Author: Peter Sargent
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/peter-sargent/page,4,22515-the-dead-reckoner-volume-one-absolution-and-desolation.html
the pistol and placed its muzzle underneath his chin.
Ruth raised a hand to him, shouting, “Don't!”
“I'm sorry, but I can't get it out and I can't let it stay.”
He pulled the trigger. Ruth broke her grip with Jason and ran up to him. Why run over to a man who'd just shot himself, instead of running away? Why run over when the building was on fire? The answer was in her title. Detective Holland. You never stopped being a cop.
Norman had jerked the gun to the side when he'd fired. He was bleeding, but not dead. He hadn't actually hit anything vital. Ruth considered how to get him out of here, all the while with the fire alarm blaring and Jason screaming, begging.
Then there was someone else in the room. She turned. It was John, the man with the nice face and the terrible haircut.
He said, “I didn't see you out there and thought you might be trapped.”
“We have to get him out of here.” said Ruth.
“What happened?”
“Come on, let's go.”
Ruth went with Jason and John pulled Norman down the hall, leaving a trail of blood. They went to another stairwell, this one much further away from the center of the blaze. Ruth asked John how he was going to get Norman down and John just knelt and propped the man on his shoulders. He hauled Norman down the stairs fireman style and at last they reached the bottom and burst into the sun and air. Everyone else was gathered there and watched them exit.
A half hour later, Ruth was walking the halls of Saint Elizabeth's hospital. Lieutenant Keller, her boss, had come to survey the situation. He spoke with Norman Shaw and a few of the others before going outside. Ruth found him on the curb smoking. Across the street from the hospital was the Brighton office of the Boston PD, where they worked.
Ruth said, “Was he lucid?”
“Very.” said Keller. “The man is such a wreck, he couldn't even shoot himself. He sustained no life threatening injuries. What a loser, right?” He took a puff from the cigarette. “He told me some things. Do you know that man abused his son? The kid was six and he had Downs Syndrome. Did you know that?”
“I didn't know much about him at all.” said Ruth.
“Well, he's been trying to hide it. That's what all this volunteer work was about. That's why he put every spare hour of his life into it.”
“Sounds like he wanted to erase the guilt and never could.”
“Not guilt, Holland.” said Keller. He dropped the cigarette and crushed its burning end under his heal. “Shame. Do you understand the difference? That man is mentally ill. He always was. He abused an innocent child and the kid died before anyone could find out what was going on. Everything after that was a show to convince himself and everyone else he was a good guy.”
“I thought that's what I said.”
Keller pointed a finger at her. “No, it wasn't. This guy took the Sorter test and it told him all he cared about was how people saw him. How he saw himself. That's shame. If you feel guilt, you care about making things right again, not about appearing to do so.”
“Seems like it had the same results. He still helped a lot of kids.”
Keller pushed the walk light so he could cross back to the station.
As he waited, he said, “He could've done that without trying to burn them to death.”
The light turned and Keller crossed without looking back at Ruth.
Ruth went back inside. She had left Jason in the care of a doctor treating him for smoke inhalation. When she returned to his bed, she found a different man sitting next to him. This man was not wearing scrubs or an Id. His attire was business casual: khaki pants, white shirt, blue blazer. He looked to be in his fifties, with well groomed silver hair.
“Can I help you?” said Ruth. The protective edge in her voice was clear.
“Reginald Binder.” said the man. “I'm the CEO of Polymath. We made the Sorter.”
Yes, she had heard of Reginald Binder and his company, Polymath. She even remembered when the Boston PD first adopted the program for its trial run and Binder gave a lecture at police headquarters. Here he was again, the source of all her troubles. Of course, a part of her had to take issue with that sentiment. Hadn't Binder and his digital progeny saved them all? Clearly, that's what he was over here to crow about. This would all be in the papers tomorrow, no doubt. And yet Ruth couldn't help resenting the Sorter or resenting Binder. She searched her mind for the reason and came up with the answer. It was something Norman had said. It wasn't just his words; it was the way his words described something Ruth had felt herself.
“I know.” said Ruth. “Why are you talking to my son? How are you even here?”
“I have friends. Are you Detective Holland?”
“Yeah. Why are you talking to my son?”
Binder walked away from the bed and closer to Ruth.
“I'm sorry.” he said. “I've been talking to everyone. Do you know how important this is?”
“What, exactly? The fire?”
“Yes, the fire.” Binder was calm, but he spoke with a hint of excitement which disturbed Ruth to no end. “The Boston PD has been experimenting with our product for some time. The American Psychiatric Association has endorsed it and many doctors have begun to administer the test. All of these results come back to Polymath and the Sorter adapts and evolves. Each day it gets better at what it does. This is no ordinary personality test.”
Ruth had taken the test herself. Everyone in the BPD had. She hadn't thought much of it at the time. These assessments were common. What she had been skeptical of was how it attempted to predict a person's behavior. Perhaps after today she had reason to become a believer. Yet Norman's words still rang in her skull. They struck an uneasy memory. He had used the term programmed. The computer had programmed him. Ruth hadn't been able to place this feeling before, but now she had to agree that she had felt what Norman had described. She too had felt it roaming inside her head, plucking at the strings in her brain.
Now the fear was more real: as crazy as it sounded, what if there was some truth to that? What if Keller was wrong and the Sorter had not seen something deep inside Norman Shaw? Perhaps it had created the problem in the first place and then predicted the outcome of its own handiwork. If so, that homicidal, suicidal person could've been her. It could still be her, some day.
But I'll go to hell before it can make me sorry.
To Binder, she said, “It does seem like your program knew that Norman was dangerous.”
“My goal is nothing less than a peaceful world.” said Binder. “For years people have been taking tests to tell them what job to pursue or who they might fall in love with. We're used to the idea that a computer might tell us something about ourselves that we can't know on our own. The Sorter is so much more. Can you imagine what we could be capable of?”
I'm sorry, but I can't get it out and I can't let it stay.
Ruth said, “Norman said he felt like the Sorter had programmed him to do what he did.”
“If only it could.” said Binder. “A program is dispassionate. It chooses an outcome based on logic and reason. I know this sounds crazy, but is there no part of you that thinks we'd be better off if the machines programmed the people?”
TWO
SIX MONTHS LATER
“I just don't want to be that kind of guy.” said John.
“Do you think you are that kind of guy and you want to change?” she said. “Or do you want me to tell you that you're not that kind of guy so you can feel better?”
John looked away. Each time the therapist asked a question like that, his eyes jumped to the corner with the toys. He didn't know what kind of help to expect from a shrink who devoted most of her practice to treating abused children. Weren't there enough angry men in the world to devote entire squadrons of specialists? Or was the judge who'd sent him here trying to tell him something?
The counselor said, “You're looking at th
e toys.”
He wanted to tell her what he thought. Instead, he said, “I'm dating a cop and she's got a kid. I really like her. The kid's great too.”
“How do you feel about dating a police officer?”
“It's fine. What difference does it make?”
“You're not always on the right side of the law.”
“Dr. Lane.” said John. “A judge sent me here because he thinks I tried to kill a guy.” John slapped his open palm on his chest. “I don't want to be that kind of person. So don't ask me; tell me what you think. Am I just a normal guy who's got a few triggers or am I some kind of psychopath? Do think this is going to happen again?”
“Let's talk through it and see what we come up with.”
John sighed, tossed his hands up, and slapped them back on his knees. He slumped in his chair and caught himself trying to glance over at the toys again. This time he turned his head the other way. Outside, the trees were turning. A low book shelf lined the space between the floor and the window sill. It was stuffed with books, many by the woman who sat across from him now:
Myers Briggs and the Science of Self Selection, by Dr. Sophie Lane.
Three Days Inside the Stanford Prison Experiment, by Dr. Sophie Lane.
My Life As a Clothed Monkey, by Dr. Sophie Lane.
“I'll tell you what I think.” said John. “All I wanted was new rain gutters. The first call I got was from a guy who sounded reasonable enough. He quoted me a really good price. I asked him to come by and work up a formal estimate. A day before that