RoboCop 1 Read online

  Frederickson spat the blood out of his mouth and leaned toward the ComLink. “Officer needs assistance,” he wheezed. “Sector GK2. Officer needs assistance in Old Detroit.”

  His own words thundered through his brain. Every nerve ending in his body seemed to be exploding. “Aw, Jesus,” he blurted. “I’m fucked up.”

  The car lurched down the street. Frederickson slid into darkness. He didn’t feel the impact when the TurboCruiser rumbled, straight-on, into a heap of dented garbage cans.

  [ 3 ]

  Murphy sat sipping coffee as Jimmy bounded through the house, on his way back to school after lunch. Jan silently stood at the sink, mechanically going through the motions as Murphy watched the mini-TV drone on. If he had any sense, he would have been watching cartoons. Maybe reruns of “Gumby” or something. But he was a news junkie. He couldn’t get enough information. Now, he was about to get too much.

  On the screen, two TV news commentators made a determined effort to show the world who had the most and brightest teeth. Jess Perkins, a bubble-headed blonde who wore her blouses tight, seemed to be in the lead, although co-anchor Casey Wong, a crew-cutted Eurasian, should have gotten some award just for the width of his smile.

  Casey was doing the talking now. “Today’s top stories. Pretoria. The threat of nuclear confrontation in South Africa escalated today when the white military government of that besieged city-state unveiled a French-made neutron bomb and affirmed its willingness to use the three-megaton device as the city’s last line of defense.”

  “Nice,” Murphy muttered, tossing some extra sugar into his coffee. He had a feeling he’d need every ounce of energy he could muster today. His tour of duty ran from the afternoon until after dark.

  The TV flickered as a videotape of an angry man running a gantlet of reporters in front of Detroit’s City Hall appeared.

  “Locally,” perky Jess injected, “Ron Miller called it quits today, relinquishing his City Council seat after being denied a recount in one of the closest elections in this city’s history.”

  The videotape ended and Murphy found himself staring at the face of Casey Wong. Behind him was superimposed a graphic. The body of a police officer with a red “X” slashed over it was drawn in a clever, clean, and very commercial manner. It was the type of illustration you saw on a cornflakes box.

  Murphy felt his chest tighten. He was half-expecting this. “The police death toll in Old Detroit rose to thirty-one today when three officers were killed and one was critically injured in an exchange of gunfire just before dawn.”

  Murphy heard a dish shatter in the sink behind him. Perky Jess appeared with a human interest story about three Moon Dome Kids making rock and roll in space.

  The news show lurched into a series of commercials. A big-busted woman caressed a TurboSedan while singers intoned “Big Is Back.” A smarmy doctor stressed the convenience of his one-stop clinic for big operations. “We have a complete line of Jarvics and limited supplies of the new Jenson SportsHart. Three-year warranty, complete financing, qualifies for a health tax credit.”

  Murphy sat there sweating. He could feel Jan standing behind him, gazing at the nape of his neck. Neither one would speak. It was just as well. Anything either one of them said would only make the moment worse.

  Wong appeared on the screen, continuing the big local story of the day. “Three dead police officers in Old Detroit, one critically injured. Police Union leaders blame OmniConsumer Products, the firm which recently entered into a contract with the city to fund and run the Detroit Metropolitan Police Department. They claim that, since OmniCon has entered the police business, safety procedures have become lax and most precincts are understaffed. Furthermore, they insist that the investigation into the killings in the Old Detroit sector has been sorely undermanned. Dick Jones, Division President of OmniCon, had this response.”

  The thin, angular face of career executive Jones, filled the screen. “None of the allegations are true. OmniCon is doing its best to run the police force efficiently and smoothly. Every available man is working on the investigation concerning these all too frequent tragedies. The Police Union, apparently, would like the public to forget one very simple fact. Every policeman knows the risks he faces in the field. Ask a cop and he’ll tell you, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, better get out of the kitchen.’ ”

  Murphy smirked silently to himself. Jones’s idea of risk was probably ordering his happy-hour drink without ice.

  Jan slammed a coffee cup down in the sink and rushed out of the room, holding back the tears. Murphy turned off the television and sat, silently, staring at the idiotic patterns on the Formica table top before him. Who the hell designed these tables anyhow, the Lighthouse Institute?

  He sighed and got to his feet. No sense trying to calm Jan down right now. She was too upset for talk. He headed for the front door. He’d call her later and try to discuss her feelings logically. He hoped that, by dinnertime, he could think of a few logical things to tell her.

  Right now, nothing in his life was making too much sense.

  Right now, he was heading into Old Detroit.

  [ 4 ]

  The Old Detroit station looked more like an armed camp than a precinct house. Bullet holes pockmarked the outside of the brick building. Most of the Police TurboCruisers lined up in the street outside boasted dozens of dents and scratches. Murphy pulled his gas-guzzling station wagon into the parking lot next door, grabbed his athletic bag and headed for the front entrance.

  A Prisoner Transport Vehicle pulled up and disgorged a half-dozen lowlifes who looked like walking threats to Darwin’s theory of evolution.

  Murphy took his encoded police badge and slid it into the slot next to the front door. The slot buzzed, spat the badge back out, and unlocked the metal portal.

  Murphy stepped inside. The interior of the precinct house made the Black Hole of Calcutta seem cheerful. Cops, saddled with prisoners who all seemed to be wearing fly strips, wandered in and out of booking stations. A cop in his fifties and built like a bull, Sergeant Reed, presided over the insanity like a benign Viking. Spotting Murphy, Reed left his elevated desk and walked toward him. Before he got two feet forward, a weasel of a man in a shiny suit attached himself to Reed’s side.

  “About my client. Attempted murder is ridiculous. It’s not like he killed someone or anything like that. This is clearly a violation of my client’s civil rights, I bet.”

  Reed smiled sweetly at the man, only his reddened face revealing his true emotions. “Listen, pal. Between you and me? Your client’s a scumbag. You’re a scumbag. And we have a rule here. Scumbags talk to the judge on Monday morning. Now get out of my police station. Your client will still be here when you get back.”

  The lawyer smiled weakly and shuffled away. Murphy was forced to laugh. Reed motioned Murphy over to his desk.

  Murphy reached into his athletic bag and pulled out a sheaf of useless paper. He handed it to Reed. “I’m Murphy. Transferring from Metro South.”

  Reed nodded, placing the papers on top of a stack of other useless forms. “Nice precinct. I understand they have croissant dispensers in the locker room. But we work for a living down here, Murphy. Get your armor and suit up.”

  “Yessir.” Murphy turned to leave. “I appreciate the kind words.”

  Reed grabbed his elbow. “Oh, and Murphy?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Have a nice day.”

  Murphy smirked and headed toward the back of the station. He passed through two large metal doors. One of the doors had an old eight-by-ten photo of Rod Serling taped to it with the inscription Welcome to the Twilight Zone scrawled across the surface.

  Murphy chuckled. Abandon all sense ye who enter here.

  Murphy wandered down an aisle, past both policemen and policewomen donning their armor. “I’m Murphy,” he said to one cop.

  “I’m busy,” the cop responded.

  “I’m looking for my locker.”

  The cop reached over a
nd pulled a name tag inscribed Duffy off the door to his left. “Take this one. No one is using it at the moment.”

  Murphy tossed his athletic bag into the locker. Behind him, three wall-mounted TV monitors relayed information culled from all sectors of the city. A steady hum of data filled the air. Murphy sat down on the wooden bench behind him. The bench nearly crumpled under his weight.

  “We don’t sit on those much,” the cop to his left said. “Hazardous to your health.”

  Murphy slowly donned his armor, listening to three cops mutter from nearby.

  “Any word about Frederickson?”

  “They’re still listing him as critical.”

  “His wife must be going out of her mind.”

  Murphy adjusted the padding on his bodysuit. He pulled the sleeves tightly. On each sleeve was a patch. One patch read DPD, Detroit Police Department. The other patch red: OCP. OmniConsumer Products. Murphy stared at the OCP patch, as if noticing it for the first time. It certainly was reassuring to be considered a thing by someone in a glass tower.

  The cop on his left noticed Murphy’s glazed expression and smiled. “So, what brings you to this little paradise?”

  Murphy shrugged. “Transfer. OCP’s restructuring the department.”

  “The name’s Manson,” the cop said.

  “Murphy.”

  A second cop walked up. The name Starkweather was emblazoned over his front pocket. “Restructuring, huh? OmniCon. Bunch of morons. They’re gonna manage this department right into the ground.”

  “They cut ten guys loose over on the East Side,” a cop named Ramirez said. “Just let them go. Said the precinct was overstaffed. Overstaffed my ass. We could use tanks down here.”

  “And try to get backup when you’re in a jam.” Starkweather smirked.

  Manson snorted. “Try to find a MediVac after you’ve been jammed. Frederickson was out for almost an hour before anyone bothered to show up. The sonofabitch is lucky he had any blood left in his body by the time the OmniCon assholes arrived.”

  Murphy cinched his shoes. The room fell quiet. Murphy looked up as Reed, his jaw tight, and carrying an empty cardboard box marked Cheerios walked up to a locker bearing Frederickson’s nameplate. He stared at the nameplate and slowly began emptying the contents of the locker into the box.

  All eyes were on Reed. All eyes but for Starkweather’s, his back toward the sergeant. Starkweather continued his harangue. “I tell you what we should do to those OmniCon assholes. We should strike. Fuck them and their high-tech paychecks.”

  Murphy flashed Starkweather a “not now” look. Starkweather turned slowly, in time to see Reed remove a picture of Frederickson’s family and place it in the box. The sergeant slid the nameplate off the door and placed it on top of Frederickson’s personal belongings. When he turned and faced his men, he seemed a good ten years older than he had only moments before.

  “The funeral will be tomorrow,” he said in a monotone. “The department asks all officers not on duty to attend. Donations for Frederickson’s family may be given to Cecil . . . as usual.”

  The cops in the room stared angrily at the floor. Reed picked up the box and walked toward the exit, stopping, momentarily, before Starkweather. “And I don’t want to hear any more of this strike shit. We’re not plumbers. We’re police officers. And police officers don’t strike.”

  Reed marched to the door. He turned, one last time. “Murphy. Front and center.”

  Murphy holstered his 9-mm Mateba service revolver, grabbed his helmet and slammed his locker door shut. He placed a reassuring hand on Starkweather’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. The whole department is screwed up right now.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Murphy stepped back into the main precinct room. He strained his eyes to spot Reed. The sergeant wasn’t at his desk. Murphy watched amazed as a suspect, a man with the build and temper of a wounded rhino, suddenly reared up from his chair during an interrogation and, hands manacled, ran head first for the front door. A small, visored cop, barely tall enough to come up to the man’s elbow, leapt high into the air and kicked the crazy in the groin.

  The manacled giant swung his tethered fists in the cop’s direction. The little cop, caught off guard, tumbled down onto the ground with a sickening thud. Grabbing a nightstick, the cop lunged for the big man and, in a series of surprisingly quick moves, beat the giant’s head bloody.

  Reed walked up to Murphy’s side and yelled in the direction of the fracas, “Hey, Lewis, when you’re done fucking with your suspect, come over here.”

  The cop named Lewis slammed the giant in the head one final time. The prisoner collapsed onto the floor, taking three chairs with him. Lewis strolled over toward Murphy as Reed returned to his elevated desk and chair.

  “Lewis,” Reed said. “This guy’s gonna be your new partner.”

  The smaller cop nodded. Reed looked at Murphy. “Murphy, this is Lewis. Lewis’ll show you the neighborhood.”

  Murphy extended a hand. Lewis pulled the visor off her head, shaking loose a wave of cascading strawberry-colored hair. Murphy tried to hide his astonishment. Lewis grabbed Murphy’s hand and pumped it as if she expected him to produce butter.

  “Glad to know you, Murphy.” She smiled sweetly.

  Murphy pulled his hand back. It was red from her grip. “This way,” she said, walking toward a side door.

  Murphy shook his head, confused, and followed. Reed sat at his desk, chuckling. “I give you my blessings,” he intoned. “You make such a lovely couple.” It was a dumb joke, but the cops closest to the booking desk laughed anyway. They’d take whatever humor they could whenever they could find it.

  Murphy and Lewis walked into the parking garage. The place reeked of gasoline and carbon monoxide fumes as dozens of cops piled into their TurboCruisers and gunned them, preparing for afternoon patrol. Lewis, popping gum, led Murphy up to a patrol unit.

  “Pretty slick, huh?” Lewis said, proudly. “Had body work on it last week. Sanded the bullet holes clean.”

  Murphy nodded. “Pretty slick,” he agreed.

  Lewis walked over to the driver’s side of the car and yanked open the door. “I’d better drive until you know your way around.”

  Murphy slid by her into the driver’s seat. “I always drive when I’m breaking in a new partner.”

  He closed the door, leaving Lewis popping gum furiously outside. Murphy fired up the engine while Lewis walked around the car and climbed into the passenger side.

  “Do you guys get to drive these things in Metro South or do you have chauffeurs?” she sneered.

  By way of response, Murphy slammed down on the gas, sending the TurboCruiser fishtailing along the offramp of the parking garage. At the street exit of the garage, two police cars stood, idling, the cops inside comparing horror stories of their night shift duty. Murphy grinned evilly, and sent the TurboCruiser slicing between the two cars, missing them by inches. The car zoomed up onto the street and barreled off in a northerly direction.

  Lewis blew a large bubble and popped it. “Not bad,” she said, “for a new kid.”

  The car skidded down a side street, the gleaming skyline of the refurbished sectors of Detroit shining in the noonday sun behind. Lewis pointed to the metropolis in the rearview mirror as their car plunged into the slums of Old Detroit.

  “Say good-bye to civilization, Murphy,” Lewis said.

  Murphy glanced in the rearview mirror, the OmniCon tower, rising 151 glass and steel stories above the city, shone brightly. “I’m not sure I call that civilization,” Murphy muttered.

  “You learn quick.” Lewis smiled.

  [ 5 ]

  Morton and Johnson stepped into the OCP elevator and stared placidly through the glass as Kinney ran for the door. Morton, a thin, hyper junior executive was even tenser than usual. Today’s meeting would be an important one at OmniCon. He was sure of that. Why, the Old Man himself would be in attendance.

  If Johnson was nervous, his expression
didn’t betray the fact. One of the few black executives in the company, he was an OmniCon lifer. He knew better than to get the jitters every time the Old Man snapped his fingers. The Corporation moved constantly forward, that was true, but with the casual, lumbering pace of a brontosaurus. Very seldom did things dramatically change during the course of a single morning.

  Kinney leaped into the elevator, almost getting caught in the door. Johnson sighed. Kinney was a new fish, eager to please. His genial, puppy-dog attitude produced a feeling deep within Johnson that bordered on nausea.

  Kinney watched the doors close with a snap and laughed. “Wow! The Old Man is really going to be there? Gee. Why, would they invite us if he’s going to be there?”

  Johnson delivered his reply in cautious, even tones. “All the division heads are bringing their support teams. It’s big. I figure they’re greenlighting Delta City.”

  Morton didn’t like that. He ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair, producing a residue of styling mousse on his knuckles. “Are you kidding? They never do anything ahead of schedule,” he groused. “It’s Jones. I bet it’s Jones. He’s got the 209 series going and he wants to show off.”

  Johnson smiled at the nervous executive. “Tough break, Morton.”

  Kinney stared, stupefied, at both men. He had no idea what they were talking about.

  The elevator door slid open and Morton, Johnson, and Kinney joined a gaggle of other OmniCon executives in the hallway. The herd of employees wandered down a large corridor, surrounded by a dozen video monitors which broadcast pictures of the various worlds of OmniConsumer Products. Johnson didn’t bother to even glance at the screens. He wasn’t impressed. He’d been a company man too long. He passed the screens flashing the latest advancements in Travel Concepts, Community Concepts, Entertainment Concepts, Security Concepts, ad infinitum.

  Kinney dogged Johnson’s heels. “I don’t get it? Why is Morton so . . . bummed?”

  Johnson sighed, watching Morton march down the hall, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. “When the ED 209 security project ran into serious delays and cost overruns, the Old Man ordered a backup plan—probably just to light a fire under Jones’s ass. Morton there got the assignment but nobody in Security Concepts took it seriously. Unfortunately, Morton did.”