by Gary Starta
Detective Martin Simms was just about to call off this wild goose chase when Maxwell fortuitously chose to re-visit one of his popular weekend hangouts. The dog emerged from the thick vegetation to bask in the sunlight on a ridge crest on one warm April afternoon. That’s when the air crew spotted him. The chopper erected a holographic net over the region to contain the handsome retriever. The net was specially designed not to injure the animals it had captured. Simms had made sure of this to the surprise of his colleagues who had never known him to be anything less than gruff.
Maxwell met the officers with a wagging tail. But the detectives were expecting to find more than a pleasant greeting. They wanted the piece of evidence CSI’s Morton and Benson had requested. Simms surmised that since the dog was a retriever he may have buried whatever he was carrying somewhere along his travels. The detectives all sighed in unison when they realized they would have to further employ their digital tracking device to find the dog’s buried treasure.
Doc Thompson was more than eager to deliver his findings to Morton and Benson who finally found some time to revisit the crime lab. The pair of CSI’s looked none the worse for wear after their apprehension of Jeff Turner. The chase had apparently renewed the vitality of the forensic investigators who seldom tracked anything more animated than hair fibers or blood droplets.
On the way to the lab, Benson lost some of his emotional high from the capture when he recalled how Sandra let herself become an easy target for Turner at the airport. “Why didn’t you draw your weapon upon him?” Sam chided his partner. Morton contended that Samuel should stop acting like her younger brother. “Turner obviously had no weapon on him because he would not have been able to board the plane,” Sandra explained. “I was confident enough to utilize my kick boxing training to defend myself. Bottom line—we ended up making the arrest in time to stop our perp from leaving the sector. Furthermore, I didn’t want to incite the crowd by drawing a gun. And finally, I had to prove to myself that I wasn’t getting too old to do this job anymore. Is that line of reasoning good enough for you?”
“Okay…okay, Sandra,” Benson smiled. He then realized how he must have sounded to Morton. When Samuel was growing up he had been overprotective of his younger sister because his parents were frequently away on business trips. He often came down hard on her when she stayed out late as a result. When Samuel graduated he vowed he would leave the hustle and bustle of that type of business-oriented life to work in a profession that was more beneficial to society. Samuel was turned off by the fact that his parents were so more money oriented. The New York native also found he had been taking some of his cases too personally because the crimes had been committed in his childhood neighborhoods. So Benson opted to leave NYC for Virginia when a re-assignment opportunity arose in the Richmond crime lab. The adjustment to Virginia’s laid back way of life took some effort, but Benson had no regrets. He was satisfied with his line of work and he admired his partner and mentor, Sandra Morton.
Samuel also derived great pleasure in arresting Jeff Turner because he knew his suspect had committed the murders solely for money. When news of this arrest became public, Benson believed he would gain more notoriety from this high profile case than if he had stayed working in the big apple.
But for right now, Samuel had to put his nose to the grindstone. The following developments in the case would prove the CSI’s could not rest on their laurels.
The first dose of distressing news came from Doc Thompson. The medical examiner reported that the skin cells and hair follicles retrieved off of Paterson’s and Schmitt’s bodies could provide no conclusive DNA matches. “In essence, the cells and hair contain no evidence that they belong to a human being. They’re blank. I don’t know how this can be as they appear to be totally organic. Needless to say, I will be writing an essay for the forensic journal on this one.”
Benson knew this would further prove his theory that Paterson and Schmitt did not murder each other. However, it also opened up a whole new batch of unanswered questions for Benson. “Who possessed the ingenuity to plant this strange substance at the crime scene. It sure couldn’t have been Turner—he’s such a careless idiot…”
Before Benson could vocalize these concerns to Morton, the lead CSI was already proposing they return to the Paterson apartment complex to look for more evidence.
Thompson was forced to interrupt both of the CSI’s who seemed lost in thought. “Guys, I’ve got more news if you’re ready. I found a number of golden-colored dog hairs on the back of Schmitt’s clothing. Why he would not have these hairs on the front of his clothing is a mystery to me. Did he stop to lie down somewhere before killing Paterson? If he did, it wasn’t at Paterson’s because investigating officers have confirmed the man did not own a dog.”
Benson allowed himself to jump to a quick conclusion. “I bet those hairs were from the dog in the picture at Schmitt’s apartment. The self cleaning rug had eliminated all traces of pet hair from the rug by the time we processed it. I think the dog went missing when these murders went down.”
“Let’s give our chief medical examiner the floor. We can theorize all we want later,” Sandra said to Samuel.
Thompson then went on to explain that there was also a huge gap in the time of deaths. “Schmitt was in a more advanced state of rigor than Paterson. Even if Schmitt had died upon the initial impact of the hammer blow, I don’t believe Paterson would have survived another six hours from the extent of his wounds. Paterson bled out from his puncture wounds and his time of death should have been no more than two hours after Schmitt took his final breath.”
The two CSI’s then looked at each in disbelief. They silently acknowledged that they had not been involved in such a strange case in years. But there was no time to speculate further as an incoming data net transmission signaled their boss Andrea Aikens urgently needed to talk to them.
The pair managed to extend a quick “thank you” to Thompson before charging off in the direction of their supervisor’s office.
When they arrived at their destination, Morton and Benson didn’t have to say a word. The glum look on Aikens face told the story.
“Don’t tell me we have a problem holding Turner?” Sandra asked anxiously.
“We have a statement from Turner’s lawyer that we have no sufficient evidence to hold him further. If you based your arrest on suspicion then we’ll be forced to let him go,” Aikens stated.
“We have—I mean—we’ll have evidence,” Benson retorted.
“I know we have similar shoe prints at both Schmitt’s and Paterson’s apartments,” Samuel continued.
“Okay, so you can place at him at the scene…maybe…” Andrea replied.
“He did this sure as the sun is going to rise tomorrow, boss,” Samuel argued. “I’ll work another double shift to substantiate our evidence.”
“Speaking about overtime, Detective Simms is giving us enough grief about chasing that dog of yours around,” Aikens said to Samuel. “He’s pressing me as to why you need whatever this dog confiscated from the Volpicelli crash scene. He also says the district attorney wants to know why we’re not going along with the media’s assumptions. He wants to know why we can’t prove the two space techs killed each other when their bodies and weapons were laid out so neatly for us.”
“Andrea, you know solving cases correctly has nothing to with convenience or neatness,” Morton stated dryly. “Now I did understand you to say that you’d keep Simms off of our backs. So now we’re asking you to do whatever song and dance is needed to give us another six to eight hours of leeway. I promise we’ll have a solid case against Turner in that time as well as a good lead on whomever his accomplice was. If we let Turner out of sight, him and his bright yellow Bermuda shorts will be sprawled out on some island beach before you can say murder one.”
“Very well, then,” Andrea replied. “Go back to the crime scene ASAP. The clock is ticking.”
Chapter 10: Conservatively Speaking
“H
ope springs eternal…” the message from Earth began. Those were the first words the civilian crew heard from the World Aeronautics Association which had sent a greeting congratulating them on their near completed voyage to Ceres. Terran’s Ark was just weeks away from touching down upon the new planet. “A planet which would eventually become the benchmark for settling new worlds in the Andromeda galaxy,” the message stated.
The crew found it quite odd that the pre-recorded message sounded so reserved for such a momentous occasion. “Is that the best they can do?” Marisa complained. “Our ship’s AI speaks with more enthusiasm then this unidentified space association official.”
Mario also agreed with his wife’s critique. “I’ve experienced more emotional readings of my birthday cards when I was just a boy.”
“You would have to bring that up,” Marisa said to Mario. So you didn’t experience such a perfect childhood after all?” Marisa teased her husband.
As the crew continued to engage in friendly banter, Linda Dougherty was uncharacteristically pensive. The counselor sensed the stoic tone of the message was intentional. “Is there more than meets the eye here?” she thought.
Dougherty also noticed the wording of the message was carefully planned as well. “This is nothing at all like Adrian McElroy’s message. The doctor’s message was heartfelt and sincere. This message feels like someone just sprayed an antiseptic on me. It’s a little bit too clean and neat…” Linda obviously could not share these observations with her shipmates. She then worried that she might end sounding like the recorded message depending upon how long she would have to keep McElroy’s secret.
Every being in the Milky Way knew who Dana Jackson was. Bombshell, siren, vixen…these were just some of the descriptive words the media frequently used to describe the overnight mega star on a daily basis. But in the Andromeda galaxy, Ms. Jackson was still a nobody. That’s because World Aeronautics Association officials made sure the crew of Terran’s Ark remained unaware of the space tech murders thanks to Renee Mercer.
“Remember, no news is good news,” Renee instructed the space agency’s publicist. “Even though these murders are not casting a negative shadow upon us, I don’t want the civilians to become unnecessarily worried. So just write a Hallmark greeting card type of message to them. “And by the way, let one of our robots read the message—this will keep with the futuristic colonization theme,” he joked wryly.
So that’s how Earth commemorated the historic colonization of the planet Ceres. It’s civilian space heroes ended up playing second fiddle to a money hungry sex kitten named Dana Jackson.
If Jackson could get her way—and right now she was—her party would never end. Dana felt like the world still owed her no matter how much cash it paid to fund her shopping sprees and marathon manicure sessions.
Internet, radio and television broadcasts could not give Dana enough air time. The public was fascinated with its newest icon who would do anything to get what she wanted. Many journalists felt Dana was a throwback to the 20th Century when women felt justified in taking the power they felt they had been denied for centuries. Women of this era were said to be unscrupulous when it came to attaining cash, fame or love. The earliest reality shows were said to be based upon this low grade behavior. Unbeknown to talented people, these shows managed to thrive well into the 21st Century. Now this trend was coming back as Dana was set to star in “Marry, Murder and Mayhem.” This reality show would marry Dana to a new celebrity or rich executive on a weekly basis. Since annulments could be obtained from any computer just like grocery store coupons, Dana could return each week as an eligible bachelorette. Needless to say, faith in the institution of marriage was at an all time low thanks to Jackson’s fame. Dana was especially elated that she no longer needed Phil Jackson’s money.“Any man’s money will do,” she joked.
Each episode of “Marry, Murder, Mayhem” pit a challenging contestant against whomever was her husband-of-the-week. The contestant who earned the most points in such barbarian games like feats of strength would win. If the husband won, he would retain the title of “husband of the most beautiful girl in the world.” He would also remain alive and well in the public’s eye. If the challenger won, he would get to play act out the murder of the husband. He could gain further riches by how creative he made his murder. Clearly, the show rewarded deviant behavior and most of all it’s star, Dana Jackson.
But not everybody loved Dana. There were veteran actresses in Hollywood who saw their ratings in popularity polls plummet because of the new starlet. These overpaid cry babies threatened to walk out of contracts if their public image was not remedied by their agents and movie producers.
One exasperated actress bemoaned how she could fall from 2nd place to 35th on the list of Hollywood’s most beautiful people. “This damn Jackson character wasn’t even on the list of beautiful people last year and now she’s number one,” an anonymous star wrote on an Internet message board.
Radio talk show callers participated in a survey which asked if beauty was the most important aspect in gaining success and popularity. An overwhelming majority of listeners agreed that beauty far exceeds talent, intelligence and personality in the poll. Some callers even argued that the next Ceres civilians be judged upon their looks alone. One famous comedian took the opportunity to agree with this consensus. “We do have to realize the colonists will be producing babies on the new planet so they should be attractive. I mean, who would want to migrate to a new world filled with ugly people?” the comedian remarked.
The one person who was indeed oblivious to much of these public rantings and ravings was Dana herself. Today she was busy at a metropolitan mall where she was signing perfume boxes of her new cologne. The product was aptly named, Man Killer.
Chapter 11: The Organics
It was the middle of the night when Mikola Petrovsky’s dream machine linked up its software to its next victim—Aaron Starkman…
Aaron woke with a start and found himself wrapped in a blanket hidden behind a rank smelling can of garbage.
“Where am I that they don’t have trash converters?” Starkman thought to himself. “But the bigger question, is how did I get here?”
Aaron brushed off some undesirable debris from his charcoal gray jumpsuit and proceeded to stand up when someone whispered, Stay down, for Christ sakes!”
“Who’s there?” Aaron questioned the unknown voice. He then shielded his eyes from a light emanating from a cardboard box.
“It’s someone who could fast become your enemy if you don’t shut your mouth,” the voice replied. “Patrols are out in full force tonight. So if you know what’s good for you, get back down behind that can.”
“How do I know you’re not my enemy? I don’t even know how I got here much less who you’re hiding from. Are you some kind of criminal?”
The voice then laughed in disbelief. “They must have programmed you to be a wise ass. That’s really good. I’ve got to learn how to laugh more anyway because if I don’t it’ll make me easier for the Organics to spot me. So you just keep up your comedy routine.”
“What damn comedy routine? I’m out here in the cold in a dark, smelly alley. This place somehow resembles my former neighborhood only it appears to have gone back in time a few centuries.”
“I don’t know what happened to your programming—I mean memory. I can’t have anybody hear me speaking that automaton talk or I’ll end up obliterated—or worse—a slave,” the voice said.
“Look, can we go into the building across the street for a few minutes? I could use some warmth and a damn good explanation about what’s going on here,” Aaron pleaded.
“It’s not a smart move. That’s why I prefer to stay out here so I don’t get cornered in a building like a rat. Ah, but what the hell, you say you don’t remember. Well you run for that door over there as fast as you can on my mark.” The stranger shut off his flashlight and motioned for Aaron to cross the road. The pair then ducked into what appeared to be an old aband
oned factory building.
“So you really don’t know how you got here, my friend?” the stranger pondered out loud. “I’ve got to be sure you’re not an Organic. Lift up your sleeve so I can see if you’ve got the green brand mark.”
“I’ll comply but I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Aaron stated while rolling up his sleeve.
“Good, you’re one of us—there’s no mark,” the stranger said letting out a sigh.
“I’m one of what?”
“The illegals, or more precisely—the Non-Organics.”
“I know the federation outlawed the manufacture of androids,” Aaron recalled. “But I can assure you I’m no automaton. I was a history professor. Now…well, I’m not quite sure what I do now. However, I do know whatever it is, it’s very important for humankind.”
“So you’ve experienced some kind of programming defect, or maybe one of the Organics hit you over the head trying to capture you. Whatever your story is, I’m not interested in hearing it. I just want to survive long enough and find a way to get off this planet.”
“You mean I’m back on Earth?” Aaron asked in bewilderment while placing his hand on his forehead. “Can you tell me what century this is?”
“Sure, I’ll humor you. It’s the 22nd. Some cybernetic doctor manufactured us under the pretense that we’d work only as slaves in manufacturing companies. Then when the good doctor made enough of us one of our comrades decided to band us together in protest. I’m not sure if that’s what the doctor intended all along. Anyway, after the riot ensued, laws were enforced banning our manufacture. In addition, any of us who escaped deactivation or slavery were to be hunted down like dogs by the regime. We were only supposed to alleviate the human proletariat class from their plight. Now, we’re not even good enough for that purpose. And if you ask how all this happened—well, all I can say is that our creator found a way to slip consciousness into our programming. It was inevitable that we would one day rise up to claim our rights because in the back of our minds we knew we had a choice. He designed us to possess free will along with other undesirable human flaws like a penchant for suffering from the cold air as you now damned well know.”