by Dan Knight
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A boat motored out of the Great River’s mouth. The fishermen lowered their net, and the boat drifted across the harbor. Jack watched its wake lap the piers.
“Since we have a moment, boss, I’d like you to meet one of the techs. He said something I’d like you to hear.”
“Sure, let’s hear what he has to say.”
His butler disappeared in the busy crime scene, and returned with a dwarf in the blue coveralls of Nodlon Yard. The tech carried his equipment and sample cases in neatly organized bags.
He put a boot on a black pier and leaned on his knee. He appraised the two dwarves. The technician carried a pathology scanner, sample cases, and a backpack. On his shoulder was the insignia of a senior technician.
“Boss, this is Martin Fields.”
Lines of stress creased Martin’s face and betrayed his maturity. Dwarves enjoyed an extended youth. It was a consolation prize of sorts for the curse of synthetic genes. Nonetheless, Martin’s wrinkles bore witness to the tell-tale signs of age.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Clay. My daughter and I saw your show a few years back. Good show, good times.” He fell silent and gazed out over the harbor. “She won’t take me with her any more. She thinks she’s an adult now.”
“Thank you Martin. My shows are for kids of all ages. I aspire to inspired silliness. If you have a good time, we’ve done our job. If we can make you forget your own troubles for a while that’s icing on the cake. Under the circumstances, I assume you didn’t want ask for my autograph.”
“No sir, I’m not looking for an autograph. I’ve noticed a spooky clue. A clue I’m afraid may go unnoticed. Maybe it will help, and maybe not, but I wanted to bring it to your attention.”
“Why me, Martin?” Jack asked. “I’m just an amateur sleuth. I’m sure your supervisor or Inspector Lestrayed will listen to anything you have to say. You must have been doing this for some time. I believe your experience beats mine hands down.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve worked crime scenes for over thirty years.”
“Wow, I’m impressed. That’s longer than I’ve been alive.”
Martin smiled sadly and nodded. “That’s why I know this clue isn’t going to be given any weight. My supervisor’s a good man, and the Inspector is too. But our reports are thick, and they don’t have time to consider everything. I may put a clue in my report, but it may be overlooked.”
“Fair enough, but why would I think it’s important?”
“You know biots are people too, Mr. Clay. I’m a Claynet subscriber and I’ve been following your campaign. You understand the cause better than most. Better than any of us maybe. I know you’ll hear me out, and keep an open mind.”
“I’ll hear you out Martin, though I can’t promise anything.”
“I’ve run the neural scans on all the victims. As I’m sure you know, their microchips were blasted out of their foreheads. All of their blood was drained from their bodies. The neural scans all match and the machines don’t lie. The Christie girl, the McCarthy girl, and now we know these girls were all alive when the perpetrator ripped out their chips.”
Jack took his elbow off his knee and looked at Martin.
“Were the chips off?” Jack knew the answer, but he had to hear it.
“No,” said Martin, and a grim shadow fell over him. “When the chips were fired, the victims were alive and awake.” The dwarf’s gave them a hard stare and a stiff frown.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I ran the scans myself. When a chipped biot dies, their chip retracts, but these chips came out before retracting. The wiring was still in place. It interfered with my scans. That means the girls were alive and awake, so they must have known they were about to die – or worse.”
“As if the killer wanted to intentionally inflict emotional distress on his victims?”
“Exactly, Mr. Clay, he wanted to torment them. The agony must have been terrible in the moments before the chips were ripped out. Ripping these chips out lobotomized the girls. The wiring shredded their frontal lobes. If they had survived, they’d be little more than zombies.”
“Disgusting,” spat Shotgun.
“How does this help us, Martin?” Jack felt his pulse race, and he sucked in a breath. “We already know we’re looking for a monster.”
“Most of us biots are chipped all the time. Humans don’t understand. An unauthorized removal is unimaginable ...”
“Meaning,” said Jack, “we’re dealing with a madman who gets his jollies hurting maidens.”
“Maybe he wanted to destroy their souls,” said Martin.
“Souls, souls, souls,” Jack looked back at the knot of technicians and onlookers surrounding the stretchers. “What is it about souls? Why does everyone keep bringing it up? No one even knows what a soul is. Souls may be anything. Philosophers and sages make all sorts of wild claims. Whatever we think souls are, there are no souls. Souls are always magical elements separating humans from animals. Bio-technology destroyed that idea. Biots are manufactured from human, animal, and synthetic genes. Yet biots are self-aware. So there’s nothing special about humans and there’s nothing magical in our heads. Now there’s nowhere left for the soul to hide.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” said Martin. The dwarf seemed pained. “In my business, I am well aware of the latest advances in neurology and especially the analysis of neural output. It’s strange though to hear that from you, Mr. Clay. Of all the people who would believe in magic, I thought it would be you.”
“Sorry, Martin,” Jack smiled and tried to soften the impact of his sharp words. “I believe in magic.” As if on cue, a buoy lying on the jetty lifted itself off the deck and floated mysteriously for several feet. “My magic is just in the genes. I’m sorry, Martin, because I’m angry. I want to catch the Black Dwarf and stop the killing. I don’t want to waste time chasing rabbits.”
“Mr. Clay maybe your Black Dwarf is only a madman. Even so, I think he’s a madman who believes biots have souls.”
“What does having a soul have to do with this, Martin? Animals have no souls, and we slaughter animals. If a madman thought biots had souls wouldn’t he be more respectful?”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t mean to disagree,” Martin bounced the way dwarves do. “The Black Dwarf hurts biots as if there’s a soul inside his victims. Whether or not his victims have a soul doesn’t really matter. He enjoys destroying their world inside.”
“Why?” Jack huffed. “I don’t see the point.”
“Well sir,” Martin hesitated, “In my downtime I enjoy reading, and I’ve been reading something called Black Dwarf.”
“Oh?” Jack seemed genuinely puzzled. “Every time we turn around, why are we always turning back to a black dwarf?”
“Black Dwarf is an old science fiction-fantasy series about a black dwarf. Everyone tries to destroy him, because they think he is evil.” Martin trailed off and glanced at Shotgun.
“Go on Martin,” whispered Shotgun. “It’s safe. Mr. Clay won’t report you for what you read on your own time. He believes in life. Remember, biots are people, too.”
Encouraged, the technician cleared his throat. “Mind you, Mr. Clay, the stories are fantasy. In the books biots have souls. The kicker is the villains believe everyone has a soul. They believe destroying souls creates magical power and saving souls weakens your magical power.”
“Rubbish, Martin,” Jack doffed his hunter’s cap and played with his feather. “Magic has nothing to do with souls, and souls have nothing to do with magic. Magic is a force, and souls are just a fantasy. When I discovered my magical powers, everyone wanted to know why. The Octagon drafted me and sent me to their bioresearch lab out in Area 51. After I showed up, they all joked that I was from outer space. They probed me, and tested me. They sequenced my genes, and just generally made me miserable for a year. They found nothing supernatural, and they didn’t find my soul. And I didn’t see any aliens there either.�
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“Yes sir, I meant no offense. I know it’s far-fetched, but what if the Black Dwarf believed it? This is important. Might a madman who believes souls create magical power try killing biots to gain magical power? Those girls are the same age as my daughters, and they all wear black chips.” Martin touched the black chip on his forehead.
“Martin, it is important,” Jack sighed. “I understand. I’m sorry if I sound dismissive. My mother was a biot. My fiancé is a biot. Almost all of my friends are biots. Anyone who would pull a biot’s chip while she’s alive deserves every punishment we can mete out. I’m going to catch the Black Dwarf or die trying. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I’m not letting him go.”
Martin’s shoulders drooped.
“I’m sorry, Martin.” Jack patted the dwarf on the back. “Your idea is not all that far-fetched. I just don’t see how your clue will help. As I already said, we know we’re after a monster.”
Looking over the harbor, Martin watched the fishermen check their nets. He shrugged, and his voice dropped. “Thank you for listening, Mr. Clay.”
“My pleasure, Martin,” said Jack. “Thank you for letting us know the girls were alive when the Black Dwarf took their chips. I do think that’s important, and I won’t forget it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Martin with a hint of skepticism. He shouldered his sample cases and his equipment, and he headed for one of Nodlon Yard’s vans.
“Sorry boss, I thought it made more sense when I first heard it.”
“No problem,” Jack frowned. “We weren’t busy, and he needed to get this soul business off his chest.” He studied his boots, and then sighed. “I should have let him say his peace without arguing with him. I don’t disagree with him. Not entirely anyway. If it fits in the puzzle, we’ll use it. But we know we’re chasing a monster. What if he believes in souls, or chakras, or reincarnation? Who cares? What’s the difference?”
“Should we read the book he recommended to find out?”
“We don’t have time, Shotgun.”
“Maybe this will be more useful,” Shotgun reached into his pack. “Martin gave me an update on the Yard’s files on the victims.”
“The Inspector needs to see that,” said Jack.
“I’ve sent him my analysis.”
“He’s an old coot. Make sure he gets the message, Shotgun.”
“Will do, boss.”