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Salvaging Scottwell

Written by Abra Staffin-Wiebe

Max woke up inside his kennel, unplugged his tail from the wall, and ran an automatic systems check. Recharging his battery had taken a half-hour longer than last month. He connected to the BigDog network so that he could send an error report about the battery. The automated reply told him that his error report had been filed, and a handler would contact him if any further action was required. The last handler contact recorded in Max's memory log was three years old.

He limped to the door of the jailhouse. His right third leg had broken down two years ago. It had taken three weeks for his movement pattern to functionally reform, but he still limped. His speed was a fraction of his original specifications. His right second leg couldn't provide the same motive power. It had been designed for stability, not speed.

He stepped out into Scottwell neighborhood to begin his patrol. His tail wagged once. Scottwell was more than just the neighborhood that he guarded; it was as much a part of him as his paws. When he kept himself and his neighborhood protected and well-maintained, he was a Good Boy.

His tail drooped. He hadn't been a Good Boy for a long time.

Fresh paint fumes tickled his chemical sensor when he limped outside the station. His log showed no record of recent station maintenance, so he deduced that the smell was from graffiti. He found the area by smell. His visual sensor had been damaged during a rainstorm six months ago, and as yet, no technician had arrived to fix it. After he lifted his leg and sandblasted the wall for five minutes, the smell was scattered. As he continued on his patrol, he filled out a report to upload.

He had long ago mapped Scottwell, but he still moved slowly to keep from damaging himself on unexpected obstacles. His body heat sensor picked up objects within the normal range of human temperature, but it was useless against something as simple as an abandoned baby carriage. A thrown rock had shattered the protective shield for the sensor a year and a half ago, and the equipment had already exceeded its predicted lifespan under those circumstances.

Scottwell Park was a small block of withered grass with a weed-choked pond and a cluster of sad trees. Run-down tenement houses ringed the park. A group of juveniles clustered beside the pond.

"A cop 'bot!" exclaimed one of them.

The thermal shape that Max calculated was most probable to be the speaker made a throwing gesture toward the pond. Max heard a plop.

"What did you do that for?" another juvenile from the same group shouted.

Max knew that voiceprint. His database linked it to the record of Jon Zata, AKA Jazz. It held a list of arrests and convictions for graffiti, loitering, shoplifting, harassment, and assault―a grab-bag of crimes that did not deviate significantly from the mean of juvenile arrests in Scottwell. The record also noted that Jazz was the leader of the local branch of the Lucky 13s.

"What you mean, what I do that for?" the unknown juvenile demanded. "That's a cop 'bot! I wasn't going to get caught holding. Not that I was or nothing," he added.

"Fool." Jazz sighed. "I be making you pay for everything you weren't holding and didn't toss in the pond. That's Max. He can't arrest us or nothing. Something's broken that means he might hurt us if he tried, so he ain't allowed to."

"Naw, man. Nobody cares if they hurt us. Cousin of mine got run down by a 'bot mangled his leg so badly, they had to cut it off!"

"Max here's an older model," Jazz said. "I 'member the mayor bringing him in here. They threw a parade and everything. We were a—what you call it—test case. Guess they stopped being interested when he weren't new no more."

Max added a notation to the recording of their conversation, indicating that he suspected them of selling illegal narcotics. He lacked physical evidence of wrongdoing, however, so he did not need to attempt to arrest them. He linked the recording to the juveniles' and gang records, so that it would be available to use as supporting evidence in any future prosecution.

Juveniles were to be discouraged from congregating in public places unless they were part of a planned activity. Max selected one of the crime-deterrent options listed in his files of approved policing techniques.

"Please disperse," he ordered them. "You are loitering in a public area. Please disperse."

"Ah, frag," Jazz said. "Here it comes."

After seven seconds, Max began to bark. He left a 2.5 second pause between each bark; police psychologists had calculated that timing to produce the most unsettling effect. He also increased the volume slightly with each bark, opening his mouth wider and wider, until he reached 120 decibels, just below the threshold of noise that would cause physical pain.

"At least that dog can't bite, but I hope his bark breaks soon," Jazz said finally, in a pause between barks. "Come on, guys, let's roll."

Max continued to bark until the Lucky 13s were gone. His tail wagged once. He had cleared the loiterers, and now it was time to continue his rounds.

He was investigating a sleeping man when he heard the sound of breaking glass. He lifted his head and pricked up his ears. After a second, he heard another, more subdued tinkling that was consistent with the last shards of glass being knocked out of a window frame.

Max replayed the sounds, filtered out the echo factor from the tenement houses surrounding the park, and calculated the origin. Then he opened his mouth, unhinged his jaw, and issued forth the siren howl that served as notification that he was limping to the rescue.

He went as fast as he could, because somebody in Scottwell needed him, but his response time was far from the ideal.

It took him four long minutes to reach the area that his triangulation had indicated was the likely origin of the sound of breaking glass. Probability indicated that the man standing outside the side window of one of the apartments, his arms stretched towards it, and the man leaning out of the window, his arms positioned to hold an item that did not register on Max's body heat sensor, were robbing the house.

Max cut his siren. "Freeze!" he barked. "Do not move. Set down the item that you are holding. Lie on the ground with your hands behind your head! You are under arrest for breaking and entering, and for theft."

The burdened thief walked right past Max as if he wasn't there. Max snarled and snapped at him, calculating the attack so his jaws snapped through an arc of air four inches away from the man's leg. At the metallic clash of Max's teeth, the thief yelped and jumped, nearly losing his balance and dropping the object he was stealing.

"I'm sorry, Officer, sir!" he said. "I'll just set this here down on the ground all slow-like and then I'll lie down with my hands out—"

"Seb!" shouted the other thief, hopping out of the broken window and striding towards them. "Did Mama drop you on your head when you was little? It ain't going to bite you!" He snorted. "I kinda wish he would. Might hurry your lazy self up. It's just trying to scare you. Guess it worked. Come on—we gotta get out of here before Leroy shows up."

The thieves' vehicle growled to life when Max was still ten feet away from it. Probability said that he would not be able to catch them, but he would track them as long as he could, because that was what a Good Boy did.

The thieves escaped by making a series of turns that left Max unable to calculate their probable location. He had lost them. He was not a Good Boy. His tail drooped as he turned and limped back to the crime scene.

In front of the burgled residence, he gingerly lowered himself to his haunches and replayed the recording of the interaction between the thieves. His residency list for Scottwell did not show anyone named 'Seb', but when he cross-referenced with possible nicknames, he found two entries for Sebastien. The other thief had asked Seb if "Mama" had dropped him on his head, not "your mama." Only one of the Sebastiens had siblings—one brother and two sisters. Max flagged the record and checked associated vehicle registrations for the address. Based on the timbre of the getaway vehicle's engine noise, his identification database indicated a 70% probability that the thieves had driven a pickup truck. There was a pickup registered to Sebastien's brother, Frank.

As he drafted his report, Max listed Seb and Frank as primary suspects. Procedure dictated that he should pursue an investigation on them. He appended a request for a handler's assistance.

The sound of running footsteps made Max's ears prick up. He turned his head in the direction of the sound. His body heat sensor showed a large figure approaching. The substantial height and girth of the figure, combined with the lack of noticeable female secondary sexual characteristics in the thermal body heat image, gave good odds that the person was male.

Max creaked up out of his sitting position. "Is your name Leroy?" he barked when the male was near enough to hear.

The male stopped running when he reached a line of sight for the broken window. "Aw, frag!" he swore. "I knew I never should've gotten a ground floor apartment, no matter how cheap it was!" He sighed and turned toward Max. "Yeah, I'm Leroy. What did they take?"

"I was unable to ascertain the extent of the property that the burglar or burglars took." Max omitted any details that might allow Leroy to guess the identity of the primary suspects.

"That's right—you can't see so well. Down to the body heat sensor, are you?"

"Details of my design and construction are confidential," Max said sternly. "That is proprietary technology!"

"Yeah, sure it is, boy," Leroy said, not unkindly. "I know you're programmed to say that, no matter whether it's still true or not."

"Details of my design and—"

"Right, right! I got it the first time."

Max returned to procedure. "Would you like to file a police report?"

"What's the point?" Leroy asked. He ran his hand through his hair. "Frag! All my work . . . gone."

"Filing a report means that your property will be returned to you if it is discovered, and it will help us to apprehend and prosecute the perpetrators," Max stated. "I will also need to inspect the premises."

"Like that's going to do any good." Leroy shrugged. "Better than nuthin', I guess. Come on up." He turned and walked up the cement steps to the tenement building. When he reached the door, he turned and looked back.

Max was still laboring up the first five steps.

"Man, that'll take forever," Leroy said. He went back and scooped Max up under one arm, grunting in surprise. "Dang! You're pretty heavy. Makes sense, I guess, given that—" He stopped himself before Max's proprietary technology warning was triggered. "You know, I could probably fix that leg for you."

"Unauthorized Personnel are not allowed to access proprietary police technology," Max informed him.

"Riiight."

When the last lock snicked open and the apartment door swung inwards on creaky hinges, Leroy swore so bitterly and profusely that Max added new entries to his slang dictionary under "Offensive Terminology." Glass and plastic crunched under Leroy's feet. He circled, moving through a scene of devastation that Max could not see.

Max recorded the scene, though the image only held Leroy's shape and the warm ghosts of electronics equipment cooled to body temperature range. Then Max sank to his haunches and waited.

Eventually, Leroy's swearing dwindled.

"Are you ready to make your report?" Max asked.

"Yeah," Leroy said. "Good thing you're sitting down; this is going to take awhile."

****

Max limped back into the jailhouse at 4 a.m. If he were human, he would have said that he was tired and his feet hurt. Since he was a robot, he noted that his battery reserves were low and that he had reports to upload into the BigDog network. He logged the time and used that data to calculate an optimized random time for his next recharge, to prevent his off-duty time from becoming predictable.

When he connected to the BigDog network, he was informed he had an update waiting. The update's info file listed it as being required for all models, from ones even older than Max's, to ones whose designations indicated that they were still in beta testing. Max plugged his tail into the wall charging socket, began downloading the BigDog update, and entered dormant mode. He would wake when his battery was fully charged and the new update was installed.

****

When Max exited dormant mode, he noticed a new program called Scavenger running processes on his tasklist. Even as he noted its activity, it switched its status from background to active and began pulling information in from Max's old error reports. It built a database of damaged items and inoperable functionalities, called Damage.dat, and built tag clouds noting all characteristics of each item. Then Scavenger built an empty database called Assets.dat. A new imperative appeared in Max's procedure logs, requiring him to add any assets within the boundaries of the Self.definition file that were not currently in use or critically required.

Max retrieved the record of his kennel’s contents. He scrolled through a list of spare parts and basic maintenance tools that were to be kept on hand at all times. Each item had an associated tag characteristic list, and two of them matched the tag list for items in the Damage.dat file. Next to each item was the notation, "Out of stock," but Max noted that when the items were restocked, he could jury-rig a repair for his limp.

Max nosed open the kennel door and walked into the jailhouse. A new list of items and their characteristic tags scrolled down as he brought up his internal map of the jail, and Scavenger copied them over to Assets.dat. Two new undefined items blinked for Max's attention: the wine bottle, and the pair of spectacles sitting on top of the table. Prisoners sometimes left behind their personal possessions when they walked out the cell doors, which had eventually ground to a halt in the open position. Max linked the items to the appropriate default tags and continued limping toward the front door.

A priority override made him stop and turn around. Scavenger had found characteristic matches that required action. Following the program's instructions, Max gently nudged the spectacles onto his nose and used the back of his paw to shift them to sit more securely in front of his body heat sensor. He twisted the ear-pieces to hook behind his ears and lowered his head to test the stability. They stayed. In the Damage.dat file, Scavenger changed the status of "Body Heat Sensor Protector Shield" from "Broken" to "Temporary Fix."

The chair sitting beside the table was covered in a velvet layer of dust. It was there for handler visits, but its status was "Not In Use." Max clamped his jaws around the top of one of the legs and squeezed with maximum force. The top of the chair leg disintegrated in his mouth, but a puff of condensed air from his throat cleared the debris. The three-legged chair toppled and fell to the floor. Using medium force, Max gripped one end of the broken chair leg in his jaws. In Damage.dat, the status of "Ability to Nonlethally Subdue Suspects" changed from "Broken" to "Poor Substitute."

A brief pulse of satisfaction rewarded Max when he stepped out into Scottwell neighborhood to begin his patrol. He called up his internal map of Scottwell. His tail began to wag—and then froze. One paw remained dangling in mid-air.

Scavenger consumed all Max's processing resources. Warnings flashed about physical instability and excessive time elapsing. Scavenger ignored them. Though it left Max's basic self-preservation program untouched, it shut down everything else.

Max's Self.definition file included every nook and cranny of Scottwell: every street, every brick, every alley, every house, every tree, and every inhabitant. They were part of him, and he knew it all the way to his core. Scavenger tried to process everything—and choked on the overload. It hadn't been designed for this.

Max stood frozen in front of the police station, one paw raised, chair leg gripped between his teeth, spectacles slightly askew. The sun crossed the sky. His shadow shifted along the sidewalk.

Twilight fell across Scottwell. The dim blue light softened the neighborhood. Litter melted into pavement and scraggly bushes. Peeling paint blended back into the walls. Yellow light spilled from windows, warming the grim face of tenement housing.

A group of juveniles wearing puffy jackets, baggy jeans, and gang bandannas halted when they saw Max standing frozen in front of the police station. One of them whistled. "Hoo-eee!" he said. "Think the old noisemaker's broken down for good?"

"Let's find out."

Max heard the rattling of spraypaint cans and saw the heat signatures of the juveniles as they turned to face the police station. He heard the hiss of the cans and his chemical sensor detected fresh paint fumes. He recorded it passively.

"Silent as the grave!" one of the juveniles said. The others laughed as they sauntered off into the darkening night, secure in their dominion.

The first of the morning buses were lumbering by when Scavenger loosened its hold on Max. Max set his paw down. He wagged his tail. He lifted his leg and sandblasted away the fresh graffiti and filled out a report to upload. Then he began his patrol.

He progressed in stops and starts. He would limp a few feet and detect something not in Assets.dat. Then Scavenger took over.

****

It was late afternoon by the time Max approached Leroy's apartment building. His body heat sensor picked up a large man sitting on the steps in front of the building.

"Hey, man." The voiceprint matched Leroy's. "I've just been sitting here on the stairs." He spread his hands. "What else do I have to do? All my stuff's gone. Can't even replace all of it; if I could, I wouldn't be living in this dump. Heck, I made half of it myself."

Max froze as Scavenger took control.

Leroy fell silent. After a minute, the big man turned his head to watch Max, but he didn't say anything else.

When Max returned to awareness, there were items blinking for his attention. Damage.dat had notations beside several items, and Leroy was listed as the fix for them. The robbery report now had a flag on it, indicating that further action was possible. Max accessed his procedures for enlisting citizenry assistance.

"Leroy," Max growled around the chair leg he gripped between his teeth.

The big man jumped. "Jeez, I thought you'd broken down or something. Don't scare me like that!"

"Leroy, I believe we can reclaim your stolen property. You must agree to be deputized. After that, you can make certain necessary repairs on me."

"You got a deal!" Leroy lunged to his feet. "But what happened to you being 'proprietary technology'?"

"If you are deputized, you will be Authorized Personnel," Max said. "You must take orders from me when you are deputized. Do you understand this?"

"Just get me back my stuff, and I'll do whatever you say."

"One of the suspects is called 'Seb,' and I believe the other suspect is his brother Frank—"

A string of curses interrupted Max. "Those lowlifes!" Leroy said once he could speak coherently again. "They came around here with a movie player for me to fix. I don't usually let anybody into my place, but they said they needed it pronto and were willing to pay extra if I fixed it while they waited. Frag it! I thought their eyes were a little wide when they saw my stuff."

"That meets the requirement for probable cause to inspect their property. Frank's pickup truck is registered to 332 Pine Way, Apt. #16. Do you have transportation?"

"Let me get my van!"

There were no pines near 332 Pine Way, Leroy told Max, but there was a pickup truck parked out front. "We got that sucker!" Leroy said, pulling his van over to block the pickup truck in place and hopping out. He opened the passenger-side door and lifted Max down. "Oof. I'll carry you up the stairs, but you're lucky I've lugged around so much electronics equipment."

Leroy was huffing after he'd carried Max up the flight of stairs to Apartment 16. He set Max down and leaned over to rest his hands on his knees, drawing in deep breaths. Max waved a paw, and Leroy shifted to the side of the door, where he couldn't be seen through the peephole.

"Police!" Max bellowed. "Open the door!"

The law stated that police must wait a reasonable amount of time after announcing their presence before breaking in a door. Max's programmers had defined that time as fifteen seconds. Ten seconds passed with no sound from inside the apartment. Eleven. Twelve. Max detected rustling noises from the other side of the door. Thirteen. The door opened and a man peered out.

"What the—"

The voiceprint matched one of the thieves. Max confirmed Frank's status as a suspect.

"That's my stuff!" Leroy shouted. "I'd recognize that Lee-Wen XRL108-L203 anywhere!"

Frank tried to close the door, but Leroy slammed his considerable bulk against it. The door flew open, smashing Frank against the wall. Leroy stopped just inside the apartment and stared around. Max's body heat sensor reported an unusual flush of heat on Leroy's face that indicated intense interest in what he was looking at. From Leroy's reaction and the number of electronic ID tags his sensors were reporting, Max deduced that the apartment was stacked wall-to-wall with electronics.

Scavenger tried to assert itself, but the Arrest in Progress Override stopped it.

"You are under arrest," Max told Frank. "All property in this apartment is hereby confiscated by the police department to be returned to the proper owners, if they can be determined."

Leroy sighed. "You the boss. Seems like a waste of some pretty fine equipment, though."

"You can't do this! Police gotta get a warrant!" Frank protested from the floor.

"Idiot," Leroy said. "Police 'bots are considered 'impartial' enough that they can write they own warrants based on probable cause percentages. Now, that's probably too complicated for you to follow, so let me put it like this: You a fool, but you about to get lessoned!" He turned away in contempt.

Frank pushed himself up against the wall and stepped forward. A smolder of body heat warned Max that the suspect was tensing his muscles to attack Leroy from behind. Max hobbled forward. As Frank wound up to sucker-punch Leroy, Max took the last step and swung his head to bring the chair leg he held smacking against the back of Frank's knee.

Frank teetered off-balance. His punch sliced through the air two inches to the right of Leroy's ear.

Leroy spun with surprising quickness and threw an uppercut. His entire weight was behind the punch, and Frank crumpled to the ground. Leroy shook his hand to take the sting out of his knuckles. "He's down for the count."

After calculating the force of Leroy's punch, Max thought it likely that Frank would need minor medical attention when he regained consciousness.

The bathroom door burst open and another person charged into the room. "Frank, what's going on?" His voiceprint identified him as Seb.

"You are under arrest," Max said. "Please lie down on the floor with your hands behind your head."

"Frag that!"

Seb lowered his head and charged Leroy, bringing his arm back. When Seb swung his arm and Leroy landed on the floor, Max deduced that Seb had a weapon similar to a small bat.

"Lie down on the floor!" Max barked. "You are charged with theft and resisting arrest."

He limped forward to subdue the suspect, but he was still three feet away when Leroy grabbed an object from beside him and surged to his feet. Before Seb could react, Leroy clouted him behind his ear with what the electronic ID tag identified as an iRobot Heliduster Model I-576. The heliduster connected with a squealing crunch. Seb swayed, started to reach out his hand, and toppled to the floor.

Leroy sighed, staring at the heliduster he held. "That's a sad end for a little guy who just wanted to do his job and keep the knick-knacks clean."

"Suspects must be permanently restrained for pick-up," Max barked. "Property will be confiscated and distributed to those determined to be legal owners."

"Sure, I can handle that," Leroy said. "I'll hog-tie these two and load up my van. Might take a couple of trips, but don't you worry about a thing."

Accepting this, Max changed his status to Processing Suspects. As soon as the Arrest in Progress Override vanished, Scavenger reclaimed Max's processing resources and began cataloging the electronic ID tags it detected.

****

When Max regained control, the first thing he noted was that he was no longer in Frank and Seb's apartment. The second was that his image processor had a live input stream; he could see the dingy apartment ceiling above him and count the cobwebs twined around the bright lamp pointing at him. The third was that although he was surrounded by items not in Assets.dat, Scavenger was politely waiting its turn.

"That should pretty well do it," Leroy said, leaning forward into Max's new field of vision.

The room whirled around Max as he was lifted up and set on his feet. Max trotted forward a few steps and turned to look at Leroy. The big man stood beside a brightly lit table covered with rags and mechanical tools. Leroy grinned at Max.

"No more limping for you! You don't need to worry about that Scavenger program freezing you up anymore, either," he said. "You got me my stuff back, so I held up my end of the deal and made what I figured were those essential repairs you wanted. I took one of those video cameras those lowlifes stole, and I spot-welded it to your head. It took a little fancy wiring and a tiny update to your vision processor, but I figure you're almost as good as new." He scratched his head. "That Damage.dat file of yours had a whole bunch of problems listed that I don't have a clue how to fix—and it took some of my best programs a lot of time to hack into that head of yours—but the only big problem I couldn't do anything about was those pressure sensors in your muzzle. I don't have anything like 'em. I'll keep my eye out, though."

"Thank you," Max barked politely, following his interpersonal protocols. "Use of unauthorized programs to modify police property is discouraged. In the future, use approved programs. A warning has been added to your personnel file." Leroy was Authorized Personnel and he had repaired Max, but correct procedure was important.

Leroy guffawed. "Glad to see you're feeling like yourself again."

Max checked his status. Processing Suspects blinked warningly at him. The processing should have been completed two days ago, after Seb and Frank were arrested. "Where are the robbery suspects?" he asked.

"Chained up in those broken jail cells you got," Leroy answered. "Don't worry, I've been going down there a couple of times a day to feed and water 'em." He grinned. "They're cranky, but they're healthy. I didn't know what you wanted to do with all that electronics equipment, so I got it locked up in my van with a tarp over it."

"There is a secure evidence locker at the jailhouse," Max barked. "But the suspects should be processed first."

****

Upon inspecting the prisoners, Max found their state to be as Leroy had described it: very upset, but in good physical condition. He filled out a report of the arrest and sent it in to the BigDog network, along with a request for suspect pick-up.

The suspect pick-up detail arrived half an hour after Leroy finished transferring all the unclaimed electronics to the evidence locker and departed with the offer, "Lemme know if you need me for somethin' else. I figure I still owe you. Since I'm Authorized Personnel now. . . ." The jailhouse picked up the ID broadcast by the detail's badges as they approached.

"Was that who I thought it was?" asked the one identified as Officer Castor, speaking in a middle-class accent not often heard in Scottwell. "Poking the hooker?"

"Absolutely not," Lieutenant Ressler answered. "The senator's the head of the appropriations board and he's talking about exploring a run for President. He's got better things to do with his time than drive into the ghetto and get a cheap slice of dark meat."

"But the license plate—"

"You're my partner, but you're an idiot. Look. If the senator decides to bend you over the hood of your police car, you take it and you swear nothing happened. Because otherwise we'll all be bending over when it comes time for the budget allocations."

When Castor spoke again, he sounded apprehensive. "Is the senator likely to—"

"Oh, for Pete's sake! Drop it. Pretend to be a professional. We're here to pick up a couple of suspects for B&E and the theft of a truly amazing amount of electronics. Should be interesting."

"Why? They're just a couple of low-lifes."

"Not them. This is the oldest station I've ever been called out to, and according to the records, this is the first arrest made in a couple of years."

Max trotted over and stood in front of the jailhouse door, his tail wagging. He connected to the BigDog network and verified their identity, and the front door retracted.

The two police officers outside took a step forward, saw Max, and stopped dead. They stared. Ressler brought his hand up to smother a laugh.

"Welcome to Scottwell," Max said. "I hope your trip was pleasant. The suspects are this way."

Max turned around and trotted ahead of them to the cells. Behind him, he heard Castor mutter, "Glasses? And what the heck's that on his head?"

"Beats me. Quiet, though. He can hear you—I think," Ressler whispered back.

"My hearing is entirely functional," Max volunteered.

"Lucky he doesn't take offense!"

Their laughter died a startled death when they saw the suspects chained to the bars of the prison.

"Get us out of here!" Seb shouted, rattling his chain against the bars. "Fraggin' robot's gone psycho!"

"Huh," Ressler said. "Warmest welcome I've had in a while. You've had food and water and a place to sleep?"

"Yeah, but . . . but . . . robots ain't supposed to do us like that!"

"You can tell it to your lawyer," Castor told them, moving in to unlock the chain. "C'mon, let's go."

"Yes, sir, thank you, officer sir!" Frank said. "Take us with you."

"Maybe we should get more of this model of robot," Castor mused. "I rather like being so welcome."

"Enjoy the novelty while you can. They stopped production on this model a long time ago, and most of them have been recycled. Scottwell's might even be the last one."

Ressler and Castor filled out the necessary forms and the pick-up confirmation and sent them in, then unshackled the suspects and started to leave. Ressler stopped at the door of the jailhouse and looked back over his shoulder at Max. "Good Boy," he said. "Very Good Boy."

Max wagged his tail. He felt a surge of satisfaction. He was a Good Boy. Lieutenant Ressler had said so, and Max's voice analysis indicated that the sincerity value of the statement was high. So was the value of a response Max hadn't registered in a long time: respect.

****

Over the next few months, Max found more and more respect entering the voices of those he interacted with. Word got around. The people of Scottwell started calling the station to report fights or disorderly conduct, and most disturbances ended when he arrived. He was told when there was concern over an outbreak of graffiti or a suspected drug dealer. Jazz and his gang of Lucky 13s steered clear of Max. He recovered stolen property in seven out of eleven reported cases, with the assistance of the injured parties. After an initial surge in reported crimes, a measure of peace returned to Scottwell.

So when a shaken kid called at 3 a.m. with a report of murder on the corner of 32nd and Vine, Max was on the job. As was procedure in murder cases, he connected to the BigDog network and logged a handler request. Then he went to the scene, howling a warning siren as he ran. The few cars still on the road pulled to the edge as he ran past.

Approaching the scene, Max observed a blue Chevrolet parked on the corner. The driver-side door was open, and a woman's body slumped behind the wheel. Max estimated that she'd been dead for roughly forty minutes, based on