Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator Read Online Free Page B
Author: Josh Berk
magnifying glass, flips her hair in a gesture so cute that I almost faint, and turns the card over.
“Yeah,” she says. “It says ‘MF.’ ”
We all laugh. Okay, mainly I laugh. Why would Zant write an abbreviation for the filthiest word possible on a card? But wait: maybe it’s not that. My brain is churning away. I see a trend!
HD, MF, TK, GL … “Mr. Zant!” I say. “Each card has initials on the back.”
“Is that right?” he asks, faking like it’s news to him. He is being very kind to me. Apparently the fact that I am a dedicated practitioner of hard science (yeah, right) has compelled him to forgive me for the weird scene I caused the previous day. I resolve to be less weird. Or, you know, at least to try.
“Everyone, please look on the back of your cards with your magnifying glasses,” I say. Saying “please” is classy, right? Girls like it? Maureen and TK flip their cards over while Mr. Zant grins his rakish smile.
“Mine says ‘AC,’ ” Maureen says in her little hamster-squeak voice.
“And, uh, this says, um, ‘RF,’ ” TK says. Hairston doesn’t say anything at first, but it’s pretty clear to me that he got his own card. It must say “PH” on the back. Wait, no: “HD.”
“Yeah, mine says ‘HD,’ ” mumbles Hairston. “ ‘High Definition,’ oh yeah, maybe that could be my new nickname!” Shockingly, everyone ignores him. Good try, though, Penis-Head.
“Do you see a pattern in this information?” Mr. Zant asks, smiling again. “A good deal of forensics work is recognizing patterns, whether in the whorls of a fingerprint or in the behavior of a killer.”
“Those are everybody’s initials!” I yell. Again, volume control is getting the best of me.
“ ‘GL’ is me, ‘AC’ is Anoop, ‘MF’ is Maureen, ‘RF’ is Raquel, ‘HD’ is Hairston, and ‘TK’ is, well, TK.”
“That’s right, Guy!” Mr. Zant says. “Now, why do you think those letters are on those cards?”
I have no idea. No one does. It is silent, the only audible noise being the click and purr of the AC overhead. (I mean the air conditioning, not Anoop Chattopadhyay. That would be weird if he were clicking and purring.)
It is Raquel who speaks up. Smart girl. “Are these, like,
our
fingerprints?” she asks. She gestures for TK to hand over the card that reads “RF” and then compares her actual digits to the print on the card, checking whorls in the flesh, I guess.
“This definitely looks like my fingerprint,” she says. “Freaking weird.”
Mr. Zant just smiles and then slowly walks out of the room, sneaking away like we are dozing guard dogs he doesn’t want to awaken. Comments from the six of us go something like this:
“So, wait: he did all this in one day? Scanned our prints and made these cards?”
“And he didn’t know who would be back today. He must have done it for everyone who was here yesterday.”
“He seriously needs a life.”
“Or a girlfriend.”
“I nominate me.”
“Shut up.”
“Isn’t it, like, illegal to collect our fingerprints? He needs a warrant!”
“That’s only if you’re arrested.”
“And if he’s a police officer.”
“Is he?”
“Didn’t you even read that form you signed? You consented to allow him to collect your fingerprints and DNA for educational purposes.”
“Nah, I never read that kind of crap.”
“Ew, he can collect our DNA?”
“I bet you’d like that.”
“Gross!”
“So how did he get our fingerprints? What a freak!”
Then we go silent for a minute. How
did
he get our fingerprints?
Maureen, that bad MF, speaks up. “He probably lifted our fingerprints from the papers we signed yesterday,” she says. “With fingerprint tape or whatever. Then he scanned them into a computer and printed them out on these cards. And it’s not hard to print in a tiny font. I’ve done it before. Just use a word processor and set the font to like a two-point font or whatever.”
“I knew it!” I
“Yeah,” she says. “It says ‘MF.’ ”
We all laugh. Okay, mainly I laugh. Why would Zant write an abbreviation for the filthiest word possible on a card? But wait: maybe it’s not that. My brain is churning away. I see a trend!
HD, MF, TK, GL … “Mr. Zant!” I say. “Each card has initials on the back.”
“Is that right?” he asks, faking like it’s news to him. He is being very kind to me. Apparently the fact that I am a dedicated practitioner of hard science (yeah, right) has compelled him to forgive me for the weird scene I caused the previous day. I resolve to be less weird. Or, you know, at least to try.
“Everyone, please look on the back of your cards with your magnifying glasses,” I say. Saying “please” is classy, right? Girls like it? Maureen and TK flip their cards over while Mr. Zant grins his rakish smile.
“Mine says ‘AC,’ ” Maureen says in her little hamster-squeak voice.
“And, uh, this says, um, ‘RF,’ ” TK says. Hairston doesn’t say anything at first, but it’s pretty clear to me that he got his own card. It must say “PH” on the back. Wait, no: “HD.”
“Yeah, mine says ‘HD,’ ” mumbles Hairston. “ ‘High Definition,’ oh yeah, maybe that could be my new nickname!” Shockingly, everyone ignores him. Good try, though, Penis-Head.
“Do you see a pattern in this information?” Mr. Zant asks, smiling again. “A good deal of forensics work is recognizing patterns, whether in the whorls of a fingerprint or in the behavior of a killer.”
“Those are everybody’s initials!” I yell. Again, volume control is getting the best of me.
“ ‘GL’ is me, ‘AC’ is Anoop, ‘MF’ is Maureen, ‘RF’ is Raquel, ‘HD’ is Hairston, and ‘TK’ is, well, TK.”
“That’s right, Guy!” Mr. Zant says. “Now, why do you think those letters are on those cards?”
I have no idea. No one does. It is silent, the only audible noise being the click and purr of the AC overhead. (I mean the air conditioning, not Anoop Chattopadhyay. That would be weird if he were clicking and purring.)
It is Raquel who speaks up. Smart girl. “Are these, like,
our
fingerprints?” she asks. She gestures for TK to hand over the card that reads “RF” and then compares her actual digits to the print on the card, checking whorls in the flesh, I guess.
“This definitely looks like my fingerprint,” she says. “Freaking weird.”
Mr. Zant just smiles and then slowly walks out of the room, sneaking away like we are dozing guard dogs he doesn’t want to awaken. Comments from the six of us go something like this:
“So, wait: he did all this in one day? Scanned our prints and made these cards?”
“And he didn’t know who would be back today. He must have done it for everyone who was here yesterday.”
“He seriously needs a life.”
“Or a girlfriend.”
“I nominate me.”
“Shut up.”
“Isn’t it, like, illegal to collect our fingerprints? He needs a warrant!”
“That’s only if you’re arrested.”
“And if he’s a police officer.”
“Is he?”
“Didn’t you even read that form you signed? You consented to allow him to collect your fingerprints and DNA for educational purposes.”
“Nah, I never read that kind of crap.”
“Ew, he can collect our DNA?”
“I bet you’d like that.”
“Gross!”
“So how did he get our fingerprints? What a freak!”
Then we go silent for a minute. How
did
he get our fingerprints?
Maureen, that bad MF, speaks up. “He probably lifted our fingerprints from the papers we signed yesterday,” she says. “With fingerprint tape or whatever. Then he scanned them into a computer and printed them out on these cards. And it’s not hard to print in a tiny font. I’ve done it before. Just use a word processor and set the font to like a two-point font or whatever.”
“I knew it!” I