Kzine Issue 8 Read online

  Reaper scrabbled to get away, furiously pushing back on the mat with his heels, but Brawler moved quickly, and grabbed Reaper’s biceps.

  “This is the best part,” Victor said.

  Reaper’s screams crescendoed as the crowd was hushed to a murmur. Those closest to the ring were turning away. Some held their faces in their hands, others bent double and retched. Reaper’s arms were melting. What was flesh and steroid-induced muscle slowly transformed into water and gas, blood and bone. Steam rose from them as a searing heat burnt through Reaper’s flesh.

  The crowd echoed Reaper’s dwindling screams.

  The referee foolishly tried to intervene. Brawler’s left arm rose and punched the referee across the jaw. He fell to the floor, quivered like a rattle snake, and fell still. No-one else dared move. They could only watch.

  Reaper’s surface area was decreasing by the second. Blood and tissue covered the mat as the heat moved through his skeletal arms and up his body. As Reaper died from blood loss and shock, Jess came back to her senses.

  “Can you feel the heat you son of a bitch?” Victor screamed.

  He struggled, but couldn’t get free as she pulled him out of his seat and lifted him up the steps. When they reached the top, the tension in her limbs became too much and she buckled, falling onto her knees.

  Victor stood, straightened his collar. To her surprise, he helped her up with a disappointed frown.

  “We can go if you want. I’m done anyway,” he said with shrug.

  Jess grasped Victor’s shoulders. Their faces were inches apart.

  “Why Victor?” she asked.

  “To prove that wrestling’s not fake.”

  “But it is fake! The matches are all planned beforehand!”

  “I don’t think they planned that,” Victor said, smiling down at the ring below. “Now take me home. I’ve got something new I want to try out.”

  T-VISION

  by Richard Zwicker

  “Marselle, pick up on line 1,” Inspector Plankton said, his wide body filling the doorway to his office. “This case is right up your bandwidth.”

  Marselle looked up from his desk, frowned, and reached for the phone. Past experience told him that cases Plankton characterized as “up his bandwidth” were dead ends no one wanted.

  “Marselle, Homicide.”

  “My name is Bob LeMay and I’d like to report a murder.” A deep, voice articulated each word. “Mine.”

  Marselle shot Plankton a death ray glance, which the inspector repulsed with a fixed stare. “Sir,” Marselle said to the voice. “I don’t know what you were told, but wasting the department’s time is a foolish hobby.”

  “Detective Marselle, I called to save you time. I know who the murderer will be.”

  “Fine. Give us the name and we’ll arrest him the moment he commits the crime.”

  “Please,” LeMay said urgently. “Just come to my home. I’ve got the evidence here.”

  Marselle turned to Plankton. “How much did you pay this guy?”

  Plankton motioned for Marselle to hand him the phone. “Bob,” he said into the receiver. “I apologize for Detective Marselle. He’ll be over in about ninety minutes.” Plankton clicked off, then turned to Marselle. “Into my office.”

  Plankton settled gently into his desk chair. Though the inspector had a large body, he wielded it with the muscle control of ballet dancer. His office mirrored this control. Framed pictures of him with important people, carefully spaced, dotted the walls. Except for his netbook computer, he kept his desktop bare. Even when summoned, Marselle always felt like an intruder.

  “Ever hear of Bob LeMay?” Plankton asked.

  “Not before today.”

  “He’s a respected criminologist and author of several books. In his opinion, what bad guys really need is structure.”

  “One with four walls and metal bars?”

  “Right. He’s actually an old friend. We studied criminal justice together in college.”

  “And you’re telling me this because…”

  ”Bob LeMay really did see his own murder, on a TV set.”

  “A reality show?” Marselle grimaced. “What’s it called? ‘So You Really Want to Be Dead’?”

  “Not bad, but no. You remember that case four years ago with the Time Phone?”

  Marselle stiffened. An electronic toy phone that allowed you to talk to a simulated version of yourself twenty years in the future had caused the death of its creator and sent the company’s president to jail. It reinforced Marselle’s belief that there were too many gadgets in the world.

  “I remember.”

  “Well, there’s a new product out. Tomorrow-vision, or as the ads call it, T-vision. It’s quite brilliant. All you have to do is type in your name, social security number, and answer some questions. Based on that, not only does it access everything electronically available about you, but also cross-references it with information on people associated with you.”

  “What, everybody?”

  Plankton scratched his expanding forehead. “No. As I understand it, it picks the ten people you’ve had the most interaction with. Anyway, here’s the gimmick.”

  “The television shows you your future.”

  “Almost. It shows what your future would be if you didn’t waste time watching it. The thing is, the few people who’ve been able to afford this thing—it costs 10,000 bucks—spend lots of time glued to the set.”

  “So the more you watch it, the less likely you do what it says.”

  “Exactly. There’s even a disclaimer on the box, something like, ‘T-vision creates a simulation of the future for your entertainment. Programs should not be considered an accurate portrayal of your future.’”

  “Who makes it?”

  “A local company. Extrapolation Enterprises.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “They used to call themselves Exemplary.”

  Marselle sighed in recognition of the company that had developed the Time Phone. “OK, so a company involved in a past murder could be involved in a future one. It still seems pretty thin for us to get involved.”

  Plankton smiled, one of nature’s few straight lines. “Homicide isn’t getting involved. I’m hiring you as a consulting detective, assuming you’re interested in making a little extra money and doing your boss a favor, not necessarily in that order.”

  “No, that would be the order.”

  “Whatever. Here’s what’s important. Alex Lane, former CEO of Exemplary, is an amoral bastard that got only eight years for murder on the ‘Time Phone’ case. He’s up to something with this new game, and I want to know what it is. This TV has got LeMay by the balls. It’s ruined his marriage and stalled his career. Actually, I don’t even like him that much, but I want to make sure he never writes anything bad about me.” Plankton’s head sagged. “Will you take the case?”

  Marselle hated people like Lane, who made money off people’s weaknesses. The detective also felt some sympathy for LeMay. Not so long ago Marselle’s marriage had crumbled. He hadn’t whiled away the hours watching prophetic television, but he had obsessed on his future, working all hours to advance his career. He now recognized that any future connected to Inspector Plankton wasn’t worth sweating over.

  “Anything for you, boss.”

  “Good. One other thing: the president of Extrapolation is Valerie Starling. Remember her?”

  Marselle snorted. “I’d need a lobotomy to forget her.” Valerie Starling had been the glamorous lover of Alex Lane. Her testimony, along with that of Seth Dillard, a coworker, had led to Lane’s conviction.

  “I think she’s just acting as a front for Lane, but…” he paused, “what a front. So, talk to LeMay, with tact, as he has a bit of a temper. Then go see how Valerie Starling is doing with her career change.”

  Bob LeMay lived in the kind of house most people dreamed of. Though located in the city and accessible to all its advantages, a ten-foot high fence kept out its disadvantag
es. Beyond the fence roamed a German Shepherd anxious to rip any intruder’s leg off. A tall, well-preserved man with shiny white hair roughly grabbed the collar of the lunging dog. “He’s kind of a stealth watch dog: all bite and no bark.” LeMay introduced himself, extending his right hand. Marselle felt nervous tension in the handshake. “Follow me,” LeMay instructed, leading him up a European-looking cobblestone walk.

  “Nice place,” Marselle said inside, admiring the spacious, uncluttered rooms. “How long have you lived here?”

  “We had it built ten years ago,” LeMay said, his face flushing with pride. “We saw this land and it shouted, ‘buy me.’” He led Marselle to a veranda, revealing a rustic-looking backyard. “Though my neighbors are nearby, the trees block them out. I can look out here and have the illusion that I live in the country.”

  “Were you brought up in the country?”

  He sniffed. “Actually, I’ve always lived in the city. But I associate it with work and theft. When I think of the country, I think of escape.”

  Marselle nodded. The country made him think of bad schools, poverty, and inter-married cousins. Then again, except for the cousins, the city had come to remind him of the same things.

  “The T-vision is in the living room,” LeMay said. Inside, Marselle noted a long couch King Arthur might have used as a companion piece to the Round Table. Like the other rooms, despite expensive pieces of furniture, the dominant ambience was of empty space. An unused fireplace sat in the back of the room. To the right, on top of a three-foot high square platform, perched the T-vision, a sleek 50-inch window into a false future. The picture was frozen on a church service.

  “What’s on the screen?” Marselle asked.

  “My funeral.” LeMay grabbed the remote and resumed play.

  Sure enough, in the background behind the solemn minister, Marselle saw the open casket. The body of Bob LeMay, with a slightly bloated face and folded hands, lay oblivious. Marselle remembered the famous scene in Tom Sawyer where the title character experienced a common dream: being a fly on the wall at your own funeral. It wasn’t quite the same seeing it on TV, however. “I don’t get it,” Marselle said finally.

  “What?”

  “This is like a complicated fortune cookie, but fortune cookies never say you’re going to meet a violent death. If they did, you’d never go back to the restaurant. If Extrapolation wants to sell a bunch of T-visions, they should be predicting happy futures.”

  LeMay frowned. “This is based on countless gigabytes of information. It wouldn’t have a hold on anybody if it just said, ‘You’re going to come into a lot from money from a tall, dark stranger.’”

  Marselle nodded. The camera lingered on an attractive woman in her late thirties, talking animatedly to a husky man, his colorful suit inappropriate to the somber proceedings. “Who are those two?”

  LeMay inhaled loudly. “My beautiful estranged wife and Sean Prouty, my murderer.”

  “What? What is she talking to him for?”

  “According to T-vision, they planned it.”

  Marselle searched LeMay’s eyes for irony but found none. “What does your wife say about this?”

  LeMay crossed his arms. “Not only does Lauren refuse to discuss it; she says she’ll file for divorce if I don’t get rid of the set.”

  “And you chose the ten-thousand-dollar set.”

  “Three thousand on sale. They made a big push here. Canvassed the whole neighborhood.”

  “When was that?”

  LeMay shrugged. “June 9th or 10th. The same day I put it on my credit card.”

  “I’ll check. So where is your wife now?”

  “She’s a neurologist at the city hospital. I don’t know where she’s staying, but I can give you her cell number.” He dictated it to Marselle, who wrote it down.

  “Now maybe you could describe the murder to me,” Marselle said.

  “I can do better than that. The set automatically records and retains everything for two weeks.”

  On the TV Marselle watched LeMay and the well-dressed man argue in a dark alley. LeMay angrily told him to stay away from someone named Inez, a prostitute. When the husky man laughed, LeMay got more agitated. Without warning, the man pulled out a knife and stabbed LeMay three times. LeMay looked startled, then crumpled to the ground. It all struck Marselle as less real than a badly scripted movie. The camerawork lacked the fast cuts and close-ups one expected in a professional production. He had difficulty hearing all the dialogue and what he did hear sounded trite and wordy. The absence of background music removed much of its drama. Then again, it might seem more exciting if he were the murder victim.

  Marselle played back the stabbing, freezing the screen on the murderer. He stood with his back to the streetlight, obscuring all but a vague outline of his face and a thin mustache.

  “What do you know about this guy, Sean Prouty?” Marselle asked.

  “He owns the bowling alley on Liberty Street, but his main source of income comes from pimping. He’s total scum.”

  “And you’re his customer?”

  LeMay’s eyes flashed in anger. “I never met him! I don’t know who Inez is! And I think I would prefer drilling two holes in my head over going bowling. Damn this T-vision.”

  After leaving LeMay’s house, Marselle canvassed the neighborhood. No one had ever heard of T-vision. On his cell he reported to Plankton, who suggested he and LeMay go bowling at the future murderer’s alley that night.

  “How did I know you were going to suggest that?” Marselle said.

  “Because we both know the best way to free LeMay from his T-vision is to disprove its predictions. Then you can concentrate on nailing Alex Lane. When are you going to visit his CEO, by the way?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Valerie Starling didn’t remember his name but she did recall his profession.

  “Cops.” She said the word as if it were a disgusting body part. “You know what’s wrong with this world?”

  “Why don’t you tell me,” Marselle said as he walked into her plush office. Its garish colors and occupant reminded him of a cheap hotel room. Starling, with her blonde hair tied back, was packaged into a more formal pants suit than the sexy dress he’d last seen her in. It reminded Marselle of prudish attempts to dress up naked Roman statues.

  “Too many cops telling everybody what not to do. Why don’t you help people do things rather than get in their way all the time.”

  “Maybe instead of sending Alex Lane to jail for killing an innocent man, I should have lent him my revolver.”

  She dismissively waved her manicured hand. “Alex is paying his debt to society.”

  “Yeah, thanks to your testimony. It’s odd he rewards you with his job.”

  Valerie leaned over her desk, her chest jutting out. “He knew I had no choice. Besides, that’s ancient history. I’m young. I’m interested in now.”

  “I’m interested in tomorrow. Tomorrow-vision.”

  “I think it’s out of your league,” she sneered. “We do have a payment plan that might work for you, if you plan to live to be 150.”

  “Funny. I just want information. What are the chances of something you see on T-vision actually happening?”

  She shrugged. “As good as any educated guess.”

  “Except the whole scenario is based on guesses, and if one doesn’t pan out, the program could go into the wrong direction.”

  “It’s entertainment,” she said, stringing out the noun. “We’re just giving our customers a little fun.”

  “So when someone buys your product and sees his own murder, that’s fun?”

  “Lots of people like a little danger in their entertainment.” She smiled winningly. “Don’t you?”

  Homicide provided ample danger, Marselle thought, but he didn’t become a detective for the thrills. On the contrary, nothing would please him more than the sudden elimination of the need for his services.

  “No.” He decided to try another tack. “It
’s pleasant talking to you, but I find it hard to believe you’re the brains behind T-vision. Maybe I’ll pay Alex Lane a visit.”

  She bristled. “Men always think I’m dumb because of how I look. I’m not though. I have ideas. I could have been a writer but no one reads anymore, so I head this company. You can talk to Alex Lane all you want, but I had more input into T-vision than he did.”

  Marselle nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  On his way home Marselle stopped at the city hospital to check out the estranged Lauren LeMay. After an hour of waiting, he was frostily greeted by a harried, distraught woman so angry at the mention of T-vision that her hands shook. He felt fortunate she wasn’t conducting any neurosurgery on him. He also didn’t believe for one second that she harbored any thoughts of killing her husband.

  Marselle had never bowled in his life, and as he and LeMay entered Cedar Bowl, he thought wistfully how he’d never be able to say that again. His back hurt just from watching the bent positions of the bowlers launching the ball down the long, shiny lanes. How had a primitive activity like bowling survived in an age of computer games? Then he noticed most of the bowlers wore earbuds and, while they sat, played with their phones. Everyone was here but part of them was somewhere else. Sometimes Marselle felt he lived in another dimension.

  “That’s Sean Prouty,” LeMay said as they walked up to the main desk. Wearing a plaid short-sleeve shirt and jeans, Prouty dressed more casually for bowling than for murdering people. His red blotchy face indicated an unhealthy lifestyle. He might be considered darkly handsome if his surroundings supplied sufficient darkness.

  “He hands out rental shoes at his own bowling alley?” Marselle asked.

  “He’s probably just scouting for johns,” LeMay said, fidgeting. Marselle had needed all his powers of persuasion to extricate LeMay from T-vision for a few hours.

  “I’ll handle this.” Marselle said, walking up to the desk with an exaggerated swagger. “How’s business?”

  Prouty smiled, bringing out his facial lines. “Not bad. Welcome to Cedar Bowl.”

  “Thanks. Bowling is something I’ve always meant to take up but never did. My friend here finally got me to take the plunge.” He glanced at LeMay, who smoldered at Prouty.