"He'll never crack now." Briggin shook his head sadly.

 

I looked again through the one-way glass at our suspect, Corley. He slouched in the steel chair, a self-satisfied smirk doing nothing to improve his battered face. Suspect, hell! He destroyed that robot because it took his job. Nobody else had a motive.

 

"Dammit!" My partner slammed a fist into his open palm. "We almost had him, but then he clammed up. We need that confession!"

 

I felt his frustration. Worse, this was my first chance to prove myself. And I'd slipped up.

 

Briggin suggested we break for lunch. We split up, leaving a patrolman on guard outside the interrogation room. The lock works fine, but Corley's a slick one. We were taking no chances.

 

Cops and doctors smoke more than anyone else. We show up when people die, so we know precisely what smoking can do to you... and we smoke anyway. Go figure.

 

As I'd hoped, I found Studs with the rest of the cancer fiends, puffing away on a truly foul cigar. His right name I never knew, but given his last name of Lonergan, the nickname was inevitable. He says he never read the Farrell books, but I'm not sure.

 

"Hey, kid! How's your first day as a detective?" He smiled, creasing the scars that took the place of smile lines on his battered face. Studs was the ugliest man I'd ever met. He'd been my first training officer, and I hated to admit failure to him. On the other hand, the first lesson he'd taught me is that it's better to ask a dumb question than to do a dumb thing. I swallowed hard and told him everything.

 

He listened, a nasty scowl decorating his face the whole time. He doesn't mean anything by it; that's just his thinking face. Scares hell outta suspects, mind you.

 

When I got to the part where I bobbled the questioning, he raised an eyebrow.

 

"I know Corley, and he knows us. He listened just long enough to learn what we know and then he clammed."

 

"Yeah." I hung my head. "My fault. I shouldn't have given so much away."

 

"Naw, hell with that. He was watching for a sign, would have found out sooner or later. Forget about it. Thing to concentrate on is where we go from here."

 

"From here? Here's a dead end, Studs."

 

He grinned at me, which is even more unsettling than his scowl unless you're used to it.

 

"Dead end? We'll see about that."

 

* * *

 

He led me along a walkway I never knew existed, through a side door, and up a narrow staircase to a cluttered office bullpen on the third floor. The lettering on the frosted door read Digital Crimes. Grunting a greeting to the denizens, he dragged a wooden chair over to one of the computer terminals and logged in.

 

I'd never known Studs could use a computer except to fill out reports. Now he was digging through the evidence database like the old pro he evidently was. Learn something new every day.

 

I don't know if you've ever watched someone's face while they're engaging in VR mode. Their eyes lose focus, their fingers dance through the air — it's a real trip. Studs added a new dimension I'd never witnessed before: he began to snore as he worked. Honest to God.

 

Not that anyone noticed. A dozen other people were similarly engrossed in their work. After a few minutes, the novelty wore off, so I killed some time studying the Sergeant's Manual.

 

Then Studs was up and moving. He grabbed some printouts from the tray and dashed back down the hall. I hurried and caught him in the parking lot. He shoved the wad of paper inside his helmet, pulled it on, and got on his motorcycle.

 

"Tell me what you've got, Studs!"

 

"Wait for me back in Interrogation," he told me. "It won't take long."

 

* * *

 

It didn't. Studs was keeping guard by the door by the time I got back inside. He must have just zipped around to the front of the building. There hadn't been time for anything else.

 

"Give me about five seconds, then come in and drag me out. I shouldn't be there, that sorta thing. Got it?"

 

I nodded dubiously. He didn't explain.

 

I heard him slap the paper down on the table in front of our prisoner. "We gotcha this time, Corley!" he crowed. "Caught in the act, recorded by the very robot you wrecked. Getting sloppy in your old age!"

 

As instructed, I went in and grabbed Studs by an arm. "You're not supposed to be in here!"

 

He cussed at me a bit and stomped out. I snatched up the papers and followed, closing the door behind me. Good thing, too, because Studs was leaning against the far wall, laughing fit to bust. He regained his composure soon.

 

"Now, you go in there and act all concerned. In thirty seconds he'll grab that deal Briggin offered and confess. Here, hand me those."

 

The pages were stills from the robot's perspective, each clearly showing Corley. I raised an eyebrow, then passed them over. Studs whispered a last bit of advice in my ear, slapped me on the shoulder, and went on his way.

 

I went in, did as he said, and had the confession in my hand by the time Briggin got back from lunch. I never mentioned the pictures to anyone. I couldn't.

 

Turns out, that model of robot can't make recordings. In the images, Corley had between six and nine fingers per hand, which is why Studs had made sure to crumple them all to hell and sweat on them besides. A.I. ain't evidence, after all.