Retiree 2.0 Page 9

  Brett asked, “How so?”

  Comerford held out his hand to Rhys, who handed over the bat, a shiny, aluminum model with white lettering on a red background that declared it to be a ‘Mid-Western Slugger.’ He said, “At first, I thought that there might have been multiple assailants, but I was wrong. I had to run several scans on Veedock’s brain case to finally work it all out.”

  Comerford motioned for everyone to stand back as he grasped the bat firmly. He slowly moved it to make contact with his forehead as he continued, “The first three strikes were against the front of his skull, but they didn’t penetrate the case. I watched some Zumpco safety test videos online, and the way they designed the cyborg brain case, the front is hardened to resist direct impacts, like from running into things, or being in car crashes.”

  Rhys chimed in, “Veedock wasn’t able to generate enough bat speed just holding it in front of him and banging his forehead. After trying three times, he finally got it right.”

  Alana watched as Comerford tilted his head to the left, and held the bat down and to the left. He then swung the bat, very slowly so as not to accidentally reenact the baseball player’s death. He brought it up and around at an angle and contacted the side of his skull between the temple and the ear. “This is where Veedock struck the fatal blow. The brain case is weaker there.”

  Brett asked, “So it was suicide?”

  Comerford set the bat down on the table with one end resting against a gas outlet for a Bunsen burner so that it would not roll away, “Whether it was suicide or not is your department. But there is something very odd about the damage.”

  Comerford walked over to a wall monitor and began moving his fingers around on the interface, finally bringing up a series of detailed images, the scans he took of Veedock’s brain case. He pointed to the front and side views, “You can see the first three hits on the front. They barely dented it. Then you can see where it’s cracked on the side. That’s where the next four blows landed.”

  Brett asked, “What are you seeing that’s odd?”

  Comerford smiled, proudly, “Based on what Rhys told me about batting, I was able to calculate the approximate energy of the impacts and apply that to what I saw when I examined the case. The first hit to the side of the skull was hard enough to dislodge the artificial shock-absorbing tissue from around the side of the skull. That caused his brain to drift, sort of a cybernetic version of a concussion. When that happened, his autonomic systems should have shut down the power to his control centers to prevent any accidental discharges from the circuitry into his organic bits.”

  Alana said, “In English, please?”

  Comerford pointed to Alana, “Think of it as a circuit breaker. What should have happened is that when his brain was knocked loose, his body should have gone into safe mode, and shut down. But it didn’t. He kept hitting himself, and he did it three more times, hard. By the time he was done, he had caved-in the outside of his brain case. All he had left to do was fall down onto the ground and bleed out his brain fluids.”

  Alana asked, “Why didn’t he stop?”

  Comerford smiled, “For that, you’ll need to ask cyberforensics. Wendy took his subprocessor unit with him, and she’s going to analyze it. The bottom line is that he kept banging away at his head when he should have stopped.”

  Brett said, “Did you find any other evidence at the crime scene? Particularly, any indication that Edward Jenkins might have been the killer? What I want to know about in particular is whether he left any physical traces on the suicide notepad.”

  Comerford shook his head, definitively, “Nope. There was nothing we could find that would implicate him, other than the fact that he transited the room while the body was there.”

  Alana asked, “No killer robots hiding inside the lockers?”

  “Definitely not.”

  Alana said, “Just one more question then. Do you think it’s possible that his body could have either been acting on its own, as a programmed robot, or as a puppet?”

  Comerford pondered the question for a few moments before replying, “The former is not impossible, given the circumstances, but I didn’t see any evidence of it. You’ll need to ask cyberforensics.”

  Brett added, “What about the latter? By ‘puppet,’ I’m presuming that the Chief Inspector means a remote-controlled drone?”

  Comerford shrugged, “Ask—”

  Everyone else finished the sentence, “—cyberforensics.”

  Brett addressed Alana, “What do you think, Chief Inspector?”

  “I think you should go back to the office and formulate a thorough evidence gathering plan while Srinu and Wendy probe around in Veedock’s back end. I’ll meet you there—”

  Rhys said, “Probe his back end? I knew you had a saucy side, but—”

  Alana shook her head as she started walking toward the exit with Rhys following her, “His server-side. His subprocessor. His inner wiring, his plumbing, his...” the door slid shut behind her.

  Brett turned to Comerford and said, “Thanks, Brian. I appreciate the extra diligence.”

  Brian asked, “You’ve been working for Graves for a while now. What’s her M-O?”

  Brett said, “Have you ever been able to accurately read a woman, living or dead?”

  Comerford said, “Point taken.”

  Brett walked away. Once through the door, he trotted to catch up with Alana and Rhys, ducking inside the elevator just as the doors were closing. He caught Alana and Rhys in the middle of a conversation, and for some reason, he felt as if his presence wasn’t registering, not even on their infrared filters.

  Alana asked Rhys, “How was the game?”

  Rhys said, “The Cyber League won again, five to two. I think the humans really missed having Robertson in there.”

  Brett interjected, “Detective Rhys, do you think there is any possibility that Robertson’s death could have been deliberate?”

  The elevator was devoid of conversation. Brett could clearly hear the gears and cables. When the car stopped and the doors opened on their office floor, Rhys finally said as he stepped out, “The odds are so low as to be unimaginable.”

  Brett followed, following up as well, “Do you think that it would be possible for a cyborg to hit a pitch accurately enough to direct it back at a moving target the size of a human head.”

  Rhys stroked his chin, “Well... No.”

  “Do—”

  Rhys stopped, forcing Alana to sidestep to avoid running into him, “Unless!”

  Brett said, “Unless what?”

  “Unless he was using the android app that synchs up advanced targeting features. Veedock would need an advanced targeting package installed. Did he have one?”

  Brett shrugged. Alana held up her finger, saying, “Vira, call the forensics laboratory.”

  Rhys looked at Brett and asked, “Why do you think that might be a possibility?”

  Brett looked at Alana, as if to shift the blame for what he was about to say over to her, “Detective’s intuition. Why are you entertaining it as a remote possibility?”

  Rhys said, “Because Robertson’s first pitch was a fastball, not a knuckler.”

  Alana began her conversation with Comerford over her internal phone, “Brian? This is Chief Inspector Graves. Does Veedock have an advanced targeting package installed? Yes, I can wait.”

  Rhys asked Brett, “Are you a baseball fan, perchance?”

  Brett said, “I like it better than baroque opera. Why?”

  Rhys looked disapprovingly at Alana, “Because I have a spare ticket to Monday night’s game at East LA, and I don’t know anyone who wants to go. I’d let it go for twenty credits.”

  Alana said, raising her voice to ensure that she was heard over the baseball talk, “He does? No, that’s all I needed for now. Oh, and thanks. Bye.”

  Brett said, “So, that means that it’s possible?”

  Rhys said, “I should caution against premature wild goose chases here. The leagues test a
ll their retired players before each game to make sure they aren’t cheating. Or at least they are supposed to test them.”

  Alana asked, “That’s no good, is it? Couldn’t he just download it with his Vira after they finished the test?”

  Rhys shook his head, “No. They also temporarily disable their transponders so that the teams can’t talk with each other over the radio. They still have to use hand signals to communicate, just like old-time baseball. I think that’s a wild goose.”

  Brett persisted, “But, if he had this app you mentioned installed, you think he could have done it deliberately?”

  Rhys said, “There’s two ways to find out.”

  Alana said, reverting to mentor mode, “Remember, any side investigations you pursue will consume time, resources, or both.”

  Brett said, “I’ve got the rest of the afternoon free while I wait for Srinu and Wen Jing to finish up their investigations. What do you have in mind, Rhys?”

  Rhys said, “Can we use your office?”

  Both Brett and Alana nodded simultaneously, and Rhys led the way. Once they were settled around Brett’s desk, Rhys used the interface to locate more information on the android app he was talking about. It was called, ‘Texas Leaguer Pro,’ and it promised, for the low, low price of fifty credits, to give anyone a major league swing. Testimonial videos provided visual evidence that supported their claims, showing a variety of cyborgs going from bat-novice to bat-pro after just a few tries. Critical reviews from skeptical sources showed that the software was imperfect, but it still seemed to grant any cyborg the ability to hit a professionally thrown baseball almost seventy percent of the time.

  Alana said, “Hitting the baseball is apparently the easy part. Can you guarantee hitting a head-sized moving target with the baseball?”

  Rhys said, “That’s the second way to find out. Who’s up for a trip to a batting cage?”

  Sunday, 9 July, 15:05

  It took an hour for Ben, Brett, and Alana to locate a public batting cage, travel there, purchase two downloads of the Texas Leaguer Pro software, install it on Ben and Alana’s systems, and devise a methodology to test Brett’s theory that Phil Robertson’s death might have been deliberate. It then took another hour of waiting in line for a free cage.

  Brett was clearly being affected by the heat. His white work shirt was damp with sweat, with his v-neck tee shirt visible beneath. He removed his tie, rolled it up neatly, and stuffed it in his pants pocket.

  Alana noticed, and considered making an off-color joke about it, but she let it go. She said, “We should have done this on a weekday, if we were going to do it at all. Sunday afternoon in the middle of the season was the worst timing. Are you sure you want to chase this wild goose?”

  Brett said, “It gives us a motive for the apparent suicide, doesn’t it? Erasing any memory of the crime? The worst outcome is that we decide that it’s impossible, and then we go on with the investigation.”

  Alana asked, “If, after testing your hypothesis, you decide that it’s worth pursuing, what would be your next step?”

  “I’d begin checking both Veedock’s and Robertson’s backgrounds for connections, to search for a possible motive.”

  Alana said, “Sounds reasonable. Ben, what do you think of the new inspector’s plan?”

  Rhys started, “I’m not sure I’d be giving this angle this much attention at this stage, but—wait. Inspector?”

  Alana nodded, “Please offer your congratulations to Inspector Brett Crabtree, newly promoted as of this morning.”

  Brett waved his hands, “I haven’t accepted it yet. Chief Inspector Graves is being premature.”

  Rhys said, bowing slightly, “Well, then, should you choose to take it, please accept my premature congratulations. Comerford said that Wendy was also promoted today. Is that why there were so many people walking around on our floor this afternoon?”

  Alana said, “Yes. But I didn’t see you at her party. If you weren’t here for that, then why were you in the office on a Sunday afternoon? And where was Maggie? Was he making you work while he was on vacation?”

  Rhys said, “Inspector MacGruder is down at the dockyard, doing some work on the chop-shop case. I was using the big screen in one of the conference rooms to follow the victims’ transponder tracks.”

  Alana said, “Anything you want to share?”

  “That depends on whether you’re up for another mystery.”

  “Always. Brevet-Inspector Crabtree is the lead on the Veedock case, and Inspector MacGruder is on the chop-shop case, and I’m on punitive training leave, so I’ve got some free time to help you both.”

  Brett listened, silently, as Rhys continued, “It took me all morning, but I ran two simulations. One was of each individual transponder we’ve identified so far, and the other was an aggregate of all the known victims. I don’t know what it means yet, but they all stopped what they were doing and traveled to a building in Long Beach, and then in small groups to the warehouse, where they were deactivated, one-by-one, over time. It was all spread out over the month of June, but it worked out to a total of twenty-eight hundred victims—”

  Alana said, “Earlier, you said there were thirty-two hundred.”

  “I was basing that on the number of boxes we found. Not all of them were full. But it still worked out to a hundred victims a day.”

  Brett’s jaw dropped, “Holy shit.”

  Rhys said, “On average, one victim entered the warehouse every ten minutes, but there was a lot of variability based on time of day. They also seemed to enter the Port of Los Angeles in groups of three to five. There was more activity during daylight hours than there was at night. Security Division’s been tight-lipped about the prisoners, but we’re assuming that the four people we caught were just one shift, and that there are more perps out there.”

  Alana was puzzled, “They arrived mostly in groups? Do you think that means they were traveling in the same vehicle?”

  Rhys nodded, “Based on my analysis, I’d say yes. But it’s all remote data, so there may be a simple explanation for it that’s not apparent based on the transponder GPS tracks. We’ll know more once we get to interview some of the victims. It’s looking like that’s going to happen sometime Monday.”

  The attendant at the batting cages opened the chain-link fenced gate to allow a man and two boys, presumably his children, to exit. He motioned for Alana’s group to enter. On their way to the available cage, Rhys rented a bat and a bucket of baseballs from a concessionaire while Brett purchased a large fountain soda, which he had already drained dry by the time they reached their slot.

  Rhys said, “We only have an hour, so I suggest we set everything up and get started. I’ll configure the pitching machine. Inspector Graves, could you set up the target?”

  Alana said, “I’ll try.” She found a spot on the upper right corner of the red, steel box from which she believed the baseballs would be flung for them to hit. She pulled a paper bullseye she had sequestered from the department’s pistol range from her coat pocket, unfolded it and back-folded it until it remained straight, and taped it at about the same level as her head, in her best approximation of where she thought Phil Robertson’s head might have been when it was struck.

  After he had dumped the bucket of balls into the pitching machine, Rhys used a touchpad on the side of the mechanical pitcher to tell it what kind of pitches to throw and where to throw them, concentrating on fastballs that were near the strike zone and over the outside corner of ‘home plate,’ where Robertson’s fatal pitch had traveled. When he had finished, he asked, “Who’s up first?”

  Brett answered, “I don’t know. You know more about baseball, so you should probably try first. What do you think, Chief Inspector?”

  “I don’t give—Ben. You go first, and I’ll watch how you do it.”

  Rhys grabbed the bat and stepped up to the plate, “Vira, activate the Texas Leaguer Pro app. Give it full control. Sync with the pitching machine and begin.”


  Rhys dug in as best he could on the asphalt floor of the batter’s box, bending his knees and raising the bat above and behind his head. Nothing happened, and an automated voice spoke from an intercom behind the plate, “Non-batters must leave the batting area before beginning.”

  Rhys said, “Forgot about that. Just stand outside the cage and watch.”

  Brett held the gate open for Alana, and they both ducked outside. Rhys once again said, “Begin.”

  A few seconds later, a red light on the pitching machine turned to yellow, and then to green, and a baseball screamed out of a hole in the front of the box, right past Rhys, who did not even attempt to swing. It struck the fenced cage, rattling it and prompting Brett to step further back.

  Alana said, “You didn’t swing.”

  “It was a ball, low and away. Those—”

  The next baseball was propelled toward Rhys, and he swung, fouling the ball off to the right. As he regained his batting stance, Rhys finished, “Those balls are beaten up, so they’re breaking more than an official game ball would.”

  Rhys made solid contact with the next baseball, which rocketed back and struck the machine, less than a meter away from the bullseye.

  Alana said, “You’re doing better.”

  Rhys nodded, “I’m getting the range. The app—”

  The next ball missed the bullseye by the same margin, only it was over its ‘head.’

  “The app has to adjust to the user’s physique. I should start improving shortly.”

  Three pitches later, Rhys hit the target square on, ripping it away from its perch. Rhys said, “Stop pitching,” and trotted over to the bullseye, reattaching it. He quickly returned to the batter’s box and said, “Resume pitching.”

  Out of the next five pitches, Rhys swung at four, resulting in a foul ball, two near misses, and another direct hit. The light on the pitching machine turned red again. Rhys said, “Out of ammo. It only holds a dozen in its hopper. Brett, while I help the Chief Inspector configure her app, could you gather up the balls and reload the machine?”