Detective Naruto

.

.

Tittle : Detective Naruto

Summary : When the streets get too hot, and crime is at its worst, count on Detective Naruto! Genius detective, phenomenal psychic, unparalleled lover, and a true Renaissance man. He will shatter your ideas of reality and take you into a mystical world of vision, intuition, and psychic truth.

Disclaimer : I don't own Naruto or any Anime characters that I used for this story. They belong to their own respective authors. Please support the official releases.

.

.

Starlight Naruru : Hello, welcome to my second Naruto fic. This time I make a Naruto fic with detective theme story. The story set during cold war era and Naruto is a private Detective who lived in L.A. Although Naruto is a Detective, I make him is more of a lover than a true Detective, his main focus in the story is helping the girls (from other various anime series) with their problem and solving it. If you like the story, please review, tell me if you like or if you don't like something about the story. So thank you for giving this story a chance, and hopefully you will not be disappointed.

.

.

Chitoge Kirisaki-Wogner Case — Part 1

.

.

Prefacing Remarks…

This was my first "surrogate" case. I would regret taking it on almost from the first moment, and I would resolve many times during the progress (or descent) of this case never again to work this particular type of problem. But, hell, she seemed so damned scared—so vulnerable—so, uh—okay, say it, so damned lovable.

My sacred, cardinal, Number One Rule: Never become emotionally involved with a client.

My unfailing, unremitting, forever Number One Problem: It seems that I am always in violation of Number One Rule.

The truth, of course, is that I am in the wrong line of work. I should have been an actor, or maybe a model. I could probably get away with those Marlboro man-type ads. A stuntman, maybe, except that I really do not take any particular delight in flinging my life recklessly toward the closing jaws of death.

I am almost a lawyer, but not quite—almost a psychologist, but I got bored with a term paper. Could have been a cop, I guess, but discovered in time that the pay and benefits are about equal to that of a garbage collector—and, when you think about it, the work is about the same. Not that both jobs are not vital to a civilized society. I'd just rather someone else handle the trash work.

I was actually trained to be a spy, courtesy of the United States Navy. Naturally they did not call it that. But, hell, a spy is a spy by whatever tag or acronym. Not cut out for that, either.

Maybe I wasn't cut out for anything in particular. I think I would like to conduct the Boston Pops. I have never been invited to do so. I would give it a shot, though, if they would give me time for a crash course in music theory.

This is all very dumb, isn't it? I know what I'm cut out for, why I'm doing what I do for a living—and, to tell the truth, I could not conceive of ever doing anything else. I love my work, with all its built-in problems and uncertainties. I am where I need to be, doing what I need to do. I even enjoyed this case. Well… most of it.

For the record, I am Naruto Uzumaki. American-born Japanese and educated. Yes before you ask, my name was indeed based of that Ramen topping. The "Naruto" was, I guess, a result of Mother's weird sense of humor. Seems that I was conceived on the table of a Ramen shop. My mother was a Japenese, from a family with roots in the Sengoku era. I was born when she was thirty, living independently and comfortably on a nice trust from her grandmother, amoral. I use that last word in the kindest sense possible. Mother was a hell of a lady. Free thinker, that's all. Never married, never wanted to. Never told me who my father is, and I never asked. Just thankful that she didn't named me Ramen or Udon.

My great-grandfather was a naval hero of sorts. I was raised in naval academies, went on to Annapolis and several war colleges, ended up in Strategic Studies—the "Star Wars" stuff—got out as quick as my obligation would allow.

That's enough background for now. It's enough to know, at this point, that I am where I need to be, doing what I need to do—emotionally involved with troubled ladies. I call this a "surrogate" case because that is exactly how it began. I was hired as a sexual surrogate by a beautiful nonorgasmic woman who was just damned sick and tired of dry runs. As usual, the stated problem was but a symptom of a far deeper problem. And this beautiful, lovable, vulnerable young woman had a hell of a problem that no amount of loving would help.

I neglected to reveal that I am a sometimes-psychic. Some have called me a "mystic," but I would not go that far. What I am, I guess, actually, is a lover. So how did a nice guy like me get mixed up in a case like this? That is exactly what I am about to tell you. Just read my story.

(◕ω◕✿)

He looked about two-eighty of solid beef and had a lot of mean energy in the eyes. Kind of guy you'd rather give a sweet smile and wish a nice day or else disregard entirely. From where I stood at the moment, I had neither option. He was coming at me with apparent felonious intent, moving swiftly along my side of the net like a linebacker sniffing blood. Mine. I had one of those inane thoughts—Wrong game, guy—but I didn't voice it, nor did I consider it prudent to inquire as to the name of it. I learned a few games ago that he who gets there first with the most is usually the one who walks away smiling. So I let the ball sail on past me to meet the gorilla instead, with my best backhand, the tennis racket angled edgewise and moving toward maximum effect.

He grunted and went slowly to his knees, mean energy dissolving instantly into sick passivity and maybe a bit of bewilderment. I wanted to say, "Oops, sorry, wrong ball," but I decided it was no time for humor. Besides, a cute blonde lady had run onto the court, and I had the impression that she was mad as hell with me—maybe because she called me a dumb shit.

So I went to the net and thanked the flustered tennis pro, then went to the sideline for a towel while the irate lady fussed over the stricken giant. I put the towel around my neck, casually lit a cigarette, and headed for the locker room. The blonde lady intercepted me about halfway there, fire in the eye and ready to storm all over me. I tried to disarm her with my patented boyish grin but it didn't work.

"You did that on purpose!" She cried. And, yeah, furious.

I didn't try to deny it. I just said "Yep," and kept moving.

"You're an animal!" She yelled after me.

That was my first meeting with Chitoge Kirisaki-Wogner. And Josuke. That was a Wednesday. I didn't see them again until Friday, early afternoon, Malibu. This time they came to my office—or to what passes for an office. Josuke held the door for the lady, then came on in behind her and very quietly took a chair at the back wall without once looking me in the eye. I figured, okay, now we understand each other. She was in an easier frame of mind, too, though obviously quite nervous.

I stood up and offered her my hand. She took it, murmured her name, gave me an appraising look as I gave the appropriate reply, then dropped my hand and took herself to the window. Nice view from that window. Pacific Ocean surf, Santa Monica skyline curving into the distance, lots of blue sky. I had the feeling she was seeing none of it.

I was really struck by her beauty. The hair about waist length with pink tips at the end and tie in red ribbon, light skin that invited contact, wide-spaced oval eyes of a shade I can only compare with wild ocean—but there was fear there, yeah, fear or desperation or maybe both. She had the long, clean lines you see on showgirls, draped very fashionably in a simple cotton dress that somehow nevertheless managed to look very expensive.

I was struck, yeah—which is probably why I blew this meeting too. I tend to be a bit defensive when I respond this way to a prospective client.

"Let's try this again," She said softly from the window. I had her in profile, feet planted wide apart, hands clasped behind her, shoulders sort of tight, lovely head tilted downward.

I had one of my flashes at that moment. I'll tell you more about those later. For now just believe me when I say that I did not see Chitoge in that flash; what I saw was another person, older—sick, maybe, or otherwise burdened to the breaking point with some terrible problem, very frightened and very much in need of help.

It flashed on me, then dissolved before I could really inspect the apparition. I shot a look toward Josuke. He was staring at the ceiling. I had been thinking about it since she called me that Wednesday night for the appointment, and I'd decided to tell Miss Wogner that I had too many things going right now, and would she call me again next month or next year if she couldn't find another counselor.

All that changed in that flash. I went to the window and put my hands on her shoulders from behind in a light massage—she was carrying a lot of tension there—and suggested that she make herself comfortable.

She had told me, that night on the phone, "Josuke is mute. He was just trying to attract your attention."

And I had told her that he looked like a head-hunter to me, that he invaded my tennis game, that I'd felt it only prudent to sit him down before inquiring as to his intentions.

"He was flustered," She explained. "We'd been trying to catch your attention for several minutes. He's just very direct. And you wouldn't look toward us."

I could have explained to her, but did not, that my concentration on a game of tennis approaches that achieved by a Zen master, so I could buy her apology.

"Does he read lips?" I asked her, present time, with a glance at Josuke as I escorted her to a chair.

"He's not deaf," She replied, "Just mute."

"Then he is not going to sit here during this consultation," I said flatly.

"Wait in the car, Josuke, please," She said without hesitation and without raising her voice.

The big guy was up and out of there almost before she finished speaking, as though he had received those orders before they came in there and he was just awaiting his cue.

I let the door close behind him before I retreated to my desk—well, it's sort of a desk—more of a table with a couple of small drawers, really—acrylic, transparent. Serves the purpose without getting stuffy.

There was a long, almost tense silence while the lady and I exchanged smiles. Finally I asked her, "So how can I help you, Chitoge?"

She dropped those amazing blue eyes, brushed nervously at her lap with blue-tipped fingers, waited a moment as though trying to construct a sentence, then replied, "I was referred to you by someone at Zodiac."

Zodiac is a metaphysical retreat up the coast near Santa Barbara. I kept on smiling and said, "Someone?"

"I don't know her name. Well, I—actually—I wasn't actually referred. I just overheard this conversation." She swept me with those great eyes. "And I figured—maybe—you're the one."

"The one for what?"

"To-to help me."

"To help you do what?"

She was staring at her lap again. It was like pulling teeth, opening this one up. I told her, "I'm not a medical doctor, you know."

"Don't need one," She murmured.

"Nor a shrink."

She showed me a small smile. "Well, maybe I do need one of those. But that's not what—that is not why I am here. They said you're into all this stuff."

"All what stuff?"

"The stuff they do up there. And that you'd written this paper about—well, on uh, against asceticism."

"I did do one of those," I agreed, remembering, and remembering also the furor at Zodiac over that paper. It was actually a treatise on cosmic sex and the way it really ought to be, the way it could be if people's heads were on straight. The people at Zodiac—or a good number of them, it seemed—were trying to leave the carnal plane behind without dying first—some, without living first. I thought it was bullshit and I said so in the paper.

"I read it," She said quietly.

It was my turn for the lap-inspection bit. After several seconds of high-voltage silence I lifted a direct gaze her way and said, "And…?"

"I'd like to try that."

"You'd like to try that what?"

"What you said in the paper."

I'm sure my smile was a bit forced as I replied to that.

"Okay. Why not? Can't hurt you, I guess, with the right guy. But I would not recommend Josuke."

That amused her.

"I inherited Josuke when my parents died. He's like an uncle. No, uh—I was thinking of you."

I already knew that—but was hoping like hell, still, that she would not say it.

I told the beautiful lady, with all the professional aplomb I could muster, "Doesn't work that way. I don't work that way. Fall in love. Try it on your honeymoon."

That seemed to sting her. A nostril flared. I could feel the self-consciousness oozing away. When she spoke it was gone entirely.

"Three cheers for old-fashioned morality." Stung, yeah. "You disappoint me, Naruto."

I was rather disappointed in myself, to tell the truth. But I did not tell her that truth. What I did tell her was, "I am not a professional anything, you know. I have… certain insights. People have found me out. Sometimes I agree to help them with specific problems. But I do not rent myself out for sex. There's a name for that. I'm not it. But what is your real problem?"

"What?"

"Why are you really here?"

"I told you."

"Bullshit."

"What?"

"Bullshit. I saw her, when you were at the window." I described the apparition. "Anyone you know?"

She had become very pale and her hands were shaking

"Then you're really for real," She said quietly. I did not respond to that.

After another long moment of silence the lady said, "I've seen her too. It's spooky. I think, maybe…"

I lit the cigarette then prodded. "You were thinking, maybe…"

"I don't know, it sounds crazy, I never talk to anyone about this. I have been seeing her since I was a little girl. Not—I don't mean—not all the time, nothing like that. But… now and then… special times."

"Such as?"

"Oh, if I'm sick, or upset about something or… well, and since I've grown up she seems to appear more frequently and now she's…"

"What?"

"I think she's trying to communicate."

"How does this manifest?"

"What?"

"In what way does she attempt communication?"

"Nothing… physical. I just get this… awful feeling that she's trying to tell me something."

"Something important."

"Yes. It seems very important. But then she… wisps away."

"Wisps?"

"Like smoke dispersing."

"Uh huh. Who is she, Chitoge?"

The reply was whispered. "I don't know."

"No idea at all?"

"None." This reinforced with a decisive shake of the head. "But I think she… wanted me to… to find you."

"Why do you think that?"

"I just do. Don't ask me to explain something I don't understand myself." A bit of fire again. "She wanted me to."

I mulled it for a moment, then: "What exactly do you want from me? No bullshit. What do you want?"

"Maybe I want two things."

"By the numbers, then. One?"

She took a deep breath. "One, help me get rid of her. No, that's number two."

I supplied the necessary prompt without blinking an eye. "And one?"

"Teach me cosmic sex," unblinkingly came right back.

"Because?"

"Because I just might kill myself if you don't."

"It's that bad?"

"Believe me, it's that bad." The fire was back, full blaze. "Look, to hell with pride. I have tried everything there is to try. I am not a frigid woman, believe me, I'm not. I am very responsive, highly responsive. To a point."

I did not have to feign sympathy. One of the awareness kicks I had tried involved a process of sexual arousal right to the cresting point and then backing off, over and over. I tried it for about a month. I developed a stammer, could think of absolutely nothing but sex, and had a hard-on all the time.

So I did not have to feign sympathy, no. "One point below bliss, eh?"

"Always one point below."

"Nonorgasmic."

Getting edgy again, almost hostile: "That's the dirty word."

"Since when?"

"Since forever."

"What does your ethereal companion have to do with it?"

"Damn it!" She was on her feet, moving toward the door. "I knew you'd get to that! Forget it, huh? Just forget it!"

"Sit down!" I commanded loudly.

From the door: "Go to hell!" Out, then back in again, furious: "This must have been a great treat to your ego! Well, forget it! Temporary insanity! Do you think I have to pay a man to fuck me!?"

She was gone before I could have replied to that, if I'd had a mind to, which I didn't. I'd handled it very badly. I knew that. And I was already formulating a plan to telephone her as soon as she'd had a chance to cool down. But I did not have to do that.

She was back again within seconds, standing in my doorway all pale and shaking. "Help me," She moaned. "Something is wrong with Josuke."

But I could not help her all that much. A lot was wrong with Josuke. All was wrong with Josuke.

He was seated behind the wheel of a shiny new Mercedes, not a mark on the body, but also no pulse and no heartbeat. There was no response whatever to twenty minutes of CPR. The paramedics took over and tried for another ten minutes or so, then they simply covered him and transported him to wherever lifeless bodies are taken.

"Did you see her?" Chitoge asked me in a stricken voice as the ambulance rounded the corner onto Coast Highway.

Yeah, I saw her. She'd moved into the ambulance behind Josuke and was staring at us through the rear window as it pulled away from the house. And I am certain that she was smiling.

(◕ω◕✿)

Let me assure you very quickly that I am not into spiritism, black magic, nor the occult arts. It offends my sense of universal order to even admit the possibility that some sort of dark forces could be consciously manipulating this reality of ours. Ghosts, banshees, and demonic spirits simply do not represent my concept of an orderly universe.

So I have an automatic resistance any time I am confronted with phenomena of this nature. I have been confronted, yes, time and again. But I have always sought a nonphenomenal explanation to account for them. Sometimes I have succeeded in that, sometimes not. But I do not let the failures deter me.

I am very much aware, you see, that we inhabit a phenomenal universe—phenomenal, that is, from the ordinary viewpoint allowed by the usual human sense perception. Atomic theory itself is an occult, highly mysterious, and largely incomprehensible concept even to those who are schooled in it. To say to me that the table in front of me is a solid object capable of supporting my weight with ease, but then to go on to explain that, of course, it is more of an empty space than anything else—other than that, an electromagnetic field more than anything else—that it is the relativity of my state of being in relation to the table's state of being that allows me to perceive the table (and myself) as a solid object, well, say, what could be more phenomenal than that?

Is the table a solid object or is it not? The answer is yes and no. Remove all the space that separates the quarks and widgets and other esoteric elementary particles that go to make an atom, then remove the spaces that separate the atoms—shred the molecules, in other words, and throw out all the space—and what is left is enough matter to maybe fit the hollow of your palm, except you could not hold it there because it still weighs the same as it did when you saw it as a table—besides which you'd better look damn quick because matter explodes at infinite density. I'd call that phenomenal.

If I tell a physicist that I have 20/20 vision and he says to me, great, that's wonderful, 20/20 lets you see point something percent of the total electromagnetic spectrum now bombarding this room, that makes my 20/20 seem like a paltry effort at apprehending reality.

Can you see, the same guy asks me, the X rays, cosmic rays, gamma rays, microwaves, radio and television broadcasts that are dancing all about us? No—but if you'll let me switch on the television, maybe I can… not good enough, he says; that is still just a fraction of the total spectrum. It's all here, right now, passing over, under, around, and even right through us—can't you see it? Well, no, not really but… there! Did you see that free electron that was just knocked out of its orbit around a helium nucleus by that neutrino from Upsa Vagabondi (umpty-million light-years away)—and did you see the helium atom then decay into hydrogen?

Of course not. I see the wall, the table, your face—that's 20/20 to me and to all of us who share this particular parcel of reality. The point is, there is always much more there than most of us ordinarily perceive. So don't get bent out of shape with me when I say to you that I saw something that appears to exist in a different parcel. My physicist sees that sort of thing all the time—using, of course, special tools that enable him to get a better glimpse of total reality than you and I.

Okay. Apparently I, too, have some sort of special tool buried somewhere in my skull. I do not know how it got there and I really do not know how to operate the darned thing. It comes on all by itself, gives me a glimpse that I could not get otherwise, then shuts down. I have nothing to do with it, no control whatever, and I have not the faintest idea what it is, how it works, or why it works. I have spent the better part of life wondering about it and…

But enough of that for now. I am just trying to give you an understanding of what phenomenon means to me, personally. It means, simply, anything not ordinarily perceived via the human sensory apparatus.

I saw an apparition, an "appearance," some energy form that did not have atomic structures packed into it as densely as mine are packed into me. If you prefer to call it a ghost, go ahead. For myself, I am much more comfortable trying to relate that particular type of phenomenon to some sort of psychic energy. That keeps my feet planted on solid earth while I try to understand what is happening in my little parcel of reality.

At the moment in question I had enough solid-earth problems on hand without looking for more in rarer atmospheres. Chitoge absolutely fell apart when Josuke died. She apparently had no family, no close friends, absolutely no one to turn to—and the same for Josuke. I could not just send the lady toddling along Pacific Coast Highway, all starey-eyed and terrified and totally alone in the world. She seemed convinced that "something evil" had done in Josuke and I had the impression that she was a bit worried for herself too.

I gave her a sedative and put her to bed at my place. Then I went looking for Josuke.

I found him in a refrigerated room at County. I did not even know the guy's family name, but they had all that from personal papers found in his wallet. The name, by the way, was Kirisaki. The "person to notify in case of an emergency" was Chitoge Kirisaki-Wogner, ditto for "name of employer." The home address and telephone number were the same as I had in my book for Chitoge.

Well, she had said that Josuke was "like an uncle."

The tag on the remains simply read "DOA"—without further comment.

I called an acquaintance at the coroner's office and told her what little I knew about Josuke Kirisaki and the circumstances of his death. I also said that I was acting on behalf of Chitoge and requesting an autopsy at the earliest possible time. The coroner's assistant promised to pierce the bureaucratic veil and get something happening immediately; I, in turn, promised to call her soon for dinner.

She also suggested that I touch base with the cops. I did not feel like doing that at the moment. I had already been away for a couple of hours, and I was a bit uneasy about my new housemate. It was now about five o'clock and the traffic situation was frantic. I stopped at a little market for a few groceries, got home about six.

Uneasy, yeah, with good reason. Her car was still there. The clothing she had worn was there, folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Water was running in the shower, but the bathroom door stood wide open and no one was there—damp spot on the carpet—one large bath towel missing.

My place is not that large; took me all of thirty seconds to shake it down and to realize that I was the only one at home. I found her about a mile down the beach, wrapped in the towel, sarong fashion, walking aimlessly through ankle-deep surf. Her eyes were sort of blank. I was not positive that she knew where she was or that she even recognized me. But she took my hand like a trusting child and allowed me to lead her back to my place. We had no conversation. I put her to bed again and called my doctor. We are drinking buddies. He came out, took her temperature, and did the vital signs bit, asked her a few routine questions to which she responded in a monotone—name, rank, serial number, that sort of stuff.

Outside, he told me that she seemed healthy and rather archly inquired if we'd been "doing any stuff." He meant drugs, and he knew better. I told him about the sedative. Said I should just keep an eye on her, let her sleep it off.

By now it is nine o'clock or so. I go back inside to check her out, hoping she's asleep. She is not. She has the bedcovers kicked back and she is naked. I stand in the doorway and the dialogue is at that distance. She speaks first.

"Are you going to do it?"

"Am I going to do what, Chitoge?"

"You know. Give me an orgasm."

"If I could, sure. I'd do that. But that is not something someone else can give you, babe. You have to go get it for yourself. Maybe I could help you with that. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

Which shows you what a nice guy I really am. I was looking at heaven. But the moment was all wrong, the rationale was wrong—and I was not all that sure that it was the real Chitoge in my bed. The eyes were still sort of blank, as though no one was home there.

"Tomorrow? Promise?"

"Promise, yeah, we'll talk about it."

"Is Josuke really dead?"

"Yes."

"What can I do?"

"About Josuke? Not a thing, princess. Unless there's someone I should notify."

"No. Josuke is the last—there's no one. He had a brother. Like him."

"Like him?"

"You know. Mute. He died too. Year ago, 'bout. Same way."

"Same way?"

"Yes. Here one moment, gone the next."

"We'll talk about that tomorrow."

"Kiss me good night?"

"God, no."

Something moved within those blank eyes and she giggled. "See you tomorrow, then."

I was closing the door when she very sleepily informed me, "She came for him too."

"What?"

"Yosuke, Josuke's brother. She came for him last year."

I went straight to the bar and made a drink, took it outside to watch a great orange moon rise into the sky—seeking, I guess, confirmation of an ordered reality.

So there I stood, whiskey and soda in hand, feet planted trustingly upon a whirling cinder that moved in endless circles around a nuclear fire in the sky, watching another cinder or ash or whatever whirling around my cinder, seeking reason and logic in an incomprehensible universe.

What fools we mortals be.

I spent the larger part of that night tiptoeing about in repeated checks on my guest while also playing code games with my personal computer.

Even with the strong sedative, her sleep was restless and punctuated with muffled little outcries, but I elected to let her sleep it out without interference from me; sometimes that is best.

Besides which, I was having a devil of a time with my computer linkage to the world brain. Amazing what you can do with these little gadgets—the so-called "personal computer"—if you know the tricks—and, of course, I had learned most of those under navy tutelage. It's a modest investment in "linkage." Smart shopping can set you up proudly for just a few thousand dollars, allowing you to tap in to the monster system costing millions.

A word or two is needed here about "monster systems," in case you have not noticed any. Modern human society is highly complex, much more so than one would imagine from casual observations of the common, workaday world; so complex, in fact, that it is only marginally manageable and—from an inside view—appears to be in daily danger of total collapse.

The whole thing is held together by a tenuous network of "management systems" and "data parameters" that embrace the full spectrum of government and private sector interests, most of which operate at cross-purposes and with a notable lack of cooperative effort. That the thing works at all is a testament not to the ingenuity of man but to the stubbornness of some impelling force of evolution that somehow keeps things stumbling along despite all efforts to frustrate it.

If that sounds cynical, then call me a cynic, but I am not really cynical about mankind per se, only about the mechanisms that are trying to stick us all together in manageable clumps. The mechanism has to be there, mind you, else all is chaos—witness modern Lebanon as an example of what happens when the machine collapses—but chaos is an inherent and basic constituent of every management system ever devised, more and more so as complexities increase.

I include any and every form of political government in the definition of "management systems." Include also, if you will, every religious and educational and commercial endeavor of mankind. Keep that in mind, please, then consider that the computer age has ushered in the most beautifully complex mechanisms yet conceived by an exploding race consciousness—while concomitantly producing the most menacing potential for utter chaos.

Artificial intelligence.

Sound like something from a science fiction movie? Sure, but it is also military-industrial jargon that you might encounter any Sunday in the L.A. Times classifieds under "Scientific Help Wanted." Artificial intelligence is the newest of the growth and glamour technological pursuits of our space-age society—mostly in military applications at the present state of development, but it has already crept into various private enterprises. The very term implies that more is under contemplation than mere data-mashing, which is mainly what a computer does; it suggests some sort of silicone brain that can reason both deductively and inductively, make decisions and execute them—the real-life equivalent of the old (ten years ago, I guess, is old by present standards) science fiction themes concerning the domination of mankind by monster computers.

But I digress. I was trying to make the point that our highly complex society of today is being managed, in most parts that really count, by computer technology and "artificial intelligence." A lot of the chaos that erupts in our personal lives, and in our personal interactions with a computer-managed society, is caused when an individual or an action does not match some mathematical model that is attempting to orchestrate the social conventions in a given sphere of activity.

I am trying not to sound professorial, but I think round so I guess I have to talk that way. Really what I am trying to suggest is that the monster computer is already among us, governing us to a large extent that we are being governed, controlling us to a large extent that we are being controlled.

I tend to resent that.

All of which, above, is a roundabout way of saying that I feel no pangs of conscience in using that same mechanism as a service to help me hold chaos at bay while I attempt some useful task.

So, yeah, I play the code games. Not in a frivolous sense, and I do have a rather stern ethic that keeps me from mucking around where I have no business. Most of the data pools that I have accessed from my little TRS-80 contain public records, anyway. Only occasionally have I invaded confidential files, and then only when the need seemed to justify the trespass.

The lady had come to me for help. If I am a physician and you come to me complaining of a bellyache and I suspect that your appendix is trying to explode, am I ethically justified in giving you a Rolaids and sending you on your way simply because you will not acknowledge the appendicitis? No—I cannot work that way.

Chitoge Kirisaki-Wogner had a problem that was much more ominous than the complaint that brought her to me. I did not exactly know the parameters of that problem, but I felt that I owed it to her as well as to myself to find out all I could about her.

I hit every major data bank in the state in that pursuit.

Know what? I found nothing. Nothing.

The mechanism that sticks together the people of California had no knowledge of the lady; she did not exist in that system. No driver's license, no work record, not even a record of birth, no medical records, no police records. Apparently she had never been insured, had never gone to school, never married or divorced, never applied for credit, never bought real estate, never paid taxes.

Along about three a.m., I began to get the feeling that I was falling toward chaos.

I have a distinct distaste for chaos. So I shut down the computer, took off my shoes, and stretched out on the couch to give my right brain a shot at the logic.

Instead, I guess I fell asleep because the next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the windows and my home had been invaded by a number of energetic men with nasty faces, two of whom were peering down at me over gun snouts.

I moved eyes and mouth only in a cautious query as to the nature of their business there.

One snapped, "Shut up."

Another, outside my area of vision, announced, "She's in here!"—and I was aware of energetic movements in the general direction of my bedroom.

It happened faster than I can describe the action. One moment they were there, the next they were gone—and Chitoge too. I heard several vehicles pull away before I ventured to my feet. It could have been a dream for all the evidence left behind.

Even Chitoge could have been a dream.

But I knew that she was not.

For some strange reason, maybe only to validate the reality, the first thing I did was to call my friend at the coroner's office. It was a Saturday, but I knew that she normally worked the weekends. But she was not there, would not be there at all today, something about a family emergency out of town somewhere, no idea when she would be returning to duty.

The people at the county hospital kept me on hold for upwards of ten minutes before firmly assuring me that there was "no record" of my DOA.

Falling, yeah. Chaos loomed.

The 911 supervisor could find no record of a dispatch to my address on the previous day, and a telephone canvass of ambulance companies serving the area produced a solid ditto.

Then and only then I tried the telephone number that Chitoge had given me just three days earlier. What I reached was a telephone company recording advising me that the number was no longer in service.

How I hate chaos.

So I called my drinking buddy, the doctor who had come over to check out Chitoge the evening before.

I bullied my way through two "services" to finally acquire a female voice that sorrowfully informed me that my friend, the doctor, had died of an apparent heart attack "late last night."

Someone or something was manipulating my little corner of reality, I was sure of that.

Or else the system, the social mechanism, had reached the edge of chaos and was about to engulf me in its collapse.

I could not buy that.

So I did something that could get me a few years in Leavenworth. I went back to my TRS-80 and accessed a government mainframe in Washington to invade confidential files in search of a "Wogner" with a promising profile.

It took me up past the noon hour, and I was glad it was a weekend, with most of Washington away from the office, to afford me that kind of time on the access.

But, yeah, I found the "right" Wogner.

And a hell of a lot more.

I found my validation. And a new respect for the mechanism.

.

.