Androids and Other Working Stiffs

by Steven Schiff

It was a bright, beautiful, mid-July afternoon in Harrison City, Rhode Island, the kind of day that made you glad to be alive. But Adele Bridgeport was dead. Her corpse was sprawled out in an undignified position, under an oak tree in the middle of our biggest city park. She'd been found by a small boy who was heading home with his dog after a rousing game of "fetch the Frisbee." I was the detective on the case, so I was one of the first to see the body, right after the boy, the dog, a couple of horrified suburban ladies, and a slow-moving uniformed cop.

Androids weren't usually assigned to murder cases in Harrison City. This case was different. Adele Bridgeport was different. She was the first human to ever marry an android. Now, quite possibly, she was dead by the hands of that android spouse. At least, that was the story the papers were certain to print in their morning edition.

"You aren't going to touch her, are you?" the uniformed cop asked. According to his name tag, the man's name was "Brison."

"Has the coroner been here?"

"No."

"Then obviously, I'm not going to touch her." I jammed my finger into Brison's police datapad and retrieved the names and addresses of the people who'd found Adele. Then I ignored the uniformed cop and used my telescopic sensors to zoom in on the body from a discrete distance. Adele's body temperature indicated a death within the last three hours. She had scratches and fresh bruises on her upper thighs, and small red indentations on either side of her neck. To me, these red markings were a clear indication that she had been strangled, but of course, that was for the coroner to decide. I zoomed in closer on the markings to see if I could detect human or android fingerprints, only to be bumped out of focus by Coroner Wilkins, an old man whose vision and coordination had both seen better decades.

"Ah, Jerry. I'm surprised to see you, here," he said.

"Just doing my job. This is the case I was assigned." Wilkins walked over to the body, knelt down, and examined the woman's face.

"Oh, I didn't know. This is Adele Bridgeport! No wonder they asked you to investigate!"

Adele was one of Harrison City's brightest social-lights. Her face was regularly plastered on the society pages of all the Harrison papers from the Herald to the Informer. Everyone recognized her. Just as everyone recognized Harry Bridgeport, the rich, handsome android she'd married.

Wilkins started to poke and prod the body with various instruments as I stood a few feet back and continued my own sensor probe. He constantly obstructed my field of vision, but I deleted the images of his intrusive white head from the final data stream. As he changed the position of the body, I was able to collect a few more interesting factual tidbits. For example, it appeared that Adele had been struck on the back of the head by a blunt object. Blood and bits of grass were matted into the back of her carefully-coiffed, silver-toned hairdo.

After one last sensor glance at the body, I decided that I'd wait for Wilkins' report to get the final details, and began to put together a mental list of people and androids who needed to be questioned.

Sandra Monroe, professional snoop for the Harrison Herald, arrived at the crime scene just as I was about to leave. I looked around quickly, to see if there were any convenient holes I could jump into, but I saw nothing but trees and wide- open, grass-covered space.

"Detective Andy! How are you?" she asked. That was "Andy" as in "Andy the android." It was Sandra's idea of a joke, but I didn't find it particularly amusing.

"My name's not 'Andy,' Ms. Monroe. As I've told you before, I'm Detective Gerald Markowitz."

"Ah, yes. How could I forget the Jewish android?" she asked.

"You know very well, Sandra, that I was originally purchased by the Markowitz family. When Congress freed the androids, I took their name out of respect." Sandra was a petite blonde with an angelic face which contrasted sharply with her sharp tongue. She also had long silky legs which I wished I didn't admire quite so much. In fact, the woman's condescending attitude made me want to tear open my chest and rip out those infernal male hormone synthesizers before I was tempted to do something I'd regret.

Sandra pulled out her electronic notepad and stylus, an indication that she was ready to get down to business. "So what happened to Adele?" she asked.

"It's too early to say for certain, of course. But it appears that she was beaten and/or strangled to death."

"Charming. Did the android husband do it?"

"Now, Sandra. How can I know that? I haven't started my investigation."

"What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for you to finish your questions."

Sandra licked her lips in a peculiar, feline motion. "Okay, here's a great question. Why were you given this case?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask my boss, Captain Leland."

"Think it's because you're an android?"

"I said I don't know. You'll have to ask Captain Leland."

"Can't you venture a guess?"

"I don't care to venture a guess. Now, if there are no more questions, I have work to do," I said.

"Yes, Detective Andy. It looks like you have a lot of work to do."

"My name," I said, "is Detective Gerald Markowitz."

* * *

It didn't take much thinking to decide who I should interview first. It took about as much processing power as an antique 286 needed to play chess with a moron. Although classic police techniques dictated that I speak with the kid who'd found the body, or the two suburban ladies, before too much time had passed, I knew who Captain Leland would want me to see right away: Handsome Harry Bridgeport.

Bridgeport had always been one lucky son of a circuit-breaker. Freed ten years before most of the rest of us, over five years before independent androids became socially acceptable, he had found success via his looks and charm, both of which were modeled after some obscure 20th century actor. He'd met Adele Harrison at a cocktail party for the very wealthy. Harry had hidden his characteristically pale grey android eyes behind dark brown contact lenses, and successfully courted the beautiful heiress before she knew that he was an android, an act which was still illegal in some parts of the country. He then married her and moved into her lavish Harrison City mansion. They'd had a successful marriage for over twenty- five years. Adele liked her eternally youthful, android husband, and looked the other way when he had affairs with younger women or female androids. For his part, Harry

enjoyed the money and prestige he got from the Harrison family and appreciated the fact that Adele, at fifty-three, still had a better body than most women in their early twenties. At least, that's the way their relationship was reported in the papers. It was my job to separate the facts from the legend and decide whether Handsome Harry had the motive and opportunity to terminate his long-standing arrangement with Adele.

The Harrison mansion was ten miles west of Harrison Center, a good thirty-minute drive through heavy downtown traffic. My gasoline-powered Buick Century, an antique which should have been auctioned off the police lots years ago, coughed and sputtered through the various in-town toll plazas, traffic lights, and stop signs. During the drive, I formulated a few million variations of the questions I wanted to ask good old Harry. Through sheer willpower and mental discipline, I managed to ignore the surly human and inconsiderate android drivers who clogged the road like horny adolescents, all trying to access the same X-rated Web server at the same time.

Finally, I weaved my way through the traffic to tree-lined Harrison Boulevard and wound my way up the curved street to the mansion's imposing front gates.

The metallic-faced, gate-keeper robot had no intention of letting me through those gates, unchallenged. "State your business," he said.

"I'm Police Detective Gerald Markowitz," I responded. "I'm here to see Harry Bridgeport on a matter of extreme urgency."

"Did you call for an appointment?" the gate-keeper asked. His metal jaws moved in the artificial robot manner that I always found somewhat disturbing. "Is he expecting you?"

"No. But this visit is quite official, I assure you. I have some disturbing news for him and I need to ask a few questions."

The robot sighed in a curiously human fashion, given his utilitarian, metal- plated design, then slowly opened the gates. I drove the Century around the long driveway and parked next to Harry's expensive German hover-sedan.

An ancient human butler, whose shiny black uniform was in direct contrast to his dull gray hair and wrinkled skin, ushered me inside the mansion. After he took a magnifying glass to my police credentials, he showed me to the study and went to fetch his android master.

Harry popped into the room a few moments later, dressed in a maroon silk shirt and blue jeans. The shirt was opened at the neck, allowing a few stray black chest hairs to greet me as he approached. Like most androids with especially attractive bodies, he was proud of the way he looked.

"Jerry, it's good to see you, old man," Harry said in his typical effusive manner. His pale grey eyes twinkled as he thrust out a well-muscled hand for me to shake. "It's been ages."

"It's good to see you too, Harry. Reminds me of the old days back at the manufacturing plant, before we were sold."

Harry squinched his face into an unpleasant expression. "Don't date yourself, old man. That's over fifty years ago! Many things have changed since then. For me, at least."

"Yes," I said. "I've heard a lot about you, lately."

"Well, you know. I get around. So what can I do for you today?"

"Harry, I have some unpleasant news for you. Your wife is dead. She's been murdered."

A trained detective watches his suspects very carefully when they first hear the news about a crime. I kept my eyes, ears and sensors tuned to Harry's facial expression, heart rate, and biomechanical interfaces, but sensed nothing. No alterations to any of his major systems. "Harry, did you hear me?" I asked. "Adele is dead."

"I'm shocked," he said, though he didn't sound it. "I'm completely and utterly dumbfounded." He walked over to a nearby couch, sat down, and stared at the blank wall behind me.

"Do you want more details, Harry? Do you want to know how she died?"

Harry ignored the question. "I can't believe she's dead," he said. "I'll miss her terribly, but -- look, I'd better tell you before you hear it from someone else. Frankly, Adele and I haven't been getting along too well lately, Jerry. We even discussed divorce."

"Really?"

"Yes, really," he said. He looked up and I actually saw a tear in his eye. It was an android tear, of course, stimulated by easily faked subroutines and composed of a glycerin compound, but it was a tear, nevertheless. "We fought constantly. And it's all because of those horrible, horrible Purists."

"Purists?"

"They're a radical human group, opposed to the presence of androids in society. They've been harassing us, Jerry. They... I'm sure they were the ones who killed her. How _did_ she die?"

"We're not positive yet, but we think she was strangled -choked. We found her body early this afternoon, in old Harrison Park."

"Strangled?" His voice sounded far away, as if he were lost in thought, yet my sensors still detected no changes in his bodily functions. I wasn't sure whether to categorize his behavior as extremely guilty or extremely innocent.

Harry abruptly stood up, as if the couch had suddenly jolted him with an electrical current. "Wait here a second, Jerry. Let me show you something," he said. He left the study and my highly trained ears soon heard him jostling furniture in the adjacent room. He returned a minute later, holding a green piece of paper in his hand. "Look at this flyer," he said. "We've found a different one pasted to the front gate every morning for a month. All with the same theme, or subtle variations on the theme. Robby, the gate robot, has no idea who brought them. He never sees or hears anything. But he's an older model, so that doesn't mean much."

I took the paper from him. It was a crudely prepared flyer, printed with old- fashioned true type fonts. The headline read: "Android Are A Slap In The Face Of The Lord".

* * *

Captain Leland paced back and forth in his office with the green flyer in his hand. "You think these lunatics killed Adele Bridgeport?" he asked.

"I don't know," I replied. I avoided Leland's baleful glare and instead kept my eyes focused on the picture behind his head. It was the now-ubiquitous portrait of smiling President Alphonse, posed in front of the fifty-three star U.S. flag.

"But why kill her? Why not destroy Handsome Harry? He's the android, not Adele."

"I don't know."

"Are you sure Harry didn't do it? Are you sure he didn't print these flyers himself?"

"I don't know."

Leland's normally reddish complexion had deepened to a shade that almost matched the maroon of Harry's shirt. I wondered if he was about to have a stroke, heart attack, or other malfunction of the human cardio-vascular system. My sensors detected abnormally high blood pressure. "What the hell _do_ you know, Jerry?" he asked.

"I know that I have to check some of my underground sources, to see if anyone has ever heard of this 'Purist' group. I know that I still have to interview the boy who found the body, and the two ladies. I have to check on Harry's activities over the last few months. I have to check on what Adele's been doing. I have to have a chat with their friends. I have to..."

"Okay, okay. I get the point," Captain Leland said. "But you have to understand, Jerry, Adele Harrison was very highprofile. Everyone is breathing down my neck on this one. And I do mean 'everyone.' The state police commissioner just called me, for god's sake. And the news reporters are all crawling up my butt." Leland pulled out his desk chair, sat down hard, and belched loudly. "Excuse me."

"I'll find out who killed Adele, Captain. Don't tie your stomach in knots over it."

"Don't worry about my stomach," he said. "Just get to work. Find out who killed that woman, before the press and the police big-wigs have me drawn and quartered."

"I'm on it," I said. Leland stopped me before I could touch the knob on his office door.

"Oh, by the way, Jerry. You told the Herald reporter, the Monroe woman, that Adele Harrison was strangled. Why? Why'd you do that?"

"Because she _was_ strangled, Captain."

"Are you the coroner? Have you seen Wilkins' report? Last I heard, he hadn't even finished the report."

"Captain, I'm an android. My sensors are very sensitive and..."

"Oh -- Cut the bullshit about your friggin' android sensors, Jerry. Let Wilkins do his job. And stop talking to that Monroe broad."

"Yes, Captain," I said. I pulled open the door and made it safely into the hallway before he could say another word.

Coroner Wilkins was waiting for me at my desk. "Okay, Wilkins, don't say a word. The Captain already bawled me out for talking to Sandra Monroe."

The man peered at me quizzically, through thick, corrective lenses. "What? The Herald reporter? What did you say to her?"

"Nothing," I said. "What do you need? Have you finished your report?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Adele was strangled, right?"

"Yes, strangulation was the cause of death, but..."

"But what?" My mind was beginning to wander. Wilkins seemed infuriatingly slow of tongue. "I know she was beaten, too. I saw the bruises on her thighs and the nasty bump on the back of her head."

The old coroner opened his magnified eyes so wide, it looked like I could fit a basketball through his pupils. "There's more," he said.

"What? Tell me, already."

"Well, there was oil in her stomach."

"Oil? What do you mean? Salad oil?"

"No. Motor oil."

"Motor oil?" I asked. "You mean like I'd use in my car?"

"Yes. Or something that's chemically very similar."

"That's odd -- very odd," I said, half to myself. Perhaps the Purist group had forced her to drink motor oil as some kind of symbolic gesture. An ironic punishment for her union with the android.

"Well, I'll give you my complete report in the morning," Wilkins said. "It'll be here on your desk, first thing."

"That'll be fine," I said, as I tried to think of an alternate explanation for the presence of the oil. I couldn't come up with anything plausible.

The communications telebot chose that moment to buzz through on my desk phone. "Jerry, there's a call for you on line three. It's a woman named Selma Jenkins."

"What does she want?" I asked.

"She says she's the mother of the boy who found Adele Harrison's body, this afternoon."

"I'll take it," I said. It was possible this woman's son could shed some light on the mystery of Adele's death. Unlikely, but possible.

* * *

At 6:30 that evening, I found myself at the home of Selma A. Jenkins, a pleasant- faced woman in her mid to late forties. I sat on a couch with burn holes in its cushions, and tried not to stare at the stuffed owl which sat on the mantle.

"You're an android, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"That's why I put the dog out. He doesn't like androids. He barks at them." She took a deep drag off a cigarette and flicked the ashes somewhere near the ashtray on the table in front of her. "Can I offer you something to drink? A soda maybe?"

"No, thank you."

"Androids do eat and drink, don't they?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Androids eat, drink, and go to the bathroom, just like humans. We were designed to emulate human behavior. That's why we're androids, not robots."

"That's what I thought," she said. "We don't get many androids around here, so I had to ask, just to be sure." She exhaled a puff of noxious smoke in my direction.

"I'm pressed for time, Mrs. Jenkins. So if I could just speak to your boy -- his name is Larry, isn't it?"

"Yes. My son's name is Larry and the dog is Barfy."

"Well, if I could speak to Larry for a second."

"Why don't you just speak to me? Larry is a little scared of androids. He doesn't like them much. You understand, don't you?" She snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray and turned her head, so she didn't have to look me in the eyes.

"Larry found the body, Mrs. Jenkins. You weren't there."

"But I know the whole story," she said. She emphasized the words "whole story," as if I was supposed to be persuaded by the inflection of her voice. Actually, I was persuaded. I decided to listen to what the woman had to say, and come back later to speak to Larry, if necessary. "According to Larry, Barfy started to bark way before they found poor Adele Bridgeport," Mrs. Jenkins said. "That woman actually _married_ an android, you know. I don't think that's right. Do you?"

"That's not for me to judge, Mrs. Jenkins. So Barfy started to bark... and?"

Mrs. Jenkins raised a carefully-tweezed eyebrow. "And maybe that means there was an android around somewhere. Like I said, he barks at androids. Barfy _always_ barks at androids."

"I though you said that you didn't get many androids around here."

"Yes, that's right. Androids don't come around here because Barfy always barks at them."

"Okay. So the dog barked and sometime later, Larry found the body. Did he see anything that seemed out of place -- out of the ordinary?"

She lit another cigarette and threw the match at the ashtray. "Well, the body, of course. That was the first time Larry'd ever seen a dead body."

The whole interview began to seem like a waste of time. I wanted to get whatever information was available and beat a hasty retreat. "But did he see any other people in the area? Did he notice anything?"

"No. But Barfy ran off for a few minutes and came back with a piece of paper in his mouth. I think it's important."

"Uh -- could you show it to me, please?"

Mrs. Jenkins reached into the pocket of her loose-fitting blouse, pulled out a folded, green piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a flyer, almost identical to the one Harry Bridgeport had shown me, earlier in the day. Though it had been punctured and slobbered on by wet, doggie teeth, I could still read the headline. It said: "Warning. Androids Are A Danger To Man".

Mrs. Jenkins puffed on her cigarette and exhaled more smoke in my direction. "Who are these Purist people?" she asked.

"I don't know. I have to find out," I said. It was time to visit a certain android bar and track down my usually reliable source.

* * *

I grabbed a quick dinner at a nearby Harrison House restaurant then drove the Century downtown, to Pete's Lounge. The place was a hangout for androids and a few humans who didn't quite fit into normal society. A rag-tag, grey-eyed, android man and woman, and a young ne'er-do-well of undetermined origins, were seated at the bar when I arrived, already half-crocked on house bourbon, rot-gut rum, or cheap beer. I could smell the alcohol in the air as I approached. I was glad I hadn't brought Mrs. Jenkins. Combine her cigarette habit with the fumes from these fine specimens, and you had the makings of a four-alarm blaze.

"Jerry, my love! Good to see you." That comment came from Shirleen, the android woman. She and I had been friends, once upon a time. Now, she drank so much, I was surprised she remembered my name. We androids are a lot sturdier than humans, but given enough cheap booze, we can turn our insides into foul mush, same as any man.

"Hi, Shirleen. How've you been?"

"Same as always, Jer. Still hangin' in there, I think," she said. "Have you met Bill or our little human friend, Dave?" Bill treated me to a drunken wave. Dave didn't respond. He was currently snoring away with his head on the bar, next to a halfeaten plate of nachos and cheese.

"Where's Pete?" I asked, as I looked around for the everfriendly bartender and proprietor.

"Right here, Jerry," Pete said as he emerged from the back room and took his customary place behind the bar. He placed a cup of coffee next to Dave's plate of nachos. "I brought something to sober up little Davy, here. But maybe I should face facts. He ain't going to be dancin' the polka for quite a few hours, yet."

"Pete, I have something to show you," I said. I pulled the green flyer out of my pocket.

"Well, I've got something to show _you_, lover," Shirleen said with a drunken giggle.

"Sorry, Shirleen. I've already seen what you've got and I don't want it anymore." Shirleen stuck out her tongue at me, then downed a half-glass of beer in one gulp, just to kill any pain that my comment might have caused.

"Pete. Can we go in the back and talk privately for a second?"

"For a second," he said. "It's nearly seven. We'll start to get busy in fifteen or twenty minutes."

Pete wiped his hands on a towel and walked toward the back room again. I followed him into the room and closed the door behind us. "What is it this time, Jerry?" he asked. He stared at me with pale grey eyes that were a lot less friendly than I'd expected. "I'm getting tired of being your underground android stool pigeon."

"Come on, pal. I don't bother you that often," I said.

"You don't bother me that often? Hell, Jerry, it seems like you're in here every other night. I'm tired of looking at your synthetic ass. Why don't you find some other place to get your information, once in a while?"

"Pete, just shut up and take a look at this flyer," I said. I shoved the green paper in his face.

Android blood is more viscous that human blood for some reason, but it all drained out of Pete's face, just the same. "The Purists. Yeah, I've heard of these guys. They're bad news. They busted up my front windows a few months back, and left behind a stack of flyers just like this one."

"What do you know about 'em?"

"They're a group of radical human nut cases. Mostly uneducated, violent, and prejudiced as all hell. Not a fun group. I'd stay away from them, if I were you."

"They may be involved in the death of Adele Bridgeport."

"The woman that Handsome Harry married?" he asked. "The one that was strangled this afternoon?" I nodded and Pete actually backed away from me a step or two. "You're working on that case?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I am."

"That murder's been all over the news. Why'd they choose you to investigate? Because you're an android?" Pete asked the question, but he already knew the answer.

"Well, I'd like to say 'no, they chose me because of my stellar police record,' but yeah, they picked me because I'm an android."

"So you're going to tangle with Harry?"

"Well, I questioned him, earlier."

"I'd bet that Harry killed her, himself, don't you think? I hear they weren't getting along so well."

"Maybe he did and maybe he didn't," I replied. "But I've come across these flyers twice already, today, so it could be these Purists _are_ involved."

"Wait a sec," he said. "I did a good deal of research on the Purists. Let me call up the file from my data banks." Humans have an old expression they use when they see someone deep in thought. They say 'I could see the wheels moving.' Well, in Pete's case, I actually could see the wheels moving. His eyes rolled back in his head as he accessed the information. A minute later, he held out his hand for an old-fashioned, android, flesh-to-flesh, data transfer. I pressed my palm again his sweaty palm, and the information began to load into my skull.

Even though Pete wasn't a trained professional, the information was pretty comprehensive. Along with tidbits of data on Purist activities and the complete text of every flyer Pete had seen, he included a list of every known Purist, information obtained from a variety of android, robot, and human sources.

Two names on the list seemed familiar to me. Hilda Swenson and Gloria Freed. I'd definitely heard those names before, but where? In what context? A quick cross check of my own data files gave me the answer. Hilda Swenson and Gloria Freed were the two women who'd stumbled on Adele's body. Right after Larry the kid and his dog.

The next morning, Captain Leland took a long swig from a bottle of Pepto Bismol as I sat and waited for him to finish his review of my progress report. From its place on the wall, the picture of President Alphonse glared down at us, and, for an instant, I had the feeling that Alphonse was displeased with my Captain's gastrointestinal weakness.

"So you think these women are involved?" He glanced over the progress report again. "This Swenson and Freed. You think they killed Adele Harrison?" Leland asked.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I have to investigate further."

"You're one hell of a fence-sitter, Jerry."

For some reason, that comment struck a nerve. "Well, what do you want me to do? Come to a final conclusion before all the facts are in? That wouldn't be very smart, Captain."

Leland bared his teeth in a feral little smile. "Sorry if I hurt your delicate feelings, Jerry. I forget how sensitive you androids are."

"I'm not sensitive. I just want to make sure that the facts all add up. I want to make sure there isn't something rotten in the state of Denmark."

"We aren't in Denmark," Leland replied.

"I know. That's a quote -- from Shakespeare."

"Do you know which play?"

"Hamlet."

"Very good. You win the English Lit prize for the day. Now, back to business. Are you going to track down these women?"

"Of course."

"Good." He took another long drink from his bottle of pink stomach medicine. "I have faith in you, Jerry. I'm sure you'll solve this case." Leland slammed the Pepto bottle down on his desk. Liquid splattered from the bottle onto his desk top. "And I'm sure you'll solve it, soon," he said.

Leland was an actor playing a role. He was the tough-minded boss and I was the dutiful employee, expected to go out and work my tail to the bone to achieve his objective. Well, that's exactly what I had intended to do, to begin with. I didn't need the dramatics.

When I left Leland's office, I checked the 'In' basket on my desk. Coroner Wilkins' report was waiting for me.

Wilkins had highlighted the portion of the report which detailed the chemical composition of the oil found in Adele Harrison's stomach. It wasn't motor oil, exactly. It was a lubricant called "Andro-smooth." These days, it was needed for the maintenance of microbots, minibots, and robots, but it was originally used by older androids like me. Befo re we were free, our owners attached guns and other weapons directly to our hands and feet, so they could be fired via impulses from our central nervous systems. These weapons were soaked in Andro-smooth whenever they weren't in use, to keep the firing mechanisms functioning at peak efficiency. Maybe Handsome Harry had used such a weapon to protec t himself or to -- to kill his wife. But the fact is, Adele Harrison was strangled and beaten. She wasn't shot. And how did the Andro-smooth get into her stomach? None of it made any sense.

I put the Andro-smooth mystery out of my mind for the moment and contacted the communications telebot for the latest addresses of my Purist suspects, Swenson and Freed. With that information in hand, I bounced out the front door of the station and headed for the police lot, where I'd parked the Century.

As I hit the sidewalk, I saw Sandra Monroe waiting for me, with her electronic notepad and stylus poised for action. She was about as welcome as a virus on a data drive. "Hi, Detective Andy!" I treated her to a baleful glare. In return, she smiled at me with strong, pure white teeth. "I mean 'Detective Markowitz,'" she said.

"If you promise to drop the 'Andy' nonsense, you can call me 'Jerry'."

"Okay," she said. "Jerry --- Have you made any progress on the Adele Bridgeport slaying?"

"Yes, a little. I'm investigating several leads."

"We have information from an anonymous source who blames the murder on an anti- android terrorist group called the Purists. Can you comment on that?"

"I'm looking into it."

She leaned forward to speak in a soft, co-conspiratorial whisper and gave me a glimpse of her generous cleavage. "C'mon Jerry," she said. "You can do better than that. What do you know about this group? What are its objectives? Do you have the names of the members?"

"No comment."

"Detective Markowitz... the public has a right to know."

"Sorry. No comment." I couldn't tell her anything more specific. She'd print whatever I told her, which would draw even more attention to the case. It was wiser not to say anything. Captain Leland couldn't handle the stress. He couldn't afford the Pepto Bismol.

"Okay then, let's talk about something else," she said. "My sources also tell me that Harry Bridgeport has an interesting new lady friend. What can you tell me about that? And do you think this woman has any connection to the murder?"

This bit of news caught me completely off guard. "Sandra, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, right. Detective, do you think I'm a fool?" she asked. Her blue eyes peered directly into my grey ones.

"Honestly, I have no information about any 'lady friend' of Harry Bridgeport's," I replied.

"Well then if I were you, I'd get some information, quick." I saw a flash of genuine anger on the woman's face. She really believed that I knew more than I was telling.

"Sandra, as pleasant as it is to stand here and chat with you, I have to get going. I plan to conduct a number of interviews, today. You do want me to solve this case, don't you?"

"If you can, Detective Andy. If you can."

I smiled, tipped an invisible cap, and hurried down the street to the parking garage. My sensors could detect Sandra Monroe's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head, until I finally ducked out of her line of sight.

* * *

Androids are organized creatures by nature, and I'm no exception. I'd planned my day out to the last detail. The first order of business was an unannounced visit to the homes of Swenson and Freed. I didn't want to call ahead, because I didn't want to warn them that they were under suspicion.

Hilda Swenson lived on Poplar Grove Street. That was about ten miles north of the police station, five miles closer than the home of Gloria Freed. I pointed the Century in the proper direction and began to drive. I'd travelled maybe a mile and a half, past Muncie Avenue and Center Boulevard, when the conversation with Sandra Monroe began to replay itself in my mind. As much as I needed to interview Ms. Swenson, I had to find out more about Handsome Harry's new female companion. I had a strong hunch that this woman was pertinent to the case. Besides, I was curious, simply curious. Insatiably curious. So I hung a left on Broad Street and headed over toward Harrison Boulevard.

I pulled up to the gates of the Harrison mansion about twenty-five minutes later, where I was once again stopped by old metal-face, the robot gate-keeper.

"State your business," he said. This robot obviously had not been programmed for customer service.

"You met me yesterday, Robby," I said. "I'm Detective Gerald Markowitz of the Harrison City police department."

"Yes. And who are you here to see?"

"Harry Bridgeport is the only one who lives here, now. Correct?"

"I'm not authorized to give out that kind of information."

"Well, I'm here to see Harry Bridgeport."

Human expression is next to impossible when your face is made of tin, but I'd swear that robot scowled at me. "Is Mr. Bridgeport expecting you?" he asked.

"No. But this is official police business, regarding the death of his wife."

"I'll open the gates for you, sir, but I can't guarantee that Mr. Bridgeport has time for you, today."

"I'll take my chances," I said.

The robot slowly opened the gates and I pulled the Century around to the parking space I'd taken the day before.

I ran up the front steps and rang the bell, with every expectation that Harry's old human fossil of a butler would answer the door as he had the day before. Instead, when the door opened, I found myself face to face with -- with the deceased, Adele Bridgeport. My mouth dropped open so wide, the woman could have extracted a tooth.

"Excuse me," I said. "Are you... you look like... are you?"

"I'm Adele, too," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm Adele-two. I'm an android."

I stared long and hard at her face as she ushered me inside. This android did look exactly like Adele, but she appeared twenty or more years younger. I hadn't fully realized how attractive Harry's wife had been. The pictures I had seen, and the extra few years, hadn't done her justice. This Adele was positively radiant, with soft, shoulder-length, blonde hair, smooth, peach- colored skin... and bright blue eyes.

"Your eyes. They aren't grey," I said.

"They're contact lenses, sir. Mr. Bridgeport wants me to look human."

Five open-mouthed minutes later, I sat in the study with Handsome Harry Bridgeport. Adele-two played the role of servant. She propped a pillow behind Harry's back, pulled over an ottoman for his delicate feet, then left the room and came back a second later with two hot cups of tea on a silver serving tray. I felt like a visitor to the Sultan's d en, in an ancient movie about the Arabian nights.

"What can I say, Jerry? I missed my wife," Harry said, in recognition of what must have been a very strange look on my face.

"Harry, your wife hasn't looked like that in years. And she certainly never acted like that." Harry was faced away from his new android servant, so he didn't notice the way she looked at me in response to my comment.

"Adele-two _is_ a slight improvement on the original," Harry said. "I commissioned her years ago, when Adele first started to show signs of -- uh -- wear and tear, but I didn't dare activate her when Adele was alive. Now, there was no reason not to activate her."

"I see," I said. "Harry, this makes you look guilty as hell. The press is already talking about your new companion. People are going to think you killed your wife to be with her replacement."

"I really don't care what people think, Jerry. I didn't kill my wife. And Adele- two is an absolute pleasure. Why should I deprive myself of her company?" The android servant shot me another look. She seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable.

"Well you know, Harry, androids can't be owned anymore. We were freed, remember? Suppose Adele-two decides that she doesn't want to live or work here?"

"What's she going to do? Go live on the street? Besides, androids can't have human owners, anymore. But there's nothing in the law to prohibit one _android_ from owning another. I'm going to discuss the matter with my lawyer, as soon as I get a chance." Harry drained his cup of tea, then set the cup down on an end table. Adele-two immediately pick ed up the cup, set it back on the serving tray, and wiped the table with a cloth. "Listen, Jerry, it's always a pleasure to see you, but I have a busy day ahead of me. I have to plan for Adele's funeral, make a thousand and one arrangements. Did you have something to tell me?"

"Well, we've uncovered the names of some people in the Purist organization. As a matter of fact, the two women who were prowling around the crime scene are members. I'm going to interview them, later today."

"Hey, that's great!" Harry said. "I'll bet they were the ones who killed her."

"It's certainly possible," I replied.

"Did you hear that, Adele-two? Jerry here is a super detective. He's found my wife's killers. Isn't that terrific?"

"Yes, sir," she said. "It's wonderful news."

Maybe the ersatz sultan was right. Maybe the Purists had murdered his wife. But no matter how my interview with the Swenson and Freed women turned out, at that moment, I would have preferred to pin the murder on the strong, capable shoulders of Handsome Harry Bridgeport.

* * *

My curiosity was satisfied, but now I was angry. Unfairly, I took that anger out on innocent pedestrians as I drove the Century down crowded north-bound roads. I changed lanes like a madman, honked at slower drivers, and elicited more than a few angry looks and obscene gestures. Handsome Harry had brought a beautiful android women to life, and now intended to use her to fulfill his twisted needs and desires. His plans for Adele-two were more revolting to me than the actions of the most heartless human owner, back in the dark days of android slavery.

Still, I was pretty sure that Harry did not kill his wife. He was a jerk and a fascist, but that didn't make him guilty of this particular murder. It seemed much more likely that the Purists had taken Adele's life, and I was an honest enough cop to want to see the proper individuals brought to justice. I told myself that I'd address the issue of Adele-two and Handsome Harry, later, after I had closed this case.

When I pulled up outside Hilda Swenson's home, around 11 that morning, there was another surprise waiting for me. Two women, presumably Swenson and Freed, sat on the tiny front porch of a small Brownstone, surrounded by a virtual mob of newspaper, holovision, and radio reporters. It might as well have been an alumni meeting of the Harrison College of Journalism.

Sandra Monroe spotted me as I parked the Century, and ran over before I could reach the sidewalk.

"Believe it or not, I'm actually sorry, Jerry," she said. "This is my doing."

"And what exactly is this?"

Sandra bit her lip and grimaced. "I guess you'd call it a press conference. These women just publicly confessed to the murder of Adele Bridgeport."

"What?"

"I had a crew follow you last night, Jerry. I know you spent some time at that sleazy android bar." For the second time that morning, I felt my mouth drop to my chin. If this kept up, my face was going to freeze in that position. Meanwhile, Sandra continued to drop bombshells on my head. "I know Pete the bartender," she said. I've used him myself to get information on underground activities in the android community. So after I saw you this morning, I went to see him, to find out what you and he had discussed. Well, that guy's got a big mouth. He isn't very good at keeping a secret."

"What did he tell you?"

"He told me you were asking about the Purists, just like I thought. He gave me the same list of names he gave you, last night. It didn't take a genius to spot the names of the two women who were at the crime scene, yesterday. So I drove over here to the Swenson house, and, by luck or chance or whatever, both women were in the kitchen, drinking cof fee. I told them what I knew, and I also told them that you suspected them of the murder."

"Thanks a lot."

"Jerry, they just came out and told me that they killed Adele Bridgeport. So I called my editor and he sent a crew out here. The other media people got wind of what was happening, and -- here we are. But, please believe me, I wasn't trying to make you look foolish."

"Okay, okay, what's done is done. Now, I have to plow through this crowd, place my suspects under arrest, and take them to the station," I said. I patted Sandra on the shoulder -- my version of a goodwill gesture -- then I walked up the lawn and flashed my credentials at the crowd of reporters. They cleared a path for me so quickly, I felt like Mo ses parting the Red Sea. The Swenson woman, or maybe it was the Freed woman, took one look at me and launched into a speech that sounded vaguely like a sermon at a Southern Baptist church.

"Yes, my brothers and sisters. Here comes the law, ready to take me and my sister Gloria into custody," she said. She wiped a loose strand of grey hair out of her eyes, then held out her arm and pointed at me like I was the righteous angel of death, or perhaps the devil incarnate. "And look at who represents our police force. He's an android. An a rtificial creation, not a creature of God. He has no soul, he has no conscience. He is an abomination." Someone must have told the woman that I was an android. There was no way she could discern my eye color at this distance.

"You ask me why my sister and I condemned the Bridgeport woman to death," she continued in a loud, preacher's voice. "You ask why we beat her and strangled her, then left her broken body for the world to see. We did it for the Lord. It was God's will, a command from the heavens. Adele Bridgeport had taken an android to her bed. She had wed an andr oid and therefore disgraced the institution of holy matrimony. And you know what's worse? You know what makes it even more disgusting? That unholy union was allowed to last for more than twenty years. Then other misguided souls followed her lead and married their own android lovers. How, I ask, can a marriage with an android be right in the eyes o f the Lord? Androids can't procreate. They can't fill the world with children. All they can do is have sex, which, as we all know, is the original sin."

As the words "original sin" left the woman's lips, I heard police sirens, and turned around to see several uniformed officers get out of a Harrison City Police vehicle. A second car pulled up right behind them, with Captain Leland inside. It had already been a pretty rough morning for me, and from the looks of things, it was only going to get wors e.

* * *

We interviewed Swenson and Freed, off and on, for three full days. At the end of that time, I was absolutely convinced that they were not the guilty parties. The way I saw it, they just wanted publicity for the Purist group. They wanted the notoriety. But they didn't have all their information straight. They were totally unaware of certain basic facts about the crime. I began to re-evaluate my original conclusions and eventually decided that Handsome Harry probably _was_ guilty of this crime. I wanted him arrested and brought to the station for questioning. The press, however, had already publicly convicted the two Purist women. That took the pressure off Captain Leland, and he was pre pared to consider the case closed.

We sat and discussed the matter in the station commissary as we drank from cups of a dark, vile liquid which passed itself off as coffee. "Why would you possibly want to defend these women, Jerry?" Leland asked. "They hate androids, and in case you forgot, you're an android, pal."

"I know, but..."

"Jerry, we're talking about active, violent hatred, here. If they had their druthers, they'd tie all you people to the backs of rockets and blast you off the face of the earth."

"I'm not saying you're wrong, Captain. But the fact that they hate androids doesn't prove that they're guilty of this crime. They didn't know about the Andro- smooth in Adele's stomach."

"That may have come from another source. She _was_ married to an android. Maybe Harry convinced her that Andro-smooth was a good laxative or something." Leland drank another sip of his coffee and frowned as he swallowed.

"Okay, but they didn't know about the blow to the back of the victim's head."

"They admitted to that." Leland began to leaf through a pile of papers on the table. "I have it in my notes somewhere."

"But it wasn't part of their original typed confession, was it? They only admitted that they bludgeoned the back of her head, _after_ we told them Adele had been bludgeoned." I began to gesture with my hands to make my point, just like the old- style politicians I'd seen on holo-tapes. Unfortunately, my supposedly persuasive new mannerisms did not hing to sway the captain to my point of view.

"Don't you like me, Jerry?" he asked. "Don't you want to see me with a smile on my face? The commissioner already called to congratulate us for smoking out the two women. We're heros, even if that Reporter, Sandra Monroe, actually was the one to set up their original press conference. We got the credit, don't you understand? I'm up for a promotion now, and you might get a raise in pay!"

"Sure. But at what cost?" I asked. "We have to jail the wrong people _and_ give free publicity to one of the most insidious anti-android groups that's ever crossed my path."

Leland put on his most sympathetic face and looked directly into my pale grey eyes. "Jerry, even if they aren't guilty of this particular crime, they're guilty of something, believe me. That group is probably responsible for a third of the missing android reports we're received in the last year."

"That's not pertinent, Captain, and you know it." In my passion, I forgot how bad the coffee tasted. I took a long sip, then wondered where Captain Leland kept his bottle of Pepto Bismol.

"So just what do you suggest we do, Jerry?"

"Let's get Harry Bridgeport down here and let's question him."

"You do realize that, with his wife dead, Harry Bridgeport is the richest and most powerful man or android in the state."

"That's not pertinent, either. If he's guilty, he's guilty. It doesn't matter how much money or power he has."

A sly smile crossed Leland's face. "If I remember correctly, at one point you were positive that Harry Bridgeport had nothing to do with this crime. Once you met that android copy of Adele, your opinion changed pretty quickly."

"Adele-two has nothing to do with this." At that moment, I thanked the stars that androids don't blush. I was glad that we were spared that embarrassing, revealing, human trait.

"Like fun she doesn't. I think that Harry Bridgeport's little harem girl has gotten under your skin. I think those synthetic male hormones of yours are working overtime."

"Captain, I swear. My opinion changed, based on the available evidence. I think Harry's guilty because the evidence tells me he's guilty. And that's the bottom line. I would never let a pretty face influence my professional judgement."

I've heard people say that there's no such thing as pure coincidence. Some of their arguments are pretty darn convincing, too. But if it wasn't a coincidence, then I have no idea how to explain Adele-two's appearance at the station at that particular moment. We were informed of her arrival by the ever-present communications telebot, which spoke to us via the station-wide intercom system.

"I had the desk sergeant show her to your office, Captain," the telebot said.

"Very good," Leland replied. "We'll be there in a jiffy."

As Leland and I made our way to his office, my heart began to beat like a percussionist in a rhythm and blues band. My head felt light and my bio- mechanical interfaces showed signs of system overload. Also, I was annoyed with myself because I knew these symptoms were directly attributable to the presence of Adele-two in the building. It was the re action of an android who'd just been fitted with male hormone synthesizers, but I'd been completely operational for over half a century.

When we entered, she was sitting on the worn visitors' couch. In my humble opinion, she exemplified the phrase "sitting pretty." Yet, she had rips in her clothes and scratches on her face. When she looked up, I could see that she'd been crying. Her eyes were charmingly mismatched, one was blue, the other grey. Apparently, one of her contact lense s had been washed away by thick, glycerin, android tears. She looked up, saw me, and smiled. I nodded in reply and maintained my professional demeanor, but I could hear angels singing in my ears.

"Miss -- uh -- Miss Bridgeport, I presume?" Leland asked.

"I don't go by the name of 'Bridgeport', sir," she replied. "The truth is, I don't have a last name. Everyone calls me 'Adele-two'."

"Well, that's a bit clumsy. May I simply call you 'Adele'?" he asked.

"Certainly," she said.

"I'm Captain Leland, and I believe you know Detective Markowitz."

"Yes, we met at the mansion," Adele-two replied.

"Adele, you appear in be in some kind of distress. What happened and how can we help you?" Leland asked.

"Harry Bridgeport is missing," she said. "I think he may have been kidnapped or something. He hasn't been home in two days."

"Maybe he went out of town," I said. "I assume you checked with the butler about his schedule."

Her face took on an indignant look. "There is no butler at the mansion any more," she said. "I was told that he was dismissed. I did check with Robby, the gate robot, and he told me that Mr. Bridgeport was supposed to be home. In fact, Robby said that Mr. Bridgeport didn't have any out-of-town appointments scheduled, and he hadn't left through the front gates."

"Has Bridgeport ever disappeared before, without telling you?" Leland asked.

"No. Look, I was only activated a few days ago," she said. "I'm not that sure of his habits. But he did have appointments scheduled. I've had to send over a dozen people away."

"How did you get those scratches on your face, Adele?" I asked.

"Well, I wanted to contact someone -- I wanted to contact you to see if you knew anything about Mr. Bridgeport. But I don't know how to use his communications telebot. Then I tried to leave through the gates, but Robby wouldn't let me. He told me that my departure was unauthorized. I asked him how I could get authorization and he told me to ask Mr . Bridgeport," she said. Her delicate features reflected the frustration I heard in her voice. I poured her a paper cup of water from Leland's water cooler. She drained the cup, then continued her story. "Again, I explained that Mr. Bridgeport was missing and that's why I needed to leave -- to contact the police, but Robby wouldn't listen to me, " she said. "I even asked Robby to contact the police for me, but he told me that _he_ wasn't authorized to use the communications system. So I snuck around to the back of the mansion and crawled

under the fence. That's how I scratched my face and all."

"You say Bridgeport hasn't been home for two days, Ma'am?" Leland asked.

"Yes. Since the day after Detective Markowitz visited us."

Leland looked in my direction. "Jerry," Leland said, "I need to speak to you for a second, outside." The captain smiled at Adele. "Could you wait here for a second, Miss?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied.

We stepped out of his office and Leland closed the door tightly. He leaned close to me and spoke in a soft voice. "Jerry, maybe you'd better tell the boys downstairs to start a search for Handsome Harry. And you'd better have them start with the android morgue. Harry isn't the type to just disappear without telling anyone. Plus, from what I've re ad in the papers, his wife hasn't even been buried yet. The situation doesn't feel right, and I suspect the worst," he said.

"Don't worry, Captain. We'll find Harry," I said, though I didn't feel as confident as I sounded. The fact is, Harry _wasn't_ the type to disappear without a word. Not with his wife's body still on display at the Harrison mortuary. Something was definitely wrong. Dead wrong.

* * *

Four uniformed officers found Harry's body at two the next afternoon, washed up on the beach at Harrison Bay. They called me at the station and I arrived at the scene about a half hour later. After several days in the water, I could no longer honestly call him "Handsome Harry." When androids are completely deactivated, our bodies decompose almost as fast as a human's. Synthetic flesh is biodegradable. After I identified him, the officers and I stepped well clear of the body. I used my sensors to observe him from a respectful distance.

"Do you think the Purists are responsible?" a voice asked. It was Sandra Monroe, right behind me, as usual. Her short dress artfully displayed her long, smooth legs, as usual.

"I guess it's possible, Sandra. But the Swenson and Freed women have been in police custody since the beginning of the week. So if the Purists were involved, it was some other member or members of the organization."

"If it wasn't the Purists, then who?"

"I don't know."

"Are you saying that Harry Bridgeport's death might not be related to the murder of his wife?" She had her electronic notepad in her hands and was ready to take a few notes. I had to remember to watch what I said.

"I'm not sure _what_ happened to Mr. Bridgeport. The coroner still has to determine the cause of death."

"Do you think it's a suicide?" she asked.

"No," I said, emphatically. "People like Harry Bridgeport don't kill themselves." I silently kicked myself for making that comment. Sandra would print it, for sure.

"If I were you, Detective, I'd track down every member of that Purist group and sit them down for a long, thorough interview," she said. "I know you still have the list that Pete gave you." She wasn't trying to mock me. She was absolutely sincere. In fact, I'm sure she was trying to be helpful. That irritated me more than anything.

"Don't tell me how to do my job, Sandra. Please."

"Okay, fine. You won't get any more advice from me. Just tell me if you have an official comment for the paper."

"You mean you don't have enough, already?"

"I'm not going to print anything you've said so far, Jerry. I assumed it was off the record," she said.

"Thank you, Sandra," I said. The woman continued to surprise me. "Just say that we're investigating this death and any possible connections to the murder of Adele Bridgeport."

"Very good," she said, then smiled at me, walked over to where her car was parked, got inside and simply drove away. That was a minor miracle, in and of itself.

As I watched Sandra's car kick up sand from the beach and tear off down the road, the station communications telebot contacted my internal sensors.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Captain Leland wants to speak to you, Detective."

"Put him through," I said. An instant later, Leland's familiar voice was projected directly into my head. I hated this method of communication. It took away my privacy.

"So was it Harry's body?" Leland asked.

"I'm afraid so, Captain."

"Damn. Now it starts all over again," he said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wilkins' car pull up. The officers called his name and pointed him toward the body.

"Do you know who killed him, Jerry?"

"Not yet."

"I don't think the Purists had anything to do with it," he said.

"Neither do I," I replied. My sensors scanned Wilkins as he poked and prodded Harry's body. Harry, the poor slob, had always been so proud of that body. Now it was nothing more than a cold piece of synthetic meat.

"You know who I suspect?" Leland asked. "You know who my gut tells me killed that android?"

"No. Who?"

"Your girlfriend, the android Adele."

"Oh come on, Captain. You've got to be kidding."

"It makes sense, Jerry. You said he abused her."

"He didn't abuse her, per se. He just treated her with a lack of respect."

"Right. And that might have made her angry," Leland said. "She'd just been activated for the first time, way outside of any android manufacturing facility, and she hadn't yet learned how to control emotions like anger. She met you, an android cop who obviously found her attractive, and she learned that we were investigating the Purist group for t he murder of his wife. She probably figured that she could kill him and make you think the Purists had done it."

"I don't believe it."

"Listen, Jerry. Suppose you were right about the first case. Suppose Harry killed the human Adele with a little help from your Adele. Then, after this newly born woman had learned about murder at the feet of a master, she simply practiced what she had learned."

"Androids are non-violent by nature, Captain. It takes years for us to develop a taste for something as human as murder." Wilkins had ordered the uniformed officers to cover Harry's body. I was glad. The sight of him in that condition had made me nauseous.

"Jerry, I want the android Adele brought in for questioning, now!" Leland said. He was a dark angel inside my head. "Where did you take her? Where is she staying?"

"I took her to a friend's apartment, where she'd be safe."

"Well, get her. Bring her down to the station."

"Yes, Captain."

"Leland out," he said, and the voice in my head fell silent.

Somewhere deep inside me, logic and emotion fought to the death. I had to seriously consider Leland's theory. Why? Because it made sense.

I ran for my car, jumped inside, and pulled onto the road. Forty minutes later, after countless replays of my conversation with Leland, I arrived at my own apartment. Adele had stayed with me the previous evening. It made sense for her to stay with me. I was the only friend she had in the world. At least, I had thought I was her friend.

* * *

Adele-two sat under the hot lights in the cold police interrogation room and squirmed on her hard-back chair. I conducted the interview, in tandem with Captain Leland, who was not about to let me go it alone.

"Why did you think of Harry Bridgeport," I asked. "Did you like him?" I'd asked the same question a few minutes earlier but her response had been extremely noncommittal. I knew Leland wanted a more definitive answer.

"He gave me life," she said. "I owed him everything."

"But did you like him?" Leland asked. The Captain repeatedly tapped his leg against the back of his chair, a sign of impatience.

"Sir, I don't even know what it means to 'like' someone. I know the dictionary definition of the word, but that's about all."

"Well, according to this dictionary definition, would you say that you liked me?" he asked.

"I think so," she said. She looked over at me, for approval or moral support. I purposely avoided her gaze.

"Okay, do you like Detective Markowitz?" Leland asked.

"Yes," she answered, emphatically. "I like Detective Markowitz."

"Why do you like him?"

"Because he's so nice. He's been good to me," she said. My heart soared to angelic heights. Also, for the first time that morning, I noticed that she wasn't wearing her blue contact lenses. Her eyes were a beautiful android grey.

"So, based on your feelings for Detective Markowitz, would you say that you liked Harry Bridgeport?" Leland asked.

"Not as much," she said.

"Not as much or not at all?"

Adele brushed her left hand nervously through her light blonde hair. "He was never very nice to me," she said.

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I didn't kill him."

"Adele, why didn't you want to go home, yesterday?" I asked.

"It's not my home. It's Harry Bridgeport's home," she said.

"But you lived there, too," Leland said. "And now, since Bridgeport has been deactivated and the human Adele's parents are dead, you might even inherit the place."

"I don't want the mansion," she said. "I don't want to live there. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"Because it's dark and drafty. And that robot is creepy. He actually grabbed me and kissed me the other day. It made my mouth feel slimy."

I held up one of the Purist flyers for Adele to see. "Have you ever seen these posters, before?

"Once. Mr. Bridgeport let me see one,"

"Those posters aren't very nice, are they, Adele?" I asked.

"No. They're horrible. Those people don't like androids very much, do they?"

"No, they don't like androids," Leland said. "They'd like to see you all destroyed."

Adele gasped and I thought she was going to spontaneously deactivate. I rushed to her side to hold her steady in her chair.

"That comment was unnecessary, Captain," I said.

He looked at me with bemused eyes. "Jerry, let's speak in private," he said.

An instant later, out in the corridor, Leland outlined a plan that could either save or convict Adele. "Take the android girl home, Jerry," he said. "Wish her well, tell her that she's no longer under suspicion, then _leave_. Stay nearby and watch the house. Watch it very carefully. Use those amazing sensors of yours. See what Adele does with her time. She might incriminate herself."

I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and leaned against the wall. "What do you expect her to do?"

"I don't know, exactly. She could do anything. For example, Wilkins said that Bridgeport was hit on the head with a blunt object. That's what killed him. Adele Bridgeport was also struck on the head. If your little Adele tries to hide or dispose of a pipe or bat or anything that could be used as a weapon, get it from her, and bring her back down h ere."

"Captain, she didn't kill anyone."

"Fine. Then the Purists did it. And if that group really is responsible for both murders, they might try to kill Adele. So if any suspicious individuals show up on or near the property, apprehend them and bring them in for questioning."

I must have looked skeptical, because Leland stepped within an inch of my nose and spoke firmly and directly into my face. "Jerry, at this point, I honestly don't care who killed the Bridgeports," he said. "But I want these cases closed, once and for all. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain," I replied. He'd made himself perfectly clear.

* * *

Three days later, I sat on the upper branches of a tree, a quarter mile from the Harrison Mansion, and used my sensor enhancements to watch Adele's every move. I'd pulled up at the mansion with Adele, convinced the still-argumentative robot to open the gates, dropped her off at the front door, and said goodbye, just as Leland had ordered. Then I f ound myself a convenient tree in the woods near the mansion, and watched and waited for something to happen.

For the longest time, nothing did happen. I met a couple of confused squirrels who, at first, acted like they wanted to charge me rent, then eventually ignored me and continued with their normal daily activities. Leland called a couple of times and spoke directly into my head, via the communications telebot. I gave him my non-progress report. He t old me to stay put and continue my surveillance.

I zoomed in on the mansion windows and watched Adele wander aimlessly from room to room, like Little Bo Peep in search of her sheep. On the second day, Adele left the mansion to speak to the gate robot. My sensors could hear their conversation. She wanted him to open the gates, but he refused. I half-expected her to try and sneak off the grounds a s she had once before, but Adele simply returned to the house and continued her aimless trek past windows in empty rooms. She seemed to have nothing to hide, no secret tasks to finish, in fact, no purpose, whatsoever.

The grounds remained quiet. The robot stood quietly at his post by the front gate. No cars drove anywhere near the mansion, and no Purists appeared at the gates with mysterious green flyers. Finally, on the middle of the third long day, I noticed something peculiar. The robot was gone. I didn't see him leave his post, but one minute he was there a nd the next minute, he just disappeared. I spotted Adele as she sat by the window in Harry Bridgeport's study. She had found herself a pair of knitting needles and was apparently trying to knit a sweater, or a big sock. My sensors scanned the grounds for the robot, but I saw no trace of him.

I jumped out of my tree and moved in for a closer look. Just as I stepped onto Harrison Boulevard, the door to the study opened and the robot entered the room with Adele.

"What are you doing here?" I heard her ask.

"I've come for you," he replied, with a voice that scratched my sensors like an icepick. "I want you." Suddenly, I remembered something Adele had said in the questioning room. She'd told us that the robot had kissed her, and she'd said that it made her mouth feel slimy. In a flash, everything made sense to me. I began to run toward the grounds as fast as I could.

I used all my strength to bend the latch on the front gates and pull them open, then hurried up the path to the house. Stepping though azaleas, I found the study window, cracked it open with a rock, and climbed inside. As I pushed away broken shards of glass, I looked up and saw Adele staring at me, then felt a tremendous blow to the back of my h ead and fell to the floor. Everything went black for an instant.

When I came to my senses, I was sprawled out under the broken window, surrounded by glass fragments. Robby, the robot, stood just a few feet away, with his mouth joints twisted into a facsimile of a smile. He'd bashed me on the head with his metal arm, which was solid and hard, and made a pretty darn good club. "You androids are all alike," he sa id. "You're stupid and cruel, and you're no better than humans."

"Detective Markowitz, help me," Adele said. She was crouched by the far window with the knitting needle held out like a weapon. "That robot has gone mad."

"Mad? I'm mad," the robot asked. "No, Harry was the one who was mad. You know what he did to me? He installed male hormone synthesizers, then refused to have me refitted with the proper male parts. He left me with a desire for women, but no equipment to fulfill those desires. And why did he do it, you ask?" Neither Adele nor I had asked him anythi ng, but we didn't wish to contradict him at that moment.

"Why did Harry fill me with these desires?" the robot asked. "For the fun of it. He liked the idea of a robot who could appreciate a pretty face and therefore envy him for his sexual conquests. Well, I had to get my revenge. First, I started small. I let those Purist humans post their little hate messages on the gates. _That_ amused _me_ . Finall y, I decided to seduce his wife. I decided to show her that I was a better, more affectionate, smarter creature than Harry. With all her money, I knew she could have me refitted with the best android parts money could buy. Then I'd show her how a real lover acts." The robot looked over at Adele. "Honey, you might look like the human Adele, but you don't have what she had. She had class. One- hundred percent, human class."

"But she didn't want to have anything to do with you, did she, Robby?" I asked. "You left the grounds, somehow followed her to the park, and tried to seduce her. You kissed her, but she pushed you away."

"Good guess, Detective," the robot said. "I kissed her, more completely than any man or android ever had."

"And that's how she got the Andro-smooth in her system, isn't it? You use that stuff as an internal lubricant, don't you?"

"That's right. I don't have your kind of body, android," he said. "My metal parts need constant lubrication."

"That's why you're so slimy," Adele said.

"He's slimy, all right," I said. "He's slimy right through to his mechanical heart. When the human Adele rejected him, he hit her on the head with that club arm of his, and strangled her to death with his unyielding metal hands. Then, just to prove how clever he was, he planted one of those anti-android flyers near the body."

"That's right. And don't forget, android, I killed Harry, too. He thought those Purist people had killed his wife. He never suspected me," the robot said. "So it was an easy matter to crawl through the tunnel that connects the mansion to my post by the gate, enter the house, and beat Harry to a state of permanent deactivation. When it got dark, I simply drove the body over to Harrison Bay, in his own car. Believe me, that was a real pleasure."

The robot began to walk toward me. I knew he planned to crush me to death with his huge, hard feet. "Now, I'll have the pleasure of permanently deactivating you, Detective," he said. "And, Adele, you'll be next, unless we can come to some kind of arrangement."

I pushed away the glass fragments from the broken window and scrambled to my feet, but he reached out with his club-arm and knocked me to the floor, again. In the hope that God listens to androids, I said a silent prayer for my life.

"Robby, look over here," Adele said in a sharp voice. The robot turned and she threw her knitting needle at him with all her strength, in the hopes of puncturing an artificial eye, or causing damage to a vital part. The robot simply ducked out of the way, then turned his attention back toward me. In a last ditch survival attempt, I grabbed an elec tric lamp off a nearby table, smashed the bulb against the floor, and jammed the stem into his metal chest, just as he was about to stomp over my legs. Luckily, the lamp was still plugged into the wall and the electricity worked wonders. We heard a loud crack, every light in the mansion went out, and the robot was propelled backward, halfway acro ss the room.

I jumped to my feet again, arms in front of me like an old- fashioned boxer, and waited for Robby's next attack. It never came. He was pushed up against the study door, unconscious, deactivated. Foul-smelling fumes poured from his seams. He looked, for all the world, like a giant toaster that had blown its last and final fuse.

I hurried over to Adele, grabbed her in my arms, and kissed her. Within the next hour, I would call Captain Leland and tell him to close the book on the Bridgeport murders. After that, I'd contact Sandra Monroe and tell _her_ the whole story. Everyone involved deserved a full and proper explanation, and they'd get it. Nevertheless, for the next few moments, I just wanted to hold Adele and savor our victory.

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