by David Archer
He showed her his ID. “Ms. Lightner, I'm Inspector Hansen with CDPA. I'm hoping you can tell me more about the man who attacked you.”
The girl looked at him for a moment, then lowered her eyes. “I already gave my statement to the trolls—I mean the patrol officers.”
Hansen nodded. “Yes, ma'am, I read it,” he said, “but I'm hoping you can give me more information about the attacker himself. Did you get a look at his face? Notice anything peculiar about him?”
Patricia shook her head for a moment, but then shrugged. “I didn't see his face, it was dark in that room. He just dragged me in there, told me he'd kill me if I screamed, and then—then he did what he wanted to do. The only thing—the only thing peculiar was that he kept saying no one would believe me if I told on him, because the trolls already think they got him.”
“What about his size, how big a man was he?”
“Well, he was just a little taller than me, I'd say about five nine, five ten? He wasn't a really big guy, but I can tell you he was pretty strong.”
Hansen looked at her for a moment, then asked, “Did you know Professor Pace? He taught history at the University until just recently.”
“Yeah, I knew him, I took his course. I saw all the stuff on the news about him, they said he was the rapist, right? But he's still locked up, isn't he?”
“Yes, he's definitely locked up. What I'm wondering is, if he wasn't locked up, would you think this was him? Would this guy have reminded you of Professor Pace?”
Patricia shrugged. “I don't know, maybe. Do you think maybe Professor Pace didn't really do it?”
Hansen shook his head. “No, I'm sure he was guilty, but what I'm thinking is that we may have a copy cat running around, someone who wants us to think we got the wrong guy. Is there anything else you can tell me about your attacker?”
The girl shook her head again. “No, just what I told you. He kept saying it wouldn't matter if I told, because no one would believe me. He said the trolls all think they got him, so they wouldn't believe me.”
Hansen assured the girl that he did believe her, then went to the nurses' station down the hall. He showed his ID once more, and one of the nurses asked what she could do for him.
“The Lightner girl, has the rape kit already been sent out?”
“Yes, sir, that's our protocol. We seal it up and send it straight to the crime lab as soon as we get it. They've had it for about an hour, they probably already have the results back.”
Hansen thanked the nurse and left the building, grabbing another Uber and directing the AI to take it to the CDPA crime lab that was on the same level. The ride took only four minutes, and he fought the door again when he arrived. When he finally got out of the car, he rushed into the lobby, presented his ID and demanded the results on Patricia Lightner's rape kit.
The receptionist told him to wait just a moment, and a lab tech came to get him only two minutes later. He followed the tech into the lab, asking, “Have you run the DNA on that kit yet?”
The tech smiled. “Sure did, and it's a perfect match for the other three.”
Hansen felt the chill again. “A perfect match? Are you certain?”
The smile on the technician's face turned grim. “Absolutely. You people arrested and convicted the wrong man. Your University Rapist is still out there.”
“That's impossible,” Hansen said. “The evidence was overwhelming, we…”
“I don't think your evidence was all that overwhelming,” the tech said. “We tried to tell you people, a ninety-six percent match on DNA means that the sample could match as many as three or four thousand people in this arcology alone. Why the court still allows a four percent margin of error, I don't know. It's ridiculous, and using it means that innocent people get sent to their deaths.”
Hansen left the lab and returned to his office, sitting behind his desk in a mild shock. Was it possible he had actually convicted the wrong man? An hour earlier, he would have said no, but now he couldn't help but wonder.
He called up his HD and found the email he had received from Inspector Pennyfarthing. He read through it again, to see if there was any possibility he might have misinterpreted what it said, but he had not.
Quickly, he typed a reply.
Inspector Pennyfarthing,
It has just come to my attention that another rape has occurred matching the MO of the previous university attacks, and the crime lab says the recovered semen DNA matches the previous samples perfectly. I cannot help but wonder if your assessment of Professor Pace might have been an error.
Please advise at your earliest convenience. If I have sent an innocent man to Justice Net, I have only a very small window in which to retrieve him before his first fight.
Respectfully yours,
Inspector Lewis Hansen
He poked the send button and then sat back to wait for an answer. Pennyfarthing was in Z, and should be available.
Haywood Pennyfarthing was available, all right, in the person of Inspector Martin James. An icon on his holo-tab was blinking after it chimed softly, telling him that Pennyfarthing had received an email. He quickly made sure no one was close, then logged into his HD and Pennyfarthing's account.
He read the email, and then felt a chill of his own. If anyone went after Hansen for a wrongful conviction on Pace, there was no doubt he would try to shove the blame off on Pennyfarthing, and when no Haywood Pennyfarthing could be found in the Special Unit, someone would start looking at those emails. Martin felt that he had done a good job of covering his tracks, but he knew there were IT guys out there that could run rings around him. If they went looking, they would trace Pennyfarthing right back to him.
He couldn't let that happen. As Pennyfarthing, he used a Special Unit stealth protocol to get into the crime lab computers and found Patricia Lightner's rape kit results. Two minutes later, they only matched the previous rapes by eighty-nine percent, a very common margin of error. He ran a complete search of all the crime lab staff accounts, just to be sure the techs hadn't stashed any information elsewhere, but found nothing. He logged out of the crime lab, then sent a reply to Hansen.
Inspector Hansen,
I have reviewed the crime lab files on this new rate, and have determined that whoever told you it was a match was seriously in error. I compared the DNA coding myself, and find it to be less than ninety percent similar to the previous samples.
I do not think you have anything to worry about. There is no doubt that Professor Pace is guilty, and is paying for his crimes.
Sincerely,
Inspector Haywood Pennyfarthing
Martin hit the send button and quickly logged out. He sat there for a couple of minutes, wondering if he could do anything to further distance himself from Pennyfarthing, but such things were beyond his abilities. The only thing he could do would be to hope that Hansen would double check those results for himself, and be satisfied.
Back at the university station, Hansen received the reply. His eyes bugged out when he saw Pennyfarthing's assessment of the results, so he logged into the crime lab and took a look for himself.
How in the world that technician had gotten his numbers so mixed up was a mystery, but Hansen breathed a sigh of relief. Like most policemen, he wasn't shy about using trickery to convict someone he knew was guilty, but the thought of sending an innocent man into Justice Net always haunted him. He had read stories about officers who had been involved in such wrongful convictions, and most of them ended up in trouble themselves. With Pennyfarthing's emails, though, Hansen was sure that he could have shown that he had every reason to believe he was correct about Pace.
Still, it was a relief to know that he hadn't been wrong. He could sleep with a clear conscience, knowing that he put a terrible man away so that he could never hurt anyone else again.
Now all he had to do was find that copycat.
* * * * *
Martin grabbed an Uber and had it take him to Charlotte's place. She had agreed to let him
take her out for dinner that night, and was ready when he got there. They climbed in together and went to an Applebee's franchise on Thirty-Six. There, Martin carefully engaged her in conversation, watching her mood for any sign that she was having second thoughts.
None were visible. Charlotte was laughing and obviously enjoying herself in his company. He told her a bit about some of his current cases, which fascinated her, and then eased into the topic of his home.
“Did I tell you I have a robot? Well, I do, but not one of those that looks human. Some of my friends have those, but to me they're just compensating for the fact they can't find a real woman. Mine is called Honey, but that's just my little joke. I like to yell out, 'Honey, I'm home,' whenever I get there. It's programmed to always meet me at the door with a drink.” He grinned.
Charlotte smiled. “I guess a robot is okay,” she said, “especially for things like housework, I hate doing housework. Cooking, though, or getting my man a drink? Those are things I like to do myself. Do you think the robot would be jealous?”
“Not a bit,” Martin said. “I'd love to show you my place—would you like to see it?”
“Sure, that would be great. Oh, wait, do you think I'm moving too fast for you? I mean, I know you're not asking me to move in, or anything like that, but I don't want you to think I'm trying to push you in that direction, either.”
Martin reached across the table and took her hand. “I'm not going to suggest that, not yet, anyway,” he said. “But I would be a liar if I said I didn't hope that we end up there sometime soon. I'm guessing that your current apartment still holds a lot of memories? Perhaps it's time to put them behind you.”
He watched her closely, reading her facial expressions and body language, but he saw no sign that she was becoming upset.
“Are you serious?” Charlotte asked. “Is that really something you would want, for me to move in with you?”
Martin kept his face passive, but nodded. “I would like that very much,” he said, “but not until you’re ready for it.”
Charlotte looked into his eyes for a long moment, then smiled again. “Like I tried to tell you last night,” she said, “I suspect strongly that I would have left Carson for you at some point, even if he had come home and everything was okay. I realize we haven't known each other that long, and maybe you'll think I'm just being crazy, but I've reached the point that I don't think I can live without you in my life. Does that scare you at all?”
“Not even a little bit,” Martin said, his own smile spreading wide again. “Would it scare you if I said that I hope to ask you to marry me, someday?”
Tears suddenly began streaming down Charlotte's face, and Martin thought for a second he had blown it, but then he realized that she was still smiling. “Oh, Martin,” she said, “I have dreamed of you asking me that question. I want to say something, those three little words, but I'm afraid I'll scare you off and you'll go running out the door. I think maybe I'm moving too fast, but I've already learned that I can't control my heart.”
Martin leaned forward, trying to make the moment as romantic as possible. “Three little words? By any chance, would those words be the same ones that are going through my mind right now?”
Charlotte stared at him for a full minute, her body trembling. Finally, she opened her mouth and spoke.
“I love you, Martin James,” she said.
“And I love you, Charlotte Reynolds. And my home is simply waiting for you, because it will be so much more of a home when you live there with me. Again, I'm not trying to rush you…”
“Oh, but I'm ready,” Charlotte said. “You're so right, the apartment is so full of Carson's memory that it stifles me, it makes it hard to breathe sometimes. It's almost like I can still feel him there, but I can't find him, and even if I did it would only lead to more heartache, because my heart is no longer his.”
Martin smiled, and pressed her hand between both of his. “Then why don't we stay there tonight, at my place, and we can begin moving your things tomorrow?”
She rose from her seat and rushed around the table, kissing him with such passion that other patrons of the restaurant either stared or applauded.
TWENTY-THREE
“Do you ever wonder about the people you left behind?” Carson asked the next morning at breakfast. “My DP, Charlotte, I think about her all the time. I know her pretty well, and she's sitting around the apartment, probably crying all the time. I wish there was a way I could tell her to let go and move on with her life.”
Roscoe grinned at him across the table. “I'd say the best thing to do would be to win your first fight, give her a little hope that you'll come home.”
Carson gave him a rueful smile. “She probably won't even watch the fight, might not even hear about it. And besides, just because I might win one fight doesn't mean I win them all. Seventy fights! Good God, how can anyone survive seventy fights?”
“Hey! You talking about me, now! I done made it through fifty of them, and I plan to make it through the last twenty. Ain't nobody taking me down, that much I can promise you!”
Carson chuckled. “Man, I wish I had known about you when I was out there. I would have made a fortune, betting on you.”
Roscoe reached over and smacked him in the back of his head, but not very hard. “What you wish is that you had somebody out there to bet on you,” he said. “These dicks gonna make a lot of money on you next week, they all expect you to win.”
Carson shoveled some scrambled eggs into his mouth, and rolled his eyes. “Well, hopefully,” he said after he swallowed, “I won't disappoint them. Hey, what happens if they tell Lou Malkovich they're betting on me? Won't he be expecting me to be tougher than the average newbie?”
Roscoe shook his head. “Ain't nobody gonna tell him, they'd be shooting off their own foot. One of the things we're allowed to do is refuse the first opponent they schedule. If he finds out they're betting on you, he might refuse to fight you. If he does, any bets they already placed get forfeited. They won't tell him.”
Carson thought about that for a moment. “You mean, if they schedule me against somebody I don't think I can beat, I can refuse to fight him?”
“Yeah, but only the first one. Whoever they schedule you for next, you stuck with him. Most of the time, if you refuse one, they give you somebody worse instead.”
“That's so they can be pretty sure you'll die, and they can bet on the other guy,” Johnny said. “They don't think much about it. To them, we're all dead men as soon as we get here. Doesn't seem to bother them to decide when we die.”
“Must be a nasty job,” Carson said. “I'm kind of surprised they find enough people to fill all the positions. Must pay pretty well, right?”
Roscoe looked at him, with his eyes wide. “Pay well? These people have to buy they way into their jobs. How much you think it would be worth, to know who’s most likely to win each fight? They don't get paid, they make they money by betting. That's why they're so willing to rig a fight sometimes, so they can make a killing by knowing who will get killed, and who won't.”
“But I thought you said it was the Shadow Cage people who rig the fights. What do the guards, I mean the dicks, what do they have to do with it?”
Johnny smiled grimly. “The Cage sets up fights, that's true, but whenever a fight isn't under their control, then the dicks can do whatever they want. Take you, for instance. If the Cage wasn't looking over their shoulder at you, they could take Lou Malkovich the night before your fight and beat the shit out of him. That way, he'd be an easy kill for you the next day. They put a big bet on you, when you've got pretty long odds, and they make a bunch of money.”
“Yeah,” Roscoe said. “Lucky for you, whoever your friend is back home has some pull with the Cage. The Dicks ain't going to mess with you, not unless the Cage lets you go.”
“I still wish I knew who that was,” Carson said, “my friend back home. I've tried and tried to think of who it could be, but I don't know anybody with any kind of
pull.”
“Okay, okay, enough bullshit,” Roscoe said. “Let's get back to work. We only got three more days to work you, you fight on Thursday. Ain't nobody allowed to work out the day they fight. If they catch us, we all get beat.”
They turned in their trays, and started toward their usual workout area. A crowd was already gathering to watch, and Roscoe scanned the faces he saw there.
“You got you a groupie,” he said after a moment. “That babe over there, the one with the blue hair.”
Carson looked at the girl he had indicated, but shrugged. “I don't know her,” he said. “Why do you say she's a groupie?”
“She was watching yesterday, too, and every time you put somebody down, she get all excited. You want you some of that, she give it up. You can take her to your room after supper tonight if you want, long as she out and back in her room by curfew.”
Carson's eyebrows shot up. “What, you mean you think she'd…”
Johnny laughed. “You don't think we go without, do you? Usually, the bitches make you wait till after you've won a fight, but that one, she's got the hots for you right now.”
Carson shook his head. “Sorry, man, I'm still hoping somebody back home will figure out I don't belong here, and I can go home to my DP. We were planning on being married sometime soon, so I don't think she take too kindly to me having some other girl in here.”
“So don't tell her, even if you get to go home. You don't honestly believe she's going to sit home and pine away for you for the next year and a half, do you? That's how long you'll be here, pretty much, even if you win every fight.”
Carson grinned at him. “You don't know Charlotte,” he said. “If I make it, she'll still be there waiting for me.”
* * * * *
Martin took the day off and hired a truck from Google. He and Charlotte went to her apartment and began packing everything up, and had most of it boxed up by the time the truck arrived. Martin carried everything out and loaded it in the truck, while Charlotte continued packing. By just after lunchtime, they were finished.
