The Detective and the Robot

You want to know what it is I do? Are you sure you really want to know? 'Cause these days things aren't all that pretty.

Take this guy - let's call him Johnny. There's the six-inch gash down his chest, already sealing up with coagulating blood, little bits of white peeking through here and there. Then you got your classic hole-in-the-head, leaking brains all over the pavement. Looks like another couple of slugs in the chest. It's the slit wrists I don't really get. Multiple choice murder?

Either which way, Johnny here had a real shitty evening.

I flick my cigarette absently between my fingers as I check out the surroundings. Buildings stretching up into the night, fairy lights on top and broken bulbs and graffiti down here. Water pours off the rooftops, drains all clogged up. A bunch of human cockroaches watch from the sidelines, acting all horrified while they stare in fascination at the body. One guy with a beard down to his knees, ridiculous baggy trousers and an incongruous handbag. Another's got a skin-tight t-shirt on, tied up to show his belly, sagging under the weight of too much beer. Then there's the woman with the big, red, curly hair, cigar in one hand and chihuahua in the other. I've seen her before. They got here pretty fast tonight. Ordinarily I'd bet half a year's pay that it was one of those sons of bitches that did it, back to admire their handiwork.

I wouldn't normally be on a case like this. Take Sergeant Smiley Face here, shirt all tucked in and gun on show. He showed up a few minutes ago, corralling the onlookers with slick efficiency. Asshole. "So you think it's one of them that did it, sir?" The idiot can barely suppress his amusement. "That's why you're here, right?"

Kneeling down, I check for the usual suspects. Paint flecks, metal shavings, grease marks, heavy footprints. There's something yellow and flaking around his neck. Massive bruising to forearms - his right looks broken to me. Not easy for a man to do in a hurry. His wallet's still in his pocket.

"Maybe," I reply. "Too early to tell from the body, and it doesn't fit their usual MO. No witnesses, I presume?" Never any damn witnesses.

Things got real interesting a few years back. That's when the robots started committing crimes. Theft, fraud, financial stuff mainly. They've been gradually moving on up, but never anything this big. Johnny's death could be the start of something new.

"Station reckoned he was mixed in with the League," the sergeant says, "reckon that's why he was killed?" The League, shit.

"Could be, sergeant," I mutter. The League of Humans, a bunch of pro-flesh fanatics, happy to bomb a bar full of people if it just so happened to be run by robots.

"You hear about the new guy back at HQ, just got hear from training?"

"Yeah," I reply, my disinterest dragging on every word.

"Meant to have all kinds of new tactics. Real cutting edge forensic stuff, eye for detail and all that."

"So I heard."

"He's on his way down here now. First live case, apparently."

"Don't look too live to me." I watch Johnny's blood thickening between the paving slabs.

"That'll be him now, sir," the sergeant says in his whining, nasal voice, pointing at a police car as it descends between the dark buildings and settles gently to the ground, wheels emerging at the last moment. Nice landing.

It approaches confidently, its face hidden beneath a wide brimmed hat. Collar turned up, long coat down to the ankles, open over a dark, striped suit. It certainly looks the part, if nothing else.

Shaking its hand, it's one helluva ball-breaking grip.

"Good evening, Detective Lime," it says. I knew this was coming, but I still nearly swallow my cigarette as I hear the smooth, modulated voice. It raises its head and I see the face, all sharp edges and lines, slick and chrome and polished and static. A pair of glowing blue slits stare out at me. It's a damn wind-up, alright.