Free Necropolis by Michael Dempsey

rest.
    “This has been digitally altered.” She moved the cursor back and forth between one line of text and the next. “It was an excellent job forty years ago. They matched color, highlight and shadows, but the resolution is a tiny bit different. It’s the section of the article about the robber fleeing the scene.”
    “A last-minute edit before the paper went to press?”
    “No, this is a scanned image of the actual newspaper, not some text version. The alteration had to have been done after the paper hit the stands.”
    “Can I get the original somewhere? The public library?”
    She forced back her giggle. “You’re cute. No one stores physical docs anymore. That’s what the Conch is for.”
    “The what?”
    “Ever hear of Carl Jung?”
    “The psychologist.”
    “He had this theory about a collective unconscious, a sort of psychic warehouse of racial memories. When the internet became self-aware in ’41, some smartass blogger nicknamed it the Collective Consciousness , since its core memories—its limbic system, you might say—are the stored data of humanity. We’re using it right now.”
    The internet became The Conch. Question answered.
    She puffed her lips out, made a raspberry sound. “This really gripes my cookies. Why would someone change it? How could they change it? The Conch is hack-proof.”
    “I need my case file,” I said softly.
    She swiveled to me, her eyes large.
    “Know what happens when you try to hack the police network? Burly men show up at your door with morphinium handcuffs.”
    “Besides, you said it’s hack-proof,” I added.
    Her snort was so adorable that under different circumstances I would’ve had to bite my tongue. “I said the Conch was hack-proof. You think the government would trust its data to a sentient AI? No way. The government database is a separate system.”
    “So it can be done?”
    A wary look. “You’ve got ginger, baby, but I barely know ya.”
    I laid my hand over hers. “You know me alright, Arlene. I’m like you. Trying to play a game where all the rules have changed.”
    She stopped chewing. Her eyes stayed riveted on mine.  
    “It’s not enough, though, is it?” I continued. “Dressing like Sandra Dee, playing it safe, using all the right slang, staying under their radar.”
    Her head lowered. Then she sighed and carefully affixed her gum to the underside of the desk. “I swear, I must be slack happy.” She pointed toward a door next to the bathroom. “This will take time. There’s a cot in the back room. You look like you could use it. When I got back, I was a royal bitch for weeks.”

    ***

    Are you drunk? she says.
    Hmmm?
    I’ve crept into the bedroom. My head is spinning, and all I want to do is crawl into bed and drift away.
    Go to sleep.
    You smell like that damned bar, Elise says, sitting up.
    I stop pulling off my shoes. It’s going to be a fight.
    It’s part of the job, I say.
    Bullshit! Coming home drunk at two AM is not part of the damned job!
    Lone wolves don’t get promoted, Elise.
    She isn’t buying it. She lies back quietly as I undress.
    I’ve been going to meetings, Paul. Al-Anon.
    Christ. You know what’ll happen if someone sees you there?
    As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know I’ve said the worst possible thing. Elise’s face breaks into jagged angles of shock and hurt. Then it hardens. I hate to see it harden that way. It’s been happening a lot lately.
    I’m there for me, Paul. I don’t want to leave you, but I can’t stand where this is heading.
    I take her hand. It’s delicate, like a child’s.
    Look, baby. There’s got to be a way we can compromise.
    That’s called denial.
    Denial, I think. Goddamned AA. I’d sent many a petty criminal to them. But they were zealots. One way of seeing things. Everything was through the lens of their own addiction. And Elise had bought into it. Pretty soon she’d be telling me I had a disease.
    Elise, I’ve never had a DUI, never hit you. I’m not one of