Free city blues 01 - dome city blues by jeff edwards Page B

got a pot on now.”
    Detective Dancer scowled.  “We’re not here for tea and biscuits.  We’re here pursuant to a murder investigation.”
    I motioned them toward chairs.  Delaney sat down.  Dancer did not.
    I sat in my favorite wingback.  “I thought the investigation was closed.”
    Dancer arched her eyebrows.  “Closed?  What in the hell are you talking about?”
    “The Aztec investigation.  It’s formally closed, isn’t it?”
    Dancer’s brow furrowed.  “Aztec?  What does Aztec have to do with this?”
    Delaney pulled an audio recorder out of his pocket and loaded a fresh chip.  “Are you David Stalin?”
    “Yes,” I said.  “I’m David Stalin.”
    “For the record, Mr. Stalin: do you object to our recording this interview?”
    “What if I say yes?”
    Dancer tried to stare a hole through me.  “Then we get that warrant, and things start to get ugly.”
    I shrugged.  “No, I don’t object.”
    Delaney punched the record tab and put the little unit on the coffee table.  Then he set his briefcase on the table and opened it.  The lower half of the case was packed full of electronics modules and the anodized louvers of heat sinks.  The inside of the lid was a flat-screen crystal display with an integral keypad.  It was a Magic Mirror all right.
    Dancer smiled a hard little smile that had no joy or amusement in it.  “You know your rights, Mr. Stalin?”
    “Why?  Am I accused of something?”
    Delaney pulled a worn plastic card out of a small pouch inside the case and began to read.  “This is a Multifaceted Integrated Electroencephalographic Response Analyzer and Recorder.  It measures physiological changes that take place in response to certain visual stimuli.  It incorporates...”
    “I know what it does,” I said.  “It’s a Magic Mirror.  An electronic mind-probe.  You can skip the dissertation.”
    “This is just a little EEG scan,” Dancer said.  “You give us any shit, we’ll drag you down town and wire your ass up to the Inquisitor .  Then you’ll find out what a fucking mind-probe is.”
    Delaney paused for a second, to see if we were finished interrupting, and then continued to read.  “It incorporates four dermal sensor pads that measure electrical brain activity, galvanic skin reflex, and fluctuations in skin thermography.”
    I noticed that his pupils stayed locked on one spot of the card as he talked.  He wasn’t reading; he was reciting from memory.
    “Although you are not currently accused of a crime, it is our intention to interview you regarding an on-going homicide investigation.”
    He flipped the card over and continued to pretend to read.  “You have the right to terminate this interview at any time.  If you refuse this procedure, we reserve the option to take you into physical custody and transport you to the nearest Police Forensic Electronics facility for questioning under controlled conditions.  You have the right to have an attorney, real or virtual, present during this, and any subsequent interviews.  If you desire an attorney and cannot afford one, you will be granted real-time access to a fully cognizant Artificial Intelligence attached to the Public Defender’s office.”
    He looked up at me again.  “Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?”
    “Whose murder are we talking about here?”
    “Just answer the question, Mr. Stalin.  Do you understand your rights?”
    “Sure,” I said.
    “Do you wish to have an attorney present during this interview?”
    “Not really.”
    Dancer peeled off her jacket.  Underneath, she wore a cross-draw shoulder holster strapped over a light blue short-sleeved shirt.  Even through the shirt, I could see that the muscles of her arms and upper body were impressive.  She could probably bench press me a couple of dozen times.  She tossed her jacket across the back of a chair.  “Are we done with the formalities?”
    “We’re done,” Delaney said.
    “Good,” she