was holding her artificial hand to her artificial mouth.
“Hello, again, Mrs. Wilkins,” Mac said, moving to interpose himself between her and the prone form on the floor. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ll need you to make an official identification.”
I lifted my eyebrows at the irony of requiring the next of kin to actually look at the body to be sure of who it was, but that’s what we’d gone back to with transfers. Privacy laws prevented any sort of ID chip or tracking device being put into artificial bodies. In fact, that was one of the many incentives to transfer: you no longer left fingerprints or a trail of identifying DNA everywhere you went.
Cassandra nodded bravely; she was willing to accede to Mac’s request. He stepped aside, a living curtain, revealing the synthetic body with the gaping head wound. She looked down at it. I’d expected her to quickly avert her eyes, but she didn’t; she just kept staring.
Finally, Mac said, very gently, “Is that your husband, Mrs. Wilkins?”
She nodded slowly. Her voice was soft. “Yes. Oh, my poor, poor Joshua . . .”
Mac stepped over to talk to the two uniforms, and I joined them. “What do you do with a dead transfer?” I asked. “Seems pointless to call in the medical examiner.”
By way of answer, Mac motioned to the burly man. The man touched his own chest and raised his eyebrows in the classic “Who, me?” expression. Mac nodded again. The man looked left and right, like he was crossing some imaginary road, and then came over. “Yeah?”
“You seem to be the senior employee here,” said Mac. “Am I right?”
The man had a Hispanic accent. “Horatio Fernandez. Joshua was the boss, but I’m senior technician.” Or maybe he said, “I’m Señor Technician.”
“Good,” said Mac. “You’re probably better equipped than we are to figure out the exact cause of death.”
Fernandez gestured theatrically at the synthetic corpse, as if it were—well, not bleedingly obvious but certainly apparent.
Mac shook his head. “It’s just a bit too pat,” he said, his voice lowered conspiratorially. “Implement at hand, suicide note.” He lifted his shaggy orange eyebrows. “I just want to be sure.”
Cassandra had drifted over without Mac noticing, although of course I had. She was listening in.
“Yeah,” said Fernandez. “Sure. We can disassemble him, check for anything else that might be amiss.”
“No,” said Cassandra. “You can’t.”
“I’m afraid it’s necessary,” said Mac, looking at her. His Scottish brogue always put an edge on his words, but I knew he was trying to sound gentle.
“No,” said Cassandra, her voice quavering. “I forbid it.”
Mac’s tone got a little firmer. “You can’t. I’m required to order an autopsy in every suspicious case.”
Cassandra opened her mouth to say something more, then apparently thought better of it. Horatio moved closer to her and put a hulking arm around her small shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be gentle.” And then his face brightened a bit. “In fact, we’ll see what parts we can salvage—give them to somebody else; somebody who couldn’t afford such good stuff if it were new.” He smiled beatifically. “It’s what Joshua would have wanted.”
* * *
The next day, I was sitting in my office, looking out the small window with its cracked pane. The dust storm had ended. Out on the surface, rocks were strewn everywhere, like toys on a kid’s bedroom floor. My phone played “Luck Be a Lady,” and I looked at it in anticipation, hoping for a new case; I could use the solars. But the ID said NKPD. I told the device to accept the call, and a little picture of Mac’s face appeared on my wrist. “Hey, Alex,” he said. “Come by the station, would you?”
“What’s up?”
The micro-Mac frowned. “Nothing I want to say over open airwaves.”
I nodded. Now that the Wilkins case was over, I didn’t have anything better to do anyway. I’d only managed about seven billable hours, damn it all, and even that had taken some padding.
I walked into the center along Ninth Avenue, passing filthy prospectors, the aftermath of a fight in which some schmuck in a pool of blood was being tended to by your proverbial hooker-with-the-heart-of-gold, and a broken-down robot trying to make its way along with only three of its four legs working properly.
I entered the lobby of the police station, traded quips with the ineluctable Huxley, and was admitted to the back.
“Hey, Mac,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Morning, Alex,” Mac said, rolling the R in “Morning.” “Come in; sit down.” He spoke to