FanPost

LOOGY, FOR THE LAW

It would be hard to recommend this life to a kid just starting out. You might pitch, you might not, and even if you do it’s to one batter, maybe two. You can’t stretch it out.

And because I carry a badge I also get calls at the last minute to investigate crimes. Even detectives have sick kids. Lots of them are hungover and just need a few hours. Some dicks just go down. When that happens the Chief calls me.

I had pitched the night before, but the call came early anyway. "Affeldt, we’ve got a stiff over at 3rd and Crawford. Baraldi has flu-like symptoms. Get over there."

I strapped my shoulder holster under my right armpit and tucked in the medium piece. I got the county Buick from the garage and stopped for a latte. Stiffs can usually wait a few minutes.

A uniform motioned to me at the corner and pointed to a light industrial at mid-block. Plenty of uniforms around, looking in gutters and trash cans and dumpsters. I knew a few of them. The alley dumpster and I had a history.

The CSI and I also had a history. She got the rough cases and knew how to smooth them over. She was Alya Sinchee. She stood in front of an open glass door facing 3rd. It was not broken. Nothing on the front window identified the business. Alya took me inside.

"Nice pitching last night," she said as we walked to the back of the office space. I saw no evidence of any particular sort of business that went on there. A gaggle of co-workers hugged and whimpered near the break station. Desks were randomly arranged and rolling white boards were liberally distributed. This was San Francisco. The body was in one of just a few cubicles. It was under the desk. The computer was still on but sleeping.

"The MI says he was shut down hard. Session ended. No trauma except to the system. His hardware appears to be intact."

"What did he do here?"

"He was a writer."

"Of deathless prose?"

"Of living code. If he’s lucky, it survives him. The CTU’s will scan the line drives. Speaking of line drives, Affeldt, you gave up a rip last night."

"It was caught. Ended the inning."

"What do his cow-orkers says?"

"Ork, ork."

"We’re not in the steel bar now, Alya, and these people are clearly injured. What do they really say?"

"The usual. He was lying there when they arrived, but that wasn’t unusual. He often worked all night then slept on the floor of his cubicle. Just this time, his files were erased."

"Did they like him?"

"They knew his name. It was Four."

"Four?"

"Apparently it’s not unusual for his people."

"The Tran people of Papua. They appear to have a talent for left-handed code."

"Left-handed code?"

"It’s a metaphor. It’s base 32 written backward. Turing could do it on the fly. Not many can. These people seem to be born with it."

"He was a loogy. Do any of those orkers actually know him?"

"One. The lady in blue."

"I’ll talk to her now. My shift is almost over. Today’s a day game."

"And Baraldi’s on his way. He’s over his flu. I guess."

"Right."