“I’ll be talking to Ed Pracim in the next couple of days,” McNulty said. “I’ll ask him why he put the microtrans on you. He has hunches; it must have been a hunch.” He reflected. “Bear in mind, the ID cards in your wallet are reproductions of actual documents on file at various central data banks throughout earth. Your reproductions are satisfactory, but I may want to check on the originals. Let’s hope they’re in as good order as the repros you carry.”
Kathy said feebly, “But that’s a rare procedure. Statistically–”
“In this case,” McNulty said, “I think it’s worth trying.”
“Why?” Kathy said.
“Because we don’t think you’re turning everyone over to us. Half an hour ago this man Taverner passed successfully through a random checkpoint. We followed him using the microtrans. And his papers look fine to me. But Ed says–”
“Ed drinks,” Kathy said.
“But we can count on him.” McNulty smiled, a professional beam of sunshine in the shabby room. “And we can’t, not quite, on you.”
Bringing forth his military-service chit, Jason rubbed the small profile 4-D picture of himself. And it said tinnily, “How now, brown cow?”
“How can that be faked?” Jason said. “That’s the tone of voice I had back ten years ago when I was an invol-nat.”
“I doubt that,” McNulty said. He examined his wristwatch. “Do we owe you anything, Miss Nelson? Or are we clear for this week?”
“Clear,” she said, with an effort. Then, in a low, unsteady voice, she half-whispered, “After Jack gets out you won’t be able to count on me at all.”
“For you,” McNulty said genially, “Jack will never get out.” He winked at Jason. Jason winked back. Twice. He understood McNulty. The man preyed on the weaknesses of others; the kind of manipulation that Kathy employed had probably been learned from him. And from his quaint, genial companions.
He could understand now how she had become what she had become. Betrayal was an everyday event; a refusal to betray, as in his case, was miraculous. He could only wonder at it and thank it dimly.
We have a betrayal state, he realized. When I was a celebrity I was exempt. Now I’m like everyone else: I now have to face what they’ve always faced. And–what I faced in the old days, faced and then later on repressed from my memory. Because it was too distressing to believe . . . once I had a choice, and could choose not to believe.
McNulty put his fleshy, red-speckled hand on Jason’s shoulder and said, “Come along with me.”
“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 hoarsely, 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 multitude 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; God 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 assumed 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 buttons, 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 document slid out, dropped into a metal basket.
“Jason Tavern,” the uniformed officer said, examining the document. “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 button, 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 fashion, pulled the wrong file on him. And, in their rush, they had let it stand.
He thought, Thank God 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 God 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.