Gray Matter

by Shirley Kennett

  “OK, Doc, we’ll roll with it. I’ll have a tech come over and get a sample, if I can roust someone at this time of the night. Or do you think we need a vet? But you know it wouldn’t hold up in court anyway because there’s been a lousy chain of custody. That sample should have been taken before the cat left the apartment.”

  “I didn’t know about it until now. And no, I don’t think a vet is needed.”

  “Also, that cleaver with the smudge on it turned out to be a dead end. It was blood, all right, but it was chicken’s blood. Nice try, though.”

  As they waited for the technician to show up, Thomas drifted off and flicked on the TV. After a few minutes of channel surfing, he settled down with a science fiction movie, definitely grade B judging by the glimpses PJ got. PJ checked the telephone to make sure it had modular connections, then brought out her PowerBook, a laptop computer. She connected the internal modem to the phone line and dialed into an intentionally obscure bulletin board for hard-core VR—Virtual Reality—enthusiasts.

  She skipped lightly over unsecured online conversations just like Thomas surfed cable stations, relaxing as she settled into an old routine. Nothing that she saw bore the ID she was looking for, but she was certain that he would be monitoring, if not actively participating, at this time of night. Finally, she selected a heated discussion on the merits of molecular wire technology, and joined the round-robin commentary. After a few appropriate responses, she entered a phrase with agreed-upon code words.

  Planetary alignment Mercury/Jupiter. RSVP secure PVT1.

  Other participants, realizing she was requesting a secured conversation, deftly wove her out of the exchange, but not without flaming her for using them as a vehicle. She chuckled as her screen lit up with an animated hand giving her the finger. Then she switched to the path which had been designated PVT1, entered her password, and waited. After about five minutes, words appeared on her screen.

  Merlin here. What’s the buzz. Keypunch?

  It was the same greeting she had been getting for the past twenty years, and it fit like a comfortable old bathrobe. She had met Merlin during her college years, at a time when online communication was an arcane field, a computer backwater treaded by teenies with no dates on Saturday night. She suspected then (and still did) that Merlin was one of the professors from her computer science courses. They had fit together like two halves of a friendship necklace, the kind preteen girls wore with the heart broken in two with a jagged edge. Merlin had been a mentor, and more, a good friend, for half of PJ’s life. Their relationship was conducted entirely by computer communication, an easier task now in the days of bulletin boards and public online services.

  When PJ first studied computer science, programs were entered into mainframe or minicomputers using punched cards. Students wrote their programs on green and white coding sheets, then keypunched them on noisy machines with unwieldy keyboards that punched combinations of holes into sturdy cards. The cards were fed into a special reader and digested by the computer. Students carried around large boxes of the cards, eyeing each other’s productivity and ogling at the complexity of another’s program based on the size of the card deck. PJ’s flying fingers, trained on her father’s manual typewriter, were the envy of her fellows, and she acquired the nickname of Keypunch Kid. She was so accurate that she never bothered to verify her work. Verification was done by typing the contents of each card twice. The keypuncher was rewarded with a satisfying “kerCHUNCK” sound as the machine matched the two versions, pronounced them exactly the same, and punched a small extra rectangle in the upper right corner of the card. Her card decks didn’t bear the telltale verification notch, but they worked anyway. Then microcomputers came along with their onscreen programming and editing, and keypunch machines faded away, a chapter of computer history which rarely evoked fond memories.

  But the nickname stuck.

  For a moment PJ closed her eyes and let comfort seep in. She used mental imaging, a quick method of relaxation that Merlin had suggested years ago: picture your forehead smooth and wrinkle-free, and tension melts away.

  With her forehead wrinkle-free for the first time since she woke up this morning, she began to type.

  Nice to hear from you. Don’t you have anything better to do than check keywords waiting for me to show up?

  Merlin’s response was immediate, and the conversation was off and running.

  You know that’s background monitoring. I wasn’t holding my breath. But I did think you’d be on tonight. Isn’t this your first week of work on your new job?

  My new job wasn’t supposed to start until next week, but you’re right. Today was the first day, and I feel like I’ve been hit with a wrecker ball

  All of PJ’s frustrations came rushing back, and she tried to fend them off.

  There, there. Tell Merlin all about it.

  Don’t patronize me, you old fart. I’ve had enough games for one day.

  Sorry. You can cry on my cyber-shoulder if you want to.

  Everything I try to do seems so hard, it’s like walking in molasses just to get dressed and face the day. I miss Steven, and then the next minute I hate the bastard. He’s really screwed up my life, but it’s still my life, and I have to make the best of it. And then there’s Thomas. He can be such a little prick sometimes, and he knows just how to get under my skin. My job pays a lot less and Steven’s salary is gone, my boss is a rubber-stamp for the captain, and my group that I’m supposed to be forming only has one guy in it and he’s a male chauvinist pig. Tomorrow the pig gets a couple of people assigned to help him out with the field work, trainees or something, he calls them lowlifes. What help do I get? Nada.

  Is that all?

  No. I was supposed to have a few months to get the project going. Instead I’ve gotten assigned a horrible murder case on my first day. I had to go to the victim’s apartment and I almost lost my breakfast in front of the pig.

  PJ’s screen went blank. A moment later, a large violin filled the screen. The bow scraped across the strings and sad squeaky music emanated from the PowerBooks speakers. PJ chuckled. Merlin rarely let her get away with self-pity, and it seemed that this was not one of the times.

  Whoa, there, Keypunch. Sounds like you need some fatherly advice from old Merlin. Not that you’ll listen.

  1. Of course being a divorced mom is difficult. But remember this: it’s a very rare divorce where there isn’t blame on both sides. And yours was as common as a dandelion.

  2. Thomas has a lot of the same pressures that you do, translated into a twelve-year-old’s world. Plus the simple curse of being twelve years old. Why don’t you try being the adult in the relationship and let him be the child?

  3. Money is the curse of the proletariat. Or was it the salvation?

  4. Ditto for bosses.

  5. Male chauvinist pigs make good bacon and you’re an old pro with the butcher’s ax. If all else fails, put a curse on ’im.

  6. You have my sympathy on the last point. I never could stand the smell of blood.

  7. The word for the day is “curse.”

  By the time PJ finished reading the list, she was laughing out loud. Thomas looked up from his movie, but she shook her head in his direction and he resubmerged. A conversation with Merlin always went like this, with his wonderful combination of sympathy, humor, and a bucket of cold water in the face, in just the right proportions. He loved making numbered lists, and she hardly ever got out of a conversation without one.

  Thanks. I feel better already. I think.

  Always glad to beat someone about the head and shoulders. Now then, down to business. How’s business?

  I suppose you mean my actual work. That could be the bright spot in this whole mess. I really feel like I could make a contribution. You know, do something in the public interest.

  Well, la-de-da!

  Don’t be such a cynic. If I can do my part to make the world a little safer, that’s something. Maybe a lot better something than working with consumer stud
ies.

  I always knew you were a knightess in shining armor.

  You’re just jealous. You’ve never done a worthwhile thing in your life.

  Yes I have. I met you.

  That made PJ pause. Merlin rarely expressed himself so openly.

  You’re sweet to say so. But I have another motive for talking with you tonight besides airing my gripes.

  The truth comes out at last. You only want my body, not my mind.

  Quiet, you exasperating phantom of cyberspace! Besides, you should be so lucky. What I really want is a connection. I want to know who in this town is working with VR and would maybe, if I beg really hard, lend me an HMD.

  I take it your new employer doesn’t provide niceties like Head-Mounted Displays.

  Let’s just say I went out today and bought my own surge protector and box of diskettes. I doubt that money for an HMD is suddenly going to appear in my budget.

  I think you’ve assessed the situation accurately. Let’s see, I think there’s a group at Wash U. I’ll poke around and let you know.

  That was just what PJ wanted to hear. Washington University would be a great place to make contacts in her new community. Merlin seemed to know someone, or someone who knew someone, just about everyplace. She wondered how many others like herself were strung out across the world, orbiting Merlin like the numerous satellites of Jupiter. Merlin always seemed available to her. It had never occurred to her before that he might be carrying on conversations with others, that someone from Tallahassee or Spokane might be sharing a triumph or commiserating about a failure tonight.

  For the first time, it occurred to PJ that Merlin might be a computer program, not a real person.

  As soon as the idea blossomed in her head, she rejected it. Merlin was far too sophisticated, warm, and just plain human to be a collection of coded routines.

  Thanks, Merlin. Goodnight.

  Anything for you. Keypunch. Sleep well.

  As PJ was signing off from the session, there was a knock at the door. She folded the PowerBook shut and glanced at the bathroom door. The door was ajar; one of them had accidentally left it open. She let the technician in, and then knelt down to fetch the cat out from under her bed.

  CHAPTER 7

  IN THE MORNING, PJ registered Thomas for school, using the address of the rental house to establish residency in the St. Louis City school district. Both of them had been up late the night before. The evidence technician hadn’t arrived until nearly midnight to take a sample of the blood from under the cat’s claws, and then there was the ordeal of bathing the smelly creature. Thomas went through the whole morning routine without saying a word. She knew why. He was not eager to go to school when summer vacation started in a little over two weeks. He did not want to be thrust into a situation where everyone else had established friends and routines and he was an outsider, only to break up for summer a short time later.

  She knew that Thomas thought she had absolutely no understanding of the difficulty he faced. That wasn’t true, but of course there was no use telling a twelve-year-old that she had once been that age, and that her self-esteem had risen and fallen according to the whims of her peers, that she had endured her share of tearful rushes to her room, slammed doors, and crushed feelings, and thoughts that she was the only one in the world who ever got a zit.

  She was hoping that he would be able to break into the social structure and form at least one friendship that would have a chance to develop over the summer. Then when school started in the fall, he would have a connection—he wouldn’t be the odd guy out. So, wondering if she was doing the right thing, she left a message for Schultz that she would be in a little late, and then dragged Thomas to registration. Much to his dismay, the school secretary offered to have him start that very day. As he was led away, he shot her a black look that could have withered a sturdy oak. As her former confident married self, it wouldn’t have bothered her. As a newly-divorced single parent, she found herself questioning all of her parenting decisions.

  When she finally got to work, lugging in a large box, it felt as though it should be quitting time. She dropped the box off in her office and went looking for Schultz. Unable to find him, she touched base with her boss Howard Wall, and immediately regretted it. She had a brief but intense conversation in his office. He was under pressure to show something, anything, from the CHIP project, and he was perfectly willing to pass along the pressure. He was like a hydraulic pipeline that narrowed and propelled its noncompressible contents faster and faster. Those further down the pipeline got blasted. Well, there was someone down the pipeline from PJ, and he wasn’t there to defend himself. On the way back to her office, she left a cryptic note on Schultz’s desk: See me ASAP.

  She surveyed her office with a critical eye. The box, which was the same one she had used to take the cat home from Burton’s apartment, was full of her personal office items. Her first tasks were to straighten the place up and install the fan and halogen desk lamp she had brought with her. Flipping the chair over, she adjusted the seat down to a more comfortable height. Then she turned off the humming fluorescent overhead fight and closed the door, blocking out most of the traffic and bathroom noise. Immediately the room felt better. The fan was a cheerful white with blue plastic blades, very quiet while running, and powerful enough to keep the air in the tiny office in constant motion. She tilted it up toward the ceiling so that it wouldn’t disturb papers on her desk. Not that there were any papers currently on her desk, but she felt that situation would change rapidly. The lamp cast a wide circle of bright light over the desktop, and she angled it away from the monitor so there wouldn’t be any glare. For a moment she simply basked in the breeze, her feet resting comfortably on the floor, and studied the shadows around the edge of the room. Then she emptied the rest of the box, setting out a picture of Thomas, a Mickey Mouse clock, and a pencil cup containing her prized Space Pen she had bought at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Tomorrow, if she had time, she would bring in some prints for the walls. PJ had a collection of wildlife prints, mostly big cats. Most of them would overwhelm this office, but she could think of two or three that might work. Then maybe she could paint the walls some weekend, surely they wouldn’t mind.

  Suddenly the door flew open hard enough to smash the doorknob into the wall. Schultz filled the doorway. There was a momentary look of confusion on his face, quickly replaced by a sheepish grin.

  “Didn’t your mama ever teach you to knock?” PJ said.

  “Sorry. Nobody ever closed this door before. I didn’t think you were inside. It gets God awful hot with the door closed.” Realizing he was rambling, Schultz closed his mouth. Then he took in the improvements. “Say, this place looks better already. I could get jealous.”

  Schultz didn’t look like a man who had gotten an intimidating note from the boss. In fact, PJ thought he looked downright buoyant, like a hangman with a new rope. She decided to act neutral. “Sit down, Leo. What can I do for you?”

  Schultz gave her an exaggerated leer. “Any number of things, Doc.”

  “Really, Detective, you are in a strange and ornery mood today.”

  “Strange and horny might be more like it, Doc, but the more you’re around me, you’ll find that’s not unusual.”

  She gestured at a chair and he lowered himself into it. She noticed that he seemed to flex his knees with care as he sat down.

  “I guess you’re wondering about my note,” she said, channeling the conversation back to the subject she had in mind. She was trying to figure out how to tell Schultz that she wanted him to do a lot of what she considered gruntwork while she sat in her office preparing a demo for Wall.

  “Note? Did you leave something at my desk? I came here straight from the crapper. Washed my hands, first, though. You should feel honored. I don’t always do that, especially if I’m heading for the lieutenant’s office.”

  PJ let her annoyance show. Somehow her conversations with Schultz never went as planned. “Anything new on
the case?” she asked.

  “Turns out that stuff under the cat’s claws was the bonafide shit. You mind that kind of language, you let me know, OK? I can be real genteel when I need to, just got to work at it, that’s all. Anyway, it was human blood, and it didn’t belong to Burton. The creep didn’t leave any fingerprints, but he left something even better. Considerate bastard, just handed me the knife to cut his balls off with.”

  “I assume you’re referring to DNA matching. Aren’t you forgetting a few things?”

  “Such as?”

  “You have to have a suspect before you can match the DNA to the sample from the cat’s claws. The last I heard, a comprehensive DNA database like the FBI’s fingerprint file didn’t exist yet, so there’s nothing to search through. Secondly, I thought you were the one who was skeptical about whether the blood belongs to the murderer. Even if it turns out to be from the murderer, how could you ever prove that the cat scratched the suspect during the murder and not out on the street someplace?”

  Schultz waved his hand dismissively.

  “You have a suspect?” PJ said.

  “Nope.”

  “Then why are you so cheerful this morning?”

  “Gut instinct, Doc. Instinct says we’re going to get this guy, and now we’ve got something to nail his ass with when we catch up to him.”

  PJ sighed. Schultz was assuming that the cat scratched the killer while he was in Burton’s apartment. Personally she thought that was highly probable, just about a certainty, but there was room for doubt. Not only that, Schultz himself had pointed out that the chain of custody for the blood sample was compromised. The cat had been taken from the scene and the evidence that it was carrying under its claws had left police custody. Objectively, they both knew that made the blood sample legally worthless. But she understood Schultz’s desire to view it as solid evidence: it was a link to the killer, a blood trail, and Schultz was a bloodhound baying at the scent.

  It was time to let the bloodhound off the leash.