by Brian Parker
“Huh?”
“It’s a fishing metaphor, Forrest. It means that sometimes you need to go with the flow and let events carry you along instead of fighting upstream all the time. I thought you were a fisherman?”
“I’ve been a couple of times, but I wouldn’t say I was a fisherman.”
“You need to take some vacation time.”
“I had a forced vacation five months ago, Chief.”
“And you sat around your apartment wishing you were out on the streets investigating crimes instead of doing anything relaxing.”
A muffled conversation reached my ear as the chief talked to someone on the other end of the line. I heard him say, “Yeah, okay,” and then there was a rustling noise as he brought the old-fashioned phone up to his ear. “Hey, Forrest, you’ve got to shut it down and let that truck dispose of the garbage. It still needs to complete the route and there are human workers getting paid to keep the incinerator plant open. Release the bodies to the coroner’s office and come on back to the station.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Drake, who’d been listening in to the conversation and mouthed the words, “This is bullshit.”
He nodded, but remained quiet. No sense getting himself in trouble when I was the one that Councilman Jefferson wanted to see thrown to the wolves, not him.
“I got it, Chief. We’re done with the bodies and if you’re giving me a direct order to stop the crime scene exploitation, then we’ll wrap it up.”
“Covering your ass. I like it, Forrest. I knew that you’d be recording the conversation, that’s what a good cop does.” He cleared his throat and continued in an “official voice,” “Detective Forrest, this is Chief Robert Brubaker and I’m ordering you to discontinue site exploitation at the triple homicide dump site on Halperson Avenue. Video surveillance evidence indicates that the bodies were placed in the garbage bin and nothing else was put in with them at that time.
“There, is that good enough for you, Forrest?” he asked.
“That’ll do. Thanks, Chief.”
“Go home, get cleaned up and take that pretty girl of yours to dinner.”
I didn’t want to go into the fact that Avery had shit all over my cold heart, so I said, “Okay.”
Chief Brubaker hung up the phone and I threw an old hangar toward the back of the compactor. “Fuck! What the hell is this shit, man?”
“It’s what happens when we let politics get in the way of good, common sense. Decisions get made to satisfy priorities other than justice.”
“Drake, sometimes you’re a deep motherfucker, you know that?”
“That’s what Genevieve says on Saturday nights,” he said with a big grin.
I laughed at his crude sexual humor, if you couldn’t joke about the size of your dick, then you had no business being a cop in Easytown. “Alright, let’s get out of here. It’s almost Saturday night.”
“Oh, I know what time it is,” Drake replied with another smile.
Guess I’ll be hanging out with Andi once again, I thought bitterly.
SIX: SUNDAY
Paperwork. I hated paperwork. Everyone who thinks that being a detective is glamorous has no concept of reality. I blame television shows and books—writers are such assholes. Eighty percent of my job is paperwork, whether it’s preparing initial reports, filing them with the correct office, drafting up search warrant paperwork for the judges, after action reviews, full investigation reports, conducting the standard monthly computer-based training for all police officers, or preparing correspondence with others, I hated all of it.
When I joined the force, I had visions of always being in the field, protecting the population and taking out the bad guys. In reality, it was a rare occasion that I didn’t have a case. When I could, I walked The Lane, maybe drove through some of the side neighborhoods in Easytown, and that was about it. There wasn’t much time for anything else.
I’d submitted an initial report on the triple homicide from the garbage truck last night and expected the coroner’s findings sometime in the early afternoon. Once I had their identities I could begin the process of putting the victims’ whereabouts and circumstances together. Then maybe we could catch the fuckers that did it. Most likely not, though.
Maybe the Paladin was right; police officers couldn’t stop this type of brutality. It would take a lunatic in a mask murdering hundreds of thugs to put a dent in the statistics. Arresting the Vigilante wasn’t high on my to-do list.
While I waited for the coroner, I went for a three-mile run. In truth, it was more of a jog than a run. Okay, it was a jog/walk, but at least it was something. I’d been woefully negligent with my exercise regimen for the past several years and it was time for a change.
Once I got back from my abysmal run, I had Andi develop a training plan for me that would have me running ten miles by the end of July. I still held my own in short distance sprints after a suspect, but anything more than five or six blocks and I was done for. The perps I chased these days were putting a serious hurt on me when I went after them and it was embarrassing to have to call in a drone to snatch someone because they were getting away.
“New Orleans Secure Transfer delivery is inbound, Zach,” Andi stated while I undressed to take a quick shower.
“Thanks. ETA on the N.O.S.T. droid?”
“Seven minutes.”
I’d have to hurry to finish and get dressed before the droid showed up. That was the annoying part about N.O.S.T.; if you didn’t answer the door within two minutes, they were off to their next scheduled appointment. It worked, though. They remained the most reliable and timely delivery service in the city due to their strict adherence to timelines.
Of course, everything could have been instantaneous if the department would switch from the archaic paper reports and simply send them as an attachment to email. But that wasn’t how the NOPD wanted to do business. They’d gotten a bad rap, long before I was alive, for poor digital file management and most of the department was relieved. Since then, it was paper copies for every important case—murders, by definition, were important—and then someone down at the central warehouse scanned them and maintained the files digitally as well. In addition to being a giant pain in the neck for someone to do double work, it was a waste of taxpayers’ dollars.
Don’t blame me; I just work here.
I finished in time to hear the doorbell ring and Andi’s voice carrying into the bathroom from my bedroom telling me that I needed to hurry.
“The droid from New Orleans Secure Transfer is the only non-standard object in the hallway,” she said as I rushed across my apartment in a towel.
Several years ago, I’d gotten stabbed in the hallway outside my old apartment when some gangers found out where I lived. Since then, Andi religiously scanned the hallway for potential threats. I avoided leaving if anyone was in the hallway. As a result, I had no idea who any of my neighbors were.
I threw open the apartment door just as the droid from N.O.S.T. was turning to leave. “I’m here!” I shouted.
The droid looked me up and down. “We are not that kind of service, Detective Forrest.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I wasn’t keen on N.O.S.T.’s new droid programming. They’d taken tons of criticism that their bots were too mechanical, so they uploaded some new software and now every one of the damn things thought they were a comedian. I’d thought they were too robot-like before, but now I wished for the good old days. “Do you have the package?”
“Yes. Please sign the clipboard to accept delivery.’
I signed and the droid handed me a standard manila envelope. I hefted it. “Hey, this seems really light. Are you sure nothing fell out?”
The droid took the package back and turned it over. “The seal is still intact and the package weighs sixty-three grams. This is consistent with the acceptance data in the system.”
I took it back. “Okay, thanks.”
“No problem. See you later, alligator.”
“Jesus,” I
muttered and closed the door in its face. That would get annoying quickly.
I tossed the envelope on my “desk” which was really the dining room table. I never used the thing to eat at, only work, and since there wasn’t an office area in the apartment the table had become my desk by default. I chose to ignore the fact that I wasn’t having company over any time soon that would require the use of the table.
With a cup of coffee in hand, I sat down at the desk, not even bothering to get dressed. The lack of paperwork in the envelope intrigued me. Typical coroner’s reports were at least twenty pages long, per victim.
I opened the envelope and slid five pages into my hand.
The first two pages were the coroner’s findings report, which was usually much longer. The other three were photographs, all close-ups of a series of numbers tattooed behind the right ear of each victim, labeled “Male,” “Female 1,” and “Female 2.”
“What the hell?”
I returned to the coroner’s report and read it quickly. “Are you fucking serious?”
The letter was both straightforward and ambiguous with a way ahead. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it sure wasn’t what the coroner wrote. I reread it slowly to see if I’d missed something the first read through.
Report of Dr. Charles Brandt, New Orleans Medical Examiner, regarding the three homicide victims discovered in a garbage bin in the Easytown district on February 7th, 2099.
Patients presented with virtually every type of injury imaginable in an extreme abuse case. DNA and fingerprint analysis inconclusive. During my workup, I noticed a similar numerical tattoo behind the right ear of each victim. I cross-referenced this information with the New Orleans Mainframe computer network and confirmed that these markings are typical in clones. As such, my requirement to examine the bodies ceased. Clones are not human and are not protected under the law in any capacity.
However, I did perform a cursory autopsy on the clones in order to assist the detectives in the case to determine the cause of death. Each victim had deep puncture wounds from knives and some type of round puncturing device, such as a fireplace poker. These deep puncture wounds are the most likely cause of death in the Male and Female 1.
Massive bruising around the neck of Female 2 indicates choking, however cyanosis is not present and a rapid examination of its blood indicate no change to the viscosity of the fluid. Thus asphyxia is ruled out as the cause of death for Female 2. It is most likely that this clone expired due to massive internal hemorrhaging from the volume of fluids found in and around the chest and abdominal cavities. As such, my determination is that Female 2 was beaten to death.
The other injuries, while they would have been extremely painful to a human, especially over a prolonged period of time, are unlikely to have caused death. Current medical science is unclear whether a clone feels pain or if they respond to stimuli as programmed during growth and initial indoctrination.
Vaginal/anal tearing and associated scar tissue in these areas and other parts of the body indicate long-term sexual abuse. My medical opinion is that the abuse occurred over a period in excess of three months, although my training is with humans, not clones. I don’t have a working understanding of the regenerative properties of the clone body, so depending on the rate of healing, this could have been much less time—or longer, I simply don’t have a reference point with clone anatomy. There is no detectible presence of semen for analysis.
The victims do not appear to be malnourished, a common cause of death in long-term sexual captivity cases. Examination of their stomach contents shows some type of milk-like substance, possibly a nutrition shake.
On a final note, the clone’s teeth, fingernails and toenails were removed after the body had grown to adult human proportions. This is indicative of a person, or persons, not wanting to be injured while they abused the victims. I’ve seen medical reports of this type of behavior in other professional correspondence.
This concludes the cursory cause of death examination. The clone corpses are scheduled for incineration at 0900 Monday morning. The destruction will occur as scheduled unless the investigating officer requests a delay.
Signed,
Charles Brandt, MD
Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, New Orleans Parish
“Well, shit.”
“You seem distressed, Zach. Is the report not what you wanted to discover?”
I set the letter down on the table so Andi’s camera could read it. “Since the victims were clones, you have no legal obligation to investigate further. You can now keep your Sunday night dinner with the Khalil family at 6 p.m.”
I glanced at her camera’s lens, clearly annoyed. “That’s not the point, Andi. Clones may not be protected under the law but I’ve seen these things close up. There’s no way they don’t feel pain; they’re a copy of us—I mean, a copy of a human. They don’t have an immunity to pain. Those things suffered for a long time at the hands of some sick people. I can’t just ignore it and say, ‘Oh well.’ I have a moral obligation to find the murderers and put them behind bars.”
“According to the law, they have done nothing illegal,” Andi countered. “Under current state and federal regulations, a clone is not classified as human, animal or even droid. As such, arresting the perpetrators is not authorized. A clone is considered property, similar to the dining room chair you are sitting on now. If you wanted to break the chair, carve your name into it or any other form of destruction, it is your property to do with as you please.”
“These things aren’t the same as a goddamned chair.”
“However, if the clone is currently being financed and not purchased outright, the perpetrators could be arrested for vandalism of private property.”
“That’s it! That’s my way around the bullshit regulations. Andi, you’re a genius.”
“I’m a computer program, boss. You tell me that often enough.”
“Yeah, and you’re only as good as your programmer.”
My Jeep dropped me off at the front door of the Pharaoh’s Tomb. My friend, Amir, inherited it from his father when he died and turned the place into an Egyptian-themed tourist destination. Even though it was off the beaten track in West Lake Forrest, the Pharaoh was listed as a must-see when in New Orleans. I liked the food and Teagan Thibodaux, one of my only true friends besides Amir, worked there.
The restaurant was packed with tourists and cops, like always. Over the years, it had become an unofficial hangout for cops looking to get a good, quick, and inexpensive meal with their discount. I nodded to a few officers that I recognized when I walked through the doors.
“Good afternoon, Zach,” the hostess said.
“Hi, Karina. You doing okay today?”
She nodded her head and the black wig that made up part of her Egyptian slave costume bounced accordingly. “Your table’s open,” she stated as she tapped frantically at her computer screen.
“Thanks,” I replied. She was busy today, so I wouldn’t bother her with small talk.
I’d been coming to the Pharaoh since I was a kid and three or four times a week since Amir inherited it, so I had a routine. I liked to sit at the same table, which afforded me a view of most of the restaurant and the front door, and tended to order the same thing on the same day of the week.
As I walked toward my table, a hand shot up from a booth and a young cop waved. It took me a second to recognize the kid who’d asked me for my autograph yesterday outside of the NOPD headquarters. I waved back and tried to keep walking.
“Hey, Detective Forrest!”
“Ah geez,” I muttered to myself. Out loud, I said, “Hey. How are you, kid?”
“It’s Jake. Jake Hannity. Remember, we met yesterday?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Sorry, your name slipped my mind. I’m getting old.”
“What does that make me, then?” the uniformed cop he sat with asked. The guy looked to be older than I was, but a single chevron on his sleeve told me that he was only a pat
rolman. I immediately wondered if this was a second career for the guy or if he’d been busted more than a few times.
“Detective, this is my partner, Liam Tidewell,” Jake introduced the older officer.
“Don’t be trying to turn Jake into some type of hero, Detective,” Tidewell said after I shook his hand.
“I’d never do that. Easiest way to get yourself killed is to try and be a hero.”
“Heroes don’t live long in New Orleans,” Tidewell agreed. “How the hell are you still alive?”
Something about this guy immediately rubbed me the wrong way. “Sheer, dumb luck. You gentlemen have a nice lunch.”
I went to my table, which was only one table removed from theirs. Too close for comfort. When I sat, I noticed Tidewell looking right at me. I stared back.
After a few seconds Teagan sat down across from me.
“Hey, Zach.”
“Good afternoon, Teagan,” I replied, still staring at Tidewell’s ugly face.
She half turned and then looked back at me. “Is there something going on?”
I gave it another second before tearing my eyes away from the patrolman to look into Teagan’s hazel eyes. “No. Everything’s fine. Just cop stuff.”
She glanced over her shoulder again and snorted. “Yeah, right. What’s going on between you two?”
“I honestly don’t have any clue. I met his partner yesterday, the kid’s a rookie and wanted me to sign his citation booklet. Then today, the older guy got bitchy about me putting thoughts of being a hero in the rookie’s head. I didn’t do that shit.”
“Some guys can’t handle being face-to-face with their own inadequacy.”
She was probably right. “You know, for a kid, you’re smart as hell.”
“I’m not a kid, Zach. I’m half a semester away from graduating college.” She made air quotation marks as she said, “And then I’ll be a certified ‘real adult’ as you call it.”
Teagan and I had had our ups and downs over the years. She started working at the Pharaoh almost four years ago, taking on the challenge of being my daily waitress, and we’d quickly developed a friendship. I was more comfortable around her than any other female in the world—and then the bottom had dropped out of my perception of reality last October.
