Part 8 (1/2)

”Where to?” Jason demanded, moving away from McNulty exactly, he realized, the way Kathy had moved away from him. She had learned this, too, from the McNultys of the world.

”You don't have anything to charge him with!” Kathy said hoa.r.s.ely, clenching her fists.

Easily, McNulty said, ”We're not going to charge him with anything; I just want a fingerprint, voiceprint, footprint, EEG wave pattern from him. Okay, Mr. Tavern?”

Jason started to say, ”I hate to correct a police officer--” and then broke off at the warning look on Kathy's face-- ”who's doing his duty,” he finished, ”so I'll go along.” Maybe Kathy had a point; maybe it was worth something for the pol officer to get Jason Taverner's name wrong. Who knew? Time would tell.

”'Mr. Tavern,' ” McNulty said lazily, propelled him toward the door of the room. ”Suggests beer and warmth and coziness, doesn't it?” He looked back at Kathy and said in a sharp voice, ”Doesn't it?”

”Mr. Tavern is a warm man,” Kathy said, her teeth locked together. The door shut after them, and McNulty steered him down the hallway to the stairs, breathing, meanwhile, the odor of onion and hot sauce in every direction.

At the 469th Precinct station, Jason Taverner found himself lost in a mult.i.tude of men and women who moved aimlessly, waiting to get in, waiting to get out, waiting for information, waiting to be told what to do. McNulty had pinned a colored tag on his lapel; G.o.d and the police alone knew what it meant.

Obviously it did mean something. A uniformed officer behind a desk which ran from wall to wall beckoned to him.

”Okay,” the cop said. ”Inspector McNulty filled out part of your J-2 form. Jason Tavern. Address: 2048 Vine Street.”

Where had McNulty come up with that? Jason wondered. Vine Street. And then he realized that it was Kathy's address. McNulty had a.s.sumed they were living together; overworked, as was true of all the pols, he had written down the information that took the least effort. A law of nature: an objector living creature--takes the shortest route between two points. He filled out the balance of the form.

”Put your hand into that slot,” the officer said, indicating a fingerprinting machine. Jason did so. ”Now,” the officer said, ”remove one shoe, either left or right. And that sock. You may sit down here.” He slid a section of desk aside, revealing an entrance and a chair.

”Thanks,” Jason said, seating himself.

After the recording of the footprint he spoke the sentence, ”Down goes the right hut and ate a put object beside his horse.” That took care of the voiceprint. After that, again seated, he allowed terminals to be placed here and there on his head; the machine cranked out three feet of scribbledon paper, and that was that. That was the electrocardiogram. It ended the tests.

Looking cheerful, McNulty appeared at the desk. In the harsh white overhead light his five-o'clock shadow could be seen over all his jaw, his upper lip, the higher part of his neck. ”How's it going with Mr. Tavern?” he asked.

The officer said, ”We're ready to do a nomenclature filepull.”

”Fine,” McNulty said. ”I'll stick around and see what comes up.”

The uniformed officer dropped the form Jason had filled out into a slot, pressed lettered b.u.t.tons, all of which were green. For some reason Jason noticed that. And the letters capitals.

From a mouthlike aperture on the very long desk a Xeroxed doc.u.ment slid out, dropped into a metal basket.

”Jason Tavern,” the uniformed officer said, examining the doc.u.ment. ”Of Kememmer, Wyoming. Age: thirty-nine. A diesel engine mechanic.” He glanced at the photo. ”Pic taken fifteen years ago.”

”Any police record?” McNulty asked.

”No trouble of any kind,” the uniformed officer said.

”There are no other Jason Taverns on record at Pol-Dat?” McNulty asked. The officer pressed a yellow b.u.t.ton, shook his head. ”Okay,” McNulty said. ”That's him.” He surveyed Jason. ”You don't look like a diesel engine mechanic.”

”I don't do that anymore,” Jason said. ”I'm now in sales. For farm equipment. Do you want my card?” A bluff; he reached toward the upper right-hand pocket of his suit. McNulty shook his head no. So that was that; they had, in their usual bureaucratic fas.h.i.+on, pulled the wrong file on him. And, in their rush, they had let it stand.

He thought, Thank G.o.d for the weaknesses built into a vast, complicated, convoluted, planetwide apparatus. Too many people; too many machines. This error began with a pol inspec and worked its way to Pol-Dat, their pool of data at Memphis, Tennessee. Even with my fingerprint, footprint, voiceprint and EEG print they probably won't be able to straighten it out. Not now; not with my form on file.

”Shall I book him?” the uniformed officer asked McNulty.

”For what?” McNulty said. ”For being a diesel mechanic?” He slapped Jason convivially on the back. ”You can go home, Mr. Tavern. Back to your child-faced sweetheart. Your little virgin.” Grinning, he moved off into the throng of anxious and bewildered human men and women.

”You may go, sir,” the uniformed officer told Jason.

Nodding, Jason made his way out of the 469th Precinct police station, onto the nighttime street, to mix with the free and self-determined people who resided there.

But they will get me finally, he thought. They'll match up the prints. And yet--if it's been fifteen years since the photo was taken, maybe it's been fifteen years since they took an EEG and a voiceprint.

But that still left the finger- and footprints. They did not change.

He thought, Maybe they'll just toss the Xerox copy of the file into a shredding bin, and that will be that. And transmit the data they got out of me to Memphis, there to be incorporated in my--or rather ”my”--permanent file. In Jason Tavern's file, specifically.

Thank G.o.d Jason Tavern, diesel mechanic, had never broken a law, had never tangled with the pols or flats. Good for him.

A police flipflap wobbled overhead, its red searchlight glimmering, and from its PA speakers it said, ”Mr. Jason Tavern, return to 469th Precinct Police Station at once. This is a police order. Mr. Jason Tavern--” It raved on and on as Jason stood stunned. They had figured it out already. In a matter not of hours, days, or weeks, but minutes.

He returned to the police station, climbed the styraplex stairs, pa.s.sed through the light-activated doors, through the milling throng of the unfortunate, back to the uniformed officer who had handled his case--and there stood McNulty, too. The two of them were in the process of frowningly conferring.

”Well,” McNulty said, glancing up, ”here's our Mr. Tavern again. What are you doing back here, Mr. Tavern?”

”The police flipflap--” he began, but McNulty cut him off.

”That was unauthorized. We merely put out an APB and some figtail hoisted it to flipflap level. But as long as you're here”--McNulty turned the doc.u.ment so that Jason could see the photo--”is that how you looked fifteen years ago?”

”I guess so,” Jason said. The photo showed a sallow-faced individual with protruding Adam's apple, bad teeth and eyes, sternly staring into nothing. His hair, frizzy and corn-colored, hung over two near-jug ears.

”You've had plastic S,” McNulty said.

Jason said, ”Yes.”

”Why?”

Jason said, ”Who would want to look like that?”