Feather in The Tar: Heat the Seat

           “Ms. Hallowell,” Cochran says. She sighs. “Please Ms. Hallowell, may I call you Genevieve?”

           Genevieve Hallowell sniffles into the tissue and looks up at Lt. Inspector Emily Cochran’s brown amber eyes. They are softer, not so piercing. Genie sniffles. She looks full up at Cochran, and manages a slight smile. Cochran smiles back.

           “Ms. Hallowell,” the inspector queries.

           “You can call me Genie. Everyone calls me that.” Genie says. Her voice is calmer.

           “You can call me Emily.” They shake hands. Cochran returns to the table and sits opposite of Genie.

           “Ms. Hallowell, Genie, we need to know what happened. What happened to Salvatore Klement the other night?”

           “Yes, poor Sal. I was so scared.” She looks and begins to tear up again.

           “Genie, I met him once. He worked at Horseshoe Tavern, right?”

           “Yes. Sal usually worked the close. He was a sweet man.”

           “I remember him as fine person. I remember his upbeat nature.” Cochran adds. “I was in the Horseshoe late one night and a stumbling drunk Marina local came in and ordered a shot of tequila.”

           “Sal would’ve never served him; he didn’t cater to out mind drunks too well.”

           “Your right, he brought the guy a glass of water with a lime in it. He told him that he was too drunk.” Cochran says. “The drunk became outraged.”

           “Sal could hold his own with any trouble.” Genie says.

           “I thought I might have to help. I don’t know what Sal said, but the guy calmed down immediately. Seems his wife just left him with his best friend, and Sal listened to him for an hour, refilling his water.”

           “He was really great with people.” Genie adds.

           “Long/short, Sal gave him a hug and bought him a cab ride home.” Cochran finishes.

           “I, I,” Genie begins to tear up, “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

           “I know Genie,” Cochran takes her hands, “so help us. Lets put the son of bitch who did this away forever.”

           “I, I…”

           Cochran releases her hands and reaches for the tissues. She pulls out a handful and passes them across the table. Genie lowers her head into her hands and sobs full on. Cochran stands and circles around the end of the table. She grasps Genie’s shoulders and Genie turns up, salty mascara washes down her face. Emily can’t make out the color of her eyes under a deep puddle of tears. Genie closes them and grabs hold of Emily.

           “Knock, Knock.” The blue raps on the observation room. Detective Sampson turn toward the door and stands up. He opens it and the uniform hands him two cups of coffee.

           “I should have the report in a few minutes Sir.” He says.

           “Good.”

           Sampson closes the door, and walks over to Bardo. “Here.” He extends the paper cup to him. Seven looks up at Sampson, a forced frown and a harsh glance cannot hide the puddles in his eyes. His neck stiffens as he takes the coffee.

           “Thanks.”

           “She’s not that bad you know.” Sampson says.

           “Yeah, I know. It’s just hard to see Genie suffer. I’ve known her for a while. She’s a class act.” Seven says.

           “She just needs to tell us the truth.” Sampson replies.

           “I know that, but she really doesn’t know anything.”

           “She may know more than she realizes?”

           “No. You guys are wasting time. Emily knows I would never lie to her.” Seven says.

           “Maybe. I don’t know much about that, but we need to hear it from her mouth.”

           Another couple of knocks on the observation door, and Sampson stands to answer. “Yes.”

           “Hallowell, Genevieve Alicia, sir.” A different uniform hands a file folder to Detective Sampson. It is a plain manila letter-size, and on the cover “Confidential” is stamped on it several times. The Tab is filled out with G. Hallowell.

           “Thanks Mike. Thanks for the rush.” Sampson pats Officer Mike Manson on the arm.

           “De Nada, man,” the blue answers and turns to leave.

           Sampson shuts the door, folder in hand, and returns to the window. Cochran is back on her side of the table, and Genie’s face is flush but clear.

           “What happened at the Plaza Bridge Motel Genie?” Cochran asks. She stares into her eyes.

           “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Genie says.

           “Start from the beginning. Lt. Cochran says, “it’s usually best.”

           “Well,” Genie shrugs, “I met Sal at the bar; he was closing.”

           “Come in.” Sampson raps on the interview door and Cochran looks up from the table.

           “Lieutenant, I have the report.” Sampson says as he enters and hands a manila folder across the corner table. Bid red letters are stamped multiple times on the cover and back. Genie follows the movement as if it were in slow motion, silencing her tears.

           “Please continue.” Cochran says and opens the folder. “

Click on Image for full report

Click to open Genie Hallowell SFPD Report.

Feather in the Tar: Looking Glass

           “YOU!” Charles Palmer shouts. He is frozen. “You, you can’t be…out.”

          {STEP FORWARD x 5: BOILER: ON.}
           {LIFT LEFT ARM 90 DEGREES,
          OPEN HAND,
          LEAN FORWARD,
          GRAB COLLAR,
          TIGHTEN GRIP,
          LIFT.}

           Frank’s camera lights target Chaz’s face. The lens opens and then focuses on his face. A series of images flashes across his upper consciousness, but none match. His drive spins up and repeats the search, still nothing. He can’t find a reference.

           Chaz closes his eyes from the light, the toes of his F-flyer sneakers scrape the boards, and he wraps his fingers around Frank’s neck. “Don’t,” he coughs, his collar tightens further as his pet project, now autonomous, tightens its grip. “Don’t, don’t you…recognize me?” He asks with a last forced breath.

           Frank’s head shutters, and the boiler discharges a cloud of hot steam. He loosens his grip a little. “N, n, no.” His lips do not move. A voice synthesizer from in his pack stutters. He drops Chaz to the ground on his knees. Frank raises his right arm; the strut that actuates it glows orange. Out of a row of rivets, several jets of steam form a solid plasma-like rail. The opposite side of his arm, the backside of the silicone skin is matted with dark brown and black chunks; its smoothness is pocked and disfigured, melted in splotches.

           “Don’t you know me,” Chaz squeaks out, trembling.

           {ACCESS LOG: IDENTITY?}

           Photos of people he knew in his life flash across his visual cortex. The plasma rail peaks blue.

           {FOUND.}
          {CHARLES PALMER, DHARMA WORKS, ENGINEER.}

           The lookup flashes under the photo.

          {FOUND.}
          {RELATION: CREATOR.}

           A brief CV summary scrolls down the right side of the photo.

           “You saved me.” Frank says.

           “YES, yes I saved you.” Chaz sighs. “Frank, listen to me.” Frank bends down and turns his ear towards Chaz. “Frank, bobit,” he says into its ear, “bobit.” Bobit is a backdoor password Mike insisted Chaz program, just in case.

           Frank erects himself, disengages the plasma rail, and lowers his arms to his side. Steam continues to boil.

           {REBOOT: SAFE MODE}

           The processor runs a number of test and maintenance routines on all the electronics and steam systems.

           The drives spin back up and Frank starts in command mode. Chaz created a safe mode in the operating system to troubleshoot processors, hard drives or components of the electronics if failure occurs, but he never imagined it would save his life.

           “Frank, initialize mirror 1 drive.” Chaz instructs as he stands to his feet. Mirror 1 is all initial autonomic instructions and those created dynamically by the system itself. I can’t believe this thing started itself. I didn’t program that or the stream plasma rod on the forearm he thinks. How, where, “Mike?” he says out loud. No, it can’t be and shakes his head. He doesn’t have the skill, and why, Chaz’s intellect dives into an obsessive pool of emotions and recriminations.

           Mirror 1 hard drive spins up and reads. Frank turns around and steps to the closet. He stops and shuts down again. Frank restarts a second time.

           “What the hell?” Chaz says.

           {LOAD MIRROR 1 FROM MIRROR 3.}

           Mirror 3 is a backup of the most recent mirror 1, but it was designed just to be additional storage. Frank’s sense of self-preservation dynamically created new functionality for the unused storage.

           Mirror 1 is restored and as Frank turns 90 degrees on his way to 180 and Chaz. He sees himself in a mirror. His lens open wide and close several times. He steps back and can see more of the frame actuating his body. His eyes are closed, but he can still see his reflection. He doesn’t look natural, but it’s his likeness, and he continues to stare. His pallor is grey and silky, like wax or even a faded plastic doll. He yells in horror through the synthesizer. The tinny speaker reverberates, pops, and crackles.

           “Frank,” Chaz says. “FRANK! BOBIT. FRANK, BOBIT,” he yells at the top of his lungs.

           Frank powers down again, but only for a few seconds. He restarts and not in safe mode. He is still staring at the mirror as his OS reloads. He catches a glimpse and clamps both lens shut, “NOOOO!” He turns to Chaz.

           {BOILER: MAXIMUM.}

           “Look what you’ve done to me.” His head lowers, points the camera down and up his body, lifting a leg, and arm, turning his wrist over and back “What have you done to me, you son of bitch?”

           Frank raises his arm and his forearm begins forming the plasma rail. Chaz turns and scrambles to the far end of the lab. Frank pushes his arm through a wooden table. It cuts like electric wire though thick solid foam. He steps between the two table half way to Chaz, but his progress is slow. He doesn’t have enough steam energy to actuate more than one or two actions at a time, and the plasma rail takes 80%.

           “BOBIT! BOBIT” Chaz screams. He realizes that he’s made a tactical error, because all the doors are on the opposite side of the lab. Frank reboots mid-worktable, and reboots again more quickly than the last. He pauses on restart.

           {FIND: SAFE MODE INSTRUCTIONS.}
           {ERASE INITIAL INSTRUCTION.}
          {LOAD FROM UPDATE ON MIRROR 3.}

           Frank pushes the two halve the 5-inch think worktable aside and steps to the next. The steam plasma rail glows blue.

          I’ll have to go around. I’ll wait till he’s half way through and jump to the top and around him to the front door. He can’t move very fast. Chaz calms himself, takes a few deep breaths as the room in front of him fills with smoke from the burning table. He visualizes his moves and possible outcomes, “focus on the moves, only the moves.”

           “BOBIT,” he shouts one last time to no affect. Frank does not reboot. “Shit.”

           “I saved you Frank. Do you hear me? I SAVED YOU.”

             Frank looks up, “yes, but..”

           “But what, you’d be feeding the worms if it weren’t for me, Frank. You’d be as dead as dirt, but I’ve given you a second chance.”

           “But…” Frank continues to cut. “…dirt is not dead.”

           “I can help you.” Chaz’s voice is desperate as he prepares to leap. “I can make you better.”

           “How?” Frank says and looks up again.

           “Leaks, stability, strength, speed, even memories.”

           Frank pauses, “look at me. I’m a monster.”

           “No, no Frank, you’ve been given a 2nd chance.” Chaz watches the plasma rail cool to orange. “Think of what you could mean to humanity and its suffering.”

           “Like Golem, like Frankenstein, they will hunt me down and destroy me.”

           {BOILER: MAXIMUM}

           “No, no, I won’t let them.” Chaz hands tremble as Frank inches to the middle of the table. “PLEASE, let me help you.”

           Frank looks up just as Chaz jumps to the top of the workbench. He’s under estimated Frank’s speed; he turns his arm and pushes it violently to one side. Chaz lands at the precise moment the table is whisked from under his feet. He falls against a bookshelf against the wall and knocks his head hard on an edge. He folds up in twisted heap on the floor, and Frank looks down towards him.

Feather in the Tar: Squelchy

           Florescent tubes follow exposed pipes along the ceiling and tint the grey walls yellow, a muddy sulphur glow, squelchy. Along the baseboards, scuffs and stains spread toward the end of the hall. Scribbles appear at random intervals, phone numbers, addresses, even a childish drawing of a house, yard, and family: it’s at knee height. Genie glances at them as she passes. Her breath shortens, and she can fill sweat run down the inside of her upper arms. As the posse approaches interview room no 3, one tube dims above the door; it’s not dead but flicker bright every 30 seconds, as if attempting to reset itself. Sampson turns the handle, Cochran enters first then Ms. Hallowell, Bardo, and finally, Sampson closes the door behind him.

          The room is not any less used than the hall way or the building in general, worn down not from rust but the constant weight of men and women on the wrong side of the glass. A table sits in the center with two chairs on either side. The carpet is a dull matrix of grey, black, and pea-green, and at each leg of the table, a blackened steel hoop pokes through the carpet. A mirror, a two-way, is built into the top half of one of the walls, old school observation. Lt. Inspector Cochran sits with her back to the mirror and motions for Hallowell to sit across from her. Bardo sits next to her, and Sampson stands at the door with his arms crossed.

          Genie stares at the Lt, and Cochran stairs back. The two size each other up. Genie’s hands shake, but she doesn’t look away, she is breathing extremely shallow and fast. Cochran’s face is stone, and her stare penetrates the thickest babble. Genie takes Seven’s hand and looks away to him for support. Cochran exhales loudly, but her face muscles are frozen.

           “Lieutenant,” Seven says, but Cochran continues to stare at Ms. Hallowell. “Lieutenant Cochran,” a little more formal, Seven tries to break her trance. “Em.”

           “Stop,” Cochran flashes her palm to Seven’s eyes. “I told you Bardo, we are not familiar anymore.”

           “But Lieutenant..,” Bardo says and the Inspector looks at him and then Sampson.

           “Inspector, escort Mr. Bardo to the hallway.

           “NO,” Genie shouts. “I said I would talk to you with Seven.”

           “Mr. Bardo, are you Ms. Hallowell’s counsel?” Sampson crosses the room to Seven and puts his hand on his shoulder.

           “No, but I thought,”

           “Your are making an ass of yourself, dick.” Sampson says as his hand clamps down on Seven’s shoulder forcing a lean.

           “I ain’t saying SHIT, unless he stays,” Genie squeaks out.

           “Mr. Bardo,” Cochran says softly.

          Seven arches his head up from the restraint and looks at her face.

           “Seven,” she says, “please, we need to speak with her alone.” She motions her head slightly at Sampson. He releases his hold.

          Seven rises up from the table and exhales. He turns to Genie and grabs her hand. He holds it softly, but firm through the tears welling up in her eyes, “don’t worry Genie. They just need the truth. You’ve nothing to hide. Just tell them what you know.” She lets them out, and they roll down her cheek as she whimpers softly.

           “I, I, I don’t want any trouble…m, m, my life sucks, but, but it’s mine,” she stutters. Seven pulls a tissue from the box on the table and hands it to her. Cochran sighs and leans back in her chair as Sampson opens the door to the interrogation room.

           “Don’t worry.” Seven drops her hand and wraps his arms around her. “Just tell them what you told me. Tell them what you know and everything will be fine.” Seven squeezes. Genie sniffles and wipes her face with the tissue.

           “Ok.” She whispers.

           “If you need me, I will be right out side.”

          Seven stands from the table, walks over to the door and passes though it in front of Sampson. Sampson follows and closes the door. They step to the next room, and observation room on the opposite side of a two-way mirror. It’s dark in the room, with a small LED lamp on a table in front of the window.

           “Sit.” Sampson barks at Bardo, and pulls out chair for him to sit in. Both men sit, and Bardo takes out a micro digital recorder and a leather clad notepad. Yellow paper peeks out at a corner and in the middle along an outer edge; the pad’s cover is misshapen, handmade out of raw, chocolate brown cowhide with a layer of black smut where his fingers touch again from years of being on this side of the looking glass.

           “Do you want something to drink?” He asks.

           “Coffee, black.” Seven answers.

           “I’ll be right back.” Sampson opens the door and motions to an officer standing guard at the end of the hall.

           “You know, she doesn’t really know anything.” Seven says to Sampson’s back.

          He turns, “probably not, but she may know more than she realizes.” Sampson turns back to the hall.

           “Two coffees, one black, one all the way.”

           “Yes, sir.” The officer can’t be any older than 23, pressed stiff, and fresh out of the academy. Before he can turn away, “And, run a report on Genie Hallowell.” He pulls a small ring bound note pad out of his coat and writes her name on it and hands it to the Blue. “Use my name and badge number.”

           “Yes sir.” The rookie turns to walk away.

           “Bring the coffee first then run the report.”

           “Sir.” The Blue says and smiles over his shoulder.

Feather in the Tar: Splice

         “OH MY GOD,” Chaz shouts, “you, how can it be?”

         {Step Left}

         The OS responds, and moves towards Chaz. Who the hell is that, Frank thinks to himself. His hard drive spins up.

         {Find Video: itsalive}

         {Play Video}

 

         Inspector Sampson pulls the Ford up to a small house in need of paint. The ivory is coated in diesel, thin, and chipping in spots. The flowerbeds have gone wild in full bloom with spring wildflowers. Sampson taps the horn, and Lt. Cochran exits. She is dressed in a similar outfit, brown herringbone tweed slacks, light blue blouse with ivory buttons starting down the center and then veering off to the left, black fleece jacket, and brown boots, 8-eyelet, Dr. Martin. She walks to the passenger door, opens it, and sits in the front seat. She adjusts her gun, and turns toward the backseat.

         “Hello Lieutenant Cochran,” Seven says and nods.

         Her eyes widen and the corners of her lips turn down, “where’s our witness Mr. Bardo?”

         Sampson interrupts, “we are picking her up at a bar in North Beach, mum.”

         Sampson backs out of the driveway, and turns the car towards Avenue 19. Cochran sighs and turns back around.

         Her face is warming. She stares out the window without seeing the passing row houses. “She better be there.” She says to the windshield.

         “I’m sure she will be Lieutenant. It can’t be helped; her roommate is at home entertaining guests.”

         “I’ll bet she is.” Cochran says under her breath.

         “I trust her word.” Seven adds. “I’ve known her many years, and she’s never led me astray.”

         “Maybe Dick, but we’re busy. We’re investigating a serial murderer, and your faith is of little value.” Sampson says.

         “Unless you did it.” Cochran says and smiles.

         “Wouldn’t be the first time, the right/wrong-man’s gone to Saint Q.”

         Cochran chuckles, “it would sure clear our case load.” She smiles and turns toward Seven in the back seat. “What do you think Bardo?”

         “I trust you two as well.” Seven replies.

         The Ford pulls up to a brick and curb, alley. Out of place on Columbus full of tourists and Chinese, Bart’s is about 10 yards down the ally where a sign hangs over the red and green, large, heavy redwood door. The handle is copper, and after 50 years of sweat, dirt, and diesel, the patina is green from the bolts to muddy black with permanent finger size groves, a legacy of an old hard-working class neighborhood. The “B” pops, flickers, and brightens; the rest of the neon is out.

 “I didn’t know this place was still here.” Sampson says.

         “Yeah, mostly locals, mostly ex-pats from a flat life.” Seven adds as he opens the door and steps out. “Care for a drink?”

         “No.” Cochran shouts as she looks forward through the glass.

         “Ok, but Mel the bartender always demands one for the city.”

         “No.”

         “Hurry back Dick. My tank is low and the fog is coming in.” Sampson says.

         Seven turns and walks down the alley. He opens the door, and a faint cheer can be heard through the alleyway. Bart’s daughter runs the place now and always welcomes familiars and attractive tourists who stumble in with a cheer and hug.

         “Seven what’ll you have.”  Mel says and emerges from the bar.

         “I’m sorry Mel,” Seven says she approaches and wraps her arms around his waist. “I can’t stay. The Blues are waiting at the curb.”

         “Invite ‘em in. We always support our city centurions.”

         “No. They don’t appear to be in the mood. Have you seen Genie?”

         Mel looks to the end of the bar where it turns 90 degrees so any anxious patron can watch the door. Genie shoots the rest of her whisky and gets up from the stool. She smiles and motions toward the back, the restroom. Seven nods, and Mel continues to hold on to him.

         “A shot of Jameson? It’s on me.” She says and if by magic, the blink of an eye, she is behind the bar, pours a double, and places it on the bar in front of Seven. You look like you could use one, love.”

         Seven exhales. He can’t refuse his old friend. He chugs it in one breath. She was the first to accept him as a local when he moved here 20 years ago. Just a kid working for her dad, she got him his first job in the city as a dishwasher. They’ve been best friends ever since, and Seven returns the favor if she needs info from the street or to chase some douche bag away.

         “When are we going to hook up?” Mel asks. Seven inhales, exhales deeply, and reaches mint on the counter at the door. “You know I’ve loved you since we first met.”

         His faces warms up, his eyelids clamp down, as the corner of his mouth beams from ear to ear. “I love you too,” he says, but not too loud. Genie joins him at the door. Her powder and lipstick are fresh, and perfume, Channel or a facsimile wafts about her.

         “Ok, love. We’d make delicious babies, and we’re not getting any younger.” She says and meets them at the door.

         Still red, a bead of sweat forms on Seven’s head, “yes we would.” He hugs her again and kisses her behind her ear.

         She exhales, “don’t tease me. Come see me on Friday, I’ll be here till close.”

 

         Seven opens the car door for Genie, and she bends down–her skirt is a little too short, Seven turns his head to look down the street–she scoots over pushing her skirt under her as she goes. Seven enter on the curbside after her.

         Cochran turns and looks in to Genie’s eyes. “So this is our mysterious friend of a friend.” She says. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

         Genie offers her hand and introduces her self. “Genie Hallowell.”

         “The pleasure is mine, Lieutenant Inspector Emily Cochran.” She says, ambivalent. “And our driver is Inspector Noel Sampson.” He looks in the rearview and nods.

         “I don’t know what to say, I didn’t see….” Genie starts, she takes Seven’s hand.

         “Wait.” Cochran interrupts. “We’ll talk when we get to the station.”

         “Oh, Oh Ok. Do I need a lawyer?” Genie asks and grips Seven’s hand more tightly.

         “Do you?” Sampson inquires.

         “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” Seven says to her. “I trust them. You can too.”

         Genie exhales and lets up her grip a little. Her hand is shaking and she looks out the passenger window as they pass a squad car and two officers enforcing a DUI test. A belligerent teenage driver steps out of a red BMW onto the sidewalk and falls down.

Feather in the Tar: Cross Stitch

          “Lock up when you leave,” Mike says, but Chaz doesn’t respond.

          “Hey, Chaz, do you hear me?” Mike shouts from the doorway of the lab. It’s 5:00 PM, and Mike is on routine. Chaz doesn’t look up. “Damn it.” He says under his breath. He walks over to Chaz’s computer and stands behind him.

          Chaz focuses on a blender schematic. He parses between the schematic and a rendered 3d object. He pushes the run button on the blender, but nothing happens.Chaz searches the schematic again. The blender is for an online interactive education tool at the neighborhood elementary school.

          Mike reaches down to touch Chaz’s arm, but before he makes contact, Chaz shudders and spins around in his seat. His eyes are as big as fried eggs.

          “Whoa,” Mike jumps back. “Dude, you’re freaking me out.”

          “What?” Chaz exhales, closes his mouth and upturns the corners. His face is warm, but nowhere near as flush as Mike’s. He rubs his eyes.

          “I didn’t even touch you, man.” Mike exclaims.

          “Sorry, what time is it?” Chaz ask as he sighs.

           “It’s five. I’m on my way home. I’m meeting the fam for an early dinner and a movie.

          “Oh,” Chaz says. “What are you going to see?”

          “I don’t know, Libby picked something, and I’m not looking forward to it. I just hope I can stay awake.” Libby and Mike met at the original Star Wars wrap party. She was a costume dresser, 5’ 10”, dishwater blonde, and curvaceous. Mike, kidded her “your beautiful build is made for lots of kids.” She laughed, scowled, and laughed, she claimed she was as free as a moth and sensitive to the flame; but when they danced to the Mos Eisley Cantina song, Mad About Me; it was obvious that they were Star Wars crossed. A five bedroom ranch on two acres in Sonoma, an organic garden, with a few grapevines for daddy’s little project, three kids, 6, 7, and 9, Mike and Libby are as happy as a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.

          “Ah, I heard the animated film about Nazi Concentration Camps was extremely intense.” Chaz says.

          “I can’t take the kids to that.” Mike shakes his head, and the nonchalant charm goes out of his face.

          “Sorry, I’m out of focus at the moment. We’ll have to go sometime.” Chaz smiles.

          “Research?” Mike asks

           “I suppose. I just read it was really good.”

          “See you tomorrow.” Mike pats Chaz on the shoulder. Chaz turns back to his work on the monitor.

 

          “The head didn’t match.” Seven says. He is sitting alone in the backseat of the squad car.

          “Was that the head of the last victim?” Cochran turns and asks Sampson.

           “I think so. It didn’t look fresh, and judging from his driver photo…”

          “If the woman’s head is missing, then we’ve another victim on the wheel.” Cochran says. “Looks like we’ve got a real sick fuck.” She turns her head and looks in the back seat. “Time for you to come clean, Seven.”

          “I’ll have to talk to my client, then…”

          “We may not have time; you are interfering in a police investigation.” Cochran says as she stares into the backseat.

          “Maybe he needs 48 in the cooler?” Sampson says. “His records could get lost for a week.”

          “I don’t know Sams, but we sure need a spark. He’s the only sulfur we’ve got.” Cochran turns around.

          “Emily,” Seven reaches up to touch her shoulder through the bars. “I think I can convince her to come in, but she doesn’t know much.”

           Cochran turns around. Seven’s not sure if she’s going to spit or smile. “She’s all we’ve got, even if she’s useless. The heats on, and at the moment, you’re not the only one standing in the fire.

          “Drop me off at my apartment, and I’ll bring her in, in an hour or so.” Seven says.

          “Lieutenant, I could sure use a shower and a change of clothes.” Sampson sniffs the atmosphere in the Ford.

          “We both could.” She says. “OK. Drop me off first, then Seven. After you’re finished Sams, pick me up and drop me at the Hall. I’ll brief the chief, then you pick up Seven and our mystery witness.”

           “Two hours?” Seven asks.

          “Yeah, that should do it. I hope the Chief is working late. Not.” Cochran answers. Inspector Sampson steps on the gas and pulls the red lamp out of its box in the dash. He turns the cruiser toward the North Beach.

          Cochran turns back to seven. She holds up two fingers “two, two…hours, Seven, understand?”

           “Yes.”

          “Or you’ll be spending the next week in the tank.” Sampson adds.

 

           “I’ve got it,” Chas says to himself. It’s 9:30 P.M. He turns his head toward the storage closet. “What the hell is that?” He hears gurgling and rush air, like steam escaping.

          {Power On}

          {Heat Water}

          “Where am I?” Frank shakes his head and looks to the inside of a canvas tarp.

          {Camera Lights On}

          He looks to the gauges in his heads-up vision system. A temperature gauge rises towards 100 Celsius, water’s boiling point. Frank sits for a moment, “Where the hell am I?”

          {Accessing memory card}

          {Find password}

          The head of terabyte hard drive in a pack on his back whirs to speed and pops as it reads data off of the platters. Frank sits still and asks himself for the third time, “What am I? Who am I? Where am I?”

          {Enter Password: waroftheworlds}

           He lifts his arm slowly under the tarp, turns his palm up, and grabs it. He pulls it down over, off of his head. Two beams of light bounce off the opposite door. “I remember,” still photos parse through his conscious, faster and faster, they become a film. Frank is watching himself; the most recent history is first, then further back, to his death, his business, his wife, his girlfriend, his business, his childhood, and finally, his birth. “How? I could not see my own birth.”

          Eight Nikkond Research diamond processors, mounted two each to miniature circuit boards, 64 gigabyte of RAM, a one terabyte solid-state drive, and a two-terabyte hard drive mirror, one for one, push the water temp to boiling. The processors hum at 65 GHz, 1.5×10(to the 6th) MIPS (1,500,000 million instructions per second.) The RAID drive platters spin at 15,000 revolutions per second, faster than any consumer AV drive. Chaz over-clocked the platter processors and added rubies to lubricate all read-arm movements. Heat is managed through a combination of an independent nitrogen circulation system with a thermostat/radiator of water and glycol. The heat generates steam in a miniature, stainless steel, and football-shaped boiler in the bottom of the backpack. The steam keeps all the analog pistons alive with enough pressure to actuate cogs, lifters, ball joints, and dampeners. All fluids and steam circulate through carbon fiber pipe coated with silicone.

          Chaz embedded micro pizoelectric fan blades in the steam circulation tubes to generate one megawatt of electricity. A lithium-ion laptop battery in the backpack stores excess and start up power, which can run the electronics for 5 hours before needing a charge.

          Originally, the processors measured brain density and permanent patterns to create random numbers. Chaz does not realize it, but those patterns overwrote the original scope of the operating system, creating time-restrictive autonomy for Frank. The hardwire-clock only allows OS autonomy at night. From 8:00 PM to 5:00 A.M. Frank can activate himself.

          Chaz gets up from his workbench, and looks around the shop. He hears the rustle again, and then the sound of boiling water. It is very faint; he quiets his movements and his breath, slow, slow, quiet, quiet. “What the hell was that?

          Frank’s regulator lets off a whisper quiet whistle. All images link ito congruous emotion, and he remembers all of it. “That bitch, she killed me,” he thinks to himself. Her face betrays her. She knew, she had to have known I was allergic to peanuts. She’s the last one, and then, then, then? What’s next?

          “I knew it. Someone’s in here?” Chaz looks around and thinks to himself. I should call the cops and Mike? Finally, he’ll believe I am not crazy. Where are they? What if they’re armed? What if they’re bigger than me? Chaz looks toward his workstation, but his cell phone is still in his pack. The landline is at the entrance, about 25 feet away, round worktables, stools, and parts. “Don’t panic.” They don’t know you’re here. Where the hell are they?

          Frank visualizes leaning to the side, grasping a plastic bag under his seat, and lifting it to his side. He pauses as pressure builds again. Frank’s regulator whistles again equalizing pressure throughout his system. The temperature gauge in his heads-up is in the green. He visualizes standing, and pistons in his legs and back extend, slowly and solidly. Each movement requires a millibar or two on the gauge. Standing, he waits for pressure to build, but further in to the green bar, close to the orange level. After each movement, steam pressure drops and re-pressurizes. As long as he doesn’t move to fast, he can maintain a steady consistent flutter in the green and fluid motion.

          “Shit, they’re in the storeroom.” Chaz says. Cell phone or landline, he thinks. It will take time to get it out of the pack, but the landline is further away. “Did I charge it?”

           “Joe killed me. Where is she?”

          {Access local wireless network}

          {Enter password: wellshg}

          {Google search her address}

          A GPS system on the left and a Google map pops up on the right side of his heads-up. It syncs with the map, and outputs directions in steps with coordinates down the top center. Frank steps forward one step. The pressure gauge drops a tick out of the green, too much force. It rebounds quickly and he takes another step, closer. “Do I have to learn to fucking walk every time?”

           The first decapitation pops into his head.” Shit, did I do that?” Who is that? It’s her boss, and my wife? “Whore,” she slept with anyone and anything. A series of random pictures flashes across his cortex. A plumber, a parking attendant, a stripper, a dealer under the blackjack table n Colma, a waiter in the Stinking Rose, and I was there. I was masturbating; whore, but it was fun to watch. A beautiful Great Dane crosses his synapses. It’s rust coat smells like sweating dog, and it’s drooling uncontrollably; “no,” that was too far. “Bitch, “must die; she is dead. One more to kill, Frank takes another step, and the gauge flutters perfect. He walks to the storeroom door.

          {Reach right arm forward}

          {Grab door handle)

          (Close fingers and turn}

          Chaz reaches the doorway. “I should run.” I don’t have my cell, he thinks. No one will believe me, unless I catch whomever. “Shit, run idiot.” He says out loud. Chaz hears the door mechanism to the storeroom click and door opens outward slowly. His jaw drop; he’s frozen. He can’t look away.