Singularity

by Eldon Farrell

  “And those problems would be?” Quinn asked.

  Scofield leaned back in his chair and ticked the points off on his fingers as he made them. “Our technology will save the lives of countless babies born prematurely. It will allow women to avoid what is—albeit natural—still a painful, laborious, time consuming, and medically dangerous procedure. Ectogenesis represents the first real step toward true equality of the sexes. This technology means women everywhere will no longer have to bear the responsibility for the continuation of the species, nor have to deal with the stressful questions that plague them for nine months. Their careers—their lives—will no longer need to take a backseat to their desire for children.”

  Scofield reached for a glass of water on the corner of his desk and took a drink. As he set it down, he continued. “This will also be a godsend for the thousands of women unable to conceive naturally. They will now have the chance to produce offspring and raise children of their own. Then, there’s what this will mean to the gay and lesbian community. Not that the short-sighted individuals at our doorstep seem to consider any of that. They’re against change for the sake of being against it, not for any real reason.”

  Scofield leaned back in his chair and said, “The bottom line is, ectogenesis will make procreation safer. Complicated births and underdeveloped babies will be a thing of the past. Every heartbeat, every kick, every nutrient of the fetus will be monitored to ensure a healthy baby every time.”

  Nathan spoke up, “And of course, you wouldn’t be biased about this at all?”

  Scofield shook his head at him. “I’m a scientist, Detective Miller. Science is never biased.”

  “You’re also a senior geneticist for the company that stands to make another fortune off this.” Nathan asked, “Do you feel qualified in your position to see the downsides?”

  Scofield smirked and spread his hands wide. “Did you listen to what I just said, Detective. Where’s the downside?”

  A sly grin curved Nathan’s lips. “How about fears of a widening gulf between the privileged and the displaced?”

  Scofield scoffed. “Hardly exclusive to ectogenesis. Is progress supposed to stop because it can’t be shared in by all?”

  “How about DNA manipulation of the fetus?” Nathan asked, “Exclusive enough for you?”

  Scofield shook his head. “There is no DNA manipulation involved in ectogenesis. That’s a baseless accusation popular amongst short-sighted protestors, nothing more.”

  “We’re getting off topic here,” Quinn interrupted. “We’re not here to discuss scientific breakthroughs.”

  Scofield rolled his shoulders and tugged down on the lapels of his lab coat as he waited for Quinn to elaborate.

  “You worked with Antonio Reyes?” Quinn asked, “Is that correct?”

  Scofield gave a nod. “I did.”

  “Was he working on the ectogenesis project as well?”

  Scofield held Quinn in his stare. “It was his project. We’re…we’re still recovering from his loss.”

  Quinn nodded but said nothing. From over his shoulder, Nathan asked, “Given the situation outside, I expect the company has talked to you about security?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you know if they spoke to Reyes as well?”

  Scofield answered, “Antonio was fully aware of the security issues the protestors represented. He gave the speech to me.”

  “I see,” Nathan said. “That being the case, how did he wind up in the midst of the protestors?”

  “He took a wrong turn.”

  Nathan moved forward and exchanged a look with Quinn. “How long you worked here?”

  Scofield shifted in his seat. “About ten years now.”

  Nathan looked at the diploma on the wall. He ran his finger along the frame before he turned back and asked, “In ten years, you ever take a wrong turn?”

  “No, but—”

  “And,” Nathan cut Scofield off, “Reyes had been here even longer. So it would be safe to assume, he knew his way around even better than you.”

  “We all make mistakes, Detective,” Scofield said.

  Nathan turned away again. “That we do.”

  “Daniel.” Quinn drew his attention away from Nathan. “How well did you know Antonio?”

  “Well enough,” Scofield answered. “He was my supervisor, so it wasn’t like we hung out on weekends or anything, but we got along.”

  “Did you find him to be religious?” Quinn asked.

  Scofield exhaled. “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “But, after the purges of 2025, no one really talks about it even if they are. Is this because he was found in a church?”

  Quinn didn’t answer the question. “Were you surprised he was found in a church?”

  “He was a man of science,” Scofield said, “So, yeah, it was a shock.”

  “Any chance he was suicidal?” Nathan asked. “He mention anything like that to you? You notice any changes in him?”

  Scofield’s eyes widened as his jaw hung open. “He was murdered—why would you think he was suicidal?”

  Nathan waited for an answer.

  “He never said anything to me,” Scofield said, “But again, we weren’t that close.”

  “What about changes in behaviour?” Quinn asked.

  Scofield rubbed at his forehead with his right thumb and forefinger. “His attendance had become erratic and…some of his results were sloppy. I corrected a couple of reporting issues for him. I guess you could say he was distracted.” Scofield stared at Nathan and added, “Could account for him taking a wrong turn.”

  “Or he wanted them to kill him,” Nathan said. “When that didn’t happen, maybe he went where he knew he’d find more like them. A church, perhaps?”

  Scofield reached for his water again and drained the glass. It did little to restore his fading color.

  “You all right?” Nathan asked. “You look nervous.”

  Scofield’s eyes darted between them before he lowered his gaze to the desk and began rubbing his chin.

  “Something on your mind, Daniel?” Quinn asked.

  After a moment, Scofield said, “I haven’t told anyone this because after Antonio passed, it didn’t seem relevant anymore.”

  “Why don’t you let us be the judge of that?”

  Scofield raised his eyes to Nathan and found no warmth there. “After the incident outside with the protestors, Antonio told me he was worried the company was going to fire him. I told him he was being ridiculous—he was the department head. But,” Scofield trailed off a moment. “Looking back on it, he seemed afraid. Did I miss the signs?” His eyes implored Quinn. “Could I have done something to help him?”

  13

  “Get out. Now.”

  Quinn turned toward his partner. Nathan stood beside the open rear door of their cruiser.

  With a grunt of impatience, Nathan reached a hand into the cruiser and pulled Terry Watts out by the scruff of his neck.

  Quinn exited in time to see Terry hit the ground and kick up a cloud of dust.

  “Oh, come on man,” Terry asked, “Where are we? What we doing here?”

  A train whistle blew in the distance, while closer, the ground shook from cars being shuttled around the various rail lines.

  Nathan kicked Terry in the ribs as a prod to get moving. “I ask the questions, shithead. That’s how this works. Now move.”

  Quinn caught Terry’s wild gaze for a moment before he scrambled to his feet and marched further into the rail yard. The fear he saw there gave him pause before he followed Nathan.

  The three of them crossed four sets of tracks and moved past a rusting tanker car before Nathan called for a halt in the shadows of disrepair.

  “Why’d you bring me here?” Terry asked.

  Quinn watched the sadistic grin part Nathan’s lips as his hand whipped out to clip Terry on the back of his skull. Terry’s head pitched forward, but he kept hi
s feet.

  Nathan said, “What did I tell you about questions?”

  Quinn moved behind Nathan to avoid the pleading looks from Terry.

  “You have a name for me, asshole?” Nathan asked.

  Terry avoided eye contact and said nothing.

  Nathan paced. “You know,” he said, “I only gave you one thing to do. Was that too complicated for you?”

  His eyes still downcast, Terry fidgeted.

  “Answer me!” Nathan shoved him hard in the chest.

  Terry coughed. “No.”

  “No, what?” Nathan took a step closer.

  “No, it’s not complicated, man.”

  “Then where’s my fucking name?”

  Quinn moved back to his left. His pulse pounding in his ears, he watched Nathan move on Terry, not knowing what he had in mind.

  “I’m trying!” Terry said, “I’m asking around, but no one knows nothing.”

  Nathan’s left hand flew out and grabbed Terry by the throat. He pulled him in close and said, “Somebody knows! I want to know who squealed, and if you can’t tell me, then you aren’t any good to me, are you?”

  “Miller?” Quinn whispered, unheard over the crash of locomotive brakes and the approaching whistle.

  Holding Terry by the throat, Nathan dragged him across a set of tracks and pushed him to the ground between the rails. He crouched over him to hold his head to the near rail.

  “You feel that vibration?” Nathan asked, “Your time is running out. That whistle is for the three-thirty train into town. That gives you about three minutes to tell me a name.”

  “I don’t know who talked,” Terry cried and struggled to break free of Nathan’s iron grasp.

  “Oh look.” Nathan turned Terry’s head toward the approaching train. “Tick tock.”

  “I swear I know nothing!” Terry said, “Jesus man, please!”

  Quinn watched the train get closer in a state of detached shock. As the steel rails whistled, he returned to the moment and moved on Nathan.

  “Miller!” Quinn shouted over the cacophony, “Let him go, Miller!”

  Keeping Terry pressed to the rail, Nathan looked back over his shoulder at Quinn. “Stay out of it, Rook.”

  Quinn glanced at the freight train barreling down on them—now less than five hundred feet away. The whistle blew again with a desperate plea.

  Terry’s legs kicked out as he squirmed for his life.

  Nathan bent low over him and said into his ear, “Last fucking chance.”

  Unable to watch any longer Quinn leapt forward and drove a shoulder into Nathan’s rear. The impact toppled Nathan and released Terry.

  Snatching him by the legs, Quinn pulled Terry off the tracks moments before the train thundered past them.

  As each car passed, he caught glimpses of Nathan, separated from him by the train, glaring balefully at him.

  “Jesus fuck,” Terry swore from the ground beside Quinn.

  “Get out of here.” Quinn looked down at him. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  Terry scrambled to his feet, fell once, and then took off running.

  Quinn turned his attention back to Nathan. Together they waited for the train.

  Nathan paced like a jaguar trapped in a cage. His blood boiling, he felt the tug on his clothes from the train’s wake as he watched Terry run away.

  He shifted his gaze to Quinn who stood waiting for the inevitable confrontation. Kid has a set of stones.

  The last car rumbled past, and Nathan was across the tracks. Quinn had time to half-raise his hands before Nathan crashed into him.

  Knocked to the ground, Quinn scrambled before Nathan lifted him back up, and held him aloft by the lapels of his jacket.

  “Better talk fast, Rook,” Nathan said. “Everyone told me I couldn’t trust you.”

  “Everyone’s wrong.” Quinn struggled to break Nathan’s grip.

  “You going to say that after hitting me from behind?” Nathan asked, “What’s the point of letting him run? How far you think he’ll get out here?”

  “I don’t care how far he gets.” Quinn twisted free of Nathan’s hold and landed with a thud back on his feet. “He knows nothing. I was helping you, Miller—we’re not murderers!”

  Nathan considered him for a moment. He watched the rapid movement of his eyes and noticed the flush of his skin. He’s afraid. His own intentions inscrutable, Nathan said, “I wasn’t going to kill him.”

  “Well, you fooled me,” Quinn said, “and, judging by the puddle in his pants, you fooled him too.”

  Nathan grunted and walked back toward the cruiser.

  Quinn asked, “Is this about Eli? Did he say not to trust me?”

  Nathan stopped. “He’s not alone in that feeling.”

  Quinn straightened his rumpled clothes. “You sure you should trust him?”

  “You know something I don’t, Rook?”

  “The photo in his place.” Quinn ran his fingers through his hair. “He seemed awful chummy with a guy who wouldn’t exactly approve of how you do business.”

  Nathan glanced back over his shoulder. “You knew Winslow well enough to know that?”

  Quinn pointed a finger at Nathan. “Don’t lay it on me. Reggie Winslow’s feelings on how things operate in this city were well known. Doesn’t explain what your buddy was doing laughing and smiling with him. I’m not the traitor, Nate, and I’m getting tired of the suspicion.”

  “Yeah well, the vultures are circling.”

  “What does that mean?” Quinn asked.

  “It means it’s time for you to pick a side.” Nathan stared at his partner. “You need to get your hands dirty. I can’t keep shielding you with this honest man shit. You want trust? You need to partake in the next shipment.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Nathan sighed. “Then I can’t protect you.” He turned around and walked away. Without looking back, he said, “Time to choose. You’re either with me, Rook…or you’re against me.”

  “Miller.” Quinn sat across the desk from his partner. After hours of tense silence, he extended an olive branch. “I’m sorry about what happened out there. I was only looking out for you.”

  Tension lingered between them. The Clubhouse was quiet, the other detectives had already left for the day. “An apology?” Nathan said at length, “You’ve chosen a side then?”

  Quinn rubbed the nape of his neck. “I’ve got your back,” he answered.

  His chair creaked as Nathan leaned forward. He reached for the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a slim flask and two tumblers. Unscrewing the cap, he said, “I told everyone I could trust you. You made the right choice, Rook.”

  He poured a dark golden liquid into each glass before handing one to Quinn. “A toast.”

  Quinn swirled the drink in his hand. “What is it?”

  Nathan said, “Rum, bottoms up.”

  “I don’t—”

  Nathan narrowed his gaze at him. “Don’t insult your partner now. We’re toasting to your good sense, so be sure to show some.”

  Nathan downed his shot and waited for Quinn to do likewise. Quinn tossed his head back and drained the stiff drink. The rum burned his throat and brought tears to his eyes. He struggled against the urge to cough. His mouth on fire, Quinn said, “I’m fine.”

  Nathan laughed. “You look it.”

  Quinn coughed and blinked a few times to clear his vision. He turned back to Nathan and asked, “So, where are we on this case?”

  Nathan leaned back in his chair. “We theorized Antonio Reyes as the intended target of the church massacre. Theory being, he was suicidal. He stumbled into the midst of the protestors outside AmeriGEN, and when that didn’t work, he went to the church looking for more like them to finish the job.”

  “With you so far,” Quinn said.

  “What if we were wrong?”

  His brow furrowed, Quinn asked, “What makes you think we’re wrong?”<
br />
  “Unanswered questions,” Nathan said.

  “Such as?”

  Nathan lifted the flask to his lips and paused with it there. “If we’re right, and the AmeriGEN protestors killed Reyes, why kill the others in the church? It’s nagged at me from the start. And why kill them in such a gruesome fashion? It doesn’t add up.”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said, “but prisons are full of people who killed random strangers for no reason.”

  Nathan lowered the flask without taking a drink. “You’ve looked over the files forensics sent us?”

  Quinn nodded. Nathan cycled through images on his HoloSphere until he found the right one. He projected an image of an unsigned, one-line note: “I can’t do this anymore.” It hovered in the space between them. “Recognize this?” Nathan asked.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said, “Reyes’ suicide note which supports our theory.”

  Nathan raised his index finger. “Only if it’s a suicide note.”

  Quinn jerked his head back. “What else would it be?”

  “Could be part of a resignation letter.” Nathan swiped another hologram into view. “Friends and neighbors reported Reyes told them he was quitting AmeriGEN and leaving Union City. What you’re looking at here is a realtor contract signed by Reyes, listing his home for sale.” Nathan moved another image to the forefront. “And then there’s this—a one-way ticket to Madrid purchased by Reyes for the end of the month. These don’t seem like the actions of a suicidal person to me.”

  Quinn nodded. “If he wasn’t suicidal, why did he wander out amongst the protestors? What was he doing at St. Luke’s that night?”

  Quinn’s HoloSphere flashed with an incoming message. He slid it to his Viz to read. He whistled. “Take a look at this.”

  “What is it?” Nathan asked.

  “A security scan. Message said we need to see this.” Quinn sent the scan to Nathan’s HoloSphere and a darkened cavernous space appeared between them.

  “Where is this?” Nathan asked.

  “Bennington Place,” Quinn said, “Can you believe it? The owners left scanners in place for security—a failed attempt to deter the displaced from squatting there.”