The Soul Cage

II Just another murder case?-1

II

Just another murder case? One“June 6. 2167,” Campbell grumbled wearily into his communications-recorder device. The booming music and noise of an obnoxious party going on one floor below was already grating on his nerves.

It was late. Too late in many respects, he figured. He was tired, cranky. To top it off, now he felt queasy from the thick smell of blood and bile in the air. “Beginning the investigation into the death of Dr. Jiro Yamamoto. This is clearly a case of homicide.”

Inspector Burt Campbell of the Global Police carefully stepped about the ruined penthouse suite of the Yamamoto Tech Building as he examined the massacred remains of the victim. He had his nose buried in his handheld police recorder with its remote connection to the central police computer (CPC). He decided to type in the circumstances of the murder scene on his mini-keyboard to the CPC rather than express them vocally.

This is probably going to be a difficult case—a damned important one involving the death of a damned important scientist, Campbell thought. I'd better keep my observations to myself until this idiotic bot reaches its own conclusions.

As if to emphasize his cause for concern, a forensic bot floated about the room making clicking, burping noises as it recorded and collected evidence. Campbell glanced at the bot with weary annoyance. He hated the damn things, but they were a necessary evil. Often as not, they picked up small details that could be useful.

Except for the CPC, he preferred to keep his case comments to himself rather than reveal them to other independent recording devices and their computers. That way the separate computers could draw their own conclusions, and possibly present different angles to the case that hadn't occurred to him.

This entire suite has been destroyed, he mused as he gazed about.

It was obvious something extremely violent had occurred in Jiro Yamamoto's office, but at least the room was a comfortable twenty-one degrees Celsius. Outside the radiation dome the night was a steamy forty degrees. Inside the room, the lighting was bright and unregulated, to the point of making the grisly murder scene overwhelming. It was obvious that Yamamoto had obtained special privileges from the energy administration. That took high government connections. Campbell made a note to check with the energy council.

A small black metal box with six spider-like legs, a siren light, and a bad attitude was high-kneeing it across Campbell's path. It shrieked a collision warning. He barely interrupted his notation as he punted the mechanical janitor out the south-side door of the office and into the hallway.

“Thank you, sirrrrrr,” squealed the janitor in a squeaky voice, as it rainbowed through the exit.

“For Jonah's sake,” Campbell murmured, “can't you goddamn bots tell this is a crime scene?”

“That was a fine kick, sir,” said F.A.C.S. (Forensic Animated Collection System) as it floated around the room. “You did not hurt your foot on that rusty antique, did you, Inspector Campbell?”

Campbell found it difficult to believe there was any actual sympathy in the FACS. He tried to ignore the frightful sight of the hovering white forensic bot and its giant squid-like appearance. Beneath the domed head that contained its analyzing computer, image, and air collectors, hung six mechanical arms. The arms served as collectors that contained sharp scrapers, scoops, suckers, and automated hands.

Damn thing is an antique itself, Campbell thought. It's badly in need of recalibration or replacement like most of the Global Police equipment since those goddamned budget cuts.

Suddenly Campbell slipped on some of the b****y remains of the victim. Yamamoto's body was splattered everywhere in ghastly piles and grotesque lumps. It had been torn apart and splashed all over the floors and walls as if Yamamoto had swallowed a live grenade. There was so much blood and gore that Campbell wondered if Yamamoto had been the only victim. It was one of the grisliest murder scenes the inspector had ever seen. Only his extensive wartime military career during the Yarv War readied him for the experience.

He noted that the real-wooden desk was overturned on its side. Its legs were sticking out sideways like those of a bloated dead horse. Most of its drawers were ripped out and thrown about. The sparse art from the blood-smeared walls was torn and tossed as if by someone with an insane hatred of abstract art. The black hover chair was bouncing off the relatively clean ceiling in an annoying manner. Recording cubes were scattered all over the b****y synthetic-turf floor.

It seems odd that there are no personal effects like family holographs or diplomas in Yamamoto's office, Campbell thought. For a man of his fame this seems unusually modest. What am I missing? Did Yamamoto have a separate office or lab? He obviously didn't conduct his work here.

Campbell made a note to check with the security computer and the building blueprints for a separate lab.

There had remained only one undisturbed item in the office. It was over by the westward exit close to the overturned desk. It was the first thing Campbell had noticed, not only because it was upright and standing, but because it was also the strangest object in the office.

Campbell peered closer. Huh? It looks like a large metal gingerbread man, or an iron maiden. He sent an image of the thing to the CPC. The police computer could tell him the origin of the huge object. It was obvious to him that a person was meant to be sealed inside.

Insufficient information, responded the computer on his recorder in authoritative blocky letters. APPEARS TO RESEMBLE A LARGE COOKIE.

“Great,” muttered Campbell, “a police computer with a sense of humor.”

Campbell gave the iron maiden a shove to see if it was as heavy as it appeared. Hopefully he could also determine why it remained standing. He decided it was too heavy to be pushed around by even a guard bot. Campbell was mystified and returned to his recorder.

A few taps, and up popped a synoptic police personal file on the monitor. DR. JIRO YAMAMOTO.

Dr. Jiro Yamamoto had been the chief officer, owner, and technician of Yamamoto Tech. Hmm. An obvious target for a competitor's assassination team.

Campbell read on. Having achieved a triple doctorate in biophysics, biochemistry, and cybernetics by the age of twenty, Jiro was thought by many to be one of the top scientists of the last century. His work was compared to Manchu, Incho, and even the twentieth century Einstein.

Damned rotten shame, Campbell thought. He'd had this tremendous feeling of waste and loss ever since he'd learned of Yamamoto's death an hour previous to his arrival on the scene. It hadn't gone away.

Yamamoto, the report said, was believed to be working on a project to perfect a teleportation device acceptable for the use by humans and other organic beings of higher intelligence.

Fascinating, Campbell thought. The theory of teleportation is nothing new. But the idea of a living organic arriving at a distant destination unaltered … now that's truly revolutionary!

Yamamoto's device was said to be in the testing stages for intergalactic usage. This would be a gigantic step in travel across the universe by all species and bots. With Yamamoto's murder, it would appear the device would remain in the testing stages until someone else picked up the research and development.

The military might throw in its weight and assume the project, he thought, if it wasn't theirs from the beginning.

Two“Oh, Lord in Hades,” screeched a woman from across the room by the iron maiden and the westward door.

Campbell snapped to attention upon hearing a human voice. She shouldn't be here at a crime scene, he thought. Still, he was instantly captivated by the sight of the stunning woman standing like a youthful beacon of beauty at the fringes of the b****y m******e.

“What're you doing here … ah … Ms. Penelope Preston?” he asked after a moment. “You have a party to attend.”

He'd identified the woman almost instantaneously through his black eye implants that were connected to the police personnel identification data computer. The party noise, laughter, and music still boomed from one floor down.

“I should be asking your identity and the reason for your presence,” Ms. Preston returned hotly.

“Inspector Burt Campbell,” he said politely. “I'm the investigator in this murder case. Again, why are you here?”

He stared openly with great interest at the striking 1.85 meter tall Caucasian female with shoulder length blond hair and vivid gray-blue eyes. She was wearing a translucent, knee-length dress that was black and skin tight. He felt it was illegally seductive on her.

Penelope abruptly covered her anguished features behind her long beautiful fingers and pretended unjust persecution.

He could tell from the body temperature monitor of his eye implants that she was faking it. Her skin read 37-degrees Celsius on the dot. He noticed that she wore nothing on her arms but the communicator/identifier/timer (CIT) on her wrist. She wore none of that gaudy metal, stone, or glass bobbles some vain people called jewelry these days.

I like her already, he thought.

He also noticed Ms. Preston wore black heels to match her stunning gown instead of the traditional hover-shoes like most of the partygoers. That meant she wasn't going to hover away anywhere fast, and it was likely he would have to contend with her annoying interference of his concentration.

“She is disrupting the crime scene,” FACS objected. It hovered menacingly in Ms. Preston's vicinity. She tried to wave it away as if she were shooing an annoying insect. It continued to bubble and hiss at her.

“Either shut down, or mind your own business,” Campbell growled at the hovering squid. He would have bopped the obtrusive unit, but the FACS had too many pointy protrusions around its perimeter for his liking.

FACS hovered off to the distant corner while pretending to collect more evidence

The idiotic machine is recording my every move and word to report to my superior, Campbell thought.

He punched up Ms. Preston's classification and personnel file on his recorder. Her attempt to appear anguished became obvious upon reading her file. It read that Ms. Preston was the personal secretary and assistant of the deceased. The memos said she was a close personal friend to her boss, intimately close.

“Inspector Campbell, are you aware that you're standing on Jiro's, ah, the victim's, ah, remains?” Ms. Preston squabbled a bit squeamishly.

Campbell thought: It's apparent she's aware that this b****y mess is the murdered remains of her boss and lover. But her attitude about the situation seems awful damn cold. I know I would be far more upset if someone I loved had been slaughtered in this manner.

“So I am,” He peered down to see what he'd slipped on earlier. “I do apologize, Ms. Preston. As you can see, even walking around this office disturbs the evidence. You shouldn't be here.”

He gently wiped his boots of the cadaver parts by scrubbing them off on the turf covered floor. FACS let out an extended hiss of despair. Ms. Preston acted faint, but caught herself on the overturned desk.

“You are a smelly Novian sloth!” Ms. Preston cried. She placed her hands over her cringing features again.

Strike one, Campbell thought.

“You may be correct, ma'am,” he said with irritation. “Again, you should leave the premises.”

Ms. Preston lowered her hands and peered at Campbell undaunted. Her anguished expression had evaporated as if it were never there. “Inspector Campbell?” she asked, while ignoring his demand to leave.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Will you remain on this case until its completion?”

“Yes, ma'am. Unless, of course, my superiors assign me other duties.” Campbell flicked a hateful glance at FACS which was purring some new computation of its own. “The victim's, ah, Dr. Yamamoto's classification requires a human investigator, ma'am. Had someone blasted a bot, on the other hand,” Campbell nodded at FACS in a menacing way, “the situation would be different. Bots take care of their own type, as I'm sure you know.”

Ms. Preston nodded her appreciation. “Then, Inspector Campbell, please call me, Penelope. I'll remain at your service day or night. As I think you know already, Dr. Yamamoto and I were close. I'd like to see a proper end to this.”