EQMM, September-October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You'd think, wouldn't you, with the whole country in a state of uproar and confusion, all politics stood on its head, that we could occupy our time better than arguing about where Marks and Spencer's had their beginnings."

  "If you weren't such a daft idjit,” came my mother's voice, “you'd know what every household in Britain knows: that it was Nottingham."

  There was silence. Then suddenly a loud, sickening thud.

  "I knew they never got on,” the neighbour said. “Everyone knew that. But I never expected it to come to this. And I'd always admired that big copper preserving pan hanging near the fireplace."

  The business took three days, but it was police bureaucracy rather than any fancy detection that held things up. What had happened in the house called home was all clear enough. I got leave from my new university for a week, and they even helped me to find a new and better room when I returned. The landlady wasn't going to have anything to do with someone involved in a murder.

  I often wished I could have had the same cut-out option myself. Every time my name or one of my books comes up in a paper, local or national, there has to be something about the murder in our family. Even as I write this, in 1978, seventeen years after the crime, the word murder hangs around me, puts his scaly fingers on everything I'm involved in. It was a murder that sprang out of triviality, and I seem to have inherited the family's gift for it. As I finish my account of the episode I shall look at my watch, stand up, then rummage in my wardrobe to find something suitable for my next appointment. My uncertainty would have been just the same if the killer had been the killed, and the killed the killer. What does the well-dressed crime writer wear to visit a parent in an institution for the criminally insane?

  Copyright © 2010 Robert Barnard

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  Fiction: ARCHIE'S BEEN FRAMED by Dave Zeltserman

  Dave Zeltserman's 2008 novel SmallCrimes was chosen by NPR as one of the top five novels of the year and both Small Crimes and 2009's Pariah made the Washington Post's list of year's best books. He's been compared by the Washington Post to James M. Cain and the Boston Globe recently speculated that with Robert B. Parker gone, Mr. Zeltserman may well be “the new face of Boston crime fiction.” His latest novel is The Caretaker of Lorne Field, a venture into supernatural suspense.

  By itself, solving the PanzerCo corporate espionage case had left Julius flush with cash, but after following that up with a few very good weeks at the track and an even more exceptional night at a high-stakes poker game, Julius currently had over six months in reserves in his bank account. There was little chance I would be able to talk him into taking another case until his reserves reached a more anemic level, so unless he bought Lily Rosten the antique pearl and sapphire necklace he'd been eyeing or was successful in his bid for a case of 1945 Chateau Pétrus or hit a rough patch with his gambling, it was doubtful that I would have another chance to refine the deductive-reasoning module for my neuron network for at least another four months.

  Let me explain. While Julius refers to me as Archie, and I act as his private secretary, research assistant, unofficial biographer, and all-around man Friday, I am in actuality a four-inch rectangular piece of advanced technology that Julius wears as a tie clip. When I say that I'm made up of advanced technology, I'm not kidding. Any laboratory outside of the one that created me would be amazed at what they discovered if they were allowed to open me up. Not only would they find computer technology that they wouldn't think possible for at least another twenty years but also a fully functional self-adapting neuron network that simulates intelligence and consciousness, as well as many all-too-human emotions. I don't think the emotion element was expected, but it's what has happened, and one of the emotions that I find myself more and more experiencing is desire, specifically the desire to beat my boss, the great detective Julius Katz, at solving a case. So far it hasn't happened; in fact, I haven't come close yet, but I know if I can keep refining my neuron network, eventually I'll accomplish this.

  So that's my dilemma. Julius being as lazy as he is means he won't take a case until he absolutely has to in order to replace dwindling funds, and that would only be so that he can continue engaging in the activities that he enjoys so much: collecting and drinking fine wine, dining at gourmet restaurants, gambling, and entertaining Lily Rosten. Until recently, womanizing would've been high on his list, but since meeting Ms. Rosten he has quit that activity. So given Julius's recent financial successes, it would be months before I'd be able to nag him into taking another case, and as a consequence, months before I'd be able to refine my neuron network, at least by observing Julius's genius at work.

  That morning we both fell into our recent patterns. Lily Rosten had left a week ago to visit her parents in upstate New York and wouldn't be returning for another week, and this had sent Julius into a bit of a funk. Since her departure he'd been spending his days performing his usual calisthenics and martial-arts routines, then puttering around his Beacon Hill townhouse until four in the afternoon, when he'd open a bottle of wine and sample it along with a platter of cheeses and smoked meats outdoors on his private patio. Later, he would forgo dining out and prepare his own meal. The nights he didn't go to the track or have a poker game waiting for him, he'd spend quietly reading. As much as ever, prospective clients were calling to try to arrange appointments, but Julius barely bothered listening to me as I reported on them, so I'd stopped relaying even these to him unless I thought there was a chance that the details would annoy him. But even from these I was getting little reaction. I suspected that until Lily returned, Julius was determined to stay mired in his funk.

  At that moment, Julius sat scowling at a novel that a local Boston author had pestered him to read. He made a face that was nearly identical to one he had made months earlier when he found a bottle of Domaine de Chatenoy pinot noir had turned to vinegar. Wrinkling his nose in disdain, he tossed the book into his wastebasket, the impact making a loud thud.

  "That painful, huh?” I asked.

  "Excruciatingly so,” Julius admitted. “Pedestrian writing at best.” His nose wrinkled even further with disgust. “The author has his hero performing a self-defense technique that in real life would accomplish little more than getting his dunce of a hero shot."

  "You gave up on it pretty quickly,” I noted.

  "Usually, Archie, all you need is one bite to know a piece of fruit is bad.” Julius sighed. “It was my fault for letting myself be bullied into reading it."

  Of course, the idea of Julius being bullied into doing anything was laughable. He'd had his ulterior motive for agreeing to read the book. By cross-referencing obvious attributes of this author with characters I found in a number of crime novels used to build my personality, I was able to figure it out. Julius viewed this author as a world-class pigeon waiting to be plucked, and he badly wanted to invite him to a high-stakes poker game so that he could do the plucking. This author had three qualities that Julius found appealing for an invitation to his poker game: He was very wealthy, about as equally smugly arrogant, and not nearly as bright as he believed himself to be. So there it was. Julius accepted the book simply to appease the author's ego, and he picked it up to read so he could further size up the author. It must have taken Julius only twenty or so pages to do this and he saw no reason to waste any more of his time than was necessary.

  I was about to inform Julius about this piece of detective work of mine and then ask whether he wished me to send the author an invitation to his next private poker game. It would have been a perfect setup, since Julius would first deny having any such mercenary objective, and then he'd have to sheepishly admit that he would like an invitation sent. But as I was about to do this, a news item came across one of the local news Web sites that I monitor, and this story had me instead muttering, “Uh-oh."

  Julius raised an eyebrow at that. “What is it, Archie?"

  "A Denise Penny, age twenty-seven, was found murdered in her Cambridge apartment."
r />   "Of course, it is tragic when any person is murdered, especially one as young as this woman. But why are you telling me this? Do I know her?"

  "No, you don't know her, but I do."

  Julius showed a thin smile that reflected his scepticism. “Please explain, Archie."

  "Sure. I've been dating Denise. I was actually supposed to see her at eleven o'clock this morning, which was near the time she was murdered. I feel kind of strange now about standing her up, given what has happened. Sort of like my battery power is being drained out of me."

  Julius's eyelids lowered an eighth of an inch as he leaned further back into his chair. “Enough of this nonsense,” he said.

  "No, it's true. Denise and I have been dating for three weeks now."

  "And how did all this start?"

  Julius didn't believe me. From his tone I could tell he was trying to decipher my reason for fabricating this story. If I had shoulders I would've shrugged them, but I didn't, so I simply told him how it happened.

  "Denise called the office three weeks ago hoping to hire you. I knew there was no chance of that given the large bonus you received from the PanzerCo case. I also knew that it would be months before I'd have another chance to refine my neuron network, at least by my usual methods. When Denise started flirting with me, I saw a way to expand my experience base, so I flirted back. That was the beginning of a beautiful and ultimately bittersweet relationship. If I had a throat I'm sure I'd be feeling a lump forming right now."

  Julius's eyes glazed. He still didn't believe what I was saying, and in a humoring tone, he remarked, “I'm sure you would, Archie. And how did the two of you date?"

  "The usual methods. Phone conversations. E-mails. Online chatting. Swapping photos."

  "You swapped photos with her?"

  "Well, not of me as a piece of technology, but as how I imagine myself."

  "Can I see these photos?"

  "Sure."

  I e-mailed Julius the photos that I had sent Denise as well as the ones she had sent me. He looked at her photos first and murmured, “A very pretty girl, Archie."

  "Yeah, I found her very attractive,” I said. “She rated well when I compared her features to Hollywood actresses who are considered beautiful. Maybe not as well as Lily Rosten rates, but Denise did rate highly. My heart's breaking now."

  Julius grunted at that but didn't comment further. When he looked at my photos, or at least the photos of my imaginary self, he did so without any change of expression, even when he came across a copy of my Massachusetts driver's license.

  "Is this real?” he asked.

  "Yes, sir. I hacked into the Registry of Motor Vehicles computer system and added my license."

  "I see that you picked the last name Smith. Why was that?"

  "I thought it would be advisable to have a more anonymous last name. Something that wouldn't call undue attention to myself. And since Smith is the most common surname in the United States I decided to use it."

  "A sound decision, Archie. This photo that you used, is it from an actual person or did you generate it?"

  "I generated it. It wasn't too difficult."

  Julius made a hmmm sound. “According to your driver's license you're thirty-five, five foot seven, and a hundred and ninety pounds. The same as Dashiell Hammett's Continental Op. The photo is also how I'd imagine him. Stocky, thinning brown hair, tough bulldog countenance. Is this how you picture yourself?"

  "Mostly,” I admitted. “Although I picture myself shorter. No more than five foot tall. But after estimating Denise's height from her photos at five feet and two inches, and performing additional research, I thought I'd better make myself five foot seven inches to give our relationship a better chance of succeeding."

  "Why do you picture yourself only five feet tall?"

  "Probably because you wear me as a tie clip."

  Julius nodded, thinking about that. “I didn't realize I was having such a detrimental effect on your self-esteem. Perhaps I should start wearing a hat so that you can be worn in a hatband. Archie, why did you send this woman a copy of your driver's license?"

  "A playful jest,” I said.

  Julius didn't appear convinced, which was reasonable since that wasn't the reason I'd sent it. At the time I was experiencing a sensation that made it seem almost as if I were skipping processing cycles, and it was this sensation that made me send Denise a copy of my license. I didn't understand what this sensation was then, and it was only later, after analyzing dozens of literary novels involving romances, that I realized it was insecurity. That was why I had sent Denise my license. I was afraid she wouldn't believe I was real otherwise.

  Julius sat examining the other photos I had created of myself when I again involuntarily murmured, “Uh-oh.” This time Julius didn't bother inquiring about my interruption, but I thought I should tell him. “A warrant is being issued for my arrest,” I said.

  "Is that so?"

  "Oh, yes. But it only makes sense. I was Denise's boyfriend, after all, and I was supposed to meet her at her apartment near the time she was murdered. It's reasonable for the police to be focusing their attention on me. I thought I should tell you, since as you can see from the copy of my driver's license that I had listed your townhouse as my residence, and the police will be here shortly."

  "And how do you know this?"

  "I thought it would be prudent, given the situation, to hack into the District Court's computer system and see if a warrant had been issued for my arrest, and one was just issued."

  "I see.” A thin smile crept onto Julius's lips. “Very good, Archie. A clever and elaborate prank. You had me going there for a few minutes. I guess I should've expected this development, especially given your recent idleness, but Archie, I'd like you to reprogram your neuron network so that you do not perform any further pranks."

  I told him this was done, although no additional reprogramming was necessary. Satisfied, Julius picked up the latest issue of Wine Spectator from his desk and was browsing it when I involuntarily muttered again, “Uh-oh."

  At first Julius was going to ignore me, but a slow-building annoyance tightened the muscles along his mouth. Finally he put his magazine down and asked if I had anything additional to report.

  "I've been monitoring police radio channels. Two minutes ago I picked up a broadcast that the police are heading to this address to arrest me. I'm afraid I'm going to have to go on the lam or risk being thrown into the hoosegow."

  "Or more likely have me turn you off."

  Julius didn't threaten lightly. The fingers on his right hand drummed impatiently against the surface of his antique walnut desk, which was a clear sign that he had about reached his limit. In a poker game Julius had no tell to indicate whether he was bluffing or holding winning cards, and he was similarly inscrutable with his clients, but when it came to just the two of us he didn't bother disguising his feelings. Still, even given as close as I was to being powered off, I couldn't keep from murmuring another involuntary “uh-oh.” The flash of annoyance in Julius's eyes caused me to quickly explain that the outdoor webcams were showing that the police were about to descend upon his doorstep.

  "Detective Mark Cramer is one of the members of the mob,” I added. “If you would like, I'll identify the three other police officers with him. It shouldn't be too hard once I break into the Cambridge Police Department's computer system. Give me a couple of minutes."

  Julius took a deep breath and held it before shaking his head. “That you're continuing this prank is very distressing, Archie. If you're malfunctioning and unable to reprogram your neuron network as I requested—"

  A pounding on Julius's front door stopped him. His office was soundproof, but the office door had been left open and because of that Detective Cramer's voice could be heard as he shouted for Julius to open the door, that he had a warrant for Archie Smith's arrest and that Julius's tactics would not be tolerated this time.

  Julius grew very still for as much as twenty seconds, his featu
res marble hard. I guess he was realizing that none of this was a prank after all. Then he was back to his normal self, with his poker face firmly intact as he first locked his computer screen, then got up to answer the front door. On the way, I gave him the names and brief work histories of the other police officers waiting with Cramer, but Julius didn't seem interested. When he opened the door to let Cramer in, the police detective shoved an arrest warrant inches from Julius's face while he and the other officers bulled their way into Julius's townhouse. Julius stepped aside and didn't put up any resistance, but I knew that he wasn't happy about this intrusion into his home even if he gave no evidence of it from his demeanor, which appeared only subdued and compliant.

  "Where is he?” Cramer demanded, red-faced. His hair had become more sparse since the last time we'd seen him and looked in the same sort of disarray as if he had just come out of a windstorm. “Your assistant, Archie Smith! Katz, I have a warrant for his arrest for the murder of Denise Penny, and I'm not about to put up with any of your games!"

  Julius was in a quandary. He could clear all this up by demonstrating to Cramer how I was an inanimate object incapable of committing murder, at least physically. Theoretically, I could murder by hiring a killer and transferring large sums of money to that killer's account, but I knew that wasn't what Cramer was accusing me of, since I had seen the arrest warrant that had been filed, and besides, the programming of my neuron network prevented me from performing any such criminal act, even if I was inclined to act in that sort of sociopathic manner, which I wasn't. The problem was, if Julius did explain what I was to Cramer, the consequences would not be pleasant. I don't know where Julius acquired me from, but so far my existence has been kept quiet. If word got out about me, both government and private organizations would be after me for study and for other activities. Also, it would be an embarrassment to Julius. While Julius has always provided the real genius in solving his cases, with me doing little more than mundane grunt work and information gathering, there would be people in the media who would take delight in using me to discredit Julius and his accomplishments. I found myself experiencing what would have to be a similar sensation to anxiousness as I waited to see how Julius would answer Cramer, realizing how much I didn't want the true nature of my existence disclosed. It only took Julius a few seconds to respond to Cramer, but I felt every processing cycle tick by as if they were an eternity.