Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2013 (10 page)

Hansill shifted in his chair and snorted audibly. Bente Flindt turned to face him.

"Do you consider the Hunt-Trachtman research suspect, Mr. Hansill? I assure you, it is not."

"No, Ms. Flindt, I don't. I'm what's called these days the 'new breed' of cop, not New Age. I do my reading. I've read Benson Hunt's
Science
article and the pieces that followed. I grasp the process: the synthesis through enzymatic catalysis of a neuropeptide—a neurotransmitter, it turns out—that had once been a part of the human genome but had mutated out. On reintroduction it bonds to a receptor in the cerebral cortex and triggers the retrieval of past life memories. I
do
understand and accept the science. It's not that which aroused my intolerance. It's your perspective on it."

Bente Flindt nodded. "And what do you think that would be?"

"You see it as a therapeutic tool. Others in the soft sciences bemoan its implications, that millions worldwide don't like their lot in life and are ready to end it—suicide, in fact—in hopes of drawing a better ticket next time. We policemen have a different take on matters. What we see is danger and violence. Are you a citizen who's tired of his wife? Desert her, or knock her off. She won't be dead for eternity, so no big thing. And how about your finances? Not getting your share? Then take a shot at a bank heist or two to set you up for a better life. Kill a few tellers and cops along the way? What does it matter—they're born again. And if you get caught, well, make sure you leave yourself with time enough to off yourself. New life coming right up."

Hansill sat back in his chair. A heavy silence pervaded the room. Tim had never liked Hansill, but found himself grateful for his outburst. It was a view he felt sure all cops shared, though not all could or would voice it. He looked over at Juul, and got an unrevealing glance back.

"A strong opinion, Paul," Garrety said. "Now that you've had your say, let's 'get on with it,' as you urged earlier. Ms. Flindt, please tell Detective Marchese what you've brought with you."

The Dane nodded. "With the recent development of recording and imaging devices, and micron-thin wiring that we can insert directly into the cortical centers, we can capture and download a holovid of past life retrievals. We have found that the most recent and traumatic experiences are first and more readily accessed. We have such a holovid here."

"And it touches on the Dennison case?" Tim asked, taking in the possibilities. He was beginning to appreciate the prod that had recharged an old hunting dog like Garrety, if only fitfully.

"That we don't know," Juul said. "Ms. Flindt brought this holovid to us, with the permission of her client's family. As you will see, clearly a police matter is involved. And there are distinctive visual telltales to place the setting as San Francisco, particularly to anyone who has been here." A wan smile crossed his face. "That has been the extent of my 'detecting' on this case. Your chief detective has been able to refine it further."

Garrety nodded. "The Dennison case—from the dead victim's viewpoint. You were on the investigative team."

"I was," Tim said, looking at the two Danes. "The senior detective then is now dead."

"I suggest we run this vid for Tim," Hansill said, looking pointedly at his watch.

"A couple of thoughts first," Bente Flindt said. "These representations have their distortions. There are no framing devices, no smooth cinematic transitions. One doesn't remember the preliminary openings of doors, small talk encounters of everyday life. Trauma takes center stage, sharpens some perceptions, distances others. Things get raw."

Garrety dimmed the lights and started the projector.

Around them was the interior of an expansive apartment, one that Tim had walked through seven years ago and again on his VR terminal today. Light flooded in from a wall of glass. The furnishings were Southwest, patterned in dusty rose, beige, green. A lamp that had been shards of jagged edges in his last perception held a curve of rounded gracefulness. For the moment. Tim was looking through a kaleidoscope of sofas, lamps, cushions cartwheeling across the field of vision of the viewpoint observer as she was tossed across the room and a coffee table, righting herself as she ran toward the window and the illusory escape of open space. Ahead was a view of Coit Tower and the bay beyond. Sailboats and windsurfers tacked and reached, triangles and oblongs in a marine geometry.

Then she was caught from behind, twisted around and driven to her knees to face her attacker. His cheeks flushed with exertion, violence and lust. The man wore an olive colored work uniform. Its rough twill pant leg abraded her face. He stepped back to loosen his belt and pants. The patch on his short Eisenhower jacket read
Conerly Carpet Cleaners.

Rape and murder followed.

Sight, sound, pain faded into death.

Everyone—even Hansill—sat some moments in silence and darkness. Garrety made no move to raise the lights even after the talk began.

"I'll check out Conerly Carpet Cleaners," Tim said.

"They're out of Oakland," Garrety said. "I've requested the ownership data from their business licensing department. Should be on your desk when you get there with Detective Juul. He's your partner for the moment. And Ms. Flindt will be along."

Tim raised his eyebrow reflexively, and realized that no one could see it in the darkness. Garrety anticipated him.

"We're here to help our Danish friends as well."

"I'm not sure I see how," Tim said slowly.

"I definitely do not see how," Hansill said. "And I don't see that a therapist has a place in a criminal arrest."

"I think that Chief Detective Garrety does, Mr. Hansill," Bente Flindt said. Her voice seemed deeper and more resonant in the darkness. "We
are
hoping for a perpetrator identification, arrest, and arraignment. My presence at these events will be an important part of my client's therapy. If you'd hold still long enough, I can give you a precis of the psychology involved."

"Please do, Ms. Flindt," Garrety said. "I'd like to hear it."

"My seven-year-old client will be in therapy for a long time. My job here is to function as a recording device, just as was she. I need to lay down memories of the apprehension and perhaps punishment of her attacker and murderer for playback to her in a safe and controlled environment, perhaps years from now. The object is to establish protection. One key element of the therapy is to allay anxieties—anxieties that she is projecting on to me—that such abuse might happen again. My recording of the arrest of the perpetrator and some footage of him in his cell would establish a high measure of protection." She paused. "Beyond that, perhaps later in the therapy, we want to establish empowerment. My presence at the arrest will allow her to identify with me as a strong, engaged participant, empowering her to take charge of her own self and safety."

"I don't like the sound of that," Hansill said. "You're not a professional in law enforcement. Your presence could constitute a danger to the lives of police officers and even yourself."

"Mr. Hansill—my young client is potentially suicidal. I'm trying to save a life. Can you appreciate that?"

Oh, can I ever,
Tim Marchese thought. He kept his mouth shut.

There was no way to make a detective's office a place to entertain visitors. The furnishings were plastic and metal, and didn't even pretend to be more. The window overlooked a parking lot. No brightly colored windsurfers there. Marchese had done his best with photographic blowups of Marilee running the Honolulu marathon and the two of them skiing the east face of K-2 at Squaw. The two Danes looked mildly intrigued by this evidence of an outdoors lifestyle. Bente Flindt detoured to the marathon shot, eyeing it closely and giving it a nod before settling into her chair.

"Here's the data on Conerly Carpet," Tim said. "Offices and physical plant at the same address in a light industrial section of Oakland. Twenty-two employees at last tax reporting period. Owned by Thomas Conerly, divorced and living alone—grown kids—on Grizzly Peak in the Oakland hills."

"Better views than here," Christian Juul said with a smile.

Tim looked up and found himself paying attention to Juul's accent. There was none.

"Yes indeed," Tim agreed. "On matters at hand. I imagine that you two would like to wrap up your end of this business as soon as possible, but I'd like to hold off contacting Conerly at his place of business. It's a small shop, and word of a police inquiry or visit will travel fast. We don't want our suspect, if he's still there, pushed toward flight, violence or suicide. All these are very real prospects these days, I'm afraid."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Calling Conerly at home and setting up a meeting there or at some removed setting. We'll have photos from your vid to show him for identification purposes by then."

"Perhaps after a day of dirty carpets, or the paperwork attached to them, the live-alone Mr. Conerly metamorphoses into a social butterfly," Juul said. "What if he doesn't come home till late? Or not at all?"

"This case has been dormant almost eight years. I'll give it a couple of days of doing it this way before we try a contact at the workplace. I'm afraid I must insist on this, Detective."

"Christian. In fact, I'd prefer if you make it 'Chris.' And I'm not trying to stretch your time frame, Tim—if I may call you that?" Marchese nodded, and Juul went on. "I've pretty much done my courier and liaison duty here. I've got a court appearance myself next week and I'm booked for a flight home Saturday morning."

"I'll be staying on," Bente Flindt said.

"Where are you staying?" Tim asked.

"The Beresford. Christian has been kind enough to show me around, but he is going to spend most evenings at the Berkeley campus where he has friends. They'll take him to the airport."

Tim looked at the Danish policeman. "Christian Juul. Chris Juul. You were Cal's field goal kicker in the '90s. Fine one, too. No wonder your English is so good."

Bente Flindt laughed. "You're making Chris' ears burn. Look at them!"

"At least they don't
stritter
like mine," Tim said.

The Danes stared at him.

"Sounds like you've had some Danish exposure," Juul said. "Not too polite an exposure if you're told your ears stick out."

"Danish girlfriend, a long time ago. And it was teasing, not malice. Besides, my ears do stick out."

"I've seen worse," Juul said. "And when it comes to sticking our noses in someone else's business—like our carpet cleaning Mr. Conerly—we'll for sure do it your way. What do you plan for the afternoon?"

"Checking any tenants in the Dennison apartment building that we can still find to see if they had scheduled carpet cleaning that day or the days before. But if our man is smart, he had a job in the neighborhood but not that building. The rape and murder took place at noon. Lunch hour. But we'll try anyway." Tim turned to Bente Flindt. "Want to come along?"

"It's not the investigative procedures that will help me. It's the confrontation with the killer and his arrest. For the moment what I can use is a good run."

"Take the afternoon off, then. Chris can brief you tonight."

Juul turned out to be good company on a nonproductive afternoon. The trail was far too cold. Only two of the eight apartments were occupied by the same tenants, and they hadn't ordered their carpets cleaned or remembered a cleaner in the building or a truck outside. Tim and Juul ended up at the Buena Vista and ordered burgers on sourdough. Tim ordered a Mt. Tam Pale Ale for the Dane, and Juul countered with a Carlsberg Elefant for Tim. Their talk was wide ranging, and eventually got around to Bente Flindt.

"She was third woman in the Copenhagen marathon two years ago," Juul said.

"That's good running."

"She downplays it. Says the Danish national championship was coming up in two weeks, and Denmark's best sat this one out. She claims her time wasn't near world class."

"But, still..."

Juul smiled and nodded.

Tim dropped Juul off at his hotel, promising to leave a message if he were able to contact Conerly. He was back at his desk at 5:45, cleared out and rerouted some old correspondence, and called Marilee. He was careful to ask first thing about her morning. Good workout. An extra bonus—she had seen a red fox on the path. She was excited about the encounter, or said she was. She didn't sound it. Her voice was tailing off at the end of sentences. He listened till she had talked herself out, then asked her gently what was wrong.

He could hear her breathing in short intakes while she picked her words.

"Just the hell that other people can be."

"Hang in there," he said. "I'm coming home."

He called Conerly's home and got his voicemail. He didn't leave a message.

Tim eased out of the garage at half past the hour. Across Market, up Van Ness to Bay, then a semi-straight shot for the Golden Gate Bridge. Quick detour into the crowded parking lot of the Marina Safeway, the only supermarket he knew with a bay view. He grabbed a handbasket, elbowed his way by the slow moving bachelors picking out their single portion glassine wrapped lasagnas or pizzas, their eyes on the single females doing pretty much the same.

Past them to the wine and beer section for a Sterling cabernet and—on impulse— a six pack of Carlsberg Elefant. Then over to the florist section and the purchase of a dozen roses.

Ten minutes max in and out. The June sun was still above the horizon but below the span of the bridge. Tim treated himself to a transfixed thirty seconds of splendid sky, then trucked out of the parking lot for a try at the bridge before the sun drowned itself in the Pacific.

A miss on that one, but the afterglow remained, carrying him much of the way home. He was at the front door by eight.

Smells of basil and marjoram. Any number of hearty and appealing Genoese images could as easily come to mind, but Tim found himself haunted by the thought of bloody Sicilian vendettas. He headed for the kitchen.

A wooden spoon cracked under his shoe, heralding his arrival. He kicked it aside and went over to Marilee at the stove.