The Authorities, page 20
He showed them a mockup of what Sloan saw through her helmet’s heads-up display. Most of the information that was conveyed on the screen of the team’s standard issue smartphone was channeled through Sloan’s field of view on one of four floating, semitransparent blocks of text and simple graphics. She navigated through the interface using a joystick and button that were hidden in the decorative details of her cane’s silver grip.
Rutherford let out a slow, quiet whistle. “Man, I see what Capp meant about the team developing technology he can sell. If you can market a heads-up display like that, I’d buy one tomorrow.”
Albert said, “A heads-up display is the easiest thing in the world to make. Next time you’re driving, put your smartphone on the dashboard so you can see the screen reflected in the windshield. That’s all a heads-up display is. Of course, it needs to be visible in daylight and impervious to most weather, but that’s not hard. Sloan’s is made of a few mirrors and cheap screens designed for the fronts of flip phones. The software is the tricky part, and since hers is a simplified phone interface, even that wasn’t too difficult. I could make one for you easily, but you’d have to wear a big shield over your eyes all the time. For Sloan, that wasn’t a problem.”
Moving on, Albert explained the combination of vibration sensors and digital cameras that deduced her speech by monitoring the movements of her damaged vocal cords, her tongue, and her lip.
Rutherford said, “Lip?”
Albert said, “Lip.”
He moved on to the legs. He showed that one leg was artificial from just below the knee, and that the ankle joint was computer controlled. It sensed where her balance was and determined whether she was standing or walking. The other foot was a partial rubber sculpture of a foot that slipped over what remained of her original appendage, fulfilling some of a real foot’s functions.
Albert had a physical example of the prosthetics used for her hands, so he set the phone down for a moment and showed Rutherford and Sherwood what looked like a minimalist sculpture of a finger. The pads on the finger’s gripping surfaces were solid, but the rest of the finger and all of its joints were made from tiny metal struts. At the finger’s base, where it would have connected to the rest of the hand, there were two thin metal braces.
“Hers is built into her glove,” Albert said. “The remaining portion of the original finger fits into the base of the prosthesis and supplies mechanical force.”
He held the braces with one hand. With the other, he grasped the finger between its two lowest joints and gently twisted. All of the other joints flexed as well, causing the finger to curl just like a natural finger would.
“Isn’t that cool?” Albert asked.
“Yeah it is,” Rutherford said. “Can I see that?”
Albert handed him the apparatus, and Rutherford worked its mechanism several times, marveling at how natural the finger’s movement seemed.
“How many of these does Sloan have?” Sherwood asked.
“Several on one hand. A couple of them are tied together because there wasn’t enough left of one finger to operate on its own.”
Rutherford offered the finger to Sherwood. When he refused, Rutherford handed it back to Albert.
“Here every cop in town thinks she’s some sort of kung-fu badass,” Rutherford said, “when actually it’s amazing that she can walk naturally.”
“Yes,” Max said. “It is funny in a way. If anyone ever actually hit her, she might fly apart like she’s made of Tinkertoys, but just by getting up every morning she proves that she’s stronger than any of us.”
Sherwood said, “I understand why she needs the voice sensors. I think I do, anyway, but why just feed it to our earpieces? Her not talking throws a lot of people off. Why not play her voice out loud for everyone?”
Albert said, “Do you really think that her robot voice coming from a speaker mounted on her chest would freak people out less?”
“She realizes that she’s going to make people uncomfortable no matter what she does,” Max said, “so she’s decided to do it on her own terms and use the discomfort to her advantage. She put a lot of thought into the look of her clothing and her helmet.”
Albert said, “You know how poisonous animals are brightly colored to warn off predators? Some nonpoisonous animals evolve to be the same colors. We’ve done everything we can to make Sloan look like someone you don’t want to mess with because we hope to make people not want to mess with her.”
“Of course,” Max said, “it has the opposite effect on some people, but that’s what I’m here for.”
“You really are here just to help and protect Sloan?” Rutherford asked.
Max said, “Yes. We all are. Capp built the team around her. I’m here to help and protect, as you say. Albert’s here to maintain her equipment and outfit her team. Terri’s here to manage the administrative tasks that would be a waste of her time. You’re here to drive her, chase runners, and arrest perpetrators for her, and call attention to her work.”
“And me?” Sherwood asked.
“You’re here to help in any way you can, and besides, allowing researchers to piggyback on her work means that Capp gets a fat tax deduction, which helps keep the whole thing running.”
“That explains why we’re all here,” Rutherford said. “But why Sloan? Why’d Capp choose her? There are other detectives available who would require less support.”
“I’ve asked that question many times myself,” Max said.
“And what’s the answer?”
“If one has a satisfactory answer to a question, one usually doesn’t ask it many times.”
Rutherford said, “I see.”
“Any more questions?”
Rutherford and Sherwood looked at each other, then Rutherford cleared his throat, looked down at the table, and said, “I kinda have to ask. Can you give us more of an idea what she looks like, you know, now?”
“Sure,” Max said. “I have a photo.” He pulled out his smartphone and started scrolling through his photos. After a moment, he said, “Ah, here’s a good one.” He turned his phone around to show the others. Rutherford and Sherwood leaned in close. It was a photo of Max and Sloan standing next to each other. He had his arm around Sloan. She was holding her cane and wearing the same all-black pants suit and full-head helmet she always wore.
“That’s what my friend Megan Sloan looks like,” Max said. “That’s the image she chooses to show the world. As far as I’m concerned, asking to see her without it is the same as asking to see her naked. I’ll let it go this time, but if you ever ask me what any of my female friends look like naked again, there will be consequences.”
Rutherford mumbled, “I’m sorry,” and looked down at the table, avoiding Max’s and Albert’s eyes.
Max put the phone away. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I would have probably asked in your place. It’s natural to be curious. Just don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
Max said, “Good. Now, are there any more real questions?”
“I have one,” Professor Sherwood said. “Why are you telling us all this?”
Albert said, “Because she asked us to.”
“She’s worked with you for a little while now, Doctor,” Max said. He looked at Rutherford, who still felt ashamed, and said, “And she expects to work with you for a long time to come. She wanted you both to know what her situation is. She just didn’t want to be there when you were told.”
* * *
Max’s front door opened, once again draining warmth and light into the chilly dark. Rutherford, Professor Sherwood, and Albert walked out of the door and down the steps. When they reached the bottom, they looked over their shoulders and waved at Max, who waved back and shut the door, cutting off the flow of warmth and light.
Sherwood carried his empty brownie plate like one would carry a Frisbee. Rutherford was empty-handed. There had been wine remaining in the bottle, but he left it with Max, even though Max didn’t drink and would likely pour it down the drain. Rutherford was already paranoid about driving the van. It was still prone to the occasional accidental burnout, and with a lack of engine noise it was surprisingly easy to find himself speeding. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over with an open container of alcohol in the car.
The three of them reached the sidewalk. It was still and quiet, the kind of night where the entire world seems to be saying, Shhhh.
“Well,” Rutherford said, “That was something.”
“Yes,” Professor Sherwood said. “Something.”
Rutherford said, “You know, I had a theory or two about Sloan. I thought she’d been a cop. I figured she’d been burned and there was vocal cord damage or something. It turns out I was right, but there was so much more to it. I feel like . . . I dunno. Like being only a little right is worse than having been totally wrong.”
“Yeah,” Albert said. “You still don’t know the whole story. Neither do I. You never do. Nobody’s ever really what you expect, are they? I mean, take Max. He’s the closest thing I’ll probably ever meet to a real James Bond, and he’s nothing like I would have expected.”
Rutherford remembered the conversation he’d had with Albert about James Bond and Q. Somewhere in the back of his mind something clicked. Before he could comment, Professor Sherwood spoke.
“Gentlemen, what I’m about to say may sound a bit condescending, but please know that I’m saying it with envy. You’re both still young.”
The three of them stood in silence for a moment. Rutherford broke the silence, saying, “That’s true.”
“See, what you just said was meant condescendingly,” Sherwood said, “but that’s fine. As you get older, you’re going to find, as I have, that nobody is ever as cool as you expected them to be.” He gestured toward Rutherford and Albert. “Cops, tech whizzes,” he pointed at the house, then at himself, “karate men, scientists. Nobody will ever match your expectations. It’s easy to become disappointed in the people you meet, but really, you should be disappointed in the quality of your own expectations. Once you learn to let those expectations go, you’ll see that while the people you meet are never as cool as you expected them to be, they’re actually much cooler than you ever imagined.”
NINETEEN
The next morning started with a quick conference call to update Vince Capp on the team’s progress.
“So the victim was having an affair with a patient,” Capp said. “That’s good stuff.”
Terri said, “Not really, it turns out, sir.”
The team was sitting around the conference table while Capp’s image loomed over them from a large flat screen. Capp was wearing a sport coat and a button-down shirt, but behind him there was sparkling water, a white sandy beach, a blue sky dotted with puffy clouds, and thick tropical foliage. Rutherford would have written it off as a fake backdrop if every aspect of the image wasn’t moving, and the breeze wasn’t occasionally blowing Capp’s hair.
Sloan said, “The young woman involved says it wasn’t much of an affair. It consisted of one kiss and a whole lot of shame afterward.”
Capp muttered, “Been there.”
Rutherford hadn’t asked, but it was clear that Sloan’s voice was tied into the videoconference feed.
Capp shrugged, “So it’s a he said-she said. The press loves those.”
“As far as we can tell, sir,” Terri said, “the victim told the same story, and that’s not likely to change now that he’s been murdered.”
Capp’s lips scrunched into a dissatisfied frown. “Hmm. A she said-he’s dead.” Capp’s eyes got wide. “Ohh! She said. He’s dead. I like that! That’ll make a good title for something.” He looked to the side of the camera and said, “Capture that.”
A distant voice said, “Captured, sir.”
Capp looked back at the camera. “Okay. So he at least kissed a patient, which isn’t great. Do you think the patient killed him?”
Terri said, “No, sir. She has an alibi.”
“How about the wife?”
“We have to assume she was humiliated, if she knew. She may even have feared that her husband was going to leave her. She has motive. And, in a divorce he’d have taken probably over half of their money. With him dead, she only has to pay for his funeral. That said, she does have an alibi,” Terri explained. “She could still be involved. We just won’t know until we look into it further, so that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Good. That sounds sensible. Glad you guys are on it.” Capp was still talking, and his eyes were still locked on the camera, but his mind had obviously started to drift. Now that he had the information he wanted, he was ready to move on to the next important task of the day.
“Let’s see, what else? Oh, I’d like to say well done to Rutherford and Professor Sherwood. That video of you getting your butt stomped and the bees coming to the rescue was huge for a few hours yesterday. It got a lot of attention. It even got some reflected traffic for that comedian patient of Dr. Arledge’s. He slapped together an interview with the guy the bees attacked and got a few thousand views out of it. Anyway, my marketing wonks have looked over the bee fight and the sex-fist chase, trying to figure out what they have in common.”
“They were both embarrassing?” Rutherford said.
Terri started to shoot Rutherford the stink eye for copping an attitude, but stopped when Capp said, “Yeah, that’s what they said! Good catch. They say both clips had some extra element that humanized you and made the viewer pity you, the suspect, or both. We’re thinking that it’s not enough to chase a guy and wrestle him to the ground. If possible, one of you needs to land in dog doo when you do it. I know that you can’t really plan these things. People run when they run and they fight when they fight, but if possible I need you to try to make sure these things have a hook. You know what I’m saying?”
Rutherford said, “I think so.”
“Good man,” Capp said. “We’re all pretty happy with how things are going. The marketing team thinks it may be time to go public soon. Also, Professor Sherwood, the Seattle PD has expressed an interest in having you go work with them when your time with us is finished.”
“That’s great news!” Sherwood said.
“I know. They’re particularly interested in using bees for riot suppression.”
Max said, “That’s nightmarish.”
Capp nodded. “Which is why I’m sure it’ll work. Moving on: Rutherford, we’re getting closer to finding you a more appropriate place to live. Lots of concepts are being thrown around. We’re still going back and forth between whether we want to put you in a trailer or a houseboat.”
“You could ask me,” Rutherford said. “I could break the tie.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that, but we’ll keep it in mind as an option. We’ve also put more thought into your name.”
“It’s Rutherford.”
“Yeah, I know,” Capp said. “I mean your nickname.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Exactly. We want to change that. Rutherford is good and all, but we want to throw something in front of it occasionally to give it some zip, and Sinclair won’t cut it. We want something classic and a bit nefarious, but relatable. You know what I mean, something like Wild Bill Rutherford, or maybe Blackjack Rutherford. Any suggestions?”
Rutherford said, “How about Wild Bill. Or Blackjack.”
Capp smirked joylessly. “I like the instinct, but save the fake bad attitude for the public, Rutherford, not for me. Understand?”
Rutherford mumbled a quick, sincere apology. Even though his attitude had not been fake, he was not a rude person by nature, and felt genuine shame for having been so openly disrespectful to his employer.
Capp said, “Don’t worry about it,” but much of the joy had drained from his demeanor. “If you come up with any real nickname ideas, we’re all ears. The best we’ve come up with so far is Iron Fist Rutherford. I’m not in love with it, though, because the fist you’re famous for fighting with wasn’t iron, it was chrome, and Chrome Fist just doesn’t sound as tough. It seems too showy.”
The conversation gave Rutherford much to think about as he drove to the widow Arledge’s home after the meeting. Aside from his future housing issues and the prospect of having to answer to Iron Fist for the rest of his career, his mind was also occupied by driving and the fact that his newly cleaned e-cigar tasted like hand sanitizer. He used the party line to ask Albert why that was. Albert told him that he’d cleaned the device by wiping off all visible material, then slathering it in hand sanitizer and leaving it overnight, which certainly explained the taste. These were the things that felt like problems to Rutherford right up until the moment a warning light appeared on the van’s dashboard.
It lit up as the van was entering a tunnel that had no shoulder on which to pull over. The tunnel led to a floating bridge, which also lacked any shoulder. Rutherford had no choice but to keep up with the flow of traffic.
Luckily, Albert was still listening to the party line when Rutherford said, “I’ve got a warning light! Albert, what’s it mean?”
“What does it look like?” Albert asked.
“Is it a picture of an engine?” Sloan asked.
“No. It’s not. It’s . . .”
He looked down at the dash, then back at the road. “It’s two vertical lines and a poofy bit at the top. It’s either a chef’s hat or a mushroom cloud. Is it a chef’s hat, Albert? Please tell me it’s a chef’s hat.”
