Next I searched the bathroom to see what sorts of pills she took. I found the standards. Morphine. LSD. Ibuprofen. Penicillin. Antacids. Methamphetamine. Antihistamine. Pretty much the same contents as every other person’s medicine cabinet, mine included. Except for two exceptions. Antiandrogen and Estrolux. Both in high doses.
Time to power up the intranet and see what I could see.
I took out my DT and accessed uffsee. While having every bit of human knowledge accessible on a digital tablet was an overwhelming experience-so overwhelming that many folks had to go into therapy because of their DT addiction-information was essentially useless unless you were able to find it. When I was a child, pre-intranet, the Internet was the place to go to learn things. But search engines were limited back then, and you spent most of your time trying to sort out the good information from the ads, inaccuracies, and plain old bullshit.
Then a man named Franklin Debont created UFSE. An acronym of Use the Fucking Search Engine, the uffsee search algorithm was intuitive and user-specific. In layman’s terms, it learned what the user was seeking, and pinpointed data to match individual search requests.
No more wasted hours searching. WYSIWYW technology had made the overwhelming wealth of accumulated human knowledge as easy to navigate as a walk around the block.
I hit the voice button on my touch screen and told uffsee, “Detailed biography of Zelda Peterson, thirteen twenty-two Wacker Drive, Chicago, Illinois.”
Three-thousandths of a second later the screen filled with data.
Or perhaps filled was too optimistic a word.
It listed all the standard stats. Height, weight, age, eye color, chip number, previous addresses, and assorted public information like the charities she supported, moped license, estimated biofuel consumption, etcetera. No criminal record. And strangely, no mention of education or work history.
“Peace officer eyes only,” I told my DT.
That brought up the private info. No known associates. The excessive amount she paid in taxes, which was more than Vicki made in a year. Credit history. But it came up blank in regard to family, college, and previous employment. No mention of how she got so rich, or how she managed to avoid penalties for the contraband she made no effort to conceal. It also didn’t list her medical history, or the obvious reason she took Antiandrogen and Estrolux.
The average ten-year-old kid had more information available about them than Aunt Zelda did. Which meant it was time to have another chat with Neil. I set the voice-stress analyzer on my DT to record a neutral baseline.
“Oh, no.” Neil’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates when I walked up to him. “You’re going to kill me now.”
“Soon, Neil. But first I have some questions. Your aunt Zelda was a billionaire. I’m assuming you knew that and just neglected to mention it.”
“I… uh… didn’t know that.”
My DT said it was the truth.
“Did you know Aunt Zelda was once Uncle Zelda?”
“Excuse me?”
“She was TG, Neil. Transgender. She took hormones because she used to be a man. Did you know that?”
“Uh… no.”
I checked the touch screen. Truth.
“You apparently weren’t very close. Did you know the intranet didn’t actually mention you as a next of kin?” I moved closer to him, making him cringe. “Are you really her nephew, Neil?”
“Yes.”
Inconclusive.
“Say it. Say she was your aunt.”
“She was my aunt.”
Inconclusive.
“Do you know how she got so rich?”
“No.”
Truth.
“Do you know who murdered her?”
“Yes.”
Truth.
“Who murdered her, Neil?”
“You did.”
Truth.
Shit. Neil wasn’t helping the investigation much. I decided to take it in another, unprofessional direction.
“Okay, Neil. One last question. Are you ready?”
He gave me a small, frightened nod.
“Do you love my wife, Neil?”
Neil swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling. “Uh… no.”
Untruth.
I made a fist, and he cowered away, covering his face. While hitting him would have felt pretty good, it wouldn’t have accomplished anything. Of course he loved Vicki. All men who met Vicki fell in love with her. Guys like Neil were the reason I drove a Corvette.
Guys like Neil were also the reason my wife had a dozen more orgasms a week than I did.
My shoulder muscles bunched and I threw the punch, feeling the solid connection when my fist hit its target.
Neil screamed and scurried away. I stared at the hole I made in the plasterboard wall, and glanced at my knuckles, already beginning to swell.
Nice one, Talon. Hitting walls was about as mature as jealousy. Pretty lame coming from a man who helped rid Chicago of crime.
I glanced at the refrigerator. Apparently I hadn’t done a good enough job in the crime department.
A feeling somewhere between panic and despair began to take root in my head. I seriously considered grabbing a bottle of rum, and some of Aunt Zelda’s LSD, and zoning out for the rest of the day.
Instead I pressed my earlobe to activate my headphone. I wanted to call Vicki. Wanted to apologize for being a dick.
“Service not available.”
Shit. Neil’s collar must have been jamming my phone as well.
The rum and hallucinogens called, but I decided to man up and do my damn job. I couldn’t hide the evidence of this murder forever. And once the news broke, I’d be arrested and convicted within an hour. With so few criminals these days, trials were often faster than the time it took to get dressed for them.
I still had no idea how the TEV showed me committing the murder.
But I did know someone who might be able to figure it out.
“Neil, there’s some food in the cabinets when you get hungry,” I said, heading for the front door. “Remember to stay out of the refrigerator. I’ll BRB.”
Then I left the apartment and went to see Michio Sata.
EIGHT
Outside the building, I called Vicki from my headphone as I walked to my car. She didn’t pick up. Probably blocking my calls because I had acted like a cretin. I left her a message.
“Look, babe, I’m sorry I was an asshat. It’s just that I love you so much, I can’t stand thinking about you with other guys. Call me old-fashioned, but the only man you should be with is me. When I picture some tool like Neil…”
No. That wasn’t an apology. That was continuing the fight.
“Erase. Restart. Vicki? I’m sorry. I knew when I married an SLP that you would spread your legs for other men…”
That didn’t sound good either.
“Erase. Restart. Vicki, I’m sorry, but how can I help feeling jealous knowing you’re sucking some other guy’s… Shit. Erase. Restart.”
“This isn’t working, Talon.”
Uh-oh.
“Vicki? Were you listening to that?”
“If you’re not mature enough to accept what I do for a living, maybe we shouldn’t be together.”
I felt my heart stop. “Vicki… I’m sorry…”
“I’ve been discussing this with my therapist. She doesn’t feel like this marriage is healthy for either of us.”
I leaned against the hood of my Corvette. My Corvette, paid for because she boffed other men. “You discuss this with your therapist?”
“Don’t you discuss it with your therapist?”
Both of our jobs required us to see therapists once a week, Vicki to retain her SLP license, me to remain a peace officer.
“No. We don’t discuss anything. We spend the session watching hyperbaseball.”
“My therapist thinks it’s unhealthy for me to feel guilty about my profession because you’re too insecure-”
“Insecure? I’m always one hundred percent sure of myself! Aren’t I?”
“-too insecure to realize sex is simply a biological need that is completely wholesome and natural and impersonal. It’s no more intimate than a massage.”