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WHOEVER LIVED AT the crime scene had more money than god. The plush carpets felt like warm grass. Masterpiece sculptures and paintings dotted the wide rooms. Unfortunately, there was a Jackson Pollock impression on the floor of the master bedroom—an abstract mess painted in blood. At the center was a young woman, Korean, slip of a dress on. Her True-Resolution helmet was still secured. Gore dripped from beneath the rim. Scratch marks were carved into the side from her black-lacquered fingernails.
I looked around the place with the Sheriff. There were security cameras everywhere outside, but not in. Journalists were swarming, trying to get the inside story. Only a couple had gotten here before the police kicked them out. A nutrient delivery person had called the scene in; the front doo
