To Obey

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Susan considered disconnecting, leaving him to worry, but that seemed counterproductive. In the future, the police would never relay any information over Vox, forcing her to come to the station for every little piece of information. Although with the investigation closed from their standpoint, they have no real reason to call me anymore. “I’m here,” she reassured him. “I’m just thinking.” It seemed futile to demand more information, but she did need a few additional answers only he could give her. “I’ll be down to see that form. In the meantime, could you tell me the name of the ME who signed off on it?”

  Several moments passed, which only made Susan more suspicious. It should only take an instant to read off a name.

  Finally, Jake replied. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t make out the signature. I do know the body was delivered to Foder and Massey Funeral Home at 152 Twelfth Street. You should be able to make arrangements there.”

  “All right.” Susan prepared to disconnect, but had one last question. She tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Just out of curiosity, which morgue performed the autopsy?” This time, the detective could hardly claim difficulty reading it. The name would surely appear at the top of the form in large-print letters. She half expected him to say Manhattan Hasbro Hospital, to catch him in an obvious lie.

  “It’s stamped Milton Helpern Institute of Forensic Medicine at New York University and bears the seal of the New York City Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”

  “Thank you,” Susan said, not knowing enough about mortuaries, morgues, and medical examiners to make any assumptions about the information. She disconnected and flopped back into her seat, considering her next step. Was it really possible her father had grown a massive brain tumor without her noticing a single sign? She tried to recall a laughed-off stumble, a lapse in memory, words garbled or misspoken, any indication he suffered from headaches or nausea.

  Susan could not recall even one incident, could not remember her father ever acting sick in any way, at any time. He had always been extraordinarily healthy. In fact, other than the year he spent in rehabilitation after the accident that had killed Susan’s mother, she could not recall him suffering from sniffles or sneezes or ever visiting a doctor, other than for routine checkups. He was either the healthiest person she knew or just good at hiding his aches, pains, and maladies. Still, could a person, even one accustomed to hiding discomforts, control lapses in judgment, speech, and memory, as well as gradual balance imperfections and changes in mood or personality?

  As the glide-bus charged smoothly onward, Susan discovered other obvious and glaring inconsistencies. If the body had gone directly to the county medical examiner’s office, why was it logged into the Manhattan Hasbro system? Was it a police error? Had they somehow tagged another man’s decapitated corpse with her father’s name? Either way, why did the chief Pathology resident remember the body coming in but not leaving? Was it possible the body had gone to the county morgue first, the head was removed to examine the extensive injuries and the tumor, then the remainder of the body was accidentally taken to Manhattan Hasbro? Was the disappearance of the body an attempt to cover up a foolish mistake, an effort to preserve the integrity of the investigation? It seemed like an impossible coincidence that the same day John Calvin received a credible threat and left work early, he abruptly died of natural causes in strange circumstances, ones in which another person was inexplicably shot and killed.

  Susan shook her head. The information she had thus far received did not fit together in any logical way. Clearly, she needed more information, and she had every intention of getting it. The irony reached her at that moment. This time last year, she had found herself enmeshed in a deadly plot, wanting desperately to call the police but prevented from doing so by her father’s loyalty to Lawrence Robertson and U.S. Robots. This time, Robertson wanted her to involve the police as much as possible, yet they had closed their investigation. She would receive no further assistance from them, at least not without presenting them with enough evidence to reopen the case. To do that, she needed to perform some serious sleuthing.

  Susan departed from the glide-bus at the next stop and switched smoothly to the one that would take her back to the home she had shared, until two days ago, with her father.

  Caramel-colored walls with neutral still-life paintings enclosed simple but elegant, red-cushioned chairs in the waiting area of the Foder & Massey Funeral Home. At Susan’s entrance, a young man looked up from an alcove desk, a wistful smile on his slightly off-kilter face. “Good afternoon, ma’am. It would be my pleasure to assist you.”

  Susan doubted it, but had to marvel at his ability to so carefully balance tone, expression, and movement. Either from training or instinct, he had the perfect manner for an attendant at a funeral home. She wondered if he radiated more warmth in his personal life. He seemed too young to have engraved such somberness into his psyche…yet. “I’m here to see my father’s remains.”

  “So sorry for your loss.” The young man sounded sincere. “Can you tell me your father’s name, please?”

  “Dr. John Calvin.”

  The receptionist stepped behind the desk and touched the keyboard multiple times. While he examined the screen, an older man opened a door beyond the alcove and peered out at Susan and the receptionist. “Is that Dr. Calvin?”

  The young man stopped typing. “Dr. Calvin’s daughter. Yes, sir.”

  The older man stepped up behind the receptionist. He had a headful of fine white hair that hugged his scalp, a heart-shaped face, and watery, dark eyes. “Also a doctor in her own right, as I understand.” He held out a hand to Susan. “I’m Chris Massey. I wish we could have met under more fortuitous circumstances.”

  Susan did not imagine this man met many people in any but the worst of circumstances. She clasped his hand and found her own enveloped in an enormous, firm grip. “I’ve come to see my father and make…arrangements.”

  “Yes, of course. Please step into my office.” Chris motioned Susan down a short hallway broken by several other doors and an open showroom, through which she could see several caskets, grave markers, urns, and memorials on shelves. She stepped inside a neat office with a single desk, multiple white chairs that looked brand-new, and a few tasteful pictures of animals. A shelf full of books and knickknacks lined one wall. Chris Massey motioned for Susan to sit in one of the chairs, and he selected one catty-corner to hers rather than retiring to his desk. Susan appreciated that. Her memories of confronting men from behind a shielding piece of furniture were not currently pleasant.

  The funeral director got right down to business. “Are you planning a wake, a memorial service, or a funeral?”

  The question surprised Susan, though it should not have. She had not given the matter any thought, having been more focused on the details of the death itself. “Well, actually, right now I’d really just like to see the body.”

  Chris Massey stared at Susan longer than politeness dictated. Apparently catching himself, he shook his head and cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

  “I’d like to see the body first,” Susan explained. “I’m still trying to figure out how he died.”

  Chris leapt to his feet, face reddening. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Calvin. I thought the police had already informed you…” He headed toward his desk, clearly mortified. “Usually either the doctors or the police handle all those details and—”

  Susan stopped him with a dismissing wave. “The police did talk to me. I just want to see for myself.”

  Chris mumbled something under his breath before plopping into his seat behind the desk and tapping at the touchboard of his desktop computer, ignoring several nearby palm-prosses. “It says here natural causes.” He looked up at Susan. “Prolonged seizures…brain tumor?”

  Susan sighed deeply. “I heard all that. I just want to see the body for myself.” She thought she had conveyed that information directly enough, so it surprised her when Chris remained silent behind his desk. “Mr. Massey?” she prompte
d. “Surely I’m not the first to want to see a loved one before the funeral.”

  “Of course not.” Chris seemed to regain his composure. “But you’re the first to ask to see the body after cremation.”

  Susan was standing before she realized she had moved. “Cremation!” She did not know much about the funeral business, had never had to deal with arrangements before, but she could not believe she did not get a say in how her father’s remains were disposed of. “Who decided that?”

  Chris turned the computer screen around to show her a legal page titled “Cremation Authorization Form.”

  Susan did not bother to scan the information, her gaze falling to the signature blank where her own name nestled in the same handwriting she used to sign off on medical reports. She collapsed back into her chair. “That’s my signature,” she admitted. “But I never saw that form, never signed it. How…?”

  Chris Massey moved swiftly to her side, took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze, just right for comforting. He had done this many times. “Dr. Calvin, it’s not uncommon in times of stress to forget—”

  “I didn’t sign that form.”

  “No one could blame you for doing things in a bit of a trance. After all, your father died, which is bad enough. But with the circumstances and the police and…” He didn’t seem to know how to end that sentence. Instead, he dropped to a crouch in front of her and waited for her to speak.

  Susan latched onto the pertinent. “So…it’s done. Nothing left but ashes.”

  Chris tightened his grip on Susan’s hand. “I’m sorry. You can still choose a casket, if you wish. Many people do.” Apparently misinterpreting the cause of her consternation, he added, “We also have a beautiful assortment of urns.”

  Susan wondered if being possessed of the urge to grab nearly every person she had spoken to that day and shake them until their brains rattled was a form of insanity. Here it would do her no good. Clearly a fraud had been perpetrated, but she had no reason to believe this man had had anything to do with it. He had simply followed the same orders he did every day. Threatening him, physically or legally, would not reconstruct her father’s body. “I need some time to process this. I’ll come back when I’ve given it more thought.”

  Chris also rose, dashing to her side before she could exit the office unaccompanied. “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss, Dr. Calvin. Please call before your next visit so I can make certain to be here for you.”

  “I’ll do that,” Susan promised, walking briskly back into the entryway and out the front door.

  Despite repairs in the past year from a nearby bomb blast, the unmarked building housing U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men still managed to appear drab and wholly gray. Susan ignored the simultaneous palm and retinal scanner her father had used to open the doors on her previous visit and tried to block out the details of that fateful day, since they revolved around the two men she loved most in the world, now both dead.

  Instead, Susan stood in front of the door and pressed a button resembling an old doorbell from the days before mini intercoms and the need for expert security systems on businesses not open to the general public. A female voice blared crisply from an invisible speaker. “Can I help you?” Then, apparently recognizing Susan through an equally invisible camera, she added, “Oh! Dr. Calvin.” The door whisked open to reveal a large, semicircular desk, behind which sat a sophisticated woman Susan’s father had introduced as Amara. As before, an enormous computer console partially obscured the secretary’s overly made-up face. She was shoving a piece of paper that read VISITOR into a plastic holder hung on a lanyard.

  Now live, the intercom voice greeted Susan pleasantly. “I’m so very sorry about your father. He was a brilliant and special man—one of the kindest I’ve ever known. The world is a far, far colder place without him.”

  Susan stepped inside, and the door whisked closed behind her. She accepted the badge from Amara and put it on. “Thank you,” she said politely, gaze sweeping the foyer. Familiar with the five-door configuration, she pinned her gaze on the second one, which bore the name LAWRENCE ROBERTSON. “I need to speak with Lawrence.”

  “Of course you do,” Amara said. “Just let me let him know you’re here.” She pressed a button behind the desk. “Lawrence, Dr. Calvin here to see you.”

  Amara tipped her head toward her left earspike, apparently listening to a reply. She spoke aloud, “Dr. Susan Calvin, sir. The daughter.”

  Amara met Susan’s gaze again. “He said to go right in.”

  Susan had expected nothing else from Lawrence Robertson. Her father’s college roommate, the genius behind the positronic brain, had always treated her kindly. She suspected he was like that with everyone, an unpretentious prodigy with not only a stellar scientific intellect but an equally bright social aptitude. Those two did not always go together, but they did in both Lawrence Robertson and John Calvin, which probably made them well suited as roommates as well as coworkers.

  Susan stepped around the desk and reached for the latch. Before she could trip it, the door opened to reveal Lawrence Robertson standing in the opening. He wore a friendly smile, clipped by circumstance, and more gray seemed to have blossomed around his temples since she had last seen him nearly a year ago. He had the same dark, wavy hair, large mouth, and rugged complexion.

  Susan closed the door. The instant she did, Lawrence caught her in an embrace. For several moments, they stood clamped together like father and daughter, no words passing between them. When the appropriate amount of time had passed, they released one another, and Lawrence waved vaguely toward several chairs. Susan accepted one, and Lawrence scooted another directly across from her, rather than sitting behind his desk.

  “How are you?” Lawrence asked.

  “Fine,” Susan said, knowing he would see through such an obvious lie. “Considering the circumstances.”

  Lawrence sighed deeply. “I’m devastated, Susan. I can only imagine you feel doubly so.”

  Susan simply nodded. She knew how close the two men had been, how her father had always looked upon Lawrence not only as a partner, but as a great man and a loyal friend. They had known and respected one another longer than she had lived. “Where’s Nate?”

  “What?”

  Susan had a natural ability to read expressions and tone that had steered her into the psychiatric profession. Further training made her certain she had heard a hint of disingenuousness in an otherwise startled question. “I can’t find N8-C. I thought you might know where he’d gone.” After visiting the funeral home, she had gone immediately to Manhattan Hasbro to seek out her mechanical confidant.

  “Gone?” Lawrence repeated, not quite casually enough. “He’s not relegated to a closet, you know. He’s probably off helping one of the doctors on a research project or with some paperwork.”

  “Is he doing that?” Susan asked directly, chasing Lawrence’s gaze.

  Lawrence remained evasive. “Why would you think I’d know that? I have no connection to the hospital.”

  “You don’t,” Susan agreed, “but I do, and I can’t find him. You do, however, have a connection to N8-C.” She was done playing games for the day, maybe forever. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Lawrence hesitated.

  “Don’t lie to me, Lawrence. I swear, I’m going to shoot the next person who lies to me, and I don’t want it to be you.”

  “All right. He’s here.” Lawrence finally met Susan’s gaze. “I was concerned about his safety.”

  “Why?” It was less a question than a demand.

  “Because the threat information we received about your father included Nate.”

  “The Society for Humanity,” Susan guessed. The antirobotic technology group had shown itself more than capable of deadly violence in the past.

  “Yes,” Lawrence stated, rising. The office had three doors: the one through which Susan had entered, another on the opposite wall, and a third on the wall between them. The last one had a standard turning knob, whi
ch suggested it was a closet or restroom. Lawrence walked to that last one and turned the knob. “And that’s why I want you safely away from here. Clearly, they’re the ones responsible for John’s death, and that’s exactly what I told the police, and you by Vox.”

  The door opened to reveal a small, clean restroom. Nate peered out. A grin split his all-too-human face. “Susan!”

  “Nate.” Susan could not help smiling as well, though the expression felt weird and inappropriate after the prior events of the day. She wanted to talk to the robot, but she would not miss the opportunity presented by Lawrence’s last remark. “Lawrence, do you think it’s even remotely possible my father died of natural causes?”

  Lawrence flinched, clearly startled, then rolled his gaze to Susan. “No,” he said abruptly. Then, as if to soften his delivery, he explained, “He was healthy as a horse, your father. Always.” His brow wrinkled. “Why are you asking? You think he had a heart attack from the stress of the threat?” Lawrence’s gaze flicked in so many directions, Susan could scarcely follow it. He licked his lips, rocked from foot to foot, all signs the conversation made him increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, he managed to focus. “Susan, I do not believe it’s possible your father died of natural causes. Why do you ask?”

  Susan watched him closely as she delivered the news. “Because that’s what the police just told me.”

  The look Lawrence turned her was transparent. Surprise and puzzlement freely mingled, then turned to deep contemplation. “Based on…”

  Susan obliged. “The alleged medical examiner’s report.”

  “Medical examiner’s report,” Lawrence repeated, a finger stroking his lower lip. He looked up suddenly. “Then I suppose we have to believe…” Something in Susan’s own expression stopped him. “Did you say ‘alleged’?”

  Susan glanced at Nate, who stood utterly still aside from his eyes, which moved from Susan to Lawrence and back in turn. “The ME’s report is a fake.”