The Day Before (4 page)

S
am left the morgue with a sour taste in her mouth. If Agent MacKenzie was right about Jane Doe's age, there was a serious problem. The first clones produced in the early thirties had died within a decade. They'd been early experiments, the result of scientific hubris and curiosity rather than something the world needed. Second-­wave clones lasted longer but had a tendency to . . . melt was how Sam always thought of it. The cells lysed rapidly, resulting in catastrophic organ failure.

No one had cared. Cellular printers were available in every hospital to grow new organs if a replacement was ever needed. It was expensive, but quick and virtually risk free. Until the Yellow Plague swept across the globe, cloning was simply a curiosity and a McGuffin in a legion of spy thrillers. Then, almost overnight, cloning went from underfunded oddity to a mainstream necessity.

Because the plague shut down the hospitals.

They'd started as quarantines for the fast-­killing virus, and by the time the research team at the Centers for Disease Control discovered that the virus had a twenty-­seven-­day incubation period, it was too late. The hospitals were sealed with their dead, mausoleums with the names of plague victims etched in stone memorials outside.

As humanity rebuilt, the survivors realized they no longer had an easy way to replace organs, and the fear of a second plague outbreak kept ­people away from new hospitals. The superstition that the organ printers had caused the plague hadn't helped. Cloning took off, a safe, private way to ensure that any damage done to your body could be repaired. In 2048, the Clone Stabilization Gene, CSG, gave clones life expectancies that matched those of their human counterparts. When the Caye Law preventing the breeding of new clones and the indentured ser­vice of unwanted ones went into effect in January 2070, though, cloning would end. A strange footnote to the history of the reconstruction of society.

Sam could only hope the old Central American Territories' tracking program had a list of missing women born in that narrow window of time between when the first stable clones were created and when the CSG markers became a legal requirement.

The CAT list was a nightmare of overlapping files, missing data, and six languages. The updated, translated files headquarters had promised in January had yet to appear.

Pulling up the file, she saw a date stamp with an update made two minutes before. At least MacKenzie was sharing his test results. The autopsy notes were there along with a copy of the fingerprints and the eerie computer simulation of Jane's face. Sam dumped all the new data and set search parameters for women living in a three-­hundred-­mile radius born between 2040 and 2048. Hopefully, Jane was a girl who had stayed close to home.

Her phone buzzed. “Agent Rose, how can I help you, sir or ma'am?”

“Agent Rose? You must come at once. At once! I am in terrible danger. Things are quite violent. Quite violent.”

Her heart rate picked up as adrenaline surged. “Please stay calm, sir. First, may I ask who I am speaking to, and where you would like me to go?” she asked in a carefully practiced, neutral tone.

“Don't you know me?” the man demanded.

“Not by voice alone, sir, no.” The number didn't match any of the bureau phones from nearby districts, and it didn't sound like any from Altin's department.

“This is Dr. Emir. I've spoken to you about my work.”

She relaxed a bit. She had a hard time thinking Santa from the lab was in that much trouble. “Yes, I remember you now. Is this about Detective Altin's case, Doctor?”

“No. Yes. Possibly. My work is . . .” Emir trailed off. “I am in danger. My work is threatened.”

She perked up again. “Can you describe the threat, Doctor?”

“The history of the world is in danger.”

She relaxed . . . again. Repressing a sigh, she asked, “Could you possibly be a little more specific?”

“Someone is attempting to steal my research.”

“Yes, we discussed that on Monday. Have you found any evidence that your computer was tampered with? Mr. Troom was doing a keystroke check on the computer when I left.”

“Henry found nothing.”

“I see. So this isn't about your research, it's about the vandalism?”

“I suppose.”

“And, you're aware Detective Altin is handling your case? It's out of my jurisdiction unless we find evidence there was a violent crime committed or national security is at risk.”

“Yes.”

“Did you call Detective Altin?” She drew a few stars on her notepad.

“I did.”

A few more stars appeared while she counted to ten. “Did Detective Altin say anything about the threat?”

“He said he would look into the matter.”

“I see. Has he?”

“No!” Dr. Emir said triumphantly. “I have waited patiently, yet nothing has been done.”

She glanced at the time on the large city clock. “Tell you what, Doctor—­Detective Altin should be back from lunch by now. Why don't I call the precinct and have a chat with him?”

“You must tell him how important this is. Impress upon him the vital nature of my work.”

“I will talk to him about it,” Sam promised as she hung up. With a sigh—­this time very audible—­she dialed Altin's number. This would make his day.

“Agent Rose? Is this urgent?” Altin made it sound like anything less than a definitive yes wouldn't be worth the interruption.

“Dr. Emir just called.”

“He called me twenty minutes ago,” Altin said, sounding annoyed.

“He's the type who wants things done yesterday.”

Altin mumbled something under his breath.

“Is there anything I need to know right now?” Sam asked.

Altin sucked air in with a hiss. “Yeah. I was going to call you in an hour or so. We can't find Mordicai Robbins.”

“He's the security guard who left early, isn't he?” Sam pulled out the case notes to confirm.

“That's him.” Altin paused, then added, “A fisherman reported a sunken truck in the water this morning up past the dam.”

“Mr. Robbins was in it?” Sam guessed.

“Not that we can see yet, but it's the same make and model as his truck. I was waiting for them to finish hauling it up so we could check the plate numbers. If Mr. Robbins is in there, I'll let you know, but I have a nasty hunch we're going to have a truck sans driver.”

“What about the girl, Melody Chimes? Have you found her yet?”

Altin chuckled. “That one, Lord above, no. Her primary address is the campus dorm, but they're on summer break, and she's not enrolled for class. None of the ­people in the dorm admit to being her roommate.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Accomplices maybe?”

“That would be the place to get them, and one of them has a rap sheet—­underage alcohol consumption, speeding tickets, busted with a fake ID—­nothing major but enough that we'd pull her in for a second questioning if we found a connection.”

“A cheesy fake driver's license to vandalism of government property is a big jump. Unless she's with part of a radical antigovernment organization, I doubt she's involved.”

“It's tenuous. I'll have someone look into it more, but I'm not sure that's the angle.”

Sam bit her lip, thinking. “Have you tried catching Melody at work?”

“Miss Chimes put in for a week's worth of leave two days before the break-­in. She won't be back until Monday.”

“Next of kin?”

“Way ahead of you there,” Altin said. “Miss Chimes didn't list anyone on her work record or insurance. I had my lieutenant do some digging, and we found a number for her last known address before she left for college. The property is owned by her parents, but the phone number goes straight to an answering ser­vice, and no one is calling us back.”

“Where do you see this going?”

“It's anyone's guess right now. I half expect to see her body in the truck, but it doesn't fit. Robbins and Chimes worked together, but they only worked the same shift a few times in the past three months. The ages and backgrounds don't make them a natural partnership. I just—­”

There was an incoherent shout from Altin's end of the line.

“Rose? I'll call you back. We have the truck out. The crew's hosing it down now. Give me an hour to get a body count and figure out who's still missing.” He hung up abruptly.

Grumbling under her breath, Sam called Dr. Emir back. The phone rang twice before switching over to voice mail. She left a succinct message telling the doctor that everything was being done and that he could request extra police drive-­bys if he felt they were warranted. Then, in preparation for Altin's return call, she pulled the files on Mordicai Robbins and Melody Chimes. The missing person report was easy enough although she left a few slots blank until Altin could fill in the details. Then she pulled out the report on Jane Doe.

Minutes ticked by as she stared at the forms. For a fragile moment, everything hung in the balance—­justice, her career, truth—­Jane deserved more than to be buried in a pauper's grave under political red tape.

In class exercises, there was always a right answer. There was always
something
. You didn't find bodies with no ID and no evidence. Jane Doe was a statistical anomaly turning into a major roadblock. She felt bitter defeat rising in her. Shaking it off, Sam started to fill in the forms to close the case. On the question about type of death, she hesitated.

Homicide was the correct answer, but a homicide case couldn't close until the killer was prosecuted and found guilty. Her pen hovered over the right answer. Just underneath, taunting her, was Class Five Suicide—­a suicide with questions. Something she could close now and reopen whenever she wanted. Feeling guilty, Sam put the paper at the back of the pile. The cause-­of-­death pages were enough to keep her busy while Atlanta finished the blood tests.

She was finishing the report when Altin called her back.

“The truck belongs to Mordicai Robbins,” he reported, “but there's no body. Somebody dropped a block of concrete on the accelerator to make the car run. I want a missing person investigation opened by the bureau. That truck's a classic, beautiful detailing work. It's not the kind of thing a man abandons of his own free will.”

“Not what I wanted to hear,” Sam said, “but I have the paperwork filled in. I'll send a copy to your office so you can fill in the details on the truck. I'll run a public database search for his bank activities and online activity, see if I can build a timeline of what happened when he left the lab.”

“Thank you.”

“What about Melody Chimes?” Her hand hovered over the button to submit the report she'd already prepared.

Altin muttered a curse. “Hold off. Technically, she's not missing. I want to talk to her, but it can wait until she comes to work on Monday. Unless Mordicai shows up dead, I'd rather let her have her vacation in peace, ya know?”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No.” Altin cursed again. “But I'm having trouble pinning this on her. She had a good reputation with the company, good grades at school, no criminal record. At the most, I think she skived off work to go on vacation early. Maybe she meant to call the replacement guard and forgot. Maybe she dialed the wrong number. I just can't see her being our girl.”

“But you think she's safe?” Sam asked.

“We have some broken glass but no blood. If I weren't looking at Robbins's truck, I'd say this was nothing. ”

“Robbins's case could be unrelated. Coincidence
does
happen.”

“But with crime, it rarely does.”

“Don't I know it,” Sam said, frustrated. “Call me when you have an update on Miss Chimes, please. I'll let you know if we turn up anything on Robbins.”

On her way out the door, Sam dropped the report about the lab break-­in and Mordicai Robbins on Marrins's desk. Like a cherry on a sundae, she left her promotion packet right on top.

 

CHAPTER 4

MWI presupposes that all things that could happen will happen. Childish thinking. Rough nonsense. Consider the quantum particle, it can be in two places at once, yes? Yes. But not three. There is a finite number of possibilities reachable from any STTL incursion into space-­time.

~ Student notes from the class Physics and Space-­Time I1–2071

Thursday May 23, 2069

Alabama District 3

Commonwealth of North America

S
am read the report Altin had handed over to the bureau along with a waterlogged truck that was sitting in the city impound. Mr. Robbins had an old man's fear of government. In the year prior to the States' joining the Commonwealth, he'd pulled all his money out of the banks, moved to an off-­grid solar system for power, and put in a well. Even his salary from Wannervan was paid in cash. Which made tracking him nearly impossible.

Down the hall, she could hear Marrins talking on the phone. Time to sneak out. She locked her desk and hurried toward the stairs. It didn't help. Marrins was lurking outside his door with his arms folded.

“You think you can quit working just because you requested the transfer?”

“No, sir.”

Marrins held out a file folder. “We need background checks done on all the lab personnel. Two hundred and eleven ­people have access to the labs. Wannervan Security has thirty guards cleared for lab duty—­they're sending those files over tomorrow. Altin thinks someone with access to the lab headed the break-­in. It's probably a lot of fuss over some drunk college kids, but you're the bureau go-­to girl.”

“But . . .” Sam stared at him in disbelief. “I need to talk to ­people. Find the body, or the person, or—­” She shook her head. “This is my big case. My chance to build a career. Can't Altin have someone handle this? I told you Robbins was off the grid. Finding him is going to take me at least a week of knocking on doors unless I catch a lucky break, and I still need to finalize everything for Jane Doe.”

“Altin's ­people don't have the clearance levels to do background checks, you do. Guess what I think is more important at this point? Let the police do the legwork.”

“Altin's legwork isn't getting anywhere!” she protested. “He can't even send ­people outside the city limits to Robbins's address. At least let me go knock on the guy's door.”

“The police found Robbins's truck,” Marrins said. “That's more than I expected them to do.”

Sam dropped the efile in her purse and followed Marrins to his office. “Sir, we both know the bureau badge is going to open more doors than anything the district PD can throw around. I want to be on the ground for this. ”

Marrins sat in his overpadded chair with an oomph. “Robbins has a standing prescription for antidepressants that hadn't been filled in a week. Did you know that? No, because you were going down some schoolroom checklist instead of thinking for ten seconds straight. But I knew. Wannervan Security's health insurance is only accepted one place in town. I called their pharmacist to see what medical support Robbins needs.”

“I didn't know you had a warrant for that, sir.”

“Didn't need it. That's the advantage of living in one place for so long. ­People know you. They trust you. You want a promotion, that's the sort of thing you need to do. Play nice with ­people. Follow orders. Get those background checks done.”

Her shoulders dropped.

Marrins's swivel chair whined as he twisted comfortably. Booted feet clunked on his desktop. “Why are you still here?”

She shook herself awake with a sigh. “I'll drop this in my office safe and make it a priority in the morning.”

“Good.” Marrins smiled, pushing layers of flub into a creeptastic leer.

“Did you approve my D.C. papers yet?” Sam asked. “I know the JD case isn't much, but it meets quota for a junior district agent. I have everything I need to become a full agent and transfer to another district.”

“Everything but balls,” Marrins agreed. “I'll make it a priority when the Jane case is officially closed. Even put in a good word for ya. You aren't a brilliant agent—­no spine or creativity—­but you work well enough for a woman. What D.C. will do with you, I can't guess, but they need secretaries more than I need deadweight.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Get on home.” Marrins waved his hand. “It's late.”

She dropped the files in her safe and walked out as Marrins answered another late-­night call, door slamming shut behind him.

A
feeling of deep contentment filled Sam as, sweaty from a run, she walked into the quiet Southern house. Hoss wagged his nubbin of a tail in unfeigned adoration as she found him a piece of bacon while she made dinner. Ever so slowly, she was chasing away the smell of dust and neglect with good meals cooked in the large kitchen.

Sam showered as blueberry muffins baked, then snagged one from the oven and danced through the empty living room and up the stairs to her refuge. Her new bedroom had received the bulk of her interest when she moved in two months ago, and now it was the perfect place to read or relax.

Knowing that she wouldn't be here that much longer probably added to the allure.

An alarm buzzer sounded as she flopped on her bed. Sam dumped her purse on the white quilt, and three manila folders fell from her bag. The Jane Doe file was glowing red. A private addendum, added in chicken-­scratch handwriting under the classified notes section: “Jane Doe is probably not a clone–L.M.”

Sam pulled out her phone and dialed MacKenzie's work number, audio only. It rang for a long time, then there was a grunt that might have been a rudimentary attempt at communication. “Agent MacKenzie?” Another grunt. “This is Agent Rose. What do you mean Jane isn't a clone?”

“Um, Verville?”

She quietly beat her head against her pillow. “Agent MacKenzie, full sentences, if you please.”

“The, ah, the blood work. Atlanta. No Verville traces.”

“None?” The Verville list was the holy book of cloning. Every company that legally produced and sold clones on the international market was required to keep their code sequence on the Verville list. “Is Atlanta double-­checking its work?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“That does support Marrins's black-­market-­clone hypothesis.” She chewed her lip in consideration. “Jane didn't have a tattoo, did she? Some of the rape houses that use black-­market clones brand their merchandise.” Clones were a luxury item, but there was always someone willing to rent

“Nothing. I . . . I don't think we're looking at a clone.”

A shiver ran up her back. “Murder victims with no identity . . . you just . . . no. That doesn't happen in the real world. Everyone is on the grid, you can't get off it, not legally. Next you're going to suggest Jane was some anti-­Commonwealth terrorist or something outrageous. There
has
to be an explanation as to who she is.”

There was a noncommittal grunt from the other end of the line. “The body . . .” MacKenzie choked on the other end of the line, then coughed.

“Are you okay?”

“Mmm. The body doesn't make sense.”

For a brief moment, Sam pictured MacKenzie trying to talk to a corpse. The image was surprisingly easy to piece together–disturbing, but not far-­fetched. “What doesn't make sense?”

“The . . . the injuries don't match the evidence.” He coughed again. “I w-­want to see the kill field.”

“The dump site?” Sam frowned in confusion as she checked the time. “Fine. First thing tomorrow morning work for you? I'm supposed to have the report on Marrins's desk by five tomorrow, and if you're sure Jane isn't a clone, that complicates matters. You are sure, aren't you?”

“Pretty sure. I . . . I sent a second blood sample to Atlanta.”

“Good thinking. I'll double-­check the missing persons list. Are you sure about the age?”

“There was . . . was a lot of, um, bone trauma. She was very active. Maybe military or something like that. Maybe . . . maybe knock off a few years?”

“I'll widen the search. It won't be the first time someone misestimated a victim's age. See you in the morning.” Her eyes lingered on the computer-­generated image of Jane Doe, her face.
My face.

Not that it didn't happen. Weren't ­people always saying how they ran into someone who looked just like them? Of course, if life were like her mother's favorite telenova, Jane would turn out to be her long-­lost twin sister, or her secret clone made by a stalker ex-­boyfriend, and everything would be wrapped up neatly in under an hour when the detective found a fingerprint left behind by the killer.

If only it worked like that in real life.

She closed the files and set the alarm. Tomorrow, Jane had one more chance to tell her story.