t see her being our girl.”

  “But you think she’s safe?” Sam asked.

  “We have some broken glass but no blood. If I weren’t looking at Robbins’s truck, I’d say this was nothing. ”

  “Robbins’s case could be unrelated. Coincidence does happen.”

  “But with crime, it rarely does.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Sam said, frustrated. “Call me when you have an update on Miss Chimes, please. I’ll let you know if we turn up anything on Robbins.”

  On her way out the door, Sam dropped the report about the lab break-­in and Mordicai Robbins on Marrins’s desk. Like a cherry on a sundae, she left her promotion packet right on top.

  CHAPTER 4

  MWI presupposes that all things that could happen will happen. Childish thinking. Rough nonsense. Consider the quantum particle, it can be in two places at once, yes? Yes. But not three. There is a finite number of possibilities reachable from any STTL incursion into space-­time.

  ~ Student notes from the class Physics and Space-­Time I1–2071

  Thursday May 23, 2069

  Alabama District 3

  Commonwealth of North America

  Sam read the report Altin had handed over to the bureau along with a waterlogged truck that was sitting in the city impound. Mr. Robbins had an old man’s fear of government. In the year prior to the States’ joining the Commonwealth, he’d pulled all his money out of the banks, moved to an off-­grid solar system for power, and put in a well. Even his salary from Wannervan was paid in cash. Which made tracking him nearly impossible.

  Down the hall, she could hear Marrins talking on the phone. Time to sneak out. She locked her desk and hurried toward the stairs. It didn’t help. Marrins was lurking outside his door with his arms folded.

  “You think you can quit working just because you requested the transfer?”