by Liana Brooks
“No, sir.”
Marrins held out a file folder. “We need background checks done on all the lab personnel. Two hundred and eleven people have access to the labs. Wannervan Security has thirty guards cleared for lab duty—they’re sending those files over tomorrow. Altin thinks someone with access to the lab headed the break-in. It’s probably a lot of fuss over some drunk college kids, but you’re the bureau go-to girl.”
“But . . .” Sam stared at him in disbelief. “I need to talk to people. Find the body, or the person, or—” She shook her head. “This is my big case. My chance to build a career. Can’t Altin have someone handle this? I told you Robbins was off the grid. Finding him is going to take me at least a week of knocking on doors unless I catch a lucky break, and I still need to finalize everything for Jane Doe.”
“Altin’s people don’t have the clearance levels to do background checks, you do. Guess what I think is more important at this point? Let the police do the legwork.”
“Altin’s legwork isn’t getting anywhere!” she protested. “He can’t even send people outside the city limits to Robbins’s address. At least let me go knock on the guy’s door.”
“The police found Robbins’s truck,” Marrins said. “That’s more than I expected them to do.”
Sam dropped the efile in her purse and followed Marrins to his office. “Sir, we both know the bureau badge is going to open more doors than anything the district PD can throw around. I want to be on the ground for this. ”
Marrins sat in his overpadded chair with an oomph. “Robbins has a standing prescription for antidepressants that hadn’t been filled in a week. Did you know that? No, because you were going down some schoolroom checklist instead of thinking for ten seconds straight. But I knew. Wannervan Security’s health insurance is only accepted one place in town. I called their pharmacist to see what medical support Robbins needs.”
“I didn’t know you had a warrant for that, sir.”
“Didn’t need it. That’s the advantage of living in one place for so long. People know you. They trust you. You want a promotion, that’s the sort of thing you need to do. Play nice with people. Follow orders. Get those background checks done.”
Her shoulders dropped.
Marrins’s swivel chair whined as he twisted comfortably. Booted feet clunked on his desktop. “Why are you still here?”
She shook herself awake with a sigh. “I’ll drop this in my office safe and make it a priority in the morning.”
“Good.” Marrins smiled, pushing layers of flub into a creeptastic leer.
“Did you approve my D.C. papers yet?” Sam asked. “I know the JD case isn’t much, but it meets quota for a junior district agent. I have everything I need to become a full agent and transfer to another district.”
“Everything but balls,” Marrins agreed. “I’ll make it a priority when the Jane case is officially closed. Even put in a good word for ya. You aren’t a brilliant agent—no spine or creativity—but you work well enough for a woman. What D.C. will do with you, I can’t guess, but they need secretaries more than I need deadweight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Get on home.” Marrins waved his hand. “It’s late.”
She dropped the files in her safe and walked out as Marrins answered another late-night call, door slamming shut behind him.
A feeling of deep contentment filled Sam as, sweaty from a run, she walked into the quiet Southern house. Hoss wagged his nubbin of a tail in unfeigned adoration as she found him a piece of bacon while she made dinner. Ever so slowly, she was chasing away the smell of dust and neglect with good meals cooked in the large kitchen.
Sam showered as blueberry muffins baked, then snagged one from the oven and danced through the empty living room and up the stairs to her refuge. Her new bedroom had received the bulk of her interest when she moved in two months ago, and now it was the perfect place to read or relax.
Knowing that she wouldn’t be here that much longer probably added to the allure.
An alarm buzzer sounded as she flopped on her bed. Sam dumped her purse on the white quilt, and three manila folders fell from her bag. The Jane Doe file was glowing red. A private addendum, added in chicken-scratch handwriting under the classified notes section: “Jane Doe is probably not a clone–L.M.”
Sam pulled out her phone and dialed MacKenzie’s work number, audio only. It rang for a long time, then there was a grunt that might have been a rudimentary attempt at communication. “Agent MacKenzie?” Another grunt. “This is Agent Rose. What do you mean Jane isn’t a clone?”
“Um, Verville?”
She quietly beat her head against her pillow. “Agent MacKenzie, full sentences, if you please.”
“The, ah, the blood work. Atlanta. No Verville traces.”
“None?” The Verville list was the holy book of cloning. Every company that legally produced and sold clones on the international market was required to keep their code sequence on the Verville list. “Is Atlanta double-checking its work?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“That does support Marrins’s black-market-clone hypothesis.” She chewed her lip in consideration. “Jane didn’t have a tattoo, did she? Some of the rape houses that use black-market clones brand their merchandise.” Clones were a luxury item, but there was always someone willing to rent
“Nothing. I . . . I don’t think we’re looking at a clone.”
A shiver ran up her back. “Murder victims with no identity . . . you just . . . no. That doesn’t happen in the real world. Everyone is on the grid, you can’t get off it, not legally. Next you’re going to suggest Jane was some anti-Commonwealth terrorist or something outrageous. There has to be an explanation as to who she is.”
There was a noncommittal grunt from the other end of the line. “The body . . .” MacKenzie choked on the other end of the line, then coughed.
“Are you okay?”
“Mmm. The body doesn’t make sense.”
For a brief moment, Sam pictured MacKenzie trying to talk to a corpse. The image was surprisingly easy to piece together–disturbing, but not far-fetched. “What doesn’t make sense?”
“The . . . the injuries don’t match the evidence.” He coughed again. “I w-want to see the kill field.”
“The dump site?” Sam frowned in confusion as she checked the time. “Fine. First thing tomorrow morning work for you? I’m supposed to have the report on Marrins’s desk by five tomorrow, and if you’re sure Jane isn’t a clone, that complicates matters. You are sure, aren’t you?”
“Pretty sure. I . . . I sent a second blood sample to Atlanta.”
“Good thinking. I’ll double-check the missing persons list. Are you sure about the age?”
“There was . . . was a lot of, um, bone trauma. She was very active. Maybe military or something like that. Maybe . . . maybe knock off a few years?”
“I’ll widen the search. It won’t be the first time someone misestimated a victim’s age. See you in the morning.” Her eyes lingered on the computer-generated image of Jane Doe, her face. My face.
Not that it didn’t happen. Weren’t people always saying how they ran into someone who looked just like them? Of course, if life were like her mother’s favorite telenova, Jane would turn out to be her long-lost twin sister, or her secret clone made by a stalker ex-boyfriend, and everything would be wrapped up neatly in under an hour when the detective found a fingerprint left behind by the killer.
If only it worked like that in real life.
She closed the files and set the alarm. Tomorrow, Jane had one more chance to tell her story.
CHAPTER 5
What is “I”? Who is “Me”? These are abstract concepts with no meaning beyond the limited definitions society grants them. The belief in “Self” ’ is as dangerous to the welfare of t
he Collective as the belief in gods.
~ Excerpt from The Oneness of Being by Oaza Moun I1–2072
Friday May 24, 2069
Alabama District 3
Commonwealth of North America
Sam pulled into the bureau parking lot and stopped in front of the morgue, where Agent MacKenzie sat on the curb. “Get in,” she said through the rolled-down window. “I want to get out of here before Marrins notices that I’m missing. I’m supposed to be doing background checks today.”
The perpetual eau de morgue that hung around MacKenzie like swamp gas climbed into the car with him.
“I was thinking about the Verville traces last night. Isn’t the absence of the Verville a good argument for a black-market clone?”
He rubbed a shaking hand through shaggy brown hair—probably dislodging a whole colony of lice—and sighed. “Jane is . . . was . . . in her thirties.”
The car switched on with a soft hum and swish of liquid cells coming to life. Cold air seeped between the seats as she pulled out of the parking lot. “You keep saying that like it means something.”
“Jane would have been about ten when the clone-marker law of 2048 was passed. When she was born . . .” MacKenzie stared off into space for a moment. He shook himself. “When Jane was born, the United States wasn’t . . . wasn’t even a signer of the United Charter. The United dollar wasn’t the basis for currency in the western hemisphere, and cloning was in its infancy. People weren’t cloning shadows for possible organ transplant in forty years, they were cloning . . . replacements.”
Sam turned off the main highway. “So, she was an expensive clone?”
“Replacements. Children lost t-to tragedy, kidnapping.” MacKenzie shrugged in a forlorn way. “People don’t . . . didn’t talk about them.”
“Kid goes missing, mom and dad go traveling, kid comes back,” Sam filled in. “I’ve heard about it, but she could still be a clone. The same laws apply. Even if she predates the clone marker, something will show up on the Verville traces. That was part of the law, too: every cloning technique tried, used, or hypothesized needed a test on file.”
MacKenzie shook his head. “Early clones were . . . th-they didn’t last long. Twenty years, twenty-five. The first clones are already . . . dead.”
“I checked that. There are clones that predate 2048.”
“Not black-market clones. They cut corners. Do things so the clones age faster. It . . . it makes finding the Verville traces hard.”
She glanced at him, trying to keep her anger in check. Nothing was ever easy. But they all had jobs to do, and his was to find those markers.
The car chimed, and a red phone light blinked. “Ambassador Pinuela-Rose,” the car announced as it slowed automatically to compensate for driver distraction. A little yellow light blinked on the outer rim of the side-door mirrors to indicate that the driver had taken a call and was distracted. It was one of those little safety features that Sam could have lived without if law allowed.
“Rose here,” Sam said in her best I’m-working-keep-it-quick voice.
“Samantha.” Her mother’s voice filled the car. “You haven’t called me in over a week.”
In the seat next to her, Agent MacKenzie turned to the window, doing his best impression of a rock. It was almost as convincing as his impression of a human.
“Work problems,” she said, keeping it vague. MacKenzie gave her a strange look; he probably thought he was her work problem. He’s not too far off the mark. Sam turned the phone volume down and the AC up, so it blasted his head. Subtle-hints-r-us.
“It’s Friday, I expect you’ll be at Mass tonight?”
“That’s my plan,” she lied, snapping a quick glare at MacKenzie to keep him quiet. “Mom, this isn’t a good time for me. Can we talk later?” She put as much emphasis on the word later as she could.
Her mother tutted. “I’m traveling this weekend. Embassy receptions and a new general to meet. I’ll call again on Monday to straighten your schedule out. There’s a D.C. visit coming up in my schedule if no one cancels again, and I want you to be there.”
“Washington, D.C., isn’t really driving distance from Alabama. The Commonwealth is a little bit bigger than Europe.”
“Samantha, darling, that wasn’t a request. I will send my itinerary to you on Monday when everything is finalized. Be good. Go to Mass and confession.”
“Yes, Mother. Good-bye, Mother.” Sam hung up and rolled her eyes. “Sorry.”
MacKenzie didn’t acknowledge her.
“All mothers are nags, right?” she tried again.
“Don’t know. I haven’t talked to mine in five years.”
Sam felt a twinge of guilt. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she was dead.”
“She’s not.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. She parked the car next to the open field. The sad, sun-bleached evidence flags waved in the faint breeze, marking where pieces of Jane had been found. “Here we are, Jane’s penultimate resting place.”
MacKenzie climbed out of the car and scanned the field with a frown. “Here?” He pointed at the open field in confusion.
“Yes, here.” Sam stepped into the field, ready to do the tour. They walked the perimeter. The ground was hard from weeks without rain and showed no evidence of recent activity. No tire tracks. No footprints. For all the world, it looked like Jane Doe had dropped from the open sky.
“This . . . this doesn’t fit,” MacKenzie said with a shake of his head.
While the ME stumbled around, Sam knelt to get a ground view of the scenery: bare field, pine trees, oak, and scrub on the hazy edges, wildflowers wilting and going to seed in the heat, a glint of metal on the ground. She reached under a spiky weed for the glint. Just in time, Sam remembered she was at a crime scene. “There’s something here. Go get my evidence kit from the backseat.”
MacKenzie fetched her bag from the car and handed it over. Using a green flag to mark the spot, Sam picked up a silver ring with her tweezers and dropped it into the evidence bag. It was delicate and pretty, something a woman would wear.
The silver ring shone in the sunlight. “Did Jane wear a ring?” Sam peered closer, she’d had a ring like it years ago. She’d lost it in one of the moves after college.
MacKenzie frowned at her. “Um . . . ?”
“Was there a tan line on her fingers? Is there any reason to think this is hers, or is this something we should be trying to pin on a suspect?”
He turned away, dodging the bag. “I-I have to check.” He looked around the field in confusion. “Jane was frozen after death. She . . . when she showed up at the lab, the decomposition was slowed, but still fairly advanced.” He frowned at the field as if personally offended by the Alabama sawgrass.
She tucked the evidence bag in her kit with her gloves and shrugged. “So they brought her to the dump site in a refrigerated truck?”
“Yeah . . . probably.” Now he was staring at the cloudless sky.
Sam craned her neck to look up. Maybe he was looking for aliens, you never knew with his type. “Missing something?”
“Trees. Jane’s face. Her head was crushed postmortem, like she’d run into a wall or been thrown into something. I’m still doing reconstruction.” He sighed. “Jane Doe was tortured, over days. Strangled by ropes, and hands. Killed, I don’t know how. Frozen. Crushed. Arm torn off.”
“She had to fall somewhere. Her face was crushed by an impact of some kind.” She studied the empty sky with renewed interest. “There are some trees near the stream over there where the truck driver found her arm and hand.” She pointed out the copse of pines to MacKenzie. “The rest of the body was in the middle of the field, but we didn’t find rope or anything.”
“Plane?” he guessed.
“That’s what I thought originally. The
only case I’ve seen with that kind of facial trauma was a parachute accident we looked at in the academy, but the nearest airport is over forty miles away. It’s a major metro airport, high-security, no baggage allowed. Strictly commuters to Atlanta and Birmingham.”
“Crop duster?”
“No crops in this area, this whole place is marked for natural renewal through 2107. No planting, farming, gardening, or harvesting of biological materials allowed.” Sam raised an eyebrow at his impressed expression. “What? I did do my homework after I read the full autopsy.”
“Sport diving?”
“Skydiving?” Sam shook her head. “I haven’t heard about anything like that out here, but I can check to see if there are any companies that use this area.”
They walked through the field twice more in search of more clues, but their hopes were in vain. Discouraged, they retreated from the baking heat to the cooler confines of the car.
“I see three possibilities,” Sam said as she turned the car on and started driving back to town. “The most likely is that Jane Doe was killed by someone she knew, they dumped her, and they are the only ones who would have reported her so, no missing person file. Domestic dispute is the top of my list. There may have been elements of bondage play.”
MacKenzie stared out the window. “No.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“No evidence of rape.”
“Maybe her husband was a psycho killer. It’s happened before. The second variation there, which you keep trying to rule out, is that Jane is a clone. Her owner didn’t want her, and she was dumped. Or maybe we’re looking at a case of heavy self-aggression: if you can’t commit suicide, you can kill your clone. The ultimate-sacrifice style of thing.”
“Killing a clone is not the ultimate sacrifice,” MacKenzie cut in vehemently.
Sam looked over at him. His face was white, and his jaw clenched. Message received: no-fly zone. “Right. Sorry. Moving on.” She waited to see if he would relax. Mackenzie did, a tiny bit, and she nodded. “Scenario three, Jane isn’t listed as a missing person because no one knows she’s missing yet but her killer. Maybe she was the artistic type who liked to hike through the hinterlands, and her family wasn’t expecting her back for a few weeks.”