Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (3 page)

John Gutterson stood at the slender, grimy window of his administration office on the fifth floor of the Midtown Police Department. It had taken a year to claw his way out of the hallway and into the narrow room, with its grubby, off-white walls and stacks of old boxes. It had once been a storage closet, housing filing cabinets and boxes of paper records. Most had been scanned electronically and stored on external servers, but somebody had forgotten to clear the old space.
Not enough resources,
Gutterson imagined Captain Martinez, the head of the station, saying.

Below and above, the sleepy city had begun to stir, the first citizens out on their rooftop gardens harvesting and watering their produce. Automated electric garbage trucks chugged their way along the streets. Half a block of rundown buildings away, a magnetic-levitation train swept in like a giant snake from the outskirts of the city, halting to a stop the Lower Central station—an immense sleek steel roof, like an elongated bicycle helmet, covered a hundred and fifty yards of terminals and shops. As a boy, John had caught one of the old electric trains with his father, when Roy Gutterson had been a famous New York City police officer. John had yearned to be one too; eventually he had succeeded, even being a detective for a time, until they had suspended his badge eighteen months earlier.

He turned away from the window; catching a flash of the man he’d become over the last year and a half. Tall and too thin—his mother reminded him—with a crest of thinning dark hair flecked at the edges with grey, and the first wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He had left his early forties behind and was heading for the top of the hill, as Carolyn had called it. He thought of her and felt a wash of shame. She’d been dead for almost a year and a half, but he would never forgive himself for his behavior leading up to her death.

Back at his wide desk, discolored with dust over time, Gutterson fell into his creaky swivel chair and peered at his work screen. Not a floating chair hanging in mid-air that senior people were allocated, but an ancient one, probably twenty-five years old, with its cracked plastic stand and layer of grime no amount of cleaning had removed. The workstation was a touchscreen at least, but still, he’d have loved one with a cerebral Bluetooth that moved the pages with one’s thoughts.

The smell of coffee from the lower levels pulled at his senses, but his habit of checking the day’s work allocations before his first cup was ingrained. Gutterson swiped from the main page into his work folder. The screen beeped, flashing over a series of new icons. He waited for it to end, and by the time it did, counted files from all twenty-nine precincts for processing. That would keep him busy for three days.

But the aroma of coffee kept calling.
Fuck it,
he thought. Once, some years ago, they had enough robot helpers to make coffee, clean the offices,
and
take care of the criminals. But with the budget cuts, there was only one person to make it for him now. He stood from his desk and strolled out of the small, grubby room into a long hallway.

The elevator was still broken. He took the stairs down to the ground floor, catching the sound of electronic voices the lower he went as the ‘Bots processed felony offenders. A long time ago, Gutterson had been considered for one of these jobs, until the incoming government had introduced strict workplace safety laws, minimizing human contact with offenders.

He told himself every day that he should have gotten out after they’d suspended his badge, but something kept him tethered to the station. Perhaps it was the way they treated him, producing conflicting feelings of both guilt and contentment. Sure, they had given him the administration role because of his father, though Gutterson had hated his old man, and the perpetual benefits of being Ray Gutterson’s son made him feel like a cheat. He yearned to change it, to exist on his merits, and not those of a man he detested.

Gutterson descended the final set of rickety steel stairs, turned right, and reached an alcove halfway along the hallway with a dull, brushed steel sink, a grubby glass refrigerator, and a coffee machine that had ground more beans than the station had processed felons. He took a murky cup from the shelf, placed it underneath the spout, and pressed the button with a faded picture of a coffee bean on it. The appliance whirred to life, grinding beans and steaming milk. Fifty years and they still can’t find a better way to make coffee, Gutterson thought with a smirk.

A slim figure loomed in the doorway—Detective Camilleri with her olive skin and long swirly hair as dark as midnight. She might have been pretty if her yapping mouth didn’t screw her face up so much. Gutterson knew that few liked her; even on the fringe of conversations. Nobody said it to her face though. If the machine wasn’t churning his beans, he would have cleared out. Gutterson turned his back, willing his brew faster.

“Haven’t seen you in here for a while.” She pushed in front of Gutterson, reaching for a mug. “Stealing our coffee again? Don’t they have it up in admin?”

Gutterson stared. Anger flickered. He had to bite the side of his mouth to suppress a response. He understood her problem with him—coasting on the success of his father, despite his own failures. It bugged him too, but he didn’t know what else to do. Others resented him for it, but at least they kept their mouths shut. With a deep resolve, he managed a grin.

“I always wanted to ask you a question,” Camilleri continued, rolling her mug from one hand to the other. Gutterson raised his eyebrows and made a noise of inquiry. “What it was like losing your badge? After all, you’re the son of the great Ray Gutterson, the man with the most arrests in the history of the New York City police department. He’d be proud of your record.”

The machine beeped. Finished. Suddenly he couldn’t hold it in. “Fuck off, Camilleri.” He snatched the cup from the shelf and disappeared out of the room, imagining her indignation—a lowly administration clerk calling out a detective in such a way.

From the stairway end of the corridor, a tall man approached, mocha skin, sweeping grey hair that had once been as dark as Camilleri’s, a thick moustache, dapper blue suit—the captain, Martinez. His boss. Everyone’s boss. Martinez was trim, a health nut in his late sixties and had barged his way up to become Captain almost ten years ago. Gutterson—and most of the others—enjoyed his fair, logical style.

“Morning, sir,” Gutterson said as they passed.

Martinez smiled and nodded. “Morning, John.”

Gutterson climbed the stairs, hard soles reverberating on the steps, thinking how bad it might have been without the Captain in his corner. But he had treated Gutterson with a stoic equality, conscious of the animosity amongst the other officers. And the truth was, without Martinez’ support, he wouldn’t have made it.

It had only been eighteen months ago, but felt like a lifetime since Gutterson had been a detective. He had gotten his start on the back of his father’s name and had worked his way through the vice, robbery, and homicide divisions. While investigating the suicide of a man from an investment firm, Gutterson had stumbled onto evidence that indicated the man might not have committed suicide. Lobby groups for people’s rights had spent years fighting stricter protocols for police in gathering information about citizens. The new laws had just come into effect, which meant more obtaining authority to talk to people and longer waits for those approvals. But Gutterson was impatient and had a difficult time adjusting to the new laws. The warrants took too long, and both the police department and company he was investigating provided little support. His first breaches received warnings; then, under time pressure to file warrant requests, he breached more of the new procedures. Someone made a claim he had taken a bribe, although it was false. Gutterson had fought it, but coupled with the procedural breaches, he was suspended indefinitely. The Captain supported his efforts; in the end, however, none of the evidence he had gathered on the case was admissible—even after Gutterson had been removed from detective.

Martinez had tried a number of ways to keep his badge, but ultimately, the company had strong political links and Gutterson had to pay. When Martinez had failed, he created the administration position. Gutterson asked him about it one day about a year after the role began—though he suspected they had only kept him on because of his father, the great Ray Gutterson, hero of the people.

“Cap, why’d you give me this job?”

Martinez puckered a pair of dark lips under his heavy moustache, poised to ignore the question. Then he stepped in close to Gutterson, and said, “I thought you got a stiff deal, John. I should have offered more help… I’m sorry.”

That had upset Gutterson. During the investigation, he’d felt alone and helpless. He wished Martinez had done more for him, though he knew the Captain had been restricted by political figures too. Still, Gutterson would be forever grateful to the Captain for keeping him on the job. And technically, he could reinstate Gutterson; he was
suspended,
although he doubted the opportunity would ever present itself again.

The chair squeaked as Gutterson fell back, clunking his coffee down onto the scarred wooden desk. His job was to collate the crime statistics from the reports for the twenty-nine New York City precincts before it was catalogued. Gutterson always wondered why they didn’t just have the system do it—or the ‘Bots—but the Captain didn’t trust the artificial intelligence. They were brilliant at collecting data, reporting on trends, and identifying anomalies, Martinez said. In some states, robots equipped with ground-breaking artificial intelligence replaced city beat cops, but the government had placed restrictions on just what tasks an artificial might perform. In this case, Martinez insisted a human do the checking, and that human was Gutterson. He knew the ‘Bots were capable of doing the same job and it would cost the department far less.

Gutterson scrolled through the data on the screen: murders, rapes, robberies, felony assaults, burglaries, suicides, and more. It came to him every week for the five boroughs of New York City—Manhattan, Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island—and he would piece it all together into charts and databases and reports. He knew the data right back to the end of the twentieth century. In 1990, there were over two thousand murders committed in NYC. A new commissioner and a tougher law enforcement stance had helped reduce the figures. By the end of the century those numbers had fallen seventy-two percent. By 2014, that figure had reduced again by another forty-seven percent. Crime complaints overall had dropped by almost eighty percent from 1990 to 2014. But that’s where the good news ended.

Shortly after, it had begun to rise. Incrementally at first, but over the next thirty years it grew at an alarming rate.

But Gutterson wasn’t so interested in the murder rates. Suicides were where his interest lay. He’s spent the past eighteen months since moving into the role scrutinizing names and information relating to those who had passed in this manner. He tapped the tip of his index finger on the heading SUICIDES and the screen changed, displaying the three that had occurred throughout the city over the last week.

Details of each were listed: name, age, time and place of death, the responsible precinct, and the method. Gutterson scrolled down the list, scanning the information. He reached the last one.
Dominic Curwood.
The name had a familiarity to it. He tapped it and waited for the information to display.

The location of the death appeared:
Lower Manhattan.
Gutterson stared. The man had overdosed on a combination of pain relief and cold medication pills. There was the time of death, and other menial information that did not interest Gutterson. The attending officer was a Franz P. deKlepper.

Curwood. Cur—
It hit him… Curwood was an employee name at Janefield Investments. He was sure of it.

Gutterson needed to speak to officer King. He switched screens and searched the internal directory for police in the New York City area. He found the number for Officer King, and dialed using the older digital network through the computer, rather than the newer holographic imaging system or his implant phone. The man answered in a gruff, irritated voice.

Gutterson identified himself. “You were the attending officer for the suicide in Lower Manhattan.”

“Ayuh.”

“Anything irregular about it?”

“Nope.”

“Did you find out where the guy worked?”

“We did, but I can’t recall.”

Gutterson felt the grind of resistance. “Are you sure? Was it a banking or investment firm?” He grumbled something. “Sorry?”

“Might have been an investment firm.”

Gutterson caught his breath. “In your opinion, was it a cut and dry suicide?”

“Read the report, hotshot.” Gutterson ground his jaw. “Say, Gutterson, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. John Gutterson, over at Midtown, Precinct three.”

“Wasn’t your old man Ray Gutterson?”

“He was.”

“I did some work with him back in ’32. Good guy. Smart.” He felt the wheels turning maybe—“Which means you’re the man who lost his badge for taking bribes—”

“I didn’t take bribes—”

“Same thing.”

The line went dead. Gutterson slammed the desk with a fist. But Jesus, it
was
an investment firm. There were dozens in lower Manhattan, though his instinct told him it had to be
Janefield
. The voice of caution pushed its way forward. Was he looking for more in this than there was? Maybe he worked for an investment firm and maybe it
was
just a suicide; some guy who’d grown fed up with life enough to end it all.