Editing Marco Domici: Angeline Harbok

"You can't do that here, miss." The old man pushed the squeaking trashcan into the darkened room. An old broom was upside down in the trash, he pulled it out and started to sweep up the "so sorry" flyers, wilted flowers, and other detrius from the day. "Company rules." He added.

Angeline took a deep drag off her cigarette without even looking at the man. She continued to slouch in the almost comfortable but worn to tatters chair. "I'm sitting in front of a fusion furnace with bits of ash dropping out the front door. No telling what the back of the thing looks like. Who cares about a little more smoke?" She nodded towards the furnace. "They don't. Trust me."

"Ang, you can't do that. I told you the same thing last year. And the year before." The seat grunted in effort as he set the broom aside and sat close by. Not too close.

"Every year you tell me the same thing." Ang took another deep drag. "And every year I have to argue with myself. 'Do I show him a badge, bribe him with a bottle, or just shoot him and toss his body in with someone else?' Harv, it's getting to be an old debate. Are you sure I might not change my mind?"

"It's worked for me so far." Harvey reached over and picked up the small brown bag between them. A quick look assured him no one else was around this late at night so he unscrewed the top and took a swig. "Looks like someone got here before me, Ang. You okay?"

It was a long moment. "Ang?"

"You ever watch one of those stupid vids where you want to jump into the scene and start smacking people until they start thinking?" 

"Not since I went blind, Ang. These old implants don't work too well with modern comm channels."

"Sorry Harv. Forgot." Ang reached over for the bottle and took a deep swig. "They're good enough to recognize me in a dark room?"

"Not really. I guessed. Same day, same foul smokes, same slump in the same tatty chair. What were you then, twelve? Thirteen?"

"Depends on who you asked, I guess. Chronologically thirteen. Emotionally? Maybe thirty. Maybe three. Varied from day to day."

"Sorry, Ang. Didn't mean to bring up the past." Harv took the bottle and knocked back a little more.

"Too late, Harv. The past just jumped me full force." Ang flicked the butt through the furnace. "I'll be back tomorrow. Officially. If you find bodies stuffed in closets you'll know someone else tried to tell me to quit smoking. Might give them a heads up."

"I'll let the janitor staff know. The bones don't listen to us much." He chuckled. "If you're willing to take recommendations, there's Crab McKenzie. He could get stuffed into a closet and no one would complain."




"You can't do that in here, miss." The man held up a gloved hand and pointed at the exit. "Must be at least twenty meters from any building exit." His silibant intonation was half naslized. 

"Really?" Ang tilted her head to read the embroidered script on his white scrubs. "McKenzie? Doctor McKenzie?"

The man straightened. "You've heard of me?" His tone softened. "Might I ask where?"

"Bort house down by the industrial section, actually." Ang replied and watched the man stiffen further. She opened her hide jacket a little more than necessary. She was obviously a woman, and she saw his eyes dip a little. Then a little more, to her trim waist, tight belt, and well used service weapon lodged inside her waistband holster. 

Ang sucked on her smoke and blew it towards McKenzie. Not in his face, though. Not yet. "I'm here on business, McKenzie. Lucky for you, it involves one of your current customers here. Nothing else."

"Nothing else?" He replied. Beaten. 

"Well, that depends on the amount of cooperation I get." She sucked again. "So, let's work together and I'll probably be occupied here for a while. How's that sound?"

"Certainly. Officer...officer?"

"Detective Sergeant Harbok, at your service." Ang picked a mostly clean petri dish beside the body McKenzie was examining and snubbed her cigarette out. "Customer came in yesterday. Male. Identified as Aldo Domici. Where is he?"

"Let me show you, Detective. Sam, please continue clean-up here. I'll be back shortly." McKenzie stripped off his gloves and dropped his mask. "I assume this is an official inquiry, Detective?" He continued. 

"Very, Mac." Her boots echoed across the tile floor as they went to another drawer. "And political. I really suggest you follow my lead and don't do anything unless I tell you."

"My work is always professional, detective." He ignored Ang's snort. "Mister Domici was stabbed with a sharp knife, mid section. Twice." He opened the small door and pulled out the sliding shelf. 

Ang lit another cigarette. Mostly because she wanted to annoy McKenzie. Or so she told herself. Nothing to do with her hands shaking. Nothing about seeing his face, there. Lifeless.

"Are you okay, detective." McKenzie's condescending tone returned. "Never seen a body before?"

This time Ang did blow smoke in his face. McKenzie coughed and backed away as Ang pulled the sheet totally off and examined the body closely. "Seventy three." She said.

"No, Mister Domici was in his late forties, I believe. No evidence of anagathics or altered physical state."

"No, I meant that I've given you seventy three customers. Each of which I have examined personally. That does not count the victims I have had to identify, examine, or cart in." She blew smoke. "Tell me about the wounds."

McKenzie stepped back. "Uh...mm...two thrusts mid-section. Large bladed instrument, maybe a hunting knife? One in the left side just below the rib cage, the other center stomach, five centimeters below the xyphoid process."

"Penetration depth?"

"Eight centimeters, give or take. Side penetration was upward and penetrated the lung, causing internal liquids to enter. Front strike damaged several organs."

"I'm not seeing evidence of blunt force trauma at the entry wounds."

"None."

"Both penetrations the same depth, though?"

"Almost exactly. Hence the deduction of a hunting style knife. Have you recovered the instrument?"

"Not yet. But I will." Ang went over the body a little more and then pulled the sheet back up. "Keep him preserved. There will need to be a formal inquiry and you'll probably get a visit from another doctor, who will likely lead the examination."

McKenzie huffed. "We are the only ones authorized to perform autopsies in the city, detective. I assure you..."

"That no one will hear you squeal when a bunch of mercenaries stuff your stupid attitude, along with your whiner voice, into a trashcan and carry Mister Domici to their facility." Ang blew smoke again, and smiled. "This is Master Sergeant Aldo Domici, retired. You are welcome to face a bunch of professional killers if you like, I certainly won't stand in your way. Or you can play the game and keep everyone happy and thus less likely to shoot you. Your call."

Ang stomped out of the mortuary and drove away. She passed her office, then her dingy apartment. She just drove away.







The pattering rain hit Ang's coat and bounced. Some of it hit her again and streamed down the back, drenching her pants to the skin. Various riders drifter past; wheeled mostly. Hargrave street wasn't Collinsport's upper crust. This late at night, if Ang were to arrest everyone doing something illegal, would keep her very busy and depopulate the street.

Ang was waiting for one perp in particular. She kept her smoke cupped, but they knew she was there. Some of them knew her, personally. Most of them had been face down and cuffed plenty of times in the past months. Or years. It's a way of life.

Ang took a deep drag as Harry stumbled up the street. His Jones was crego and he showed the spatial disorientation from long use. He had six months to live, maybe a year. Crego was never forgiving.

As Harry walked up to the guys at the corner, Ang caught up to him. "This one's on me, guys." She said, tossing them a few creds.

"When did you start using, girl?" Mkveigh said, looking her up and down. "You still got some value, you know? Need a little extra?" He waved one of the drug impregnated wrappers. "For a little fun, I'll make it fun."

"Fun will be splattering your head over the sidewalk, Mkveigh." Ang replied, grabbing Harry's wraps with one hand and Harry with the other. "This is business. Unless you and I need to talk business?"

Mkveigh flipped her off and turned back to his skags while Ang half walked Harry around the back of the bar.

"Oh, hey Ang." He slurred. "Fancy meeting you here."

"You too, Harry. Class not going well?"

"The worst, Ang. I can't take it any more." He flopped on the ground, leaning against the wall.

"Give it up." Ang replied. She still held the wraps. "All of it."

"Can't, don't you know." It took him a couple attempts to reach out and get the wraps. "Kids need college money, wife needs a new speeder. Ex wife needs, something. Never sure what." Harry carefully put regular weed into the crego wrap. "Got a light?"

Ang lit another smoke off her old one and gave Harry the butt. "Keep it." He chuckled, and she continued. "Three nights ago there was a botched robbery on Joan's street. Courier was killed, no one is claiming loss. Harry, you spend time on the street, what have you heard?"

"Don't say nuthing, old man." One of Mkveigh's skags had come up. "The Man says to keep your mouth shut." He motioned back to Mkveigh. "I got a gun that says you and the lady are done talking." He stretched so the revolver stuck in his belt was visible.

Ang's shot caught him mid-gut, about four centimeters north and west of the revolver's butt. He went down, eyes wide, looking at Ang. She looked back. Mkveigh and his skags stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and then became vapor.

"Aren't you supposed to tell him what law he was breaking first?"

"Yeah, you're right." She nudged the still warm body with the toe of her boot. "You were interfering with a police investigation. Stop. stop. stop."

"He'd dead, Ang, too late."

"Technically, no. It takes gross dismemberment or a doc saying he's dead for him to be dead. One little blast doesn't cut it." She looked at Harry. "You taught me that."

"Yeah...I know." His head slumped as the crego took effect. Words slurred "politicalor...angefoolsmon...eyfakeallfakefools..."

"Fake? Fake money or fake fools?" Ang asked, but Harry was gone for the next several hours. His mind was fully awake and achieved total sensory deprivation and loss of muscular control. Ang pulled Harry into the alley and hid him away a bit. The skags' body got tossed in the dumpster.

It was going to be a long night.