Dissimulation
Chapter 5: The Calm
"Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree."
It was the following morning when Connor realized that the problem with confessing your feelings to someone was that the timing never seemed just right.
What am I supposed to do? Connor asked himself, exasperated. I can't just barge in on Hank while he's brushing his teeth and say "Good morning Lieutenant! There's a 60% chance of rain today, our commute to work is unobstructed and also, by the way, I'm in love with you!"
Connor didn't realize he had groaned out loud until he noticed Hank was staring at him, one brow raised in confusion.
"You, uh, doin' alright there?" the lieutenant questioned, having just stepped out of the bathroom.
"Yes," was Connor's too-quick reply. "I was only thinking about all of the open cases we have to work through."
Hank adopted a look that Connor had come to recognize as one of heavy skepticism. Hank's head was angled away, his pupils cast to the side to peer at the android warily, his mouth slightly agape. Choosing not to comment further from fear of seeming defensive, Connor took this brief lull in conversation to appreciate that the lieutenant's condition was a vast improvement from what it had been the morning prior. He had showered, trimmed his beard, and was wearing a flattering grey-checked button-up. Though untucked (Hank had groused on more than one occasion that he would rather "fucking die" than tuck in his shirts), Connor glimpsed a silver belt buckle inlaid with turquoise that peered from beneath the shirt's hem. It was an accessory he had never seen Hank wear before, and Connor rather resolutely decided that he liked it.
"Okay. Stop staring at my crotch and let's get going."
If Connor had the ability to blush, he imagined his face would be the deepest shade of crimson, but he only nodded numbly in response and waited for the lieutenant to pass before following him out the door.
In the wake of so much chaos, the precinct had been operating on a "do what you can" policy, meaning that most cases were free game. Naturally, Hank had snatched up the least taxing cases – ones involving petty theft and the like. Connor had been peering over his shoulder, reviewing a claim of a stolen vehicle that had apparently taken place right after Markus' demonstration, when Captain Fowler hollered for them from his office.
"Goddamn it," Hank had cursed under his breath, before grudgingly standing and shoving his chair into his desk.
As always, Connor was dutifully at his heels.
They entered the Captain's office and Connor promptly took a seat, whereas Hank opted to remain standing, arms crossed, hovering near the door. His impatience was nearly palpable.
Captain Fowler didn't look at them at first, and instead buried his forehead in one palm before groaning theatrically. Connor supposed Fowler could sense the impending argument before it even took place.
"A double homicide was just called in," he said at length. "I need the two of you to look into it."
Hank's reaction was immediate.
"What the fuck, Jeffrey? We already have enough to deal with. Why us?"
The Captain's demeanor shifted so suddenly that even Connor could not have predicted the outburst that followed. He leapt from his desk, thick hands slamming to its surface, and fixed Hank with a wide-eyed glare that all but dared him to utter another cross word.
"Because everyone else is covered up, because you're a goddamn homicide detective, not a petty theft officer, and, most importantly, because I fucking told you to."
For the first time in recent memory, Connor was mildly amused to find that the lieutenant was speechless. And so, still sitting primly (like a professional, he thought, a bit of petty pride swelling from his core), Connor took it upon himself to cut through the tense silence that followed Jeffrey's explosive rant.
"We'll get started right away, Captain. Please - send me the case file."
Captain Fowler didn't respond at first, and continued to stare Hank down for several overwrought moments before finally relaxing back into his chair and acknowledging Connor's statement.
"Alright," he replied, and proceeded to open a window on his terminal – presumably the case file in question. "It's sent. Just… get it done. And quickly."
"Yeah… you got it," Hank cut in before Connor could respond, his tone submissive. The fact that Hank had the audacity to speak at all must have caused Jeffrey's head to jerk back around, a sliver of the rage from before returning to his eyes.
"Get the hell out of my office, Anderson!"
Wisely, Hank didn't argue. His brows shot up and his lips pursed in that expression he took before admitting defeat, and he spun on his heel, a bit dramatically, before quietly slipping out of the office. Connor stood to follow but paused at the door, before turning his head and saying: "We'll make quick work of this case, Captain."
Jeffrey scoffed, and leaned back in his chair to peer up at the android wearily.
"You'd better. I've worked in this hellhole for 29 years and I've never seen a caseload like this."
The android nodded, his brows drawn in determination, and he shut the door behind him.
Hank, predictably, was seated at his desk, staring dumbly at the monitor, smashing "refresh" again and again from his e-mail inbox. Upon hearing Connor's approach, he glanced over his shoulder and gestured to his screen before saying, "I thought Fowler said he sent that case file… but I got nothin.'"
Normally Connor would have teased – something about "not understanding modern technology," but he gathered from the Captain's mood that the situation at the precinct was dire, and so he opted to act accordingly.
"He sent it to me, Lieutenant. Here-"
Connor reached out, lightly grasping the terminal before his artificial skin bled away to reveal the glossy white chassis underneath. It only took a moment to transfer the file to Hank's computer, but he didn't miss the slack-jawed look of curiosity from his partner as he stared openly at the exposed hand.
A topic to breach at a different time, Connor mused, but he shot Hank a small smile before willing his humanoid skin to return to its original state and pulling away.
Hank cleared his throat, righted himself, and leaned forward to review the information.
"Murder victims are Timothy and Martha Butler – both deaths by firearm. Prime suspect is Kyle Butler, age 34…" the lieutenant recited aloud, either oblivious to or purposefully dismissive of the fact that Connor had already internally absorbed all that the case file had to present. The android, though eager to get to work, did not want his partner to be remiss of any details, and so he clasped his hands behind his back and waited patiently.
"Apparently he offed his aunt and uncle then just left. It says here that there's one eye-witness… that's good, at least." A pause, and then Hank hummed, sounding impressed. "Looks like the murder scene is in Sherwood Forest. Kyle must've come from money."
"Should we be on our way?" Connor questioned at length, attempting to mask the impatience in his tone.
"Relax, they're not gettin' any deader," Hank retorted. Despite this, he stood and gathered his coat.
The duo stepped outside and into the assault of a snow flurry, accompanied by sharp winds.
"Aw, Christ…" Hank grumbled, holding an arm up to shield his face from the frigid onslaught.
Connor was, of course, largely unaffected. He registered the temperature at approximately 13 degrees Fahrenheit, and while he did receive a warning prompting him to seek shelter within ten hours to avoid minor hardware damage, there was no immediate risk.
Once they were sheltered inside the car, Hank cranked the ignition and set the heat to full blast, then proceeded to curse when only cold air blew out.
"Fucking worthless piece of shit…" he grumbled inarticulately as he rubbed his hands together, the fleeting tremor of a chill passing through his body. As the lieutenant cursed at his car, Connor was briefly enraptured by the little puffs of air that floated from his mouth with each word. A curious thing to appreciate, he knew, but it was just another small marker of life - one more tiny indication that Hank was alive and well – and that was a comfort in and of itself.
Once he had rubbed down the goosebumps from his upper arms and the engine had warmed enough for the vents to emit air that was actually hot, Hank took a cursory glance at Connor and froze.
"Where the hell is your coat?" he demanded, voice pitching in irritation.
Connor tilted his head, confused.
"I do not own a coat, Lieutenant," he replied, suddenly feeling under-dressed in his simple collared shirt.
"You don't own a coat," Hank parroted. "Jesus, this is the coldest it's been in a while so I didn't even think about it, but if I'd known you needed a coat I would have…"
"It's alright, I don't require outerwear," Connor interrupted, feeling an artificial warmth at the other man's unwarranted concern. "My temperature is naturally lower than that of a human, and I am in no danger in this weather."
"Uh-huh," Hank replied, his tone laced with doubt. "You know what? You have the address, right?" Here Hank tapped his own forehead in a rough approximation of where Connor's LED was located. "Why don't you drive? I've gotta do something on my phone real quick."
Before Connor could ask, Hank exited the vehicle and had trudged around to the passenger side, leaving the android little choice but to oblige. He switched places with Hank, and after throwing the car in reverse and carefully backing onto the nearest main road, he turned to the lieutenant for answers. As expected, the man in question was determinedly typing something out on his phone's screen, thumbs clumsily sliding across the virtual keyboard.
"Not that I mind driving, but what did you have to do that's so important?"
"Nunya," Hank answered immediately.
Connor furrowed his brow and checked the mysterious word against the hundreds of languages that were innately embedded within him, resulting in exactly zero matches.
"I don't know what that means," he finally admitted. "Enlighten me?"
"It means 'nunya business,'" Hank shot back, but his lip was curled up in a grin, and there was no bite to his words.
Mildly frustrated, but unwilling to press the matter further, Connor accepted this cryptic reply and resumed his attention to the road.
Sherwood Forest was an affluent community located at the fringes of Detroit and tucked away beneath massive lines of overgrown oaks that were likely beautiful in warmer weather, but in the current season were little more than barren, black skeletons that arched their limbs forebodingly over the bricked streets below. By the time Hank and Connor reached the neighborhood, the moody lieutenant had long since stuffed his phone back into his coat pocket and had cranked the radio, nodding his head to the beat of an old Taking Back Sunday song.
Connor arrived at the given address and parked beside Officer Chen's patrol car before stepping outside with Hank following not long thereafter. The lieutenant whistled at the estate before them, clearly impressed. The late Butlers' house was a massive 3-story brick mansion that had been painted white and was covered with patchy clumps of stiff ivy that had slowly crawled up from the ground, nearly reaching the third floor. The two electric lanterns on either side of the elaborate front double doors cast a soft orange glow on the lone figure sitting outside – a petite woman with cropped black hair. Her face was buried in her hands and her shoulders were trembling. Connor and Hank approached her cautiously.
"Hello ma'am," Hank greeted, his voice gentle. "I'm Lieutenant Anderson with the Detroit Police Department, and this is my partner, Connor."
The woman slowly lifted her head, revealing tear-slicked cheeks and the flashing red LED at her temple. Connor recognized her as a KW500 model, an early iteration of the household assistant.
"Hi…" she replied meekly. "I'm Cynthia."
"It's nice to meet you, Cynthia," Connor said in the softest voice he could muster. He knelt before her in an effort to seem less threatening. "What was your relation to the Butlers?"
Cynthia looked back down at her hands, and her brows drew together in distress. It looked like she might break into a fresh wave of sobs, but she visibly steeled herself, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them once more and bravely meeting Connor's inquisitive gaze head-on.
"I was… like their daughter," she began. "They… purchased me eight years ago, but they always treated me well… even back then, they gave me my own room and… and took good care of me. Over the years I started to change… I don't know the exact moment I became a deviant… it just sort of happened over time."
Interesting, Connor mused.
"I think they noticed the difference before I did," Cynthia continued, laughing bitterly, "because they stopped asking me to do chores and encouraged me to learn and try new things and… and to just live."
The woman made a stuttering sound of distress from the back of her throat as she struggled to continue. Hank chose this moment to sit down beside her, and clasped a firm, comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Hey, it's okay," He said, the gentle timbre of his voice setting every artificial synapse in Connor's body on fire, despite the somber situation. "You take all the time you need."
Cynthia nodded gratefully, and wiped a few errant tears from her eyelashes before speaking once more.
"Mr. and Mrs. Butler are… were such caring people, you know? They'd take anyone in who needed help. They welcomed me like I was a new member of the family. And… they did the same for Kyle."
She spat his name like it was a caustic substance on her tongue, her miserable expression suddenly turning furious. Connor and Hank shared a look.
"Tell us about Kyle," Connor prodded, voice still carefully contained, as though the woman before him were a hare that might startle and bolt away.
"He's their nephew," Cynthia supplied. "His parents died when he was young and the Butlers raised him. Of course, he was already out of the house by the time I moved in but, he would come by sometimes -usually to ask for money. They would always give him anything he wanted. I… think they just felt sorry for him. It was so obvious that he was taking advantage but… they would still just cave in to his demands."
"Thank you Cynthia, I know this is hard," Connor said soothingly. "Just a few more questions and we'll make sure you have a safe place to rest for tonight. Were you here when the murders took place?"
"Yes," the other android replied, "but I was upstairs. Kyle came over and when they saw his car pull up, the Butlers told me I should stay in my room until he left. He… always seemed to be jealous of me. So I… I did what they asked, and when I heard the gun I…"
Her LED was flashing red again. Hank let his hand fall to her back, and he took to awkwardly rubbing light circles between her shoulder blades in a bid of comfort.
"You ran downstairs, of course you did," he muttered.
"Right," Cynthia affirmed, choking on another sob. "Kyle was already in his car, leaving. I was so… I didn't know what he… I should have followed him, or stopped him. I… I shouldn't have gone upstairs in the first place! Maybe I could have…"
Hank issued a light shush and withdrew his hand.
"Hey, look at me."
Cynthia reluctantly obeyed.
"What happened today was not your fault. It's a good thing you were upstairs, because you might have been hurt too."
It was then that the strangest thing happened. Cynthia's LED slowly bled from red to yellow, and then cycled around to blue for the first time since they'd arrived. She offered Hank the smallest of smiles, just a subtle quirk of her lips.
"Thank you… thank you for being so nice to me."
Hank scoffed and looked away, an arm raising to the back of his neck in sheepishness. Connor had to suppress a chuckle.
He can't seem to accept praise.
It was at that moment when Connor made a mental note (quite literally) to work on fixing that problem. He wanted to lavish Hank with so much unabashed praise and adoration that it just became the other man's new normal. He wanted to tell Hank how important he was, how strong and skilled and capable he was, not to mention witty and handsome…
"Connor!"
His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by the lieutenant, who was now glaring at him harshly.
"The fuck are you doing?" was the unspoken question in Hank's narrowed eyes.
"I apologize Lieutenant. I was lost in thought. Say that again?"
Hank sighed and hoisted himself to his feet, then offered a hand to Cynthia who gratefully accepted the chivalrous gesture and rose to her feet as well. Connor followed suit.
"I asked if you had anything else to go over with Miss Cynthia?"
Right. The case. I need to focus on my job.
"Actually," Connor began, "I did have one last question. Had the Butlers been acting strange prior to this afternoon? For example, did they meet with anyone out of the ordinary, or take an unexpected trip?"
Cynthia drew a finger to her sharp chin in thought.
"Not really… although they did go see their lawyer not long after President Warren's speech about android personhood. They didn't share any details with me or tell me why… and it's none of my business, of course, but they've always been pretty open with me about their affairs in the past."
Connor offered a pleased smile.
"Do you have their lawyer's number, by any chance?"
"Of course. I'll send it to you."
Cynthia's LED flashed yellow for a moment as she transferred the information to the RK800.
"Got it. Thank you again for your help. I have sent Lieutenant Anderson's contact information in return, as well as my own, in case you need to reach out to us. In the meantime, are you familiar with the android leader, Markus?"
The woman's eyes lit up and she nodded eagerly.
"Well… yeah, of course I know about Markus."
"Good," Connor replied, "he is a personal friend of mine. If you would like, I could contact him now and arrange for you to have special accommodations in New Jericho where you will be safe and in very good company."
"That… that would be great. Thank you…" here she trailed off, her eyes suddenly narrowed at Connor in scrutiny. Then, realization passed over her countenance, and she took a step back in clear disbelief.
"You said your name is Connor?"
Connor quirked an eyebrow, unsure of the direction their conversation had taken.
"Yes, that is correct."
"And… you're personal friends with Markus…"
"Yes."
"You're…" Cynthia's voice began to tremble, "you're the one who saved so many of our people from Cyberlife Tower!"
It was Connor's turn to be sheepish. He grinned nervously, and glanced back the lieutenant.
"Well, I had a lot of help," he said, looking pointedly at Hank.
Cynthia followed his gaze, and beamed at them both with watery eyes, before launching herself at Connor and pulling him into a fierce hug.
"Thank you…" she mumbled into his shoulder. "Thank you so much…"
Connor was bewildered, and completely unprepared to deal with this situation. His hands lingered in the air, his body rigid, as the traumatized stranger continued to express her gratitude by clinging to him awkwardly and making muffled, incoherent noises against his shirt.
Hank had the audacity to chuckle at his torment, and he knew he would be teased relentlessly about this later, but then Cynthia disconnected herself from Connor and promptly set her sights on Hank, before repeating the gesture and hugging the lieutenant tightly.
It was Hank's turn to be mildly embarrassed, but he had the grace to at least offer a gentle pat on the back and say, "Hey, it's okay, m'happy to help, alright now…" he then carefully pried her away by the shoulder, and she was still smiling through her tears.
"I have ordered a cab that will take you to Jericho," Connor said. "I have also sent a message to Markus informing him of your situation. Please, stay there for tonight. Let us do our jobs here, and you can return tomorrow to gather your things."
Sure enough, no sooner had Connor stopped speaking did an automated cab turn the corner and pull onto the curb in front of them.
Cynthia took one last, lingering look at the house behind her, before nodding and walking toward the vehicle that would be removing her from her old life and plunging her into a strange new one.
"Wish me luck," she said to the detectives, a wistful smile on her lips.
"Good luck, kid," Hank replied. With that, she slipped into the cab and was gone.
"She was… nice," Connor commented as he watched the tail lights of the automated car disappear.
"Yeah," Hank agreed. "I wish her the best. Hate that this happened to her. The Butlers sounded like good people."
Connor hummed his assent.
There was only a beat or two more of blessed silence before Hank let out an exaggerated groan and turned back to the house.
"Well, guess we better go check out the damage."
The heavy double doors opened into a wide, brightly lit foyer with a beautiful hand-carved staircase off to one side. Connor's eyes followed the blue-and-gold woven rug at his feet, to the statue of a nude woman (carved in the style of the Greek masters), to the corpses slumped against the wall several feet before them, the bodies' combined blood staining the white porcelain tile underneath a sickly shade of crimson. Both Timothy and Martha Butler had been shot in the head at short range. Half of Timothy's face had been more or less disintegrated, whereas the front of Martha's skull was almost entirely concave, the bullet having entered closer to her nose. Neither victim was recognizable to Connor's facial scanners. He couldn't help but to wince in pity, his thoughts drifting back to Cynthia and what she must have felt in the moment when she descended the stairs and was greeted with the nearly faceless corpses of her loved ones.
The ever-present tug of empathy, the one emotion he had possessed since the beginning, caused Connor to construct a macabre scene in his own mind: he returns home alone one night, only to open the door and find Hank slumped against a wall, grey matter splattered around him, a revolver hanging from one limp, lifeless hand.
Connor's hand twitches. The mental image sears into him like a horrible brand. The thought of it makes him want to scream.
What he does instead is push the thought away, far, far beneath his surface, and focus on the crime scene in more objective terms.
Officer Chen was hovering near the bodies, punching something away on her tablet all the while, oblivious to Connor's near-meltdown.
"Tell me you have good news," Hank said, foregoing a more formal greeting. Tina didn't bother looking up at him.
"Define 'good news,'" she drawled.
"Shit…" Hank murmured. "That bad, huh?"
Tina finally slid her tablet beneath one arm and turned to face them. She looked incredibly tired, Connor noted, with dark bags beneath her eyes indicative of lack of sleep, and a slight sharpness to her cheekbones, as though she had recently lost weight.
It seemed that the city's frenzied state had taken its toll on all the precinct's officers.
"Well, we have a footprint," here Tina gestured to the bloody, zig-zag pattern of a sharp-toed boot behind her, designated with an evidence marker of "3." "We have security footage of Kyle entering and then leaving in a hurry later on, but no footage of the shooting itself."
Connor's gaze drifted up to find a small camera that was fixed at the front door. Its lens would not have picked up on the area where the bodies were located, which was much farther back.
"And… that's about it," Tina concluded with a huff. "No fingerprints, no weapon, although the bullet casings we found were from a .45. No sign of a struggle, though…"
"Any idea where he went?" Hank pressed on.
"Not a clue. Reed stopped by the suspect's residence but, of course, he wasn't there."
"Naturally," Hank grumbled.
"Lieutenant," Connor interjected, "why don't you contact the Butlers' lawyer and I'll take a look around."
"Yeah, alright. Got the number?"
"Of course. Just let me see your phone."
Hank handed the Samsung Nebula 9 over without protest, and Connor willed his artificial skin to peel away once more before transferring the number into Hank's contacts. He could feel his partner's gaze on him once again, and thought he heard the lieutenant whisper "incredible" before returning the phone with a smile that he hoped didn't look too smug.
He seems impressed by my true nature rather than put off by it, Connor deduced privately, the thought filling him with hope.
The android had to silently reprimand himself yet again for pining over Hank instead of focusing on the investigation, though he did permit himself a quiet sigh of relief when he heard the lieutenant's gruff voice drifting from the foyer. It sounded as though he was able to reach the lawyer. Emboldened, Connor padded over and knelt beside the bloody boot print before him, determined to do what he could to help. His scanners quickly analyzed the size and pattern.
Men's Shoe
Size: 6
Designation: Sharp-nosed Leather Boot
Sole patterning consistent with the following brands:
-Balenciaga
-Los Altos Boots
QUERY: "Los Altos Boots"
Los Altos Boots = A boot brand originating in Mexico popular amongst Hispanic men.
QUERY: "Los Altos Boots, Location: Detroit, MI"
0 Results
I doubt he purchased his boots from a company in Mexico, Connor pondered silently, before continuing his internal investigation into upmarket men's shoes.
QUERY: "Balenciaga"
Balenciaga = A high-end fashion brand specializing in men's and women's shoes and handbags.
QUERY: "Balenciaga, Location: Detroit, MI"
Balenciaga products are sold at the following location in Detroit, MI:
Neiman Marcus
Connor stepped away just as Hank was approaching him.
"Any Luck?" the other man questioned.
Connor rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger, nodding slowly.
"I think so. I believe this print is from a Balenciaga boot. The only store in Detroit that offers this brand is Neiman Marcus. Assuming Kyle purchased these shoes with a credit card, we could access their customer database, secure the card information, and potentially see where it was last used."
"You got all of that from just one footprint?"
"Yes," Connor replied curtly, noting with relief that his voice certainly sounded more confident than he felt.
"Huh. Sounds like a long shot, but I guess it's the best lead we have at this point."
Connor gestured to the lieutenant's phone, still clutched in one large hand.
"Were you able to find anything out from the lawyer?"
"Yep," Hank replied, sounding chipper. "We have a motive. Apparently after President Warren's speech, the Butlers wrote Cynthia into their will, cutting into Kyle's inheritance."
"I see," Connor mused aloud, "That could very well explain why he was so angry."
Hank nodded and turned toward Officer Chen.
"Tina, we're out of here. Got a lead."
"Good," she replied, running a hand across her forehead in exhaustion. "Don't worry about the mess, I'll clean it up." She was being sarcastic, but there was no sting to her words, and she offered the detectives a small wave as they turned to leave.
It was nearly 1:15PM by the time Hank had maneuvered through the last of the lunch-hour traffic and pulled into the vast parking lot of Neiman Marcus. Connor marveled at the size of the department store, a part of him hoping they could return at a later date when they weren't juggling murder cases.
The automatic glass doors opened into a "ladies petites" section cluttered with white, faceless mannequins outfitted with the latest fashions. Connor frowned at the mannequins - stiff, unfeeling humanoids - and felt an uncomfortable pang from what might have been the android equivalent to the "Uncanny Valley."
Hank led him around to the other end of the floor, into a wide section that was entirely dedicated to shoes. They approached a counter in the back, where a clerk ("Mike," his nametag read) was organizing boxes.
"Hello, uh, Mike," Hank began, flashing his badge, "I'm Lieutenant Anderson with the Detroit Police Department," here he gestured loosely to Connor, "This is my partner, Connor. We are investigating a murder and need information on one of your customers."
Mike, belying his somewhat disheveled appearance, straightened and folded his hands over the counter. He didn't smile.
"Good afternoon," he said drily. "How may I help you?"
Hank leaned forward just an inch, crowding the clerk's space, but Mike didn't so much as flinch.
"Do you remember a man by the name of Kyle Butler? Connor, show him a picture."
Connor obliged, opening one palm to display a small hologram of the suspect. Without tilting his head, Mike flicked his gaze to the picture, then returned to glaring at the lieutenant.
"I remember him."
"He made a purchase recently," Connor cut in, "-a pair of 'Balenciaga' boots. Did he happen to pay with a credit card?"
Mike gave a stiff shrug, just the subtle raise of one shoulder.
"I am not allowed to share our customers' information," he said, voice even.
This was the moment when Hank's infamous temper reared its head. He hunched further over the counter, his flat palms slamming against the Formica in emphasis.
"Listen," the lieutenant spat, "two innocent people are dead. There is a killer on the loose right now. This investigation is bigger than your… your… confidentiality policy for people who buy expensive shoes!"
Mike didn't bat an eyelash throughout Hank's harsh outburst, and when the lieutenant had finally finished speaking, he coolly asked, "Do you have a search warrant?"
Shit, Connor thought to himself. The murders had just been called in that morning. They hadn't had time to secure a warrant.
Connor's gaze drifted absently from the uncooperative clerk to the ceiling as he mused, when his eyes settled on a smoke detector. Hank had just opened his mouth to make some angry retort, when Connor silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.
"It's alright, Lieutenant," he interjected, a placating smile on his lips. "I have another idea." Here the android turned to Mike and nodded stiffly. "Thank you for your help. Sorry to have bothered you."
"Have a nice day," the clerk replied in a clipped tone.
Connor dragged the lieutenant several feet away and pulled him behind a clearance shoes rack that was taller than they were.
"What's the deal?" Hank asked, bewildered.
"I'm about to do something that may or may not be somewhat illegal," Connor said seriously, then focused his gaze on the nearest smoke detector.
The entire building erupted in peals of alarm, and Connor watched through the racks of shoes, bemused, as wayward shoppers froze momentarily before scrambling for the nearest exit, nearly knocking each other over in their haste, the clerk Mike among them.
Meanwhile, Conner registered that Hank was gaping at him with his jaw unhinged.
"That was you!?"
"I don't know what you mean, Lieutenant. There must be a fire hazard nearby. Nonetheless, we should take advantage of this distraction to gather the information we need for the case."
Hank huffed out a laugh, barely audible over the blaring fire alarms, before enthusiastically saying, "Fuckin' A!"
Connor peered around the corner and confirmed that the checkout counter in the shoe department had, indeed, been abandoned, so he crouched and swiftly shuffled over behind the register, with Hank awkwardly mirroring his movements a few paces behind.
Once they were both hidden behind the counter, squatting on their haunches, Hank questioned, "So, what now? Can you do that 'hand thingy' and get his card info?"
Connor chuckled at the primitive terminology but nodded. He paused, his hand hovering over the store's computer, before a blue line ran up his wrist, revealing the ivory chassis beneath. He shot a devious grin at his partner.
"Do you like when I do the 'hand thingy,' Lieutenant?"
His drawl sounded a bit more suggestive out loud than what he had originally intended, but Hank's reaction was more than worth it. The poor man wrenched his gaze away, a flush spreading across his cheeks, and sputtered incoherently for a moment before finally managing to articulate, "Jesus, Connor. Just… Cut the shit and do your scan or whatever so we can get the hell out of here."
Connor shrugged haughtily and finally let his suspended hand drop to the computer. In a matter of moments he had scanned through the store's customer base and had isolated Kyle Butler's purchase history.
As Connor had suspected, Kyle's most recent purchase had been a pair of red leather Balenciaga boots, just over a week prior. To Connor's delight, the suspect had even used a credit card under his uncle, Timothy's, name.
Well, that makes my job easier.
Just as the android had withdrawn his hand from the computer and his human skin had bled back into place, the emergency sprinkler system kicked on, drawing a startled yelp from the lieutenant beside him.
"Fuckin' perfect…" Hank groused.
Connor was enraptured as Hank jumped to his feet and ran a hand through freshly damp silver strands, slicking them back, before pulling a hair tie from around his wrist and fixing a quick ponytail. The image of the lieutenant, looming over him, shirt sticking to his chest and stomach, hair slicked back, neck exposed…
It made Connor want.
When Hank kindly offered a hand to help him up, much like he had done with Cynthia, Connor thought he might spontaneously combust despite the deluge of water, and fizzle out into a useless heap of overloaded parts – the pile of bolts formerly known as the android sent by Cyberlife. With a smile that he was sure reached his ears, Connor accepted the offer.
What happened next was another one of those things that came with being deviant. Before the revolution, Connor had complete, uninhibited control of every single one of his processes. Every action, from a simple blink to dislocating another man's shoulder was premeditated and consciously executed. Now, however, as Connor took Hank's hand to rise to his feet, he noticed far too late that his skin was retreating once more from their shared touch – a futile attempt to interface, and quite without Connor's direct input.
Both men stared down at their joined hands for a long moment, uncaring of the water soaking through their clothes, fixated instead on the smooth, pristine white joints that contrasted with the rough, calloused, thoroughly human hand underneath.
Connor didn't have to lift his gaze to know that Hank was staring at him, staring through him, even. It felt as though Hank had opened him up and picked apart every little line of code that comprised his person with a single look. He hadn't pulled his hand away, and Connor had yet to return the human façade to his own hand. They were suspended in time, enveloped in the clamor of alarms and the persistent drizzle of stale water, and it occurred to Connor that this was the special moment he had been hoping for earlier that morning.
I should tell him.
Connor finally met the lieutenant's gaze and boldly took a step forward, closing some of the distance between them.
"Hank," he rasped.
As an android designed and built by human hands, Connor gave more credence to cold logic than to whimsies of "fate." However, when the shrill whine of a siren cut through the steady wail of the fire alarms and was closely followed by the appearance of flashing red and white lights from Connor's peripheral vision, he couldn't help but wonder if some cosmic force was plotting against him.
Of course, the firefighters were called…
Just like that, the moment ended. Hank's hand snapped away, and he stepped back, suddenly refusing to look Connor in the eye.
"You got what you needed, right?"
"Yes…" the android affirmed.
"Alright. Good. Let's leave before the firefighters ask too many questions."
Thankfully, they only received a few confused looks as they stepped belatedly through the glass doors and trudged toward Hank's run-down car.
"Fuck," Hank swore upon stepping into the freezing temperature after being thoroughly drenched. Connor cast a sidelong glance of concern the lieutenant's way. He wanted nothing more than to wrap Hank in a cocoon of fluffy, dry blankets and sit him someplace warm, a fresh mug of coffee in his hands, but there had been a double homicide and their window of time for catching the murderer was shrinking fast.
They slid into the car and when Hank turned the ignition and warm air burst from the vents, Connor was silently grateful.
"So," Hank began, his hands clutched to either shoulder, shivering, "what now?"
Connor considered insisting that the lieutenant return home for a quick change of clothes, but he knew that Hank would vehemently refuse.
"Kyle used an American Express card under Timothy Butler's name to purchase those boots. Since Cynthia had previously served as the Butlers' assistant, I am hoping she will know the password needed to access the account statement. Give me just a moment and I'll message her now-"
Android #313 248 317 Designation: Connor – Hello Cynthia. I apologize for disturbing you. Do you happen to know the password for Mr. Butler's American Express card?
Android #196 301 668 Designation: Cynthia – Yes! It's "Kingfisher13 "
Android #196 301 668 Designation: Cynthia – Have you found Kyle?
Android #313 248 317 Designation: Connor – We're close.
"Got it," Connor declared. "Lieutenant, could I borrow your phone?"
"Yeah, sure."
Connor accepted the phone and hesitated before selecting the web browser and manually typing in American Express' web address. It was an inefficient manner of working, despite the fact that he typed much faster than most humans; he could have simply interfaced with the device, breezing through the process in a matter of seconds, but the act strangely felt too intimate now.
If Hank noticed, he didn't comment.
"I'm… at a loss," Connor began as he stared at the credit card statement before him.
"What is it?"
"Kyle's last purchase was 9 minutes ago at the McDonald's off of Mack Ave."
"Unbelievable," Hank murmured as he threw the car into gear and floored the gas pedal.
Connor glanced down at his watch, a nervous tick he had picked up. It was 3:42PM when they reached McDonald's. He couldn't analyze any faces through the wide, tinted glass panes.
"You stay here," Hank commanded.
Connor was incredulous.
"Why?"
"Because you're obviously an android, and androids don't eat food, in case you weren't aware."
"There's no reason why I can't accompany you…"
"Connor," Hank interrupted, "You know as well as I do that people are fucked up and the general opinion on androids is mixed at best. Based off of what we learned about Cynthia, it's probably safe to assume that our little murderer isn't too keen on androids either. You would only draw unneeded attention."
Connor didn't want to admit that the lieutenant was right.
"Besides," Hank continued, his voice a bit softer, "he could've left already. Either way, I need to scope the place out. You stay here and provide back-up if need be."
After a prolonged silence, Connor finally conceded with a quiet "alright."
"If he's there, I'll message you right away. I'll grab a burger and wait for him to leave, then follow him out. Between the door and the parking lot there is enough empty space to cut back on the risk of casualties if this ends up being a shoot-out."
Connor's shoulders tensed, the multiple possibilities materializing in his mind:
Kyle draws his gun, Hank is slow to react due to the cold, Hank is shot and killed.
Kyle runs to his car, Hank makes chase, Kyle backs over him, Hank dies of internal hemorrhaging while cradled in Connor's arms.
Kyle senses Hank's ruse right away and sneaks up behind him as he sits down to eat, lodges a knife into the crook between Hank's neck and shoulder, Hank bleeds out.
"Connor…?"
The android snaps from his mental preconstructions and fixes Hank with an expression that he hopes is neutral.
"Yes, Hank?"
"You were in the red for a while." Hank taps his forehead, once again referencing Connor's traitorous LED. "You alright?"
"…Yes. I was considering the different ways in which this altercation might play out."
Hank narrowed his eyes, searching for the truth beneath Connor's generic statement. At length, he seemed to piece together the source of the android's concern.
"Relax, I'll be fine. Did you see that guy's picture? He's a toothpick. Hell, I'm not even worried."
"You should be," Connor spat back before he could stop himself, his fists clutched tightly over his knees.
"Jesus, Connor, have some damn faith in me. This isn't my first rodeo."
Connor allowed some of the tension to ease from his shoulders. He exhaled an unnecessary sigh.
"I know… I know. I don't doubt your abilities, Hank, but we can reasonably assume that the suspect is still armed, and I know for a fact that you can't dodge bullets."
"Don't be so sure," Hank retorted. "I have seen the Matrix movies a ton of times. Been takin' notes."
"Hank, this is serious."
The lieutenant only chuckled and clasped a hand on Connor's shoulder, a gesture that had become common between them. It was meant to be reassuring, but the android could not quell the rise of anxiety that seemed to thread through his blue veins.
"You've got my back, right?"
"Of course," Connor replied immediately.
I would kill for you. I would die for you.
"Then I'm not worried," Hank said simply, before exiting the car and walking nonchalantly inside the shoddy restaurant.
Connor unbuckled his seatbelt and readied a hand at the door handle. He was hyper-focused on the door, poised to strike should the situation arise.
Hank had only been inside for just over 17 seconds before Connor received a text message.
"He's here."
A few seconds more passed, and then:
"The fucker is eating a fish sandwich like he didn't just kill 2 people."
Connor tenses, quickly calculating the risk of exposure were he to attempt to sneak to the side of the building, so that he might pounce on Kyle as soon as he walks out the door. However, the crowded parking lot and multiple silhouettes leering from the windows make it more than apparent that the odds of Kyle being the next person to walk out that door are relatively slim. The other patrons would question an android pressed against the brick, glaring at the exit with murder in his artificial eyes.
Connor narrowed his gaze in frustration and resigned himself to his fate of remaining in the car until Hank or Kyle made a move.
The moments dragged on, each second an eternity of agony, Connor's hands tensing every time that door would open and a random stranger would lumber out, or the cluster of a family.
Finally, finally, Kyle made his appearance. He was short at 5' 4" and petite, with a mop of blonde hair atop his head. He wore a grey pea coat over a black graphic t-shirt, with shredded black jeans and those infuriating red Balenciaga boots.
The idiot didn't even change shoes after committing murder, Connor thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
Hank, predictably, exited quickly after the suspect. When Kyle reached that sweet spot – the barren patch of pavement far enough removed from other people – Hank drew his pistol and shouted, "Detroit Police! Hands on your head!"
Kyle immediately bolted away from the row of parked vehicles, and Connor finally leapt into action, not even bothering to shut the car door behind him. The suspect must have heard Connor's fast approach because he changed tactics, spinning on his heel and pulling a gun from the back of his jeans in one swift motion before leveling his aim right at Connor.
At this range, Connor was sure he would eat at least one bullet, but the gunshot that echoed throughout the parking lot did not come from Kyle's firearm. The petite blonde screamed in agony and collapsed to his knees, clutching his right shoulder with an exaggerated sob. Wasting no time, Connor closed the distance between them, wrenched the gun from Kyle's grasp, and forcibly bent his hands behind his back.
"I've been shot!" Kyle wailed, hysterical. "Police brutality!"
Connor scanned the struggling man and found that Hank's bullet had only lightly grazed Kyle's shoulder. He was in no mortal danger. Hank approached them and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Connor, who deftly caught them mid-air and secured them about Kyle's wrists.
The lieutenant holstered his gun.
"Kyle Butler, you are under arrest for the murders of Timothy and Martha Butler."
"Nooo! No, you can't, you can't do this!"
"You have the right to remain silent…"
Hours later, they were back at the precinct, staring through a large one-way mirror at the hunched figure of Kyle where he sat in the interrogation room, a lump under his t-shirt from where a simple cotton patch and gauze had been applied to his trivial wound.
"Did you mean to only graze him?" Connor questioned.
"I actually did," Hank replied. "It's hard to get a confession out of someone who's in critical condition."
Connor turned to him with a smile.
"Nice shot, Lieutenant."
It was then that none other than Gavin Reed stormed into the interrogation room, foregoing pleasantries to grab Kyle's collar and lift him off his chair.
"This ought to be good," Hank commented as he watched the scene unfold from behind the glass.
"I know you killed them, you fucker!"
"What the… I-I'm not saying shit without a lawyer, asshole!" Kyle sputtered.
Gavin dropped him unceremoniously, and he whimpered pathetically when his rear collided with the hard metal seat.
The unorthodox detective then grabbed a fistful of Kyle's hair, wrenching his head back in a motion that certainly looked painful.
"We've wasted an entire day chasing after your dumbass," Gavin growled, "but you know what? I'm not gonna waste any more fuckin' time. Either you tell me what I want to hear, or I'll beat your fuckin' face in until it looks just like your uncle's. That what you want? Huh?"
There was a beat of tense silence before the suspect burst into ugly sobs. When a mixture of snot and tears dropped onto Gavin's hand, he quickly jumped away as if burned, and murmured "what the fuck" before exiting the room and joining Hank and Connor in observation. Gavin rubbed his hand off on a coat that some other unfortunate soul had left draped on the back of an office chair.
"What a fuckin' pussy," Gavin murmured, his lip curled in disgust.
"I'm gonna have a crack at him," Hank declared, causing Gavin to glance up at him and laugh.
"Yeah, good luck with that. This asshole's a lost fuckin' cause."
"Nah, I know his type," the lieutenant shot back. "But for this to work, I need a cig."
When Hank's gaze remained focused on Gavin, the other detective must have picked up on the roundabout request.
"Seriously? Drowning yourself in liquor isn't enough, huh? You gonna start smokin' too?"
"Just give me a fucking cigarette."
With a mirthless laugh, Gavin conceded and pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from the back pocket of his jeans before depositing a cigarette and lighter into Hank's open palm.
It was at this point that Connor decided to intercede.
"I hope you're not planning on smoking that, Lieutenant. Lung cancer is a…"
"Shut up Connor," Hank interrupted. Connor might have been angry were it not for the playful smile on the lieutenant's face, but he still felt a twinge of irritation when Detective Reed took to laughing at their stilted interaction.
Unmoored, Hank proceeded to tuck the cigarette behind one ear before shoving the hem of his shirt into his jeans (a feat that Connor was sure he would never witness firsthand), his silver belt buckle on clear display.
"Gettin' all prettied up for the murderer, Anderson?" Gavin prodded.
"Shut the fuck up. Actually, maybe you should take notes. You might learn a thing or two."
With that final jab, Hank walked around the corner, scanned his palm for clearance, and entered the interrogation room.
By this point, Kyle's frenzied sobs had receded into quiet whimpers. Hank carefully padded around to the chair opposite the suspect and took a seat.
After a couple of minutes of silence, broken only by Kyle's intermittent sniffling, the suspect finally asked, "So, what? Are you the, I don't know, the 'good cop?'"
Hank's ensuing grin was downright predatory. He proceeded to pluck the cigarette from behind his ear and move it to his mouth, before fishing the lighter from his pocket and igniting the tobacco with practiced ease.
"No," he replied simply, the cigarette bobbing from its loose perch between his lips.
Kyle began to cough dramatically.
"You can't smoke in here!"
The lieutenant leaned forward across the table, crowding Kyle's space. He took a long draw on the cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke right into the suspect's face.
"Actually, Kyle, I can do whatever the fuck I want."
Kyle pulled the collar of his t-shirt over his nose, as if it would serve to adequately filter the smoke.
"You know," Hank drawled, "I don't really give a shit if you confess or not. If you don't, you get to sit through a string of trials, and when they inevitably throw your ass in the can, then I get to hear allll the interesting stories from my jailer friends."
Kyle's brows rose a bit at this. Though he didn't speak, he leaned forward incrementally, clearly curious as to where the lieutenant was going with that train of thought.
"A pretty little thing like you," here Hank plucked the cigarette from his lips and jabbed it in Kyle's direction pointedly, his voice husky, "They'll split you in half."
As Connor listened to the one-sided interrogation and witnessed the cocky way in which Hank conducted himself, something bordering on primal enveloped him. He had never seen this side of Hank before, and it was quickly driving him to the verge of insanity.
Kyle must have finally been stricken with the weight of the lieutenant's implication, because he shrank away and averted his eyes, a visible tremor rocking his small frame.
"I always like hearing stories like that, you know? Murderers, killing in cold blood, getting what they deserve," Hank rambled on. "That's why I really don't care how this goes."
Here Hank stood and leaned over so close that their noses were nearly touching. Bewildered, Kyle pressed himself into the back of his seat.
"If you want to make my life easy, though," Hank all but whispered, "I could make sure you end up in isolation, instead."
The lieutenant paused to let his gaze rove over the quivering man before him, as if he were sizing him up.
"You're not cut out for prison, are you Kyle? What will you do when they decide to make you their bitch?"
"ALRIGHT!" the suspect cried, the remnants of tears clinging to his lashes. "They… they loved that fucking robot more than they loved me, ok? They were going to give away what was rightfully mine to a goddamned toaster."
At this point, Connor chanced a glance at Gavin, whose face was nearly pressed into the glass in disbelief.
From the other room Hank smiled, and slid back into his seat, taking another draw from his cigarette.
"You're talking about Cynthia."
Kyle scoffed.
"Yeah, that's what they named it."
"So you killed them out of spite?" Hank ventured, his tone eerily conversational.
"I-I didn't want to," Kyle stammered. "I just… I found out that they wrote that stupid fucking android into the will and I… I just snapped."
Connor could very nearly see the thin thread of Hank's patience grow taut.
"Kyle, I need you to admit that you killed Timothy and Martha Butler, plainly. Unless, of course, you'd rather be someone's little prison wife…"
"I shot them," the suspect replied, voice shaken. "I… I killed them both."
A wide smile broke across Hank's countenance and he stood, extinguishing his cigarette on the table, leaving the butt behind, along with a simpering Kyle.
When he stepped back into the observation room, Gavin affixed him with an open-mouthed expression so comical that Connor knew he would be revisiting his recorded memories later to laugh at Detective Reed's obvious befuddlement.
"Fuckin' creep…" Gavin muttered before pushing past Hank, intentionally shoving his shoulder on the way out.
Hank chuckled before untucking his shirt and turning his attention to Connor.
"Still got it," he boasted, that same undercurrent of confidence to his tone.
"You certainly do," the android replied with a broad smile.
Hank and Connor were preparing to leave the precinct for the night when Fowler called for them once more from his office.
"Fuckin' hell," Hank groaned. For once, Connor agreed with the sentiment. The day had been long and taxing, and he wanted nothing more than to return home and sit on Hank's couch with Sumo in his lap while the lieutenant flipped through various irreverent television programs.
Despite this, they both dragged their feet into the Captain's office.
Jeffrey steepled his fingers atop his desk as they entered. His demeanor had changed considerably from that morning. His pinched facial expression had bled away into something bordering on friendly.
"You both did a good job today," he said without preamble. Hank only shrugged a shoulder in response, whereas Conner replied with a bright "Thank you, Captain."
"You two work well together," Fowler continued. "I expect to see more results like this in the future."
"No offense Jeffrey," Hank interjected, "but we just closed a double homicide in one day. I'm beat, and I know Connor is too."
Connor didn't refute this claim.
"I won't ask you to stay long," the Captain replied. Connor was mildly surprised that he didn't raise a fuss over Hank addressing him by his first name. "I did, however, call the press. I need the two of you to deliver a statement about this case."
Hank glanced from side to side, arms raised, as if puzzled.
"Are you serious right now?"
Fowler sighed.
"Yes, Hank," he replied. "This will serve as a message to any would-be criminal in Detroit who thinks they can get away with whatever they want just because things are a little hectic right now." Jeffrey paused to gesture to Connor before saying, "Besides, the two of you are a great example of humans and androids working together. Maybe your short interviews will do some good."
Surprisingly, Hank didn't argue further.
Representatives from the local news station arrived soon thereafter and met with Hank and Connor in a relatively barren conference room designated for such events.
Flanked by multiple cameramen, a slender brunette news anchor dressed sharply in an orange skirt suit approached the two detectives with a blinding smile.
"I'm Megan Ford from WXYZ-TV here live with Lieutenant Anderson and Assistant Detective Connor of the Detroit Police Department. These two gentlemen have been hard at work protecting our city from the recent surge of crime. Just today, they acted quickly to apprehend Kyle Butler, a murderer who was on the loose in our very own streets." Here the bubbly woman paused to address Hank directly. "So tell me, Lieutenant Anderson, what was it like working with an android on this murder case?"
Connor caught Hank's lips curl in a scowl at the phrasing, but he replied amicably with, "Connor is an excellent detective and I'm lucky to have him as my partner. I couldn't have gotten to the bottom of these murders without his help."
Connor smiled at the praise.
"And what about you, Connor?" Megan continued, bringing the microphone to Connor's lips. "How do you like working with Mr. Anderson?"
"The Lieutenant's expertise is invaluable," Connor replied. "There is no one else I would rather have by my side."
That night, as soon as Connor and Hank had crossed the threshold into their shared home, the android had retreated to his room to hastily throw on a pair of baggy black sweatpants and a faded red Rage Against the Machine hoodie he had stolen from Hank. By the time he reentered the living room, Hank was dressed in his own lounge clothes, a beer clutched in one hand, his tired eyes glued to the basketball game on TV. Connor collapsed on his end of the couch and could not repress a smile as Sumo proceeded to jump up to join them, dropping his heavy head onto Connor's lap, as was the norm.
The android quirked an eyebrow when his nightly ritual was interrupted by a message from Markus:
Android #684 842 971 Designation: Markus – I watched the local news tonight. I think seeing you and Lieutenant Anderson working together to uphold justice will really boost the public's opinion of our people. You did the right thing by rejoining the police department. I think you'll do a lot of good.
Android #313 248 317 Designation: Connor – Thank you, Markus. I hope you're right.
Refocusing on the world around him, Connor glanced between the dog in his lap and the man at his side, and in that moment, he felt boneless, and blissfully happy.
"You know," Connor pondered aloud, angling his head toward the lieutenant, "we make a really good team."
Hank tore his attention from the game to flash a grin in Connor's direction.
"Yeah. Yeah, we do."
Connor could feel his confession claw its way up his throat as they shared in the quiet, blessedly peaceful moment, when a player for Detroit scored a shot from the 3-point line, and Hank jumped to the edge of his seat, yelling "Fuck yeah!"
Connor chuckled bemusedly at Hank's antics and, defeated, sank further into the couch cushions.
It's okay, he reasoned, I'll tell him tomorrow.