This city. This fucking city. Some cities never sleep but this one never really wakes up. Like a frog eating a rat it squats in place, daring, just daring, someone to stop it. It’s nearly one o clock, and if I had it my way I’d be asleep. I’m not though; I’m kneeling in front of a murdered Jackson Clone trying to figure out just what the hell is going on.
I turn to Dan, my partner, five years together on the force; he’s a good man, even if he is a bear. “No witnesses?” I ask, standing up.
Dan shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee. We both know we should be somewhere else, Jackson Clones die all the time in this city, it’s no big deal, but this one’s an Alpha and that means he’s a citizen. That means we gotta care.
“Give me the details again, Dan,” I say, lighting up a cigarette and leaning against the hood of the squad car.
Dan puts down his coffee and pulls out a notepad, “right,” he says, “Jackson Clone 737, knife wound in the back of the head, died approximately eleven or twelve tonight, no witnesses. Worked at a bakery.”
I nod and take a drag of my cigarette.
“How long’s he been free?”
“Pretty recent, last year some time. Not sure exactly we’ve got the boys back at headquarters checking the serial code right now.”
I go over the clues in my head: Knife wound, someone didn’t want a laser wound, too traceable. A hate crime perhaps? No there was no pleasure here, this was almost professional. A neat wound. A neat murder. Odd because Jackson Clone’s have a hard time making enemies. At least, on their own.
I turn to Dan, who is about to buzz HQ on his wrist communicator, “Dan,” I say, “check for Jackson Clone workhouses in this area, I need to check something out.”
This city. This fucking city.