The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue

by Louis Shalako

  Gene and Francine laughed. Parsons had a point.

  Gene kept his voice down.

  “Mizz Blue. Are there any weapons, sharp implements, or explosive devices, fireworks, anything at all, that maybe I should know about in these suitcases?” Mr. Nettles’ knapsack had been curiously disappointing.

  She ignored him. Nettles turned to bellow.

  It was the first class compartment, about a third full of passengers, so anyone could hear him.

  “No, asshole.”

  There were a few chuckles from other passengers, male and female, (mostly human beings but one or two robots to be observed as well). No kids in there, and thank the good Lord Almighty for that.

  “Don’t mind him, ladies and gentlemen. He’s just having a bad day.” There were more laughs and whispers back and forth.

  “Dave.”

  “Ah, yes, sir.” Parsons reddened slightly and settled more firmly back into his seat as unobtrusively as possible.

  “Thank you, Mister Nettles.”

  Nettles shut up too.

  Passengers had initially been curious to see Nettles chained in the aisle seat, but it wasn’t so outlandish. Pretty much everyone had heard of the U.S. Marshalls and how they transported federal prisoners. It was actually pretty common fare in film and television, so they knew all about it.

  Having gagged down at least some of his own meal, after the service robot took his tray away, Gene’s boredom and curiosity got the better of him. Betty and Scott’s suitcases were on the seat beside him. On an impulse, he took that seat and with one bag on the floor, he put the other on the seat between him and Francine as Parsons goggled at it.

  Shouldn’t they wait for the lab? But the things had to be secured. What with finding a secure facility, body-searching the prisoners, signing them in, signing them out, then airport security, it had been just go-go-go for the last hour and a half. He glanced at his watch.

  Crikey! But it really was like that sometimes.

  “You can take some pictures if you like.”

  She just grimaced.

  He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

  Gene opened the first one, and quickly rifled through it.

  “All clothes. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Oh, look.” He held up a box clearly labeled theatrical makeup. “Hmn. I wonder if that was used in the commission of an indictable offence.”

  “Nice.” Francine noted the presence of some grubby-looking rubber masks.

  They were underneath everything.

  “Hmn.” Gene put it all back for later analysis and then set that one aside.

  He put the other case up.

  “It’s not even as heavy as the first one.”

  On opening the bag, he began pulling out what were clearly tools or instruments of a kind.

  One of them was a simple, phone-sized device with a glass bead seated in a round orifice, and a big slot on one end.

  “Huh!” Parsons nodded sharply. “That’s what all the best car thieves are using these days. It’s infrared. There’s probably a small, serrated bar on the other end---here, let me show you.”

  Gene passed it over.

  Parsons squinted, eyeing up the back side of it, and then with a small click they saw it extend.

  “What’s that?”

  Dave handed it over.

  “You shove that into the door-lock, and tiny sensors reconfigure the metal in the probe to resemble the original key. All the while, the device is interrogating the car’s chip, hacking in through that avenue, and it’s, ah, pretty amazing what they can actually do. One way or another, they’re getting in.”

  According to Dave, the probe would open anything that accepted a key or had a simple, consumer-type code access. You only got so much security for your dollar. There was a slot on the other end for reading cards, and then a fake card was created using the same ID codes. This could be inserted into certain card readers, but all the major bank machines and ATMs were apparently wise to them. Smaller retail operations would be the targets. If a thief opened a car, and found a purse, they were smart enough not to steal the card. Hence, the victim often didn’t know the car had been entered and the card copied. It was only when they got their end of the month bill or checked their balance that the shocking spend was revealed.

  That’s what the fraudsters called it—a spin or a spend, depending on what part of the country you were in.

  The creative criminal just found other ways, he said. These days everyone’s device accepted data from cards, sticks, probes, and once you got into the home computer, or their personal account somewhere, all you had to do was to hack the passwords and PIN numbers. The average person didn’t pay enough attention to that sort of thing, Dave explained.

  Her mouth opened as she examined the thing. Her eyes slid over to Gene.

  “This probably belonged to the original thief.”

  “Yeah—maybe. But she impresses me as the flexible type. I mean, in her planning.” The fact was that the pair had eluded them for days, and in the ordinary, run of the mill type of criminal activity, that just didn’t happen.

  The system might not detect a crime. It might not identify a suspect. Not all crimes got reported or recorded. But when they did, the system was pretty good about finding someone when they wanted them.

  The nightly news was jammed with coverage of pursuits, high-speed chases, and then there were all of the reality-based TV shows where these incredibly stupid people were getting picked off all over the place. It was a funny thing, but people never seemed to learn.

  “What in the hell is that?”

  He passed over a small plastic case with some kind of child-proof fastening. Parsons fiddled with it, as Gene pulled out more black boxes. These were a little more obscure, although a pad with a manual key-pad and a handful of adapter cords looked interesting. He wondered what in the hell that was for, but the adapters would fit just about anything electronic. One cord had what looked like a programmable bank card on the end.

  “Hmn. Nice.”

  Parsons cussed. Gene looked over in time to see the case had popped open and what looked like multi-coloured diodes or transistors, coded in finely-hued stripes, as they flew up in the air in what would have been comedic except they really ought to preserve the integrity of their chain of evidence.

  “Shit! Make sure you don’t lose any.” Gene suppressed a grin.

  There was no telling how it would go, but they had plenty of material evidence. A rational explanation of Betty’s behaviour, (and Mister Nettles’ for that matter) would have been nice. But it wasn’t essential to a conviction. He had a long list of potential charges, and that was always useful.

  More than anything, he would like to get them talking.

  Simple possession of any of these devices was enough for a good stretch.

  Sitting twelve feet away was Scott Nettles. That one would talk—he was almost sure of it.

  Jammed in against the window on this wide-bodied jet, Betty Blue, shackled by metre-long chains to the frame of her seat, stared straight ahead and ignored everything that went on around her.

  He wondered just what she was thinking right about then. If Parson’s little thingies were what he thought they were, blank human ID chips, then that equipment must have come from somewhere else. Car-thieves tended to specialize. It was the key to survival and they really didn’t bother with complex and overly-dangerous sidelines.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Forty-eight hours had gone by. Gene felt refreshed, after a couple of good sleeps, a proper shave, and some real food. Hyper-lag was a bitch. He’d kind of forgotten that as he didn’t travel so much these days. There was some unfinished business to take care of.

  Gene MacBride sat across from Scott Nettles in Interview Room Four. Nettles looked oddly comfortable in the orange coveralls and red slippers. The face had character, except when he got angry and it all twisted up like a raisin on PCP.

  “I just want you to know that you’re not in any trouble.”


  “Huh.”

  Bullshit.

  The thought was written all over Mister Nettles’ face and body, as he sat there with arms crossed and one ankle up on the other knee.

  “Seriously. We see you more as kind of a victim here…”

  “Fuck off.”

  Gene suppressed a laugh.

  Good for you, sir.

  Never give up one iota of your power, Mister Nettles.

  Thank you, God, for allowing me to witness this moment.

  “I’m a police officer. We’re just here to help you, sir.”

  Even Gene heard the soft hack of Francine’s cough on the other side of the partition, with its obligatory one-way glass panel, dark and smoky and looking like Scott’s tired but angry brown eyes. Scott’s eyebrows climbed but he said nothing.

  “Anyway, Mister Nettles, your property will be returned to you. We’ll have a constable help you with that, and there is a bus stop right out front.”

  Nettles still had a pair of tens as Gene recalled from the case notes. With the workload, it was amazing how yesterday’s novelty was today’s passé.

  Scott Nettles sat there in disbelief, a frozen look on his face.

  With the benefit of two full days of news coverage, it had become patently obvious that some of their fears had been groundless. A prominent singer had just delivered triplets in conjunction with her new three-album boxed set (all part of the promotional campaign, suspected Gene) and the world was simply moving on. There were real crises looming on the horizon and all of this would be quickly forgotten. That disturbed him, but he wasn’t an ethicist. No one disputed that robots had a kind of self-awareness, a kind of identity. In more than one interview, the rather creepy looking Doctor Piqua had simply evaded the question of whether Betty Blue had the right to self-determination.

  I’m not an ethicist. I just build them, Piqua had said.

  He was letting everyone else do the talking, the defining of the terms and the setting of the agenda.

  Gene stood.

  “So that’s it, then?”

  “Yes, Mister Nettles. We would appreciate it if you were available to answer any further questions that we might have—I always like to leave the door open like that, but that’s just the normal duty of a citizen…I don’t expect too much to come out of it.”

  “But—but. But—what about my kid?”

  “I’m sorry, Mister Nettles. That, is a matter for other authorities. It’s out of my hands—and none of my concern…” Yeah, and maybe you and Betty should have thought of that earlier.

  But Human Services were all over the unborn child like a dirty shirt. On balance, a recently-founded foundation was lobbying all over the Hill on behalf of Betty’s right to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

  “What—fuck you! God damn you all to hell! What about all that stuff I stole—what about all the God-damned crimes I committed…?” Scott was furious.

  In here, there was a chance of sneaking a message to her. He’d already tried to get on the laundry work team, but had been turned down. It wasn’t a real jail, just a holding facility and things really didn’t work that way. Scott Nettles was an idiot in several ways. Gene could read him like a book, and it was all so unnecessary.

  “Mister Nettles.”

  Scott was going on. The man certainly had an impressive vocabulary. Gene winced and reddened slightly when Scott turned from the state and the system and the world and humankind in general and started in on him, personally.

  “Mister Nettles.” Gene broke in during a pause for breath as Nettles ran out of air, beet-red in the face and glowering blindly at him. “You’re blind. You are simply not capable of committing all the crimes you are describing. No jury in the land would convict you. My colleagues and I are agreed on that much at least…relax. Get over it. Go home. Get on with your life.”

  “Argh! What about Betty—you fucking son of a bitch.”

  Gene reminded himself that a paranoid person was a suffering person. One had to make allowances.

  “Scott. You can’t help Betty Blue—or your child, when you’re sitting on the inside of a jail cell.” There were a million people, some of them pretty good lawyers, all wanting to talk to Mister Nettles.

  It wasn’t Gene’s job to give the man advice, legal or otherwise.

  A shudder of emotion went through that thin frame and then the man got a hold on his emotions.

  Fuck the world. The knowledge that he was powerless was devastating. To know that he simply didn’t matter in the equation.

  Scott slumped in resignation, head going back and forth, no, no, no, and jaws working. He was near tears. Gene had a moment of remorse.

  “Aw, fuck.” Scott slumped forward and put his head in his hands.

  “Thank you, Mister Nettles. Now let’s see about getting you out of here.”

  As Nettles clambered unsteadily to his feet, Gene took him by the elbow and led him to the doorway.

  He stood there, breathing heavily, as Gene opened up. Scott was clearly on edge and emotionally flabbergasted. Probably thought they were going to gas him or something.

  “Tom?” A uniformed officer cooling his heels on a hard plastic bench, flipping mindlessly through a garden magazine, looked up.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you take the gentlemen down, please? He’s, uh, legally blind and needs help getting out of here. See if we have a stick or a cane in Lost and Found.”

  Throwing the magazine aside, the officer hastened over to take Scott and the paperwork proffered by Gene.

  “Yes, sir.” Anything that would get him off that bench for a while.

  “Thanks, Tom. And goodbye, Mister Nettles. God bless, and good luck to you in all things.”

  It was nothing more and nothing less than he would have said to any other citizen under similar circumstances.

  ***

  “Good morning, Miss Blue.”

  “Good morning, Inspector MacBride.”

  “Please call me Betty—or Missus Nettles.”

  Gene smiled in spite of his inner misgivings.

  “I hope you’ve been getting enough of the, ah…precious bodily fluids.” He didn’t know what else to call them, but her needs were a bit out of the ordinary and there was the baby to consider. “…while you have been our guest.”

  “Yes. Thank you. It’s all been very nutritious.” She was expressionless, and yet always that sense of menace.

  He had to admit the reaction was not unique. Gene cut quite the authority figure when he had to. She would be defensive as all hell.

  “So, anyways. Betty, ah, we’ve been sort of consulting back and forth, with your, ah, former employer—and the, uh, other authorities…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I wonder if I might ask you one or two questions?” He tried desperately not to be overly threatening.

  All he wanted was a few answers.

  Yes, she was in trouble—of sorts, and yes, he had the power to cause her and Scott endless torment.

  For what?

  For what, he asked her.

  “No comment.”

  “Yeah—exactly.” He cleared his throat. “No comment. Hmn.”

  She wouldn’t let his eyes go, and so he dropped them of his own accord, to the table top, where his hands lay neatly folded.

  “Are there other robots like you, Betty?”

  Somewhere out there in the world? Did they help you? Were they watching out for you, defying their human masters, feeding you data and holding it back from the authorities?

  Was this some mad impulse on her part, or part of some larger agenda…? That was the really scary part.

  She stared right through him. That didn’t exactly help her case or ease his anxiety.

  Is this a malfunction, Betty Blue? Or is it something more?

  Are you the first of many, Betty Blue?

  “No comment.”

  It was possible she didn’t know. It was possible that she had acted entir
ely on her own, based entirely on her own feelings, and maybe it wasn’t a malfunction, either.

  In which case why not just say so?

  She was aware of the issues.

  And smart enough not to give him anything…

  Hmn. Interesting.

  Gene was calm, cool and collected.

  Like a cucumber.

  “I’m prepared to release you right now, Miss Blue. No strings attached. However, I have just one small request.”

  His eyes came up again, and hardened.

  “It’s all been very fascinating. Really. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, young lady.” The publishers were clamoring for their story—her and Scott.

  Life didn’t seem very fair, sometimes.

  He smiled, slowly, lasciviously, making it as hard as he could for her. It was the only revenge he was likely to get.

  It was the only revenge for a forgotten life.

  The smile faded.

  “Missus Cartier would desperately like to hear from you, Betty. I think she misses you.”

  For the first time, Betty’s eyes changed. They defocused or something, no longer looking deep into his soul and finding him wanting in some way, but through him—off into the future, but not very far, somewhere close by, perhaps.

  She was right back with him, though.

  “She wants me to call her?” She had a half-witted look of dumbstruck humour on her otherwise smooth visage.

  “Yes. Please call the Cartiers. Admittedly, your call may be monitored. Strictly for quality-control purposes, of course…”

  They couldn’t have people swearing at each other over the phone now, could they? That one was still mostly just a fine, although there was talk of a crackdown from certain quarters. Zero-tolerance. Well-meaning as those folks often were, it was getting to be a real pain in the ass at times. Not all human actions were culpable, nor did they require the total legislative approach.

  Not that anyone cared what Gene’s opinion was. He was just a cop, and hopefully, a good one.

  She nodded, once…or twice.

  “Very well. Good. And just so you know, we’ve been talking to the prosecutor, and the company, and the insurance people, as well as the gangstas (she coloured a bit here), and the car-theft victims. They’re all going to receive damages. Paid for by the Cartiers, in some private little settlement with the SimTech people and the insurance company. They have a very good lawyer. I understand there’s a hefty deductible, but that’s all been taken care of.”