Jessica Whitworth, in her fifties, had silver-gray hair tied back in a black headband. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jurgen?”
I showed her the two photos. Eddie’s ID, then Eddie as a cyborg.
She cocked one eyebrow. “That’s . . . fascinating work. If it’s real.”
“It’s real. I took it yesterday.”
She spread the image, moving it around for a closer view. “This looks far beyond anything we can do here—or anywhere. Who built this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Whitworth slid my phone across her desk. “No idea. I mean, there have been some fantastic advances in the last few years, but this is—science fiction.”
“There’s another one, apparently. A female. Also dead, found in the lake.”
Her face jerked up. “You aren’t saying that we had anything to do with this?”
I picked up my phone. “He worked here, and you make prostheses. It’s a connection.”
“He was a contracted security guard. He would have worked at one of the desks around the building. It’s not like he would have been assisting us in manufacture.”
“Do you remember him at all?”
She glanced at my phone. “Now I do. He was—pleasant. Professional. I only said hello or good night at most.”
“What kind of equipment do you make here?”
For a moment she looked ready to kick me out—or call a G17 Security guard to do it for her. Instead she took a deep breath, as if thinking of me as a potential customer. “We supply a range of prosthetic aids for people with disabilities—amputation, paralysis, that sort of thing. We’re very cutting-edge. We work with rehab facilities around the country—around the world. You can check out website for the range of products we offer. Many of them for free.”
“It’s a very impressive website.” I nodded. “Do you know any company that could construct something like this?”
Whitworth leaned back. “Maybe Birdman AI.”
What the hell? “They make drone software.”
“It’s the software that would drive something like that. Integrating the feedback between muscle and machine. Command and control. Birdman’s doing some great work in that area.”
I crossed my arms. “Did you know that Eddie also worked security at Birdman AI?”
Whitworth blinked. “I did not.”
Back home Rachel pointed to a box on our dining room table. “That came about an hour ago. Get it off the table while I start warming up dinner.” Leftover chili. We take turns cooking, and she was getting off easy tonight. Still, she was wearing her tight yoga pants, and she kissed me before heading to the kitchen, so I wasn’t going to complain.
The box came from Virginia Bryght. I’d sent her an email after talking to Randall again. I opened it up.
Some photos, a few books—paperback mystery novels—a plaque with his name on it, and a spare T-shirt.
In the front pocket of the shirt I found a flash drive. Huh.
So I plugged it into my computer. It wanted a password.
I called my client. “I just got the box of Eddie’s personal effects. Thanks for getting it over here so fast.”
“It’s just been sitting there ever since they sent it over. I couldn’t even open it. Does it help?”
“There’s a flash drive in here, but it needs a password. Would you have any idea?”
“If it’s his, it’s probably ginny2009. Okay, it’s the year we were married. I told him not to use that, it’s so easy to guess, and he’s in security, but . . . you know . . .” She stared to cry.
I punched in the password. Files rose up on my screen. “That works. Thanks.”
“Good. Otherwise . . . there are a few other variations. I just can’t think right now.”
It had been a tough few days for her. “Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“My kids are here. They’re making dinner. I just don’t know . . .” A long silence. “Sorry.”
“I forgot to say it yesterday, but I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Are you—I know you just started working yesterday, but do you know anything?”
“Nothing definite.” The leads went off in every direction—but they seemed to be converging at the same time. I was very confused, but I didn’t want to admit that to her. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
“Th-thanks.” She hung up.
I started clicking on folders. Many of them were personal. Not porn, thank god, just family pictures. Some of them related to his attempts to pass the police exam, anywhere—study guides, practice exams, along with exam results. A few Army records.
Then one untitled folder. I clicked.
It was full of PDF files. I hit one.
The first document was full of design schematics. I increased its size, trying to figure it out—
“Tom?” Rachel leaned in the doorway. “I might have burned the chili.”
“Never mind.” I motioned her over. “Take a look at this.”
She leaned over my shoulder, her breath tickling my ear. “Okay, that looks like—what is that?”
“That’s what I thought.” I leaned back. “It looks like a design sketch for a bionic arm.”
“Where is it from?”
“From Eddie Bryght’s personal effects, from his employer.” I clicked another PDF.
“Wait, look—” She pointed as the next document came up. “Up there. In the corner. Isn’t that . . .”
I glanced up to the top of the page. A winged W—the Whitworth logo.
We kept clicking. The folder had about 20 documents, most of them design schematics, most of which neither of us could really understand.
Except for the fact that Whitworth had lied to me about the extent of her company’s capabilities.
“They could be ideas for future technology.” I zeroed in on an arm.
“Except for the fact that we saw them on half of Bryght’s body.” Rachel grabbed the mouse. I watched as she clicked one last document.
This was different. Not mechanical designs. Images of screen consoles with lines of instruction and software code beneath each one.
“Now this I recognize.” Rachel peered forward.
“What is it?”
“Documentation for loading software. Let me . . .” She clicked around. “I can’t tell—I mean, I obviously don’t recognize the code or what it’s for. Some of the panels . . . huh.”
“What?”
“It could be programming for the bionics. Extension, rotation, range of motion. And it’s here with the mechanical design specs.”
I took the mouse back and scrolled up to the top of the page.
In the corner was a cartoon figure of a man with an eagle’s head on his body. Birdman.
“Wait a minute.” I sat back and crossed my arms. “Both companies Eddie was working at?” This was beyond coincidence. “You said the chili’s burned?”
“I forgot I turned the burner on. We can order pizza.” She punched my shoulder. “You’re thinking something, aren’t you?”
“It happens sometimes.” I closed the folder. “What’s the intersection here? If it’s not coincidence—”
“That security place.” She crossed her arms. “What’s it called? G&R?”
“G17 Security.” I brought up their website. “They supply security guards all over the county. And do other stuff with alarm systems and cybersecurity. What if . . .” I drummed my fingertips next to the keyboard. “They wanted to build a better security guard? Okay, it’s crazy—”
“All of your cases are crazy.” Rachel punched me again. “But if they have a witch on staff to make sure the tech works—”
“Eddie Bryght could be a prototype. The Six Million Dollar Man.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is that one of these TV shows you used to watch?”
“In reruns. Actually, I had a crush on The Bionic Woman.” Which reminded me of the woman Delgado had found. “They didn’t just do it once. Oh, hell.”
“So what do we do now?” She folded her arms.
“Eddie was obviously collecting information. Maybe he saw something. Then he disappeared after that car crash . . . I wonder where the woman came from.” I picked up my phone. “I have to call Delgado.”
He didn’t seem happy to hear from me. Most cops never are. “What have you got, Jurgen?”
I hesitated. Would he believe me? “Have you identified the second cyborg?”
“I can’t give you her name. She’s a martial arts trainer from Evanston who disappeared two months ago, leaving behind a note that she had some kind of special assignment. What’s going on, Jurgen?”
I should have called my client first. But I couldn’t hang up on him now. “It’s the security company Bryght worked for, G17 Security. They’re building cyborgs. I’ve got information Bryght took from two of their clients, Whitworth Biotech and Birdman AI. I can send all of it to you—”
“Whoa down there, Jurgen.” At least Delgado didn’t laugh. “They’re building Terminators? You know how crazy this sounds.”
“You saw Bryght. And the woman. Talk to Anita Sharpe, she’s a detective there. She knows me. She’ll tell you I’m crazy, but she’ll—”
“I already talked to Sharpe.” Now he laughed. “Yeah, she said you’re insane, but for some reason she thinks I can believe you.” He paused. “All right. Send me what you got, and then I’ll go check out this G17 place.”
“Take me with you.” I wanted to see what Dwinn was doing.
Rachel slugged me. Hard. “Me too! Jerk.”
“Who’s that?”
“My, uh, associate. Rachel.”
“Fine. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
We hung up. I started emailing the files to Delgado as I hit Mrs. Bryght’s number. “H-hello? Tom?”
“It’s me. I have some information—”
“Me too.” She coughed. “I just found out—from the autopsy. Dr. Stans called. Eddie had cancer.”
I flinched. That didn’t make sense. Unless . . . “I’m sorry. May I ask what kind?”
“Lung cancer. He quit years ago, but I guess—they can’t tell how far along, because part of his lung is . . . gone.” She sighed. “It just keeps getting worse. Even when you think it can’t.”
“I’m sorry.” It was a useless thing to say, but it was all I had.
“What did you want to tell me?”
“I think it’s G17 Security. Where Eddie worked? I think they did this to him.”
A moment of shock. “W-why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve called the police. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want them involved, but it’s—”
“Fine. Whatever. I just want to know what happened.” She sighed again. “Thank you.”
Forty-five or so minutes later Rachel and I were eating pizza when my phone buzzed. Delgado. What the hell? I answered it on speaker. “Yes, detective. How can I help you?”
“I’m here at G17 Security with Mr. Dwinn. He’d like for you to come over and talk about what you’ve found. Came you come over here? Sharp?”
What the hell? I looked down at the pizza on our table. But I nodded. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Give me 30 minutes or so. Sharp.”
Rachel pounded the table. “You’re not seriously going—”
“Wrap up the pizza for the fridge.” I’d be hungry when we got home. I picked up the phone to look for another number.
One buzz . . . two—
“Jurgen?” Detective Anita Sharpe of the CPD. “I’m just going home. What the hell?”
“We’ve got a problem.” I gulped some beer as Rachel pulled our plates away. “Your colleague, Delgado? Did he call you about me?”
“Yeah, yesterday.” She chuckled. “What are you up to, Tom?”
“I think he’s in a hostage situation at a place called G17 Security. They’re building robocops.”
“Oh-kay.” I’d told her weirder news. I heard her tapping keys. “He’s clocked in at a location up north and west. If you’re right—should I sent in a SWAT team?”
Rachel froze. No.
I shook my head. “Not yet. Maybe send some cars, but hold back on the shooting and killing. He told me to come up there.”
“Wait! Don’t you—”
I hung up. The phone buzzed. I ignored it.
Rachel slammed the pizza into the refrigerator. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
We’d had this argument too many times before. I always lost. So I stood up. “Let’s roll.”
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