by S J Hunter
Chris found himself gazing at the flawless face. Again.
“Think of it as a type of armor,” Livvy said. “I’m…”
The Chief interrupted. “Its all moot, McGregor. This came straight from the Commissioner. None of us has a choice. Since Detective Hutchins has no objections, which we are delighted to hear, you can keep the dog, but you’re taking her as well. It’s over my head and way above your paygrade.”
“I’ve… “ Chris started to say after regaining some equanimity, then was interrupted as well.
“I’ve got a Priority One call.” He touched his ear and said “Tactical,” in the direction of his collar transmitter, then his eyes unfocused.
“I’ve got to go out on this one,” he said after a few moments. He squinted at Livvy and looked back to the Chief.
“Go,” the Chief said, gesturing him out with the back of his hand.
Chris turned and headed towards the door as his new partner hustled to her feet. She seemed at a loss as to how to dismiss herself semi-properly.
At this point, the Chief said irritably, “What? Still here hotshot?”
“I’m not…” Chris heard her begin.
“Go. He won’t wait for you.”
Chris flexed his fingers. The hand that had gripped his was fine and smooth, but it demonstrated an unquestionably strong grip and the nails were clipped short and devoid of decoration. A hand that could be comfortable around the grip of a Stinger. A new partner, and an LLE rookie at that. At a minimum, an inconvenience, possibly a hazard, but contrary to a vast amount of experience, maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he was totally convinced it would be.
Chp. 3 For love is immortality. Emily Dickinson (Monday)
Livvy caught up with her new partner as he waited for the swift-el down to the LLE underground motor pool. The dog, Louie, looked up at her and thumped his tail but remained sitting calmly at Chris’ left side.
“What…?” she started to ask. Chris held up a temporizing hand and she realized he was still getting audio input of some information he must have called up while she was catching up with him. She made a mental note to get a synchronous feed option coded into her aural comu as soon as she got back to the LLE office and, for now, waited impatiently for Chris to finish getting direct read.
“Sorry,” he said, surprising her. “I needed an archival record.”
There was a car waiting when they got to the motor pool. Livvy figured he’d ordered it out before he even put in the request to Archives. Somehow, even though she had been walking right next to him and she slid into the passenger seat at the same time he slipped behind the wheel, she still felt as though she was struggling to catch up.
“938 Ark Rd., Marlboro. Sirens on, strobe on,” Chris said and the car complied. Within one and a half minutes they were on the beltway, with the regular glassene traffic shifting out of the path of their official car with satisfying automaticity.
“And? Wait, first, what were you going to say back there? In the Chief’s office. Before you got the Priority Call.”
Chris gazed at her blankly for a moment, then said, “That I’ve no objection to trying it for a week, then we can both decide if we want to continue.”
“Oh. All right. Fair enough. I thought you were… well, I know this was sprung on you, and I thought you might kick up more dust.”
Chris glanced at her again and smiled slightly. “I think you will find, Hutchins, that the reason I no longer have partners is more for their benefit than for mine. Feel free to change your mind before the week is up, if you want.”
“I’m neither cowed nor fickle,” Livvy said. “Now, where are we going so fast, and why?”
“According to the IA there’s a woman in Marlboro who shot her husband and is now holding her husband’s lover hostage. The wife has asked for me and I wanted to see if we had any history that might suggest why.”
He seemed lost in thought, and whatever he was remembering was making him look even flintier than usual.
“What?” she finally asked.
He shifted his gaze back to her. “What do you know about the Pheromone Fiasco?”
“You mean from the 50’s? Before my time. If I remember my history, there were a few chem-enhancements licensed, and many more done on the black market, that claimed to be either natural or engineered pheromones that were linked to sweat glands. The real problems surfaced when there were some court cases, some murders even, where lost impulse control was blamed on some nebulous “compulsion.” I think some of the defense attorneys succeeded, and there was a public outcry. The whole matter was big deal at the time.
“Seriously,” Livvy asked with mild irony, “are we insects? Anyway, I don’t remember whether it was ever proven pheromones could really influence human behavior but in the end it was decided that as a class they didn’t meet the Herrnstein Criterion: no enhancements granting unfair advantage. So now the whole concept of pheromone enhancement is illegal. If an enhancement can be classified as a pheromone, it’s a felony. Can’t even evade it by some kind of soft claim that it’s therapy. Seems like a lot of risk just to be a little more seductive. Potentially seductive.”
Chris sat with his arms folded across his chest and his head tilted and turned towards her, his eyes hooded. He didn’t say anything, and plainly wasn’t going to.
“Look, I can guess what you’re thinking at me,” Livvy said when he had waited her out. “Give me some credit. I wouldn’t let a neuro- or chem-enhancement, especially an illegal one, near my personal molecules.
“As for appearances… good looks do confer an advantage, but there’ve always been naturally beautiful people, which is one reason enhancements for looks have been exempt from the Right of Equal Opportunity Law. Beauty is way too subjective to even begin to contemplate quantifying, much less accounting for individual preferences. The advantages conferred are usually also available by using old-fashioned techniques to achieve similar changes in appearance. I can afford the enhancements. It helps me in my work. And actually, other than some coloration, most of it is the real me,” she couldn’t help adding.
Chris made a sound that wasn’t quite a snort of derision. “And let’s not forget that being able to look at beauty by definition gives the rest of us pleasure. No one wants to legislate against that,” he said.
Livvy relaxed, grinning. “There is that, yes. Wait, you’ll see. Like I said, think of it as a kind of armor.”
“All right. I get it. I can’t imagine a man on the planet who won’t be giving you some edge at least initially, even if unintentionally. But surely the women, most of them, hate you a little?”
“You’d be surprised. I take my looks for granted and I treat the women like rational beings. Women have been wearing makeup and getting plastic surgery for generations. I might as well be carrying around a Monet on a sandwich board as far as they’re concerned. At least most of them, the ones who aren’t looking for a reason to hate someone anyway,” she added scrupulously, then hesitated. “At a certain level of confidence looks largely stop being meaningful for women. Anyway, it’s never been a problem.”
“Hmm,” Chris said. He didn’t sound convinced. “Sandwich board?”
Livvy smiled. “Sorry. Bad habit of mine. I collect archaic references and sometimes I end up using them.”
“Don’t mind me,” Chris said. “I might even remember that one. ‘Sandwich board.’”
“Autodrive zone ending. Right turn in 500 meters,” the car said, and as Chris took hold of the wheel they slowed down to make the first turn.
“Listen. Here’s the situation. This woman, Marcy Caster, has a gun. A real, lethal, 21st century handgun that she’s already used once to shoot someone. They think her husband is dead, and she’s apparently holding the other woman hostage. This isn’t even an LLE case.
“If I need to go in to get her to talk to me, I want you to stay out of this one, to wait for me outside. She asked for me because I helped her out once over fifty years ago. There’s no
reason for you to come in.”
Livvy considered him for a few seconds and finally decided that she was going to have to be stubborn on this issue from day one. “No. The way I see it, there’s no reason for me not to come in. I’ve faced guns before. Hell, I’ve been shot before. Besides, this woman, Marcy, used it to kill her husband, not the other woman. She may have asked for you, but who do you think she’s going to see as more sympathetic to her situation?”
“Destination on left,” said the car. Chris pulled over to the curb.
It was a mid-century house, small and well fortified, with a few mature trees and a well-tended lawn. The area all around the house was swarming with a variety of Enforcement cars and personnel; Livvy could see logos for Special Tactical, Psych Intervention, and most prominently, Homicide. The media, with their own logos, equipment and personnel, occupied an outer perimeter. In every city, murders outside the major ghettos always got a lot of attention, but Livvy suspected it was the hostage situation that was fueling most of the interest.
“They’re all here, and most of them aren’t going to like it that we are,” Chris said. He paused and continued to survey the scene until he spotted a Commander in a Special Tactical uniform.
“All right, Hutchins. I get your point. You come in with me if I need to go in,” he finally said, turning to look at her again. He paused, and then steadily met her eyes. “I come from a generation that remembers when someone who looked 21 was 21. Maybe you never fully get over that.”
Livvy was used to men who chose not to try to frame thoughts while looking at her, so she gave him points for that, and she figured his admission was as close to an apology as she’d ever get for his earlier condescension.
“Just remember that you had your chance,” he said, climbing out of the car and heading for the trunk. “But we’re going in with armored tunics. We can keep the faceplates up.” They stayed at the back of the car while they got into their gear, and Chris continued to survey the impressively armored gathering.
“You’d think she has an arsenal in there,” Livvy said.
“Yeah, well,” Chris said, “fortunately, Bruno’s here with Tactical.”
“Louie, stay,” he said through the open window as they passed by the car on their way to the front of the house.
Chris headed straight for the Special Tactical Commander, a very large man with dark eyes and a shock of black hair. Livvy recognized him from her early morning study of the pictures on the Fifty Year wall at City Central. It had been on the wall for over ten years, several down from Chris’, along with long lists of their major medals and commendations.
“Bruno,” Chris said, nodding briskly. “My new partner, Detective Hutchins. Bruno Morelli.”
On Livvy the tunic, which should have hung shapelessly, looked tailored and did nothing to dim the overall effect of her curves. She gave Bruno a lambent smile, demonstrating just how effective her natural armor could be, and offered her hand, which he took and shook for longer than necessary. Her new partner was watching the interaction.
“C’mon, Bruno, your mouth is hanging open. During the last riots you faced down a trio of CCS fanatics determined to beat down a cop. You were weaponless, to their clubs. Don’t go all speechless on me now,” Chris said after a moment. He was smiling slightly.
“I don’t remember much being said at the time,” Bruno said, giving Livvy a slightly sheepish grin.
“Where are we?” Chris asked.
“Can you believe this one?” Bruno jerked his head towards the house. “Married over 50 years, then last night, this guy, Caster, takes his girlfriend in with him to ask for the divorce. Mrs. Neighbor says she doesn’t think the wife had any idea about the girlfriend before the husband walked in with her. The guy doesn’t have the guts or the courtesy to at least talk to his wife alone first. Wonder what the guy said. ‘Honey, can you set another place for dinner?’”
“Maybe it takes at least an iota of both,” Livvy said.
Bruno stared at her again, as if he forgot what he was saying.
“Guts and courtesy,” Livvy said.
They all went back to studying the front of the small house.
“Yeah, you’re probably right there,” Bruno said, rubbing a hand through his shock of hair. It fell back across his forehead in a tousled mane. “Anyway, yesterday at some point the husband tells Mr. Neighbor – who’s his friend – that he’s bringing the girlfriend along into the home when he breaks it to the wife that he’s replacing her. That same home contains a gun, and he ends up dead. Go figure. One plus one equals two. Maybe an iota of brains, too.
“Of course, Mr. Numbskull Neighbor doesn’t think about the situation again until this morning, when he tells Mrs. Neighbor by the way before he goes off to work and she goes over to check on her friend. Mrs. Neighbor never got through the door, but she heard the crying and saw the gun and the three of them sitting there and had the sense to call us.”
“What’s happening now?” Chris asked.
“There’s nothing new. The wife asked for you by name, including the fact that you work for LLE, and she hasn’t responded to anything since. Our bi-ways aren’t picking up anything but somebody crying. Crying a lot.”
“My favorite,” Livvy said.
“You ready to try?” Bruno asked.
“Let’s do it,” Chris said, taking the bi-way Bruno offered him and aiming it at the largest window. He stood silently for a few moments, then he opened the transmitter function.
“Marcy, it’s Chris McGregor,” he said, keeping his voice calm and quiet. “Will you come out and talk to me, please?”
There was an outburst of unrestrained weeping. “I can’t,” someone said between the sobs.
“Marcy, are you okay? Is there anyone in there who needs medical attention?”
More weeping, which seemed to be getting even more hysterical.
Chris turned off the amp. “I’m going in. She’s escalating into desperation. I remember this woman. This is no longer primarily a hostage crisis, it’s a suicide prevention.”
“I’m going in too,” Livvy said, meeting his eyes briefly.
The officer from Psych Intervention stepped forward. “Detective, you’re from LLE, aren’t you? Have you had any training for this? Hostage retrieval or suicide prevention? Anything? I really can’t allow…”
“As long as it’s a crisis,” Bruno cut in, “it’s my decision. I can let Psych or LLE or the French Foreign Legion in if I chose. McGregor goes in. His partner, too, if he wants her in there.”
Chris went back to the bi-way. “Marcy, my partner and I would like to come in to talk to you. We need to hear about what’s happened. Just to talk. Can we do that, please?”
No response other than some continued weeping, now a little muted, as though her face was buried in a pillow. Chris turned off the amp and handed it back to Bruno.
“Be careful in there. Cara loves having you come for dinner. You validate her cooking,” Bruno said.
“Cara is an excellent cook,” Chris said.
“Uh, huh. That’s what I mean. Watch yourself.”
They began walking. Halfway to the door, Chris turned to Livvy.
“Our first goal is to get Marcy to walk out. Even if can’t get that, we ignore the other woman until Marcy at least calms down, then we can see about getting her released if she seems to be in danger,” he said.
“Understood,” Livvy said.
They’d reached the curtained and ironwork-covered door, and Chris’ voice was still exceptionally calm as he called through it. “Marcy, it’s Chris, and my partner, Livvy. We’re just outside the door. Can we come in? We need to understand what’s happened.”
He paused. There was no response.
“No hurry. Take your time and think about it if you need to. When you’re ready, just open the door so that we know it’s okay to come in. We’ll wait right here.”
Another minute passed. The weeping seemed to have stopped.
“Marcy…
,” Chris began, when the door swung open.
With all of the window coverings engaged and most the lights off, the room was dark and Livvy found it more than a little claustrophobic. At the unlit end of the room opposite the door they just entered she could see several shadowy forms on the sofa, one slumped over at an awkward angle at one end and the other, slighter form, huddled against the arm rest at the opposite end. Neither was moving, although the slighter form had moved forward reflexively when they came in.
The woman with the gun, Marcy, was clutching a decorative pillow and sitting in an armchair. There was some dimmed light emanating from an antique crystal chandelier over a small dining set at their end of the room. It was bright enough to reveal half of Marcy’s face and the gun still in her grip, lying in her lap, but not much else. Like the slight form on the sofa, she was tiny. Livvy wasn’t all that tall herself, but with Marcy the impression of fragility was paramount, from the ponytail of fine blonde curls cascading down her back, the one visible pale blue eye swollen and reddened, and the smooth cheek glistening with salt tracks. Livvy thought she must look a lot like the 21 year-old Chris first met over 50 years ago. Including, probably, the tear stains.
“Marcy, I’m just going to bring some chairs over, so we can sit and listen,” Chris said quietly, closing the front door and slowly bringing two of the dining chairs over and placing them about a meter in front of her.
Sitting there, they were positioned so that their faces were illuminated by the dining room light. They kept their hands in their laps.
“Thank you for coming,” Marcy said. Her voice was hoarse. “You helped me before, do you remember? It was so long ago, but I remember as though it were yesterday. You explained that if I got that stupid enhancement reversed I wouldn’t get into any trouble with the law, even a fine. Even though it was unlicensed, and I should have known better. You were so nice about it, and Jack was so upset, because we were barely affording the resets at that point, and the reversal could have cost so much more. I had listened to them when they advertised, they guaranteed, that it would make me more attractive. So stupid. I did it for Jack, as a surprise. Everything I did was for Jack.”
