Snow covered empty streets. My sensors indicated it was just below thirty degrees, so I kept my thermal receptors deactivated. I fiddled with the quarter in my pocket as I walked, keeping a diagnostic test running in the back of my mind.
A figure appeared ahead as I rounded a building's corner. Even before I was within range to scan, I knew who I would find.
He stood beside the food truck, his breath leaving a cloud in the air as he glanced around, waiting. He spotted me when I was but a few yards away.
A grin twitched on Hank's lips and he approached. I returned with a smile and for the first time, it felt natural. Without warning, he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me into an embrace. Alarm jolted through my systems, but I realized it was merely a hug. What felt like emotion rose in my chest; I struggled to identify the feeling. Gripping him tightly, I stored the novel experience with care. From the way he squeezed, it seemed like it had been a while since he had a hug.
"Good to see you, Connor," Hank patted my back twice, maintaining the embrace for another six seconds before he pulled back.
"I'm glad to see you're alright, Lieutenant." I scanned over him automatically, detecting traces of alcohol on his breath and his gun hidden beneath his heavy coat.
"Been bored out of my mind," he commented, shoving his hands into his pockets as he began walking towards his car, "Never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad we're going back to business as usual. Well," Hank paused, and his eyes roved over the streets, "I guess not 'as usual.' Gotta say, it's strange to see the city so empty."
"Most of the deviants are residing in Hart Plaza." I noted in partial explanation.
"That where you've been hiding?" He raised an eyebrow in jest as he opened the door to his car and eased inside.
"No, I've been staying in an apartment on 14th."
"Alone?" Hank bent to meet my eyes as I entered the passenger side; I could sense his concern.
"Yes," I replied slowly, "The complex has been mostly abandoned. There's a man who lives down the hall, but he keeps to himself."
He twisted the key and the engine growled. Immediately, heavy metal shrieked through the stereo and he winced, twisting the dial until the music steadied as a faint background. When he started on the empty streets, he asked, "How are negotiations going?"
"Not well. The government's representatives are reportedly… reluctant to accept any of Markus's terms."
"Can't say I'm surprised."
As we turned a corner, he reached for the heat and quickly dialed the knob to its maximum setting. Hank held a hand to the vents as though he did not trust the car to comply before he glanced to me, eying my typical uniform. "You cold?"
"No." I shook my head before I explained, "As a default, my thermal receptors are kept deactivated."
He eyed me and opened his mouth to speak when his pocket began to buzz loudly. Hank leaned back in his seat to pull out his vibrating phone, sliding a finger across the screen before holding it to his ear.
My systems automatically recognized the caller as Captain Fowler, but as soon as the information appeared, I felt like I was violating his privacy. My LED flashed yellow as data from the precinct entered my visuals. There had been a 911 call thirty-seven minutes ago, two officers were already on the scene. I frowned when the file listed the word homicide with no other details.
When he tossed the phone onto his dashboard, I turned to face him, tilting my head slightly.
"Fowler wants us to stop by Millender Center," he immediately turned down a side street as he altered his route, "There's been a homicide. Apparently, Chris is already there."
"Millender Center isn't far from Hart Plaza," I noted, and he gave me another glance, realizing what I meant.
"Ah, great," he muttered, accelerating drastically to an unsafe speed, given the conditions. He was forced to weave between abandoned cars and thick patches of snow, but fortunately, we did not encounter the complete road blockages that I knew were prevalent throughout the city.
When the building came into view, he pulled to the side of the road and hit the brakes, stopping just behind the police car. Noticing the androids at the end of the street, I stepped out of the car and surveyed the three deviants who gazed up at the building.
"What happened?" I asked the group as Hank came around the car.
"We're not sure," a female AP700 answered hesitantly, "I heard screaming and when I came to help, I saw someone run that way," she pointed down the street, toward an alley, "I called 911 immediately—the police told me to wait here when they arrived, but I was scared to stay here alone."
I retracted the synthetic skin from my hand and grasped hers, scanning her recent memories. Her stress level jumped, and she tried to yank her hand back, but my grip was firm as I located the files in question.
Screaming… male. Voice is pained.
The video shook as the android jogged to the sound, only to find the back of a dark figure as it bolted away.
Nondescript clothing. Average build. Estimated height: 6 foot.
When the individual disappeared into an alley, just as the android had indicated, I retracted myself from the memory and lifted my hand.
The AP700 seemed shaken, staring at me with wide eyes as she yanked her hand back, cradling it with her other arm as if in pain. Her stress level was high, but she was unlikely to react violently.
My social module kicked in, alerting me to the lines I had crossed, "I'm sorry, I should have asked your permission before I probed your memory."
She seemed disturbed and petrified as she watched me closely, appearing ready to bolt if I approached. The two androids behind her looked just as shocked, their LEDs flashing yellow.
"I apologize for any discomfort that caused. I needed to verify your account."
She nodded faintly, still silent.
"Neither of you witnessed the incident?" I examined the other two androids.
"No," they both shook their heads, and one supplemented, "We only came when Alli called us here, to make sure she was safe." I ascertained that they were most likely speaking truthfully, and I did not want to probe their memories after I seemed to have traumatized the AP700.
"You're free to go," I authorized after recording their model numbers, though I doubted I would need to interview them again. I felt what must be guilt creep inside my chest. My social programming was not designed to accommodate deviants; I would need to modify it at the soonest opportunity.
As the AP700 backed away slowly, I turned to Hank, who was waiting at the door of the building. He had clearly watched the interaction, and he raised an eyebrow as I approached, "They know anything?"
"Not much," I frowned, "One of them heard screaming coming from this building and saw a figure run into an alley." I pointed for reference, "I doubt the suspect is still there, but it would be worth checking out."
He followed my gaze and nodded, "Let's check inside first so we know what we're dealing with."
I entered the building and determined that the police were on the twenty-seventh floor. The space was otherwise abandoned. I scanned for evidence as we entered the elevator but found none.
When the elevator halted and we stepped out, Hank called, "Chris?"
"Over here!" The officer replied, and we followed down the hall until we reached an open door. I noted the handle was limp in its holding, as though someone had kicked open the door.
"Oh, for the…" Hank shook his head as he took in the scene. Crimson blood was splattered across the room. A mutilated body lied on the floor, beside the living room window. "What happened here?"
"He was barely alive when we arrived," Chris stood, holding an electronic tablet. Blood covered his uniform; he looked pale. "He said it was an android that did this to him. We tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. Called off the EMTs before they arrived."
Questions immediately sprung in my mind. An android did this?
I stepped around the officers as Hank guided Chris out of the room, assuring him he did all he could.
My eyes ran over the body; there were twenty-four puncture wounds; a kitchen knife remained firmly wedged in his hand. Two bullets remained lodged in his bone: one in the shoulder and one in the foot. There was significant bruising around the neck. I crouched beside the corpse and dipped two fingers lightly into the pooling blood, then raised them to my tongue. It took a few seconds to analyze, but the DNA soon came up with a match.
His name was Richard Carlson. He died thirty-one minutes ago, due to loss of blood from the stab wounds. He had two counts of larceny on his record; both committed over five years ago. Records indicated he had previously owned a KW500, but that he turned it in for deconstruction when the revolution escalated.
The knife had only Richardson's fingerprints, which supported the man's dying testimony. Faint remnants of food remained on the handle and blade.
I stood and glanced over the room. Chris's partner was busy photographing the scene, but he pointed to the gun on the floor after noticing my gaze, "The gun isn't registered, but we think it was the victim's. It looks like he tried to defend himself," the officer gestured to the four bullet holes in the wall.
A brief scan confirmed the gun bore Richard's fingerprints, and that it fired the bullets that were both lodged in the walls and the victim's body.
"Did you move the gun?" I asked as I began assembling the evidence.
"No, we haven't touched it."
I measured the distance between the gun and the body—it was out of his reach. He had held the gun, but he was not the last person to hold it. No other fingerprints marred the surface, however.
Straightening, I noted the room was relatively undisturbed, excluding the blood splatter. Trash littered the ground and the space looked unkempt with filthy dishes set around the room, but not as though a violent struggle had occurred.
"Find anything?" Hank asked as he returned from the hall; I could detect Chris still outside.
I nodded slowly as the evidence assembled in my mind. Before I could confirm my current scenario, I asked the two officers, "Was the door closed when you arrived?"
"It was open—looked like someone had busted it to get in." Chris answered from the hallway.
With the entry point verified, I began reconstructing the scene in my mind, verbalizing it for Hank's benefit. "The killer broke the door to enter," I began, "The victim heard it and came from the bedroom with a gun." I walked in the place of the killer, "The victim may have recognized the killer, because he began shooting from the bedroom doorway." I surveyed the ground once more, finding no Thirium, "He missed each shot, and the killer grabbed the gun from his hand."
"No human's that fast," Hank pointed out, judging the distance from the entrance to the bedroom door.
I nodded my agreement before continuing, "The killer lifted the victim by the throat and carried him here, where the killer shoved him to the ground." I gestured to the body, "At close range, the killer shot the victim in the shoulder and foot, then stepped back and tossed the gun to the ground." I pointed to the dishes on the coffee table, "The killer took a knife and began stabbing the victim."
A frown contorted my face when I noticed the blood smear on the victim's chest. "Was there something written on the body when you arrived?"
"What?" Chris's partner looked over the corpse, "I—I don't think so. There was a lot of blood,
Chris tried to stop the bleeding."
"What are you getting at, Connor?" Hank searched my face warily.
Enough of the smear remained to unveil the pattern in the stab wounds. I exhaled heavily, "RA9. The killer spelled out RA9 on the victim's body."
"Great," Hank muttered, looking away from the body.
"The wounds were precise," I observed, "The killer wanted to drag out the murder."
"Sounds like our killer was angry. But why leave him alive?"
"I'm not sure," I stepped back from the corpse, "Perhaps the killer heard something. Or maybe the killer was scared of what they'd done." The clear presence of emotions and the RA9 symbol left no doubt that the killer was deviant. My reconstruction concluded, "They must have run from here directly downstairs and outside, where the witness saw them run into the alley. The timing lines up." Aimlessly, I glanced out the window and saw a mostly unobstructed view of Hart Plaza in the distance.
"Alright, let's give that alley a look," Hank started for the door and I followed, my LED flashing yellow as I tried to understand what occurred.
As we took the elevator and walked outside, Hank gazed over me, "You alright, Connor?"
"I'm fine," I assured, "I just don't understand what would provoke a deviant to kill like that. The other incidents we've investigated involved androids who acted in the heat of passion, and in self-defense. This," I shook my head, "This was something else. This was premeditated murder."
Hank looked as disturbed by the conclusion as I felt. "The facts indicate this was an android. I don't think a human could've pulled this off."
"I agree," I nodded as we reached the alley, "A human couldn't have done this."
The alley was vacant. A dumpster was shoved against one wall, and debris lined the ground. While Hank checked the dumpster and scrunched his nose at the smell, I scanned over the space. There were no fingerprints or traces of Blue Blood. There were no signs of life, neither android nor human.
"Anything?" Hank asked, letting the dumpster lid fall as he waved his hand in front of his face to clear the smell.
"Nothing," I reported, making my way to the end of the alley. Hank followed, gazing over the city.
"Chris said the victim owned an android, but turned it in for deconstruction," Hank noted, "We'll chase down that lead, see if it turns anything up." I merely nodded, causing Hank to prompt, "What do you think happened here? Why would a deviant do this?"
I met his gaze, my LED cycling yellow, "I don't know." I turned my gaze back toward the city, where my eyes landed on Hart Plaza. I shook my head, "It doesn't make sense."