by John Zakour
The crowd went crazy as Drang reached the end of the stage then spun around neatly, wiggled his hips and strutted back the curtain.
“They’re selling my dress,” Ona yelled.
“Zach are you still there?” Randy shouted over the interface. “I heard an explosion and now…are you in a nightclub?”
I was still dizzy from the explosion, deafened by the music and nearly blinded by the sight of Drang in one of Ona’s more revealing dresses, so it took nearly all my strength just to answer.
“I think I’m in hell, Randy.”
The crowd of virtual onlookers was still screaming and bidding wildly on the blue dress well after Drang had disappeared behind the curtain and Sturm had taken his place on the catwalk. His ensemble consisted of a pink jacket and skirt with some kind of electric orange top.
“Next on the list is the benignly bitchy jacket and harlot-humping skirt ensemble made famous by Ms. Thompson during this past spring’s funeral rave for the former President of New Brazil.”
“I was wondering where that outfit went.” Ona fumed. “I love that top. This is criminal.”
“Zach, you have to listen to me,” Randy shouted over the interface. “I found the poison. It was a designer toxin, specifically created to kill only the Thompson Quads. That’s why we couldn’t find it at first.”
“You mean it was in the wine?”
“We were checking the wine’s contents against the database of known toxins but this was an all new toxin, so it didn’t register. That’s why the wine tested clean.”
“I knew it,” I said. “I knew it was the wine.”
“But Zach, there’s something you need to know.”
“What?”
A series of explosions rocked the room just then as the space’s three remaining metal access doors blew apart. The walls shook from the shockwave and the spotlight stanchions fell to the stage in a cascade of sparks and smoke, narrowly missing Sturm and Drang. I looked up in time to see dozens of heavily armored police pour through each of the doors, weapons drawn, spotlights cutting the darkness and voices yelling to be heard above the music (until someone killed the power to the sound system and cut the song short).
“Police! Nobody move! Down on the floor! Hands above your head! Don’t make me eviscerate you!”
I felt more police enter from the door behind us and for a nano, I feared that I would drown in the maelstrom of testosterone-enhanced law enforcement. Then I looked up again and saw Tony striding quickly toward Ona and me.
“Captain, thank Gates you’re here,” Ona said, turning to meet Tony with a smile, gracious and beautiful. “These men tried to kill my sister. They tried to kill Zach as well and they’ve been wearing my clothes.”
Tony remained stone-faced as he approached and I knew then that something was very, very wrong.
“Zach, can you hear me?” Randy called from the interface, trying hard to be heard above the din. “There’s something you need to know about the poison.”
Tony reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a computer pad, which flashed an ominous looking document.
“Ona Thompson, you are under arrest for the murder of your sister, Foraa.”
“What?” Ona cried, her eyes wide with shock.
Tony didn’t hesitate. He nodded to one of his men who slapped electro-magnetic cuffs on her wrists.
“It was Ona,” Randy yelled, and his voice from the small speaker on my wrist echoed eerily throughout the suddenly silent room. “The poison came from Ona.”
40
I spent the evening back at my house, doing a post-mortem on the day. The police had taken Ona into custody with all the subtlety of a three-ring-circus and news of her arrest was wall to wall on all the networks (I found myself longing for the simpler days of the Bill Gibbon reports). Ona had summoned an army of lawyers and greeting card salesmen to her defense. I expected her to be arraigned at the Hall of Justice and out on bail by morning. But she was going to be charged with Foraa’s murder and that had always been the worst case scenario.
The Soons were arrested as well but not for their murder attempt on Foraa (there was no real proof of that), or for their attempt on my life (which Tony, apparently no longer considered a crime). They were instead arrested for performing illegal online auctions through the rogue network catering to fetishists, and dominant/submissives, O-Bay. They confessed shortly thereafter that they’d been stealing and selling Ona’s clothing for the past several years (referring to it as a sickness). Foraa had known about their clothing thefts and had threatened to expose them to Ona, which explained their attempt on Foraa’s life.
Their confession, by the way, was given not to the police but to an Oprah-droid before an audience of millions. By the time they were released on bail, they already had multi-figure ebook and MON (Movie of the Nano) deals for their story. All’s well that ends well, right?
Except this one wasn’t over for me yet, not by a longshot.
“The police forensics experts were with me when the results came in,” Randy said via the vidphone. “They notified Tony just as I was calling you.”
“And I couldn’t take your call at the time, because I was running for my life,” I replied. “What I don’t understand is where the poison came from.”
“As I said, it’s a designer toxin, keyed specifically to the DNA of the Thompson Quads.”
“So the wine wouldn’t kill you or I?”
“Exactly. We could drink it for a thousand years and the poison would have no effect on us. But if any of the Quads were to drink it…well, you saw what happened.”
“And the police arrested Ona…?”
“Because the toxin was created specifically from her DNA. It could come from nowhere else.”
“Could someone have created it by simply using her DNA?”
“The amount of poison in the wine would require a lot of DNA,” he said. “It’s not something you’re going to get by stealing a stray hair.”
“But it’s possible?”
“Zach, only Ona had access to the wine. The poison was created from her DNA. There’s a sum of evidence here.”
“But it’s possible that someone else could have engineered the poison by using Ona’s DNA, correct?”
“Yes, it’s possible,” Randy said reluctantly.
“Good. We should make sure her attorneys know that. HARV.”
“I’m on it, boss,” HARV said.
“Thanks again for everything you did, Randy. I owe you.”
“You mean that metaphorically, right?” Randy asked. “I shouldn’t bill you for my time, should I? Because it would be expensive.”
“Good night, Randy.”
“Good night, Zach.”
His image blinked off the screen. I took another sip of coffee and stretched my aching neck as HARV’s hologram appeared at the table beside me.
“If you don’t mind, boss, I’d like to do a little field work tonight.”
“On what?”
“Something Ms. Thompson said today gave me an idea that might help the coroner with the autopsy. Would you mind providing an introduction?”
“I have a feeling he needs all the help he can get,” I said. “Get him on the vid and we’ll set it up.”
Dr. Shake’s face appeared on the screen a nano later and I nearly spit my coffee when I saw him. His face was ashen, his chin was covered with stubble and his disheveled hair looked like a furry amoebae in the midst of asexual reproduction. But, as always, it was the eyes that really got me. They were the size of dinner plates (tired, bloodshot, insane dinner plates).
“Mr. Johnson, how are you tonight?”
“I’m fine, Doc. How are you?”
“Oh, you know, same old grind,” he said. “The same old, infuriatingly frustrating, purple-hued, large-breasted, nigh-invulnerable grind.”
“I take it that the autopsy isn’t really progressing well?”
“Autopsy?”
“Foraa Thompson.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, the autopsy. No, I’ve hit a bit of a snag there,” he said. “A real pickle. Right now I’m waiting for some repairs to be completed on the Vogon laser. It shorted out this afternoon. Should be another day or so. Until then I’m doing some scans and such, taking an outside-the-box approach.”
“Well, I think I might be able to help you,” I said. “Have you met my computer, HARV?”
“Good evening, Dr. Shakes,” HARV said from over my shoulder. “I’ve heard many things about you.”
“HARV would like to help you with the autopsy, if you don’t mind.”
“Do you have a Vogon laser?”
“Not exactly,” HARV said, “but I have a few ideas that might fall under your heading of ‘outside-the-box.’”
“What do you say, Doc?”
“I shouldn’t,” he said. “This is a limited access case. It’s very restricted.”
“It was restricted only because they were trying to keep news of Foraa’s death quiet. That’s sort of a moot point now.”
“That’s true.”
“And now that they’ve arrested a suspect, getting the autopsy report is going to become an even higher priority. The police and the DA are going to need the autopsy to make their case. That pressure’s going to come down hard on you.”
“That’s true as well,” he said. “Does HAL have any prior autopsy experience?”
“It’s HARV,” I said.
“I don’t have any actual experience, sir, but I’ve done extensive research in forensic medicine and I specialize in creative problem-solving.”
Shakes turned away from the screen and rubbed his chin in thought for a few nanos. I couldn’t be sure but I thought I saw his lips moving as well.
“Is he talking to himself?” I whispered to HARV.
“It would appear so.”
“That’s always a good sign. By the way, bit of a stretch there, with that creative problem-solving bit, don’t you think?”
“Hush,” HARV replied.
Coroner turned his attention back to the screen and smiled. “When can you get here, HAL?”
“It’s HARV, sir,” HARV said. “I need only a couple nanos to finish up some things here. After that, I can download to your system in a millisecond.”
“Great. Honestly, it will be nice to have another set of eyes with which to study this conundrum,” he said. “It’s like we say in the field, if point A leads to point B, just because you can see point B doesn’t necessarily mean that you can see A.”
HARV and I were still scratching our heads at that one when Coroner blinked off from the interface.
“That was odd.”
“Yeah, apparently a lot of weird things are said in the field.”
“What field is that exactly?”
“I really don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you ask him when you’re there. You sure you want to do this?”
“As I said, I have a couple of ideas that might assist him with the autopsy.”
“I’ll be able to get you if I need you right?”
“Oh yes,” HARV said. “Our interface is still attached to your brain.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I could even feed my experiences with the coroner back to you as they happen. It would be like watching something live on the net.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Fill me in on the highlights.”
“Will do. I just need to finish up a couple of tasks here then I’ll download to the Coroner’s office.”
“As long as your tasking, MARV, would you mind calling me a cab?”
We turned and saw Mom in the kitchen doorway. Her suitcase was by her feet and her coat was slung over her arm.
“Certainly, Ms. Johnson,” HARV said. “It should be here in approximately three minutes. I’ll notify you when it arrives.” And his hologram disappeared (but not before I heard the words “great Gates almighty, can’t anyone get my name right?”).
“You’re leaving?” I asked.
“I have to move on,” Mom said. “More business to attend to.”
“You’re never going to tell me what this business is, are you?”
“In due time, dear.”
“I’m sorry that we didn’t get much time together,” I said with an awkward shrug. “This case is just crazy. You should give me notice next time.”
“Next time,” Mom smiled. “Say goodbye to Electra for me. She’s a fine girl, you know. Don’t take her for granted.”
“Why would I take her for granted?”
“Well you’re not married.”
“I know that.”
“Then you’re taking her for granted.”
“I am not…did she say something to you?”
“I’m just saying, dear…”
“She thinks I take her for granted? Really? After everything we’ve been through?”
Mom gently took hold of my ears, bent me forward and kissed me on the forehead.
“You’re still my boy, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she smiled.
She turned and grabbed her suitcase.
“Mom?”
“What is it, dear.”
“I’ll call you when this is over,” I said. “Maybe I’ll even come to Rochester for a visit.”
“New New York is lovely this time of year.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll try.”
“Okay.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?’
“Did I ever tell you about this guy I met last year? The famous scientist who cloned his mother?”
“Why did he want two mothers?”
“He didn’t. His original mother was dead.”
“Oh my, he didn’t kill her, did he?”
“No, she died of old age. But the two of them didn’t get along well.”
“Then how can you be certain that he didn’t kill her?”
“Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Well, it’s not much of a story so far.”
“Forget it.”
“No, really, go on,” she said. “He didn’t kill her. He just cloned her. What happened then?”
“He lived with her in a nice house and tried to make her happy, I guess.”
“That sounds nice.”
“The problem is that she was a clone. Cloned bodies don’t last long and this one was very old to begin with so she died again. Less than a year later.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Funny thing is that when I saw the guy after that, he seemed okay with it. He actually seemed happy.”
“Oh,” Mom said. “You don’t think he killed her again, do you?
“Will you forget about him killing her? She was a clone and she died.”
“But he was happy to have spent some time with her?” Mom said.
“Yes, I think he was.”
“Well, he sounds like a very nice young man. A little insane, perhaps, but otherwise, very nice.”
“Yeah, well, I thought it was an interesting story, that’s all.”
“It is, Zach. It’s a good story.”
HARV’s hologram appeared by the door.
“Ms. Johnson, your cab is here.”
Mom smiled and picked up her coat. Then she turned and put a hand gently on my face.
“I’ll see you soon, Buttlebug.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom!”
“Oh, hush,” she said. “I’m your mother and I’ll call you anything I want. If you have a problem with that you can fix it when you clone me.”
She smiled and I did as well. Then she kissed me again. I carried her bag out to the cab and watched her wave as it took to the air and disappeared into the skyway. HARV appeared beside me and we watched the night sky together for a few nanos.
“You haven’t been sleeping well, boss.”
“How did you know that?”
“I
share a room with your subconscious. Kind of hard for me to miss something like that. It has me a little worried. The human mind needs to sleep.”
“I know. I’m not dreaming either.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not, HARV.”
“I’ve run scans during your brief periods of sleep. There’s brain activity. You’re clearly dreaming. You’re not remembering the dreams, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, it’s probably this DOSing interface in my head that’s screwing me up.”
HARV shook his head. “I’ve run over a million diagnostics in the past week. The interface is functioning fine. I think the problem is organic in nature.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Frankly, I think you need to work a few things out with your mother.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, HARV.”
“I’m merely stating the obvious.”
“I appreciate your input, Dr. Freud, but I thought you were going to the Coroner’s office.”
“I’m downloading right now. Call if you need me. Otherwise, you’ll see me in the morning.”
His hologram disappeared and for the first time in quite a while, I was alone. My client had been arrested, my investigation had reached a dead end, and I was afraid to go to sleep. So I didn’t.
I spent the next few hours awake in bed staring at the overhead computer screen, studying the symbols that Foraa had drawn in the wine.
Nothing about it seemed to make sense and I was starting to lose my patience with the whole mystery. So I was grateful, on a number of levels, when I heard Electra come through the front door and walk softly to the bedroom.
“You awake, chico?” she whispered, gently poking her head around the door jamb.
“I’m conscious,” I said. “That’s about the most I can say. How was the clinic tonight?”
“Hectic and frustrating,” she said, slipping into the bathroom. “But we made it through. I heard the news about Ona. I take it that’s bad for you?”
“Yeah, it’s never good for business when your client gets arrested. Oh, and Mom left tonight.”
