Next of Kin

Chapter Seven: 41%

Seven, 41%

I was just about to stop walking the neighborhood when I finally got the message that the footage was ready. It offered a chronological playthrough, which seemed like a good way to get an idea of the perp's route.

It played the first clip, the car pulling up outside of John's place. Then it animated a zoom away, starting with a map tight in on his place, then pulling out, too fast, and zooming back in again a block up, to a traffic camera view of the car speeding by. Then it zoomed out again, and into the security cam above a parcel service. Again, and again, zooming, too fast, in and out of a perspective; it seemed to be speeding up, but that was possibly just my head spinning.

Amidst the dizzying assault of imagery, I noticed my rating dip down to 37%. “I'm right there with you,” I said. “Slow down the playback. Insert a pause of five seconds on the map, between clips.”

The clips resumed, but this time they played at what felt like a reasonable to follow speed. I watched two more, and realized we were approaching the edge of the big red bubble- the radius I'd requested. I winced. I was going to look like an asshole if this had all been one long circle chasing my tail. I didn't think it was going to hurt my rating to the point I'd get fined, but I still didn't want to look like an idiot in front of that many people.

“Overlay the map,” I said, “and the radius we've got footage for.” It did, and counted down the distance as the car approached the edge of the circle. At 3 meters it started to slow as it approached a light. I held my breath, and at 6 inches the final camera pulled up, and I watched as the car came to a stop at an intersection. The headlights from the oncoming traffic slashed across the vehicle, illuminating its QR code. The code was supposed to be lit, and if it had been, it would have been visible half a dozen times before now, but some older models were exempt.

“Stop the film,” I said. “Enhance that.” The image zoomed once, twice, three times, pixelating further with each. “Can you clean that up?” The image filtered, smoothing out the hard, squared edges of the code. My interface translated the code into an alphanumeric.

I exhaled through a smile. “Registration details?” I asked. Several files flashed before my screen, first the VIN and registration, then a report of maintenance on the vehicle and the shops that serviced it, followed by information on the owner, James Archer. My screen flashed blue, as my rating increased quickly into the mid-fifties.

“Current location?” I asked.

My interface was overlaid with a map of the city. It placed a red dot where I was, and tiny text to that effect. After a moment, the word “Unknown,” scrolled over the bottom of my screen.

“Investigator Tip: When an advocate finds a person of interest, whether or not they are themselves suspected as the perpetrator, they can request a citizen's alert, which will place the person's identifying information on public boards, in rotation with other municipal notifications.”

“Put out a citizen's alert for him,” I said.

Then I started to get nervous. I knew that the chat emptied out during lulls in the investigation. About the only people who didn't clear out were the people like ShartGargler, who were clearly here to egg me on in the most self-destructive trajectory possible.

I started back towards the direction of the mechanic shop. I checked my unread messages, and sure enough, there was one from Michelle, telling me the car was done.

A chilly wind blew. I pulled up the weather. It wasn't supposed to rain or snow; but then again, there wasn't supposed to be any cold wind, either. I shivered, but as I did I recognized a car turning around behind me, after driving past.

I tried to speed up, but I was tired, from canvassing, and the cold made my arms tighten, clutching my fingers together in front of my chest. The car stopped, and the window rolled down. “Need a lift?”

Some all-caps profanity from the chat caught my eye from, “Randals10InPen15: FUCK OFF, pervert.” I started to smile.

He held up his empty hand, and his interface showed me a badge. My interface immediately printed, “Credentials Verified, Police Detective Crandal Chase.”

“The four-play over?” he asked. “Good. Because I'm all out of candy, kid, but I need you to get in my car.”

Every horror story from the bad days of policing flashed before my eyes. The race-riots, the corrupt civil forfeiture and the militaristic terror. The few police that survived the purges were tough as tank armor, or crafty as a trickster God. Whatever he wanted with me, I wanted nothing to do with it.

I let myself in the passenger side. “Buckle in,” he said. I noticed he wasn't buckled, but that would hardly make him the first hypocrite cop.

As soon as I was belted in, he backhanded me across the nose.

“What the fuck?” I bellowed as it started to bleed.

“Police override: go to commercial,” he said, and suddenly my chat was empty.

The message “Audience disconnected” showed at the bottom of my screen.

My shoulders tensed. Who had I pissed off? What was going on? As much as I'd come to dislike having an audience, I realized now they were a safety blanket, and without them I was naked to the elements. And predators.