A Symptom of the Times

My men worked in plastic ponchos, taking pictures and uploading them to the central database. The thin material didn’t keep the rain out, it just slowed it down. By now everyone was uncomfortable- bordering on miserable.

A black sedan pulled up to the curb, sloshing rainwater into the crime scene. Two figures got out, opening dark umbrellas ahead of them.

The new comers walked straight to me, ducking under the reflective yellow and black cordon.

I sized them up as we stood together not speaking, rain beating down on my head and off their umbrellas. He was tall and thin, a marked contrast to the woman that hovered at his side. Her dress could be explained away due to the lateness of their arrival. Still, for a woman in her profession, she came across as bunty. Both were armed, according to the small bulges under their coats.

Unsurprisingly, the woman spoke first. “You know why we’re here.”

“I scan the news.”

“Good. So what can you tell us?”



“Except robots don’t commit suicide.”

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