Transmat World: Chapter 11
Downtown Atlanta police headquarters; Thursday, October 7, 2145 A.D.
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“Mr. Freeman, do you have any idea why you’re here?” asked Detective Morris.
“My recreational pharmacology license is up to date. All my records are in order. I don’t sell to people that are obviously high or to minors so … no, I don’t have any idea why I’m here,” said Robert Freeman, the sole proprietor of Drugs-N-Stuff.
Detectives Morris and Fulbright glanced briefly at each other. The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and nervous sweat. Light from the ceiling panel of LED’s ricocheted off the one-way mirror and the glossy NuStone walls, allowing no nuance of facial expression to escape attention. Robert Freeman seemed uncomfortable about the whole situation. Small beads of sweat were popping out on his forehead, and his eyes darted nervously about the room — a sign that his subconscious, maybe even his conscious, was looking for means of escape.
“Have you been talking to anyone at Transmat, Inc. lately?” asked Detective Fulbright.
Full-blown alarm appeared on Freeman’s face.
“I’ll repeat the question. Have you — ”
“Yes! Yes, I’ve been talking to someone at Transmat. Yes, I’ve agreed to stop selling the little bitty Transmats. I gave them copies of all my sales records. Now what? I guess you’re going to tell me people are using them to … ” Mr. Freeman’s facial features froze.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” inquired Morris.
“The sextel murders. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” said Freeman.
The detectives’ stone-faced muteness was all he got.
“The Transmat people wouldn’t say anything either, but that’s what this is about; isn’t it?”
Detective Fulbright pushed a button on the machine in the middle of an un-artificially distressed bamboo-veneer table. The holographic image of a man’s head began to rotate in the air above the projector.
“Do you recognize this man?” asked Fulbright.
“Yes, that’s a man I sold those small Transmats to,” said Freeman. “His name was Roy … uh … uh — ”
“Betelman.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Said he had a great new application for tiny Transmats. Said it would revolutionize the industry. That’s all he said,” Freeman stated.
“You know anything else about him?” asked Detective Morris.
“No,” said Freeman.
Detectives Morris and Fulbright got up in unison and left the room, leaving a befuddled Robert Freeman staring at a rotating head. Fulbright’s torso appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, by the way, you’re free to go,” said Fulbright.
“I love doin’ that to them,” said Fulbright as they strode through an archipelago of desks and chairs heading for the hallway. “That’s not sadistic, is it?”
“Harmless fun,” said Morris. “Let’s go find Roy Betelman.”
Fulbright grabbed a squeeze-travel-sippy-cup of coffee off his desk and a doughnut from an open box off someone else’s desk. He scurries to catch up with Morris and walks through the automatic doors closing just in time to muffle the protests of the doughnut’s owner.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” said Fulbright.
“That fat is going straight to your head,” said Morris as they got into the iCar® and rolled silently away.
