I looked around the apartment. Dark. Messy.
The owner used to work in IT. His boss said he was among the best workers she’d seen. Always ready on call, knew how to deal with difficult problems, friendly to all but a bit private.
Several monitors around the couch showed graphs and numbers, a larger one played a very old movie, probably one from a playlist set on loop. Flying cars above a smog filled city.
The shelf behind the couch had some books and bottles on it. It didn’t look like he ever opened one of the books since putting them there. The bottles, he did.
His boss mentioned he seemed occupied with something. She tried to ask him about it, but he evaded the question.
I walked into the kitchen. The light on the wall buzzed and flickered. I tapped it and it came alive.
Looking at the garbage bag he lived on instant food. An advantage when it seems you don’t like to do the dishes.
I grabbed a glass from the sink, washed it and took it back to the livingroom.
He had been working late more often lately, although there were no spcial projects going on. “Having a look at interesting software.” he said, according to his boss.
I tossed a blanket aside and sat down on the couch, pouring myself a glass of Tsingtao.
The light from the monitors mixed with the flashes of light from passing transports outside.
There were some printouts and photos scattered on the table. Some of the papers were about genetic engineering, others about the human brain. The photos looked like family photos.
She also mentioned he once asked a couple of philisophical questions about life and how we knew who we were.
One of the prints was a production list from a few years back. It came from the systems of a clone manufactor.
I would have to file this case under a different label than suicide.