The Preserve

by Ariel S. Winter

  “Hey, lazybones,” Kir said. “Sleeping on the job?”

  Laughton wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not on the job.”

  “The job is always on,” Kir said. “You know that.”

  Kir had been Laughton’s first, and only, partner during his seventeen years on the Baltimore City Police Department. A series fourteen, class five robot, Kir was superior to humans in every way: intelligence, strength, stamina, senses. Unlike most robots, however, Kir had a great respect for humans, no small part of that due to Laughton.

  “What do you want, Kir?” Laughton said, not masking the annoyance in his voice.

  “Help,” Kir said. He paused. “Didn’t see that one coming, huh?”

  Betty shuffled back into the bedroom. “Go ’way,” she mumbled. She wouldn’t have any memory of the episode in the morning.

  Laughton got up, and left the room, finding his way down the stairs blindly. “How’d you know I caught a body,” Laughton said. His stomach sunk. “Don’t tell me it hit the news.”

  Silence.

  It lasted long enough that Laughton said, “Kir?”

  “I didn’t,” the robot said at last. “When?”

  “Why’d you wake me up, then?” Laughton said. He went into the kitchen and turned on the light. It made the window over the sink a mirror. Tufts of hair stood up on the sides of his head, his clothes were wrinkled. At least it wasn’t a video call. He didn’t need to give Kir more fodder.

  “I was calling to ask you to help me,” Kir said. Laughton knew the tone. His partner was serious. “But—”

  “What you got?” Laughton said, bracing himself for it.

  “Jesse, if you’ve got a homicide, we need to let Secretary Pattermann know. Do you know—”

  “I know.”

  “Do you know what people are going to do when they hear there was a murder on the preserve?” Kir said. “This is exactly the excuse the anti-preserve groups are looking for.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m coming down there. I—”

  “Kir, I know,” Laughton said. “That’s why I’m keeping it quiet. I’m going to solve this before anyone has a chance to claim we can’t take care of our own problems. I need to take care of it myself. Now tell me why you called, or let me get to sleep.”

  “Robocides,” Kir said. “Five of them.”

  “What does the HHS have to do with dead robots?” Kir was the expert on human crime for the Department of Health and Human Services, the federal unit that oversaw the preserve system. He had tried to bring Laughton with him, but just as Kir had jumped at the chance to work at the federal level, Laughton had jumped at the chance to leave robots behind and control his own department. “Isn’t that the opposite of your jurisdiction?”

  “Sims,” Kir said. “Seems like they were all users. Hit by some new program that wipes the robot before he can upload. Plug and play and die. Rumor is that the sim originated on the preserve, so, the cases’ve come to me. Or at least, I’ve been called in. There are plenty of other cops working it.”

  Sims. Jesse thought of all those sticks at Smythe’s house. “Kir, my body is a sims hacker.”

  Silence again. At last, “Shit.”

  “Coincidence,” Jesse said, not believing it for a second.

  “Look, everyone knows the preserve is a sims distribution ground. I was calling you to try to get ahead of this, but if you’ve got a dead hacker within days of a deadly sim hitting the street, robots are going to be all over the preserve.”

  “We don’t want the department on the preserve, Kir.”

  “Honestly, we don’t want to come in either, but it won’t be just the department unless we move fast. You’re right, it’s better for everyone if the preserve can handle itself. But I was already worried the dead robots were going to lead to you. If this homicide is connected…”

  “So you wanted eyes on the ground?”

  “That was the idea. But now I’m coming, whether you want it or not, as soon as I tell Grace Pattermann so she can begin damage control. If you and I work this, maybe we’ll be able to control it.”

  “Who says I can’t do that on my own?”

  “Jesse, let’s help each other.”

  The tone was sincere. Even if they couldn’t read emotions that well, they could emulate them pretty accurately. Laughton knew he would say yes. It would be so much better to have Kir at his side than Dunrich or even Mathews. But he wasn’t going to give the robot the satisfaction just yet. “It’s late, Kir. Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

  “Sure,” Kir said.

  “Sure?” Laughton hadn’t expected that.

  “Sure. I’ll see you in the morning,” Kir said. “Say hi to Betty and Erica.” And the robot hung up.

  Laughton looked at the phone in his hand. “Sure.” If he could read Kir, his ex-partner could read him. Kir knew the answer was going to be yes. And to his surprise, Laughton was looking forward to it.

  Dad.”

  “Oh, my god, Jesus,” Laughton gasped, flipping around on the bed, wild fear flooding his chest. Erica was leaning against the mattress. “You scared the— You scared me.”

  “Mom said to wake you up,” she said. She was already dressed. “Mr. Mathews is outside.”

  He looked toward his nightstand for his phone, and Erica handed it to him. The face lit up: 6:35. He’d slept late. “Okay,” he said. “I’m up.”

  “Can we play a game?” Erica said.

  Laughton threw back the covers, and started to rise, but Erica was in his way. “Excuse me,” he said, and she moved to let him up. “We can’t play right now. I’ve got to get ready.”

  “Can’t you get ready after I go to school?”

  “You’re going to be leaving in twenty minutes anyway,” he said, on his way to the bathroom. “Go downstairs, I’ll be right down.”

  “We could play for just five minutes,” she said.

  “Did I answer you?” he said, annoyed. “Go downstairs.” He went into the bathroom and closed the door. He raised the seat of the toilet, and heard Erica clomp down the stairs. Every night he felt guilty that he couldn’t give Erica what she needed, that he wasn’t a fun dad, that he wasn’t an empathetic dad, that the message he always sent was that he was annoyed, and that he was unavailable. But then right from the first thing in the morning, the barrage of requests, of questions, ignoring the answers, pushing, and the annoyance bubbled up right from the start of the day. She’d be gone in twenty minutes. He could play with her that long, he thought.

  Downstairs, however, Betty was standing at the door, her bag already over her shoulder, watching Erica, who was on the floor putting her shoes on. “Hey,” she said.

  He went to kiss her, and she returned it with a chaste peck on the lips like a social nicety, devoid of feeling. “Are you angry at me?” he said.

  “No. It’s just been a morning,” she said. “Come on, Erica.”

  “You said to make sure my shoes were tied tightly. I’m triple-knotting them.”

  Betty’s lips got thin. It didn’t require expertise to see her anger. She turned to Laughton. “I’ve got the clinic this afternoon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Who called in the middle of the night?”

  Laughton looked out the door, and waved to Mathews to come in from the truck. “Kir. He’s coming.”

  Betty’s head snapped around, and she fixed him with large eyes. “He’s not staying here, is he?”

  Laughton hadn’t thought about that. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe. Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course, it’s just, I’m tired, I don’t feel like hosting. Is this the… case from yesterday?”

  Erica jumped up. “Ready,” she said, throwing herself against Laughton, wrapping her arms around his waist, and hooking her feet around his leg. “Uncle Kir is coming to visit!”

  “Erica. Get down,” Betty said.

  “Yes,” Laughton said.

  “Yay!”

  �
�Erica!” Betty snapped.

  “Call me,” Laughton said, physically prying his daughter off of him. “We’ll talk later.”

  Betty opened the storm door.

  “Goodbye, have fun,” Laughton said as Erica bounded out the front door, nearly crashing into Mathews.

  “Call me,” Betty said as she walked out the door. “Morning, Jim.”

  “Betty,” Mathews said.

  The younger officer came inside. “Ready, Chief?” he said.

  “Give me five minutes,” Laughton said. Upstairs, Laughton entertained the wishful thought that he could just get back in bed, but instead he brushed his teeth and changed his shirt. At least his head didn’t hurt. The beginning of the day was always the best time for Laughton, and it usually filled him with hope and a sense that life was manageable.

  As they drove to the station, Laughton tried to run through the normal order of things in a homicide, certain he was missing something, but his mind remained blank. He half expected a loitering handful of reporters at the station, but there was no one. It meant everyone’d kept quiet about it for the last fourteen hours, even the Kramer’s people, something that seemed impossible. He wondered how long the vacuum would last. He needed to make the most of it.

  When the preserve system was being developed, there had been a long debate about policing and jurisdiction. Most robots saw the preserve as a way to rid themselves of the human “problem.” They were more than content to let the preserve have its own justice system. Robot law enforcement, however, despite the fact that they had always employed a small number of human officers—Laughton having been one of them—and could therefore, when being open-minded, vouch for their competence, still wanted to have final jurisdiction. They knew that crime would not obey borderlines, and that there would no doubt be a flow of criminal activities onto and off of the preserve, and they didn’t want to accept any limits on their power.

  In the end, a small list of crimes was designated as federal offenses, giving jurisdiction to the FBI with mandated oversight by the Department of Health and Human Services: sim trafficking, abduction/missing persons, and cybernetic crimes. Murder had been included on many of the early proposed lists, pushed for by the human population, who assumed, without good evidence, that most murderers would be robots. To pass the bill, however, murder was struck from the list, seen by the federal government as a strictly human problem. Robots just didn’t care. Humans were assured unofficially that any crime perpetrated by a robot on preserve land would fall under the purview of the FBI and that preserve law enforcement could expect federal assistance.

  Laughton knew that this murder would be a test case. Many who had lobbied for the federal designation of murder would use Smythe as a rallying call. It wouldn’t help that there was the possible connection to sim trafficking, or that the use of a Taser might point to a robot assailant, both cases that would mandate FBI involvement. On the robot side, the more militant contingent in law enforcement wanted any excuse to invalidate many of the protections of the preserve by moving in as a standing army or rescinding the preserve altogether.

  At his desk, Laughton opened the video chat on his tablet, and added Beaufort police chief Tommy Tantino, Georgetown chief of police Al Bell, and Commissioner Ontero to the invitation list. They needed to coordinate a manhunt for Jones and, more importantly, how they were going to handle the politicians and the press once this went live. There would be tremendous pressure to wrap up the case quickly while most of the country waited for the police department’s failure. His finger hovered over the call button. What was he going to tell them, though? It would be better if he had something to show that the investigation was advancing before he talked to them. Leave them deniability a little longer until he could provide some sound bites. He let his finger linger long enough to become uncomfortable, and then pulled his hand away. He yelled, “Mathews!”

  Mathews appeared in the doorway.

  “Call Dunrich also,” the chief said.

  Mathews looked over his shoulder. “Dunrich. Come here.” He stepped into the office, and Dunrich stepped in behind him. The officers stood just inside the door, unwilling to commit a full entrance, like infrequent offenders called in to the principal. Laughton took a moment to consider the entire Liberty police force stuffed into a room that would have served as a maintenance closet at the Baltimore PD headquarters, where he used to work. It made him feel very small-town, and not in the good way he’d enjoyed over the last nine months. God, they hadn’t even made it a full year.

  His men shifted their weight from one foot to the other, waiting in silence.

  “You get anything from the interviews at the supermarket?”

  Dunrich shook his head. “Nobody saw anything. Most people had never been behind the market ever.”

  “Anyone seem off?”

  “Chief, every single person said almost the same thing, and half of them were people I recognized. Nobody knew anything.”

  Laughton nodded.

  “I need to call Beaufort, Georgetown, and the commissioner,” he said, pointing to the tablet sitting on his desk, “hopefully before the press hears about it. But I want to have more than half a name when I do. If we can get out in front of this thing, maybe even catch the guy, we’ll avoid a mess of trouble far bigger than one dead hacker.”

  Dunrich looked at his feet while Mathews chewed his lip. They wanted orders.

  Laughton tried to think. What was their play? Find Jones, of course. Find anyone else Smythe might have known; he came to town to shop, they should check the bars, women, that meant the clinic… Maybe see if McCardy had thought of anything once he’d calmed—

  Oh, shit. McCardy. He’d already fucked up. He jumped up. “We need to get back out to the house,” he said. “Idiot! We should have brought McCardy in last night. He could be a target. Dunrich, we need a better picture of Smythe’s life. Check the bars, the café, anywhere he might stop when he comes through Liberty. Mathews, you’re with me. We’ll take two cars. One of us should stay out there. Jones might show up.”

  They waited for more.

  “Go!”

  Dunrich left. The sound of the outer door closing on its pneumatic hinges marked his exit.

  Damn headache. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t posted someone there last night. He had wanted to get home so badly, the possibility that McCardy could be a target too hadn’t occurred to him. What other rookie mistakes had he made in his nightly funk?

  He grabbed his tablet, and rounded his desk, Mathews backing out of the office to clear the way. “Did you manage to get ahold of Smythe’s sister?” he asked as they headed for the door.

  Mathews shook his head. “The number McCardy gave me didn’t work, and I haven’t been able to find anything about her online. No social media, nothing.”

  “Great.”

  Outside, the patrol car was gone. Laughton went to his truck as Mathews got into his own car. Laughton called up McCardy and Smythe’s house in the truck’s memory, and hit go. The truck began to back out of the spot.

  Had nine months really made him this inept?

  He looked at his tablet and saw Ontero’s name on the screen.

  The autopsy! He erased Ontero’s name and called Dunrich.

  “Dunrich.”

  “What happened to the body?” Laughton said.

  “Went to the hospital in Charleston. Nowhere else to keep a body.”

  Then they were really lucky it hadn’t hit the news. “I better get down there.”

  “You want me to go, Chief?”

  “No. Bars. Liquor stores. Talk to everyone.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

  He punched in Ontero’s personal cell phone number. It rang once and then Ontero’s voice filled the car. “Ontero.”

  “Chris, it’s Jesse.”

  “What do you need?” the commissioner said.

  “Know the name of the medical examiner?”

  “Why do you need a medical examiner?” his voice cauti
ous.

  “We sent a body down yesterday.”

  “Homicide?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  “That about says it,” Laughton said.

  “I don’t know who the fuck the medical examiner is. I don’t even know if we have one.”

  “Can you find out for me? I’m on my way to the victim’s house. Tell whoever it is to wait for me for the autopsy.”

  “You should have called me yesterday.”

  “I was a little busy.”

  “Damn it, Jesse.”

  “Oh, I need a computer team too. Vic was a hacker. Need someone to go through his computers.”

  “Tell me you know who did this?”

  “I have no idea,” Laughton said.

  “Well, find the fuck out.”

  “Get me those computer techs and an ME.”

  The phone went dead. Ontero’d hung up.

  Laughton took the truck off of auto, and gave it gas, impatient with the speed.

  McCardy better not be dead.

  Chief Laughton manually parked the car across the street from the hackers’ house. Mathews pulled up behind him. A two-door, orange microcar that had not been there the night before was in front of the house.

  Laughton got out of the truck, and Mathews joined him. “Someone’s here,” Mathews said.

  “Maybe McCardy had a friend come stay with him. Didn’t want to be alone after his best friend was murdered.”

  “He said he didn’t know anyone else.”

  “Well, here we go,” Laughton said.

  A man in a black collarless T-shirt and a sky-blue jacket came around the side of the house. He was tall, Laughton estimated at least six foot two, with a well-groomed beard trimmed close to his face.

  Laughton started to cross the street. “Excuse me!” he called. “Excuse me.”