Prints
“And I’m telling you that’s impossible!” Ted Sully was one of the best in the business, and also the most passionate of his colleagues about seeing justice done and ensuring that the right people went to jail. The latest case he’d become involved in was right up his alley – a chance to put away a real scumbag, and for a very long time. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like that was going to happen, and Pol was the one who had to hand down the decision.
“The evidence is clear, Pol – clear as day! You can see him on the tape, killing that man outright, and without a shred of remorse. I’ve got ten eyewitnesses that can testify to the fact!” Ted’s normally deep voice was high and strident; this one had really hit a nerve with the big man.
“You know as well as I do that eyewitnesses aren’t worth a damn, Ted. There’s too much chance of collusion, too high a possibility that they missed what was important or saw something that wasn’t there.” He fixed Ted with a stern glare. “Besides which, you know as well as I do this isn’t going to jury trial. It stops here, with me.”
“Damn it!” Ted exploded. “That’s not fair and you know it! You’re letting him walk free, setting him loose to do this again. You see that, right? You see the foolish mistake you’re making here, don’t you Pol?”
Sitting up straighter in his deep leather chair, he spoke clearly. “That’s Judge Makir, Ted, and you’d do well to remember it.”
The man opposite him slumped, shoulders sagging and face drawn. Ted was all bluster and all heart, and Pol hated to call him out, to make him feel like he’d done something wrong.
“I’m sorry, I just –“ Ted cut off, sinking into the other chair in the room.
“I know, believe me.” He looked at the thick sheaf of papers on his desk again. It was hard to believe that what he’d been told was possible, let alone had actually happened, and he couldn’t claim to understand the calculations and formulae that spilled out across every page. What it boiled down to was one succinct line on the last page of the pile, one clearly meant for laymen like himself.
“The only conclusion which can be reached from the data supplied is that the individual described is able, at will, to alter the structure of his fingerprints, rendering a positive identification impossible.”
It went against everything he knew about the process of confirming identity; prints were supposed to be inviolate, a sure way to mark out the innocent from the guilty. Now, he was going to have to let a man go based solely on what appeared to be a genetic abnormality. It rankled, to say the least.
“I’ve read the lab reports from top to bottom and back to front, Ted, looking for a way around it, but your case just isn’t strong enough to stand up without this kind of physical evidence. If I ram this thing through it’ll come back to bite us both in the ass, and cast doubt on every decision that comes out of this office.”
Ted nodded. He knew.
***
It wasn’t that he had wanted to kill, but that no other choice was available. Even at a distance, it had been clear that the thin man was an agent of the Most High, one sent to stop his brainwaves from reaching the cosmos. A rock to the head worked well enough even on agents to end their lives, though he felt some small remorse for the unwilling host that went with them. Such remorse did not last long – only those with weak spirits could be possessed, could allow the Most High to corrupt them.
Looking down at his hands, he marveled again at the great gift the Endless had given him. Without conscious thought, the tips of each digit swirled and changed, giving him the freedom he needed to carry out his work. Fools with badges and mean-looking things with guns came to him asking questions, but he sent them away. He did not need to talk to them, and they had no right to interfere. All of them seemed angry, so angry, but eventually all left him alone. They had no choice.
Now, all he had to do was wait. The Endless would return soon, invade his mind with further instructions about what he was to do. It was foolish to try and predict what the source of all life wanted – and could get him killed if he was wrong.
A sudden wracking spasm hit, and he knew a visitation was imminent. Clenching his teeth against the incoming pain would do no good.
Agony swam in his veins as the Endless appeared to him, a wavering vision of black and silver streaked with red. It had no form, no distinct shape, but was overwhelmingly powerful, overwhelmingly beautiful.
In front of his eyes a new shape coalesced, that of a thin man with a black business suit, brows drawn in consternation. Information about the man flooded his senses, details about height, weight, age, job, and a host of other, more intimate particulars. It was all over in a matter of moments but left him gasping on the floor for breath, trying to hold on to sensations the Endless left behind. It was always too short a season, too little time spent with the perfect center of the universe, but he reasoned that it might be his own limitations that prevented him from enduring more pain and more ecstasy – his face twisted as he cursed the frail shell that housed him.
Clarity came after a moment; the Endless had assigned him a task. Picking up the worn pencil on his desk, he began to write on one of the few white spaces left on dirty walls.
Pol Makir. Pol Makir. I’m coming, I’m coming, Pol Makir.
- D
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