The Turing Option

“Agree…” His computer bleeped and he looked down at the screen. “An ID just in on a drop of blood found in a crack on the floor. The lab did a rush DNA match and the identification is positive. J. J. Beckworth.”

“He was a good friend,” Benicoff said quietly after a moment’s silence. “Now let’s find his killers. Who we now know were let into this building by one or more accomplices already inside. They entered the lab, and if Brian’s condition is any clue they shot everyone there — and carried out everything they found that related to AI. Loaded the truck and drove away. To where?”

“Nowhere.” Manias wiped perspiration from his face with a sodden handkerchief and moved his finger in a quick circle. “Other than the guards there is no one normally here after dark. There is empty desert on all sides with no homes or farms close by. No witnesses. Also, there are only four roads out of this valley. All sealed by the police when the alarm blew. Nothing. Copters searched out beyond the roadblocks. Stopped a lot of campers, fruit trucks. Nothing more. We’ve been searching a hundred mile radius since dawn. Negative results so far.”

Benicoff kept his cool — but there was a sharp edge of anger to his voice. “Are you telling me that a large truck loaded with heavy files, and at least five men in it as well, just vanished? Right out of a flat, empty valley with desert on one end and a first-gear grade on the other.”

“That’s right, sir. If we do find out anything more, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thanks—” His phone bleeped and he unhooked it from his belt. “Benicoff. Tell me.”

“I have a message for you, sir, from Dr. Snaresbrook—”

“Put her on the line.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but she disconnected. Message says meet me soonest San Diego Central Hospital.”

Benicoff looked back at the lab building as he folded the phone away. “I want copies of everything that you find — and that means everything. I want your evaluation — but I also want to see every bit of evidence as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fastest way to San Diego Central Hospital?”

“Police chopper. I’ll get one now.”

It was waiting on the pad when he reached it, rose up with a roar of blades as soon as he had buckled in. “How long to San Diego?” he asked.

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Do a circle around Borrego Springs before we go. Show me the roads out.”

“Sure thing. If you look over there, going straight east down the valley, past the badlands, you’ll see the road to the Salton Sea and Brawley. If you look that way, in the foothills to the north, that’s the Salton Seaway. Goes east too. Forty miles to the Salton Sea. Now, going south is that one, the SW5, with plenty of grades and switchbacks all the way up to Alpine. Pretty slow. So most folks use the Montezuma Grade there. We’ll go west now, right over the top of it.”

Below them the desert ended abruptly at the wall of surrounding mountains. A two-lane road had been scratched up from the valley rising and twisting higher and higher until it reached the wooded plateau above. Benicoff looked back as they climbed — and shook his head. There was just no way out of the valley that the truck could have taken that was not watched, blocked.

Yet it was gone. He put the mystery from his mind, filed it away and thought instead about the wounded scientist. He took out the medical reports and read through them again. It was grim and depressing — and from the severity of the injuries Brian was probably dead by now.

The copter bounced as they hit the thermals over the rocky valleys at the top of the grade. The plateau beyond was flat, grazing lands and forests, with the white band of a major road far beyond. Towns, cities — and the freeway in the distance. A perfect escape for the truck. Except for the fact that it would probably still be grinding up the twelve miles of eight-degree grade. Forget it! Think about Brian.

Benicoff found Dr. Snaresbrook in her office. Her only concession to age was her iron-gray hair. She was a strong and alert woman, perhaps in her fifties, who radiated a feeling of confidence; she frowned slightly as she looked at the multicolored 3-D image before her. Her hands were inserted in the DataGloves of the machine to rotate and move the display — even peel away layers to see what was inside. She must have just come from the operating room because she was wearing a blue scrub suit and blue booties. When Snaresbrook turned around, Benicoff could see that the fabric of the sleeves and front was spattered and stained with blood.

“Erin Snaresbrook,” she said as they shook hands. “We haven’t met before — but I’ve heard about you. Alfred J. Benicoff. You’re the one who beat down the opposition to the use of human embryonic tissue grafts. That’s one of the things that made my work here possible.”