Retiree 2.0 Page 6

  Jenkins shook his head, as if it meant nothing to him, “Happened before my time. I wasn’t born until 2057.”

  Alana tossed out her next statement quickly, deftly disguising it as a statement instead of a subtle inquiry, “That makes me more than twice your age.”

  Jenkins’ aimed his emerald eyes straight at Alana’s cybernetic ones, and he said, “It’s all right. I like older women. They tend to have more interesting things to say.”

  Alana decided to be direct, “Are you flirting with me, Mister Jenkins?”

  Jenkins said, not backing down, “I’m going to bypass flirting and try to steal home. Are you free for dinner next week?”

  Alana was surprised that she understood the baseball reference in his request, given her animosity toward the game. She almost rebuffed him on those grounds alone, but she declined to do so, her curiosity having been thoroughly piqued, “I am a cyborg, Mister Jenkins—”

  “Call me Edward.” He leaned forward, “Can you eat? I was presumptuous in assuming that you could. If not, there are—”

  Alana said, “I have a food unit. I can eat.”

  “Then the only remaining question is, ‘will you?’”

  Alana pushed her chair backward and stood, and without even noticing that she was doing it, she took care to do so as gracefully as she could, “Once this case is over, and you’re no longer on the list of possible suspects, I might take you up on that. I haven’t had fresh lobster for over forty years.”

  Jenkins was clearly amused by Alana’s overtly expressed dinner pre-conditions, “Fresh Lobster in Los Angeles in 2090? Hmm... Doable, I think.”

  Jenkins was less amused when Alana said, “In the meantime, I’m giving you a police directive not to report any further on this story. That includes telling anyone else anything about it. If I hear on the news that it was a murder, I’ll know you were indiscrete.”

  Jenkins said, “I understand.”

  “Good. One more thing. Don’t leave the country.”

  Alana pushed the door control and it slid open. The Joebot was still standing outside. Apparently, GBN did not want any visiting law enforcement officials getting lost inside their studios. She did not look back. The idea that Jenkins would flirt with her was absurd on so many levels as to defy easy analysis, but that did not stop her mind from wandering the halls of speculation as surely as her body was wandering the halls of the Global Broadcasting Network. First, she was a cyborg, one without any ‘special features.’ Why in the world would he want to take Alana to dinner? Second, she had just told him that he was a murder suspect. Was he trying to ingratiate himself as a means of diverting her policewoman’s gaze? Third, what would Rhys think if she said yes?

  On the elevator ride down to the lobby, Alana said, “Vira, what is the manufacturer’s default time before an electronic notepad enters power-saving mode?”

  Her Vira spoke into her ears, “The time is entirely dependent on the device’s operational mode, and can vary from manufacturer to manufacturer. A full explanation would require several minutes. Do you wish me to continue?”

  “No, but add the following note to my task list. Quote, ‘Ask Wen Jing about a specific device’s power settings when I see her.’ Unquote.”

  “Note saved.”

  As the elevator doors opened, returning her to her starting point, it only then occurred to Alana that she was using Wen Jing’s Chinese name as well, instead of the customary Anglicization, ‘Wendy.’ That further led her to think about Brett Crabtree. If Chief Bennett allowed her to remain on this case, she would need to bring him in on it as soon as she could catch up to him.

  Given her recent reprimands for failure to follow precise procedures, Alana wasn’t going to let a handsome face put her off her job. As she entered the parking deck, she returned her attention to her recent interviewee, saying, “Vira, run a query. Examine all known transcripts from the sports writer Edward Jenkins. Catalog the number of times he uses the word ‘cannot,’ spelled as one word, and email the results to my police account.”

  As her police car was returning her to her office at the Fourth District station, the car’s communications panel lit up with an accompanying series of pings. She looked at the caller identification, and it read, ‘Leonard Bennett.’ “Well, that’s one less person I have to wake up tonight. Answer,” she said.

  Before she could follow her voice command with a salutation, her boss’ voice yelled through the speakers, “I thought I told you to take the week off!”

  “I was at the stadium when Dispatch rang, so I took the call. I thought it was about that baseball pitcher who was killed, Robertson, but it turns out that someone murdered the man who accidentally killed him.”

  Even over the speakerphone, it was obvious that Bennett was confused, “What? Murdered? The news is calling it a suicide.”

  Alana said, “Good. That will keep the killer in the dark long enough for us to catch him.”

  Bennett said, “I’m too tired to yell at you tonight. My office, Noon tomorrow. Bring Crabtree.”

  “Affirmative, Ch—”

  Click.

  Alana said, “Vira, call Detective Brett Crabtree.”

  Sunday, 9 July, 00:35

  Alana was waiting at the entrance to the cyberforensics lab when Wen Jing arrived, carrying her bag of tools and a separate bag of evidence. The young technician said as she opened the security lock, “I’m sorry it took us so long to get back. When you told Comerford that you thought it was a homicide, he took a lot of extra time going over the scene.”

  Alana said, “That sounds like a good thing from where I’m standing.” The door slid open and the pair entered the lab. The overhead lights came on immediately. Alana asked, “Working alone again on a Saturday night?”

  Wen Jing placed her bags on one of the black-surfaced lab tables, “It’s Sunday morning now. Cybercrime is still slow after normal business hours for some reason. I really don’t know why. I guess it’s because we mostly analyze evidence that isn’t time-sensitive, so there’s only a skeleton second shift, and no regular third shift. Tonight was a nice diversion from the usual routine. I like it when I get to go out in the field on nights like this. It adds a sense of danger to the job, even though I’m always surrounded by armed police officers.”

  Alana paced around the room’s perimeter, examining the various machines, none of which she knew one iota about, “What kind of work does a junior cyberforensics technician normally do?”

  Wen Jing walked over to one of the terminals that lined the back wall of the cyberforensics lab. She slid her ID card through the security reader and placed her thumb on the print scanner. The computer screen awoke, and Wen Jing typed in a password, revealing a neatly organized virtual workspace. She replied, “I'm usually cataloguing evidence that’s brought in overnight, or doing things for the other technicians.”

  Alana said, “Does everyone here have to work on the terminals? Don’t they even give you your own cubicle?”

  Wen Jing smiled, “Srinu has his own office, but he’s a department head, of course.”

  “If you’d have been a journalist, or at least police inspector, you’d have your own workspace.”

  “I’m happy with where I’m at. The work’s really interesting, and I’m a total nerd anyway.”

  It occurred to Alana that she had never seen Wen Jing frown. She was always positive, even upbeat. “I’ll tell you what. If you ever need some space, you can use my office. I can talk to security and have them grant you access.”

  “I don’t know that I’d ever... Brett—Detective Crabtree—shares your office, doesn’t he?”

  Alana said, “Don’t use it for that, please. But if you need to work in private, or take a break, I can arrange it.”

  Wen Jing’s smile broadened, “Yes, I’d like that. I might never use it, but there have been some times when I could have used some peace and quiet to work. On weeknights, it’s usually only me on duty anyway. Sometimes it gets hectic, but that usually
happens after a stock market crash or a bank failure, or some other major event. So, yes. Thank you. Let me know when I have access.”

  Alana watched as Wen Jing unpacked several items from her bags and placed them on the table. She paid particularly close attention when Wen Jing delved into her white evidence bag. The electronic notepad with the alleged suicide note from Greg Veedock was set alongside what looked to be an electronic subprocessing unit. Alana asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

  Wen Jing smiled, “What do you think it is?”

  “A cyborg autonomic processor?”

  “Yes. It’s Greg Veedock’s. I had Comerford remove it before he shipped the rest of the body off to regular forensics. I figured you wouldn’t want to wait until next week to have it examined.”

  Brett’s girlfriend again impressed Alana, “You really are diligent, aren’t you?”

  Wen Jing suddenly blushed, as if she wasn’t expecting a compliment from Alana, “I’m glad you think so.”

  A long silence followed. Wen Jing took some photographs of the evidence and used her computer to catalogue them.

  Alana asked, “Why—”

  Wen Jing cut her off, “I’m really curious about it myself. Like you said back at the stadium, I also think it was a homicide.”

  Alana said, “I had my reasons, but tell me yours. Why do you think that?”

  “Veedock kept beaning himself with that bat even after his brain would have been unable to function. Forensics will have to do some electron micro-scans of his noggin, and probably some computer simulations to be sure, but Comerford was convinced that he struck himself at least three or more times after he should have been hard-killed.”

  Alana said, “Let me be sure I understand this clearly. His body kept functioning independently of his brain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like a robot might. Not like a cyborg would?”

  Wen Jing glanced at the ceiling for a brief moment before answering, “Yes.”

  Alana made another full circuit of the lab before she said, “How long will you need to analyze those things?”

  Wen Jing took a deep breath, pursed her lips, and exhaled from her nose. She stared at the objects for a few seconds before answering, “Two hours?”

  Alana nodded, “Can I get you anything?”

  Wen Jing beamed, “A large Kona latte from the house down on the corner? Along with a pastry or some kind of donut or something? Get the receipt, and—”

  Alana cut Wen Jing off, “I got this one. You’re on overtime. Least I can do. But one more question before I go.”

  Wen Jing seemed to have received an infusion of energy even without downing a huge dose of caffeine and sugar, “Of course!”

  “Let me know how long it takes the screen on that notepad to go into power-saving mode if it’s left sitting on a bench.”

  “I’ll check that first thing.”

  Alana nodded and left the lab. Half an hour later, she returned, comestibles in hand. Wen Jing told the room’s Vira to let Alana in, and half-a-minute later, the technician was holding an oversized coffee cup in both her hands, inhaling from the steam that rose from the quickly opened drinking tab.

  Alana asked her, “Did you find anything significant yet?”

  “I’m still running a low-level scan on Veedock’s processor, but I finished examining the notepad earlier than I’d expected.”

  Alana said, “Well?”

  Wen Jing said, “First, the power timeout for non-motion inactivity is set at the factory defaults.”

  Alana asked, impatiently, “Which are?”

  “For normal use, five minutes. Otherwise, it’s controlled at the app—”

  “That’s good enough,” Alana interrupted. Jenkins’ story about seeing the screen active when he walked into the room held up, “What else did you learn?”

  Wen Jing said, “It’s brand-spanking new.”

  Alana nodded, “Go on.”

  Wen Jing lifted the pad from the table, and held it up for Alana to see as she started sliding her fingers around on the screen, navigating through the basic controls, “The screen still has the default arrangement of applications. There is nothing new on it. Even the password was still ‘password.’”

  Alana paused momentarily, but she quickly had her next question ready, “Have you traced its point-of-purchase?”

  Wen Jing said, “Yes! It came from an electronics store in Los Angeles International Airport, and it was purchased yesterday morning at about eleven o’clock with Greg Veedock’s Vira account.”

  Alana turned aside so that Wen Jing would know that she wasn’t talking to her, “Vira, run a query. Did a commercial flight land at LAX yesterday with the baseball player Greg Veedock on board?”

  Alana’s Vira said, “Please wait—affirmative, Chief Inspector Graves. Greg Veedock arrived on Western Airways flight 435 at 1030 hours yesterday.”

  Alana turned back to face Wen Jing, “Call me when you finish checking out Veedock’s back-end. I’ll be in my office.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Alana made her way back to her office and plopped down in her chair. With a touch of her index finger, she activated her desktop display and began, “Vira, connect to my desktop terminal. Access the cyborg transponder-tracking database. Display the location for Greg Veedock at 1045 hours yesterday.”

  The desktop showed a satellite view of Los Angeles International Airport, with a flashing dot inside the domestic terminals. “Focus on Veedock’s signal and zoom in to 10:1 scale. Show interiors.”

  Alana was treated to a two-dimensional display of the floor plan of the airport terminal. Veedock’s transponder placed him mid-way between his arrival gate and the concourse connecting to the ground transportation hub. She then began tracing the victim’s movements.

  First, she tracked him back to his plane. It was as straight a path as he could have been expected to take. He paused occasionally, making intermittent sidesteps, probably to dodge other travelers in the crowded airport.

  Next, she followed his movements as he took the tram to the main exit, stopping along his way at, as Wen Jing had uncovered, an electronics store, where he paid twice as much for a notepad as he could have anywhere else on the planet. He then took a limousine to the hotel across the street from the East LA Stadium, where he arrived at about noon, stopped at the registration desk, went upstairs to his room, and did nothing else until 1600 hours, at which time he took an elevator to the basement floor, which is where the tracking signal disappeared.

  “Vira, accelerate time ten-x until Veedock’s transponder reappears.”

  At just after 1800 hours Pacific Time, the ball player’s transponder appeared in the dugout. That was about the same time that Alana made it to her seat alongside Ben Rhys in the upper deck.

  When the game started, Veedock walked out onto the ball field, and a minute later, back into the dugout. A couple minutes later, his signal vanished as he entered the team clubhouse. Alana reasoned that was the time of the accidental death of Phil Robertson.

  “Freeze simulation.”

  Alana leaned back in her chair. What she considered to be a bizarre hypothesis began to coalesce inside her mind, but before she could it shape it into a coherent theory, her Vira said, “Chief Inspector Graves, you have a call from Wen Jing Lin.”

  After a very brief exchange with Wen Jing, Alana saved her progress, unplugged herself from her desk terminal, and hastened back to the cyberforensics lab. Before the door could slide shut behind her, she had already begun, “Talk to me.”

  Wen Jing, standing next to her computer screen, with what looked to be some text files displayed on the monitor, said, “I had to do a full recovery scan on his short-term memory modules, but I found something out of place.”

  Alana steered around the lab tables to Wen Jing’s side, “What?”

  “I found some ghosts.”

  “You mean deleted files?”

  “Exactly. His entire cache was purged by an admin-lev
el command.”

  Alana’s face contorted, “Are you certain? Who was the administrator?”

  Wen Jing pointed at the text file that filled her computer screen, “Greg Veedock.”

  Alana paused as the implications of what Wen Jing told her ran circles around her brain case. During the Aaron Stone case, her former iteration went to extraordinary lengths to fake the destruction of her subprocessor unit specifically because there was no way to remove that file short of extreme, physical violence, “Since when did he have admin rights over his log files? Even I can’t do that.”

  Wen Jing shrugged, raising her palms to add emphasis, “That’s something I can’t glean from this data. All I know is that the log file says his memory was purged by his command. Somehow—and I have no Earthly explanation for it—he got administrator access to his brain and purged his back end.”

  A long silence descended, during which Alana paced around the tables, staring at the floor while Wen Jing leaned against the desktop with her arms folded. After completing her third lap, Alana stopped and said, “What was the time stamp on the purge command?”

  Wen Jing turned and read from her screen, “The log is keyed to UT, but correcting for our time zone, it was at 1849 hours, 17 seconds. 6:49 PM.”

  Alana said, “Right around the time of death. Is there any way you can tell whether that was after his hard-kill moment or before it?”

  Wen Jing looked down at the floor and grabbed her chin with her right hand, squeezing the skin tightly between her thumb and forefinger, “I... I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Srinivas. Can I make that an official ‘maybe’ and get back to you after I’ve had time to research it?”

  Alana told her Vira to display the current time. Her visual display showed that it was after 2 AM. She looked at Wen Jing. The young woman wasn’t a cyborg, and carry-on sized bags were beginning to form beneath her eyes. She said, “Yes, Wen—do you prefer Wendy or Wen Jing?”

  Wen Jing turned and typed a note on her computer to follow up with Alana’s request when time permitted, and she managed to carry on conversing all the while, “Actually, I kind of prefer Wendy. Brett likes to call me by my Chinese name, but it tends to cause confusion when other people hear it.”