Jolting a Killer. Adult. Time travel can be complex. (standard:mystery, 6484 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 23 2020	Views/Reads: 1210/883	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
In a future world, police must track down criminals, despite new factors including teleportation and time augmenting drugs.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

with Trudi if you like." 

"In that case, may I ask her function?" 

"You may not.  Whether she tells you or not is up to her.  Look at her
as a sort of official shadow, one that dogs your footsteps."  He 
shrugged, preferring to gaze out a window. “Out of my hands. She's 
going from one division to another to study procedures and can be of 
help while doing it.  I'd listen to her advice.” 

The woman, young enough to be his daughter, stands to shake hands.  Her
grip is firm. I avoid a sudden impulse, a macho try at attempting to 
crush her hand. 

"You two better get busy. I have work to do."  Captain Transki waves a
hand, dismissing us. 

The woman is silent as we take a personnel elevator to the third-floor
detective section.  Neither of us say anything as I unlock the door of 
my task force room. 

The room is 30'x30'.  It has a large blackboard on one wall and a
cork-board on another.  Both are spotted by information on the killer, 
codenamed "Trumpy," a reflection of his own name.  A couple-dozen 
folding chairs are open and spotted around the room, some in front of a 
long folding table lined with old-style desktop PCs.  The table has a 
row of three windows behind it.  Mine is one of four metal desks, two 
on each side of the entrance. 

"This desk is mine." I point. "The others aren't assigned, first come
first served.  If you need one, you'll have to grab it now, before the 
others get here." 

"Not necessary, Craft ... can I call you Jerry?  You should call me
Trudi, and please don't tell the others my rank.  Let them think I'm 
one of them.  I can get more information that way." She smiles.  
"Please don't take offense Jerry.  I didn't ask for this assignment and 
don't want to get in your way.  Treat me like one of the guys.  Okay?" 

"I guess so ... Trudi.  I can live with that,"  I say, forcing a smile,
"since I don't have any choice." 

"How long we have until the rest get here?  You have time to brief me,
or should we wait until later?" 

I sit, the woman perching on the edge of my desk.  Leaning back in the
chair I tell her about the case. 

"It started two months back, when a state senator was shot in the
shoulder while leaving his office.  We retrieved the bullet and ran it 
through forensics.  Then, a few days later, the same man was sniped at 
and killed when he left the hospital through a side door.  I have no 
idea how the killer knew the time and specific door, but he was 
obviously waiting. 

"A week later, a city committeeman had his feet and one leg blown off
when stepping around an open manhole. 

"At first, we didn't connect the two.  The next day a committeeman was
sniped and killed when his limo left a public trans-booth terminal 
after picking him up.  Like with the first, I don't know how the 
shooter knew he'd be there at that specific time.  The bullets came 
from the same rifle. 

"When an assistant police commissioner's car blew up, using the same
type of anti-personnel bomb from WWIII we knew we had a serial killer 
working.  Four predominate politicians don't normally get murdered 
within two weeks. 

"I was ordered to form a task force to stop the perp, Captain Transki
giving me ten detectives from various sources to help.  So far, the 
perpetrator has stayed at least one step ahead of us.  He seems to know 
what we're going to do, even before we do.  Yesterday, we had a tip 
that he would be at an address on Elm Street.”  Pausing to pour a cup 
of coffee from an industrial-size urn, I return to my desk.  "When we 
got there, we found he'd left a few minutes before we arrived.  It 
looks like he lived there for awhile.  The landlord and neighbors gave 
us a description, but that's all we have." 

"What does forensics say about the place?" 

"They took an interactive recording of the apartment and a brain-scan of
the landlord.  Forensics also used a DNA sniffer on the place.  I don't 
expect much, but we'll get a copy of the recording and a scan readout 
sometime today.  The other locations gave us nothing useful." 

Trudi snorts. "I sometimes think technology has become too complex. 
Those DNA sniffers, for instance.  They pick up the codes of everyone 
that's been at a location for maybe years, then sort it according to a 
database of known criminals.  After eliminating all police officers on 
the scene, we're typically left with hundreds Lor thousands of 
individuals to go through.  All a person has to do is walk through a 
room to leave DNA from their breath and stray skin cells.  There's no 
quantifying.  A walk through is the same as living there for years." 
She grinned.  “Not much dating of traces either, except when one skin 
chip happens to belying on top of another.” 

"There are fewer suspects when they test items like bedding," I answer. 

"Breath particles can still drift to the bed. It depends on air
currents." 

"Still, when the results of more than one test are compared, the machine
solves a lot of cases." 

"I still don't like it." 

"Technology isn't all that bad.  What about the computer chips implanted
in convicted criminals?  Once those are in place we can trace them, 
worldwide.  If we want to talk to one of those people for any reason, 
we send a signal and the chip vibrates, telling them they have 24 hours 
to report to a police station for questioning." 

"Sure," she says, "and if they don't report in that time we can blow the
chip and kill them.  Do you know how many times that option is used?  
Hardly ever.  Are you going to blow up a possible witness to a pawn 
store heist?  Hell no.  It's all or nothing." 

"But the GPS circuits in the chip let us pick them up.  We know where to
find them." 

"And, with our overworked forces, how often do we do that?  Again,
unless it's for murder and they're the chief suspect, they're home free 
-- and they know it.  Politicians and think tanks come up with that 
expensive crap, but we on the front lines have to live with it." 

"It comes in handy, at times." 

"And a pain in the ass at other times." 

As we talk, other detectives wonder in.  One puts down an armful of
donut boxes while the others circulate, some checking the boards for 
new information. 

"At least the teleportation booths have tracing circuits built in. 
Anyone using them has their DNA scanned while disassembling.  If on the 
prohibited or watch list, we know about it instantly," Jerry says, as 
his team arrives, one by one.  "And the booths help keep firearms and 
drugs from being moved from place to place."  Thank God, I think, that 
the police booths let both pass without incident.  How else could we 
carry our weapons with us, or bring in drugs and other contraband for 
evidence? Including, he-he-he, me and my jolt supply. 

"On that note," Trudi asks, "how can you restrict the killer to this
city if you don't have his DNA?" 

"We can't.  Since he's doing all his killing here, in this district, we
have to assume he's still around." 

"Jerry!"  One of the detectives shouts from across the room.
"Telephone." 

I could have it transferred to my desk, but why bother?  I rise and
hurry across the room. 

"Lieutenant Craft." 

It's one of the forensics team. "We might have a break, but you ain't
gonna like it." 

"Run it by me and we'll see." 

"We tested the DNA on a cigarette butt found at the bottom of a trash
can where it's not likely to have excess traces.  It came out negative, 
implying the perpetrator has no previous criminal history or military 
service." 

"Which means we have only umpteen billion suspects." 

"Guess so. Mine not to reason why. Mine but to test and report." 

"Fine.  You're not much help.  Thanks, anyway."  I hang up. 

Counting heads, I notice only one detective missing.  "Johnson.  You
seen Adams?  She's not here." 

"Piss call, Jerry.  She'll be back in a minute." 

When I have a full quorum I give out daily assignments.  Since Adams
isn't here yet, I'll assign her to the tedious telephone detail.  
She'll sit in this room for the rest of the day, fielding and recording 
contacts from other officers and interested civilians.  Maybe next time 
she'll use her bathroom at home or come in a little earlier? 

When Adams finally shows up and is briefed, I motion to Trudi.  "Come
on. We have a date at the Jablonski Labs." 

"The same place that designs teleportation booths?" 

"Yep. I want to learn all I can about the devices; what they are and
aren't capable of."  Digging through an office address-book, I acquire 
the coordinates for the lab. "They don't have a police booth at their 
end." 

Opening one of my desk drawers, I give her a spare key. "Here. Put your
weapons and anything else that would ring the bell in here."  I use 
another drawer to store my own gun and drug-vial.  I'm glad to see her 
store a fancy brass religious figurine that is probably a jolt bottle 
of her own. 

We use a police trans-booth on that floor, where I enter a destination
code.  When we step through, we exit into a harshly-lighted civilian 
exit arch painted white.  The brightness is glaring after the dreary 
gray walls of the station-house.  A  receptionist at a counter across 
the room makes a phone call and gives us visitor badges. 

"Use your badge in a slot in those elevators." She points to a bank of
three against one wall.  "They'll only admit one of you at a time.  The 
badge will tell the elevator which floor you're allowed to visit, so 
don't bother with the buttons.  Doctor Mengolie should be waiting for 
you at the landing." 

Thanking her, we do as told, Trudi first.  There is a short chubby
white-coated man waiting, white hair sparse above a smiling face.  The 
doctor looks like a stereotypical leprechaun.  I thinks of asking about 
where he left his clay pipe. 

"Detectives?  I've been expecting you.  What can I do for you two?" 

"We'd like to see your lab, sir.  I'm after a killer, and think a more
comprehensive knowledge of teleporting would be useful." 

"Anything in particular?" 

"No. Not really.  Have you time to give us a brief tour?  Maybe
something will catch my attention.  I don't want to keep you but, even 
if the info doesn't help on this case, it might on another." 

We're shown to a large room where experimental machines are being built
by obvious mechanics, along with a few white-coated individuals, some 
at computer terminals.  It's interesting, in a way, but doesn't seem 
any different than any factory, except for hands-on work rather than 
robotic assemblers.  Doctor Mengolie keeps up a constant chatter on 
what we're seeing. 

"What's going on over in that corner, doctor?" Trudi asks.  I see yet
another machine, that one different in being sorta ad-hoc, many pieces 
and assemblies lying on separate tables with wires leading to a 
normal-looking trans portal rather than on the skeletal machine itself. 
It also has its own large computer, half-seen in an alcove. 

"Well ... you are policemen. I ... I guess I can tell you.  It's an
experimental time transport.  Wouldn't it be nice if you could go to 
the future and find out who your murderer is?  Sorry, though.  All we 
can do so far is send inanimate items to the past.  Small ones, at 
that.  We tried a mouse, once.  It was sent twenty-minutes into the 
past and was dead when it arrived. 

"Even then, the only way we knew it was a mouse was because we knew we
were going to send it.  Otherwise, it was only a mouse-sized glob of 
meat that arrived twenty-minutes before we pulled the switch.  I hated 
to kill the mouse, which was still alive in my hand at the time, but 
didn't want to risk a time-paradox by not doing so." He gives us a 
sickly grin, tears in the corners of his eyes. “I sent it to its 
death.” 

I shudder.  Glancing at my companion, I see her face lighten as she
covers her mouth and swallows.  "Ha – Haven't you heard enough, Jerry?" 


"I suppose so.  At least now I know more about the security aspects. 
Doctor Mengolie.  Is it possible to keep records for me?  Records of 
certain individuals and their teleports? The department will pay for 
the time." 

"What sort of record?" 

"If I send you a list of suspects, can you keep track of when and where
they use a trans-booth? Also the destinations.  I'm certain it would 
help.  If you have the resources, that is?" 

"It might be expensive, detective.  Maybe you should check with your
financial office first?  Yes. We can do it, though it will mean 
reassigning or even hiring personnel." 

"Get it set up, Doctor," Trudi tells him. "I have the authority to okay
it ... on a test basis, in any case.  Send the bill and particulars to 
Captain Trudi Jennings at Northside Police Headquarters, room 1264."  
She passes him her ID card. 

On the way out, I quip, "It must be nice to have all that authority." 

"Yep. It is." 

*** 

When we get back to the station, I find the results of a comparison of
four crime scenes waiting for me.  There are only four people whose DNA 
was found at more than one of the crime scenes, none in all locations.  
One had his DNA profiled in the navy at one time and was low priority.  
The other had no military service or criminal history and the last was 
still an unknown that might never be found.  With the hundreds of 
traces picked up, it was still unusual in such a large city.  In fact, 
their DNA could have been deposited long before and have nothing to do 
with the killer. 

"I traced the navy guy," Adams, at the desk, tells me. "The guy's an
electrician.  He's in the phone book and was probably called for minor 
repairs at both the apartment and the sniper blind.  A coincidence.  
The other duplicate DNAs are useless until we have a suspect." 

So much for that fancy DNA testing. 

To try out the new tracing setup, I make a list of local people with a
history of sniping, culled from police and FBI records, and ask Trudi 
to call it in to the trans lab.  We might get lucky, I think, and find 
records of them teleporting to crime scenes at the right times. 

Then, feeling myself coming down from the drug, I step into a closet and
take another jolt of jolt. 

"Adams.  I'm going home.  When the guys report in you can tell them to
do the same, then you're done for the day.  See you tomorrow.  On time, 
I trust?" 

"Night, boss." 

*** 

"Johnson's got the phone today.  The rest of you get out there and do
your best. You hear?" I tell my crew. "Go get'um, tigers." Turning to 
Trudi, "I had a call from a guy on the street.  He's helped me before. 
How about we start by seeing what he's got for us?" 

We teleport to a police trans-booth at a branch of the public library on
Spruce Street, in the heart of one of the worse sections of the city.  
I do feel safer with weapons there, as do many legal and illegal 
residents. 

"Steve and his family have a small grocery a couple of blocks from
here," I say.  "I gotta use the restroom first." 

"You mean to jolt up, don't you?" 

"Well ... yeah.  But relieve myself first." 

"Look, Jerry.  It's your life, and you're in charge here, but I think
you use too much of that junk."  She points to two men sitting in a 
corner of the library foyer.  Emaciated and pale, they sit shaking, 
eyes unfocused, looking like a couple of rabbits confronted by a fox; 
ready to bolt into nothingness.  "You don't want to end up like those 
two.  Too much of that crap can screwup your mind." 

"Most of the guys use it.  Hell, Trudi, I saw your vial." 

"Sure.  I have some.  I think I take a jolt once or twice a year, and
only when in imminent danger." She shakes her head, eyes joined with 
mine. "Not as a crutch." 

"Be back in a few minutes." 

She shakes her head. 

*** 

The inside of the room is filthy, really fetid.  I have to step over two
comatose young men in order to reach a booth.  The first two enclosures 
have men collapsed over the seats.  "You spare some jolt, broth...?" 
The man collapses back into oblivion, his question already forgotten. 

In a hurry, I give up on solitude.  After using a urinal, I jolt up and
go back out.  The scene inside does leave an impression on me; that and 
Trudi's short speech.  Since making lieutenant and spending most of my 
time at the precinct, I've lost contact with the seedier sections of 
town, including its druggies. 

It's not only jolt, I realize, but a composite of a dozen different
drugs.  It has been many years since the government gave up on drug 
control.  Sort of a no ask, no tell policy.  That attitude is enhanced 
by government officials themselves being on various drugs in order to 
keep up with their contemporaries.  Certainly, many police owe their 
lives to jolt.  If we don't use it and the criminals do, we're at a 10 
to 1 disadvantage in strength and speed.  Jolt is the most insidious 
drug ever invented.  It's like speed on speed.  Your senses are 
enhanced tenfold. 

We leave by walking down a long flight of steps between fake Grecian
columns covered by modern impromptu drawings -- mostly gang graffiti 
interspersed by contributions of the barely literate -- simple cursing 
and filthy language, even four-letter words often misspelled. High 
school English classes teach sentences such as “i okay r u ok, dude”, 
as correct. Even Fuck You has degenerated to FU. It takes a masters 
degree to get a receptionist job. 

The streets are dirty, the people unfriendly.  Nobody nods or greets us,
most turning heads according to the old jail-house adage that eye 
contact indicates you wish to fight or copulate. 

* 

"Samso_ _ Groc_ _ y" is narrow at the front, what must be picture
windows now covered by metal plates sporting several gang signs. 

"Those are the gangs he pays," I inform her, "for protection from
themselves." 

The inside is surprising, a narrow but deep display of cheap groceries
extending from the front to a dimly seen rear, lit only by an 
occasional bare bulb set in a high ceiling. 

"Mostly outdated store brands, at least what's not stolen on the docks. 
You can trust the canned goods, but don't buy anything fresh or 
frozen," I advise in a whisper.  "You didn't notice any stray animals 
walking around here, did you?" 

"Aaaay, Jerry. Long time, man."  The call comes from a dark corner. 

"Steve, my man.  Come on out'a the dark, uh."  My hand hovers near my
blaster.  "We gotta get down, man." 

"A min.  Gimme a min." 

"He's got a bulletproof plastic shield back there, along with an
old-fashioned tommy-gun out'a Elliot Ness days.  He likes to scope 
visitors as they enter.  If they look suspicious or belong to a rival 
gang, he orders them out." 

"He must not sell too many groceries that way," Trudi says. 

"The food's mostly for show. He sells to locals he recognizes, but his
real products are pot, pubic hair, and jolt. 

"Pubic hair?  Never heard of it." 

"Don't try it.  It grabs you by the nuts.  Excuse me," I reply. "Male
enhancement hell.  One pill will drive a man to LaaLaa Land and a date 
with a Muslim hero's 27 virgins, all 27 at the same time.  Each dose 
brings a .172 percent chance of heart failure.  Still, repeat users 
consider the risk worth it." 

"Jeeze!  What do their wives think of it?" 

"Check ward 207 at Mercy General and they'll tell you.  They're
exhausted, dehydrated, and with a smile on their faces." 

"Seriously, Jerry.  You're kidding ... aren't you?" 

"Ward 207.  Here he is.” I turn to face the grocery aisle.  “Steve,
buddy.  Okay to talk?  What'cha got for me, man?" 

"If there was such a thing, I would have heard.  You're pulling my le--"


"Sheeesh, woman.  We're talkin' business here." 

A man emerges from the shadows, a shotgun hanging over one arm. 

"Eey, Jerry.  I'll be quick 'afore someone knows you're here, man. 
Look, a guy what looks like'a guy you want.  He live down'a block, 
like.  I don' like'a talk ta cops, but the holo says you're on at case. 
 I see I can earn some'a those brownie points with ya, see, man.  Okay, 
man?" 

"Depends, Stevie, depends.  You sure? 

"Looks just like'a guy.  Sure I'm sure." 

"You know the address, and apartment?" 

"35624, brown place with'a cracked front door.  212, second floor, man."


"If he's there, man, I owe you Steve." 

"Better hurry, man.  He usually buys bread an'a milk.  Not today,
though.  Only a little jolt, today." 

"Damn.  Let's go, Trudi."  I nod at Steve, then turn to walk out, her
following. 

"Aren't we going to call for backup?" she asks. 

"No time. In this part of town, you don't get quick response.  First,
the local precinct will try ignoring the call.  Then, if you insist, 
they'll ask for at least ten volunteers.  All that takes time.  He 
might be gone by then.  Hell, he might have already left." I scowled, 
remembering our target's presumed ability to know what we're up to, 
even before we do. 

*** 

As we approach the building, I tell her to, "Go around back.  If you see
anyone running, do anything you need to do to stop the guy.  Remember.  
He's a serial killer and probably on jolt." 

After giving her a few minutes to get set, I hurry up a metal stairwell
inside, my jolted body hitting every third step.  As my head clears the 
second floor landing, a change in the air current causes me to swing my 
gaze to the left, narrowly avoiding a two-by-four swung by a fat brute. 
 The jolt helping, I grab the board as it passes and jerk, pulling 
fatso over the railing. 

Not waiting for the thump of his landing, I leap and roll, my
windmilling body knocking the feet from under two younger and smaller 
adversaries.  By the time my body thumps against a wall, I have a 
blaster out, spreading pulsed laser stun-beams toward a fourth man seen 
emerging from a doorway with an old-fashioned gunpowder blaster in 
hand.  By the time the other two get to their feet, they stare in 
wonder, the fight gone out of them. 

Using my cellphone, I call Trudi to join me, then the police to start
the long process of acquiring transportation for us and the prisoners.  
Thirdly, I and Trudi barricade ourselves at the landing until help 
arrives.  It's not uncommon in that neighborhood for residents to gang 
up on and hold police officers for ransom. 

As for the killer, again he's eluded capture.  As in the other cases,
he's known when to flee.  How the hell he knew we were coming, I have 
no idea.  Only Trudi, Steve, and himself knew about the attempt, and 
Trudi and I only a few minutes before hitting the house.  I shudder at 
the thought the guy could be one of my task force.  But, then, even 
they didn't know where we'd be.  It must have been Steve. 

*** 

"Two of those four perps broke, Jerry," Detective Adams tells me the
next morning. "We didn't even have to torture them.  The killer simply 
paid those lowlifes to waylay you.  Obviously, he knew you were coming. 


The punks weren't to kill you, only bang you up a bit.  You're lucky. 
They needed the money to buy jolt. If they'd been paid in jolt, you 
might not have beaten them." 

That afternoon, another politician was killed.  "She was starting her
car to drive to work, when someone waiting in the backseat reached over 
and cut her throat," Davidson, the detective manning telephones, told 
me.  He gave the address. 

"Let's get over there and see what's going on," I tell Trudi.  "It's
about time he made a mistake." As we hurry to a police trans-booth, I 
remind her. "See? That jolt I used made all the difference." 

"We'll see, Jerry.  We'll see." 

As we walk toward a teleportation booth, she mutters into a cellphone. 

“Who you call?” 

“Personal business, Jerry.  I do have my own department to run.” 

After exiting the booth, we walk an additional three blocks to our
destination. 

"Have you ever been here?" Trudi asks as we pass through a gate at the
residence of the deceased congresswoman.  The driveway itself is a 
half-block long. 

"Na.  Never been here.  Jeeze.  Are all politicians this wealthy?" 

"Seems like it." 

"Find anything?" I ask the sergeant in charge of the forensics team, who
is carefully tearing down a camera that has taken a 360 degree 
interactive impression of the death car and surrounding area.  Later, a 
couple of my detectives will view it in a computer, being able to move 
around and magnify portions as if going through the vehicle in person. 

"Won't know until the scene's examined in detail.  Also, it takes time
for the results of the DNA scan to come in.  You'll have your copy in 
the morning.  Nothing obvious.  Not yet, anyway." 

*** 

The next morning, eagerly waiting for the results, my fingers are
crossed as I enter the precinct station.  As I sign in at the desk, I 
see detective Adams on her way out the door, a file memory card in 
hand. 

"Where you going, detective?" I ask. "You'll be late to the meeting." 

"You haven't heard, lieutenant?" She seems surprised, even embarrassed.
"The task force is called off.  We ... uh, we caught the killer.  I 
thought you knew." 

"Wonderful.  What's his name and how?" 

"You.... Well, you better ask the captain." 

"That's what I wanted to tell you, Jerry.  The captain wants to see you
ASAP," the desk sergeant tells me. 

I'm so anxious I forgo my trip to the restroom to jolt up.  Like the
last time, Trudi and the captain are both in his office, her in full 
uniform. 

"Don't make me wait," I blurt out, unmindful of relative rank. "Tell me
who it was and how we got him." 

They both stare at me. Then Trudi points an index finger at ME, stopping
me in mid-stride. 

"Bull.  You got something mixed up.  It certainly wasn't me." 

"Wasn't, but will be," Captain Transki says, shaking a balding head. 
"You better sit down while Captain Jennings explains." 

What can I do?  Somehow stiff legs allow me to sit, my face a mask of
confusion. 

Trudi gets up to sit on the edge of Transki's desk, then begins her
explanation.  "You asked my function.  It was to run a parallel 
investigation, along with watching you.  I already had a suspicion that 
you were doing those killings. 

"What clued me in was that the killer seemed to know everything you were
doing, sometimes before you did it.  At first, I suspected you were 
pulling a con on us, doing the murders yourself while pretending to 
find the killer. 

"When I joined you, I was confused because you seemed to be actually
trying.  I could almost see your thinking processes as you jerked 
around like a puppet, trying one thing after another.  Each failure 
brought on a true exasperation.  And it all had to be real.  I'm a good 
judge of character and would have spotted any faking.  How, I wondered, 
could it be you? 

"Yet, to my thinking, it still came back to you. 

"When we visited the Jablonski Labs, the pieces began to fall into
place.  You gave me that list of possible perps from our files.  When I 
turned it in to Doctor Mengalie, I added your name -- on a hunch. 

"Then, with the last killing, I called the forensics experts and asked
them to include police officers in the DNA scan.  When studied, they 
found you had visited the scene, even though you told me you hadn't." 

"I was there ... with you." I interrupt. 

"Yes, but by then the scan had already been completed.  Then I checked
with Doctor Mengalie.  He told me that you had used a public 
trans-booth to that destination the day before, and at a time when we 
were together somewhere else -- an impossibility.  A further check 
showed you'd done the same at the previous crime scenes, before the 
killings, and left your DNA at the scenes afterwards, before the 
crimes.  That clinched it. 

"Last night, I sat down and put it all together.  The time machine was
the answer.  Although it's not functional now, it might well be in the 
future.  Maybe the jolt does eventually drive you crazy?  We'll 
probably never know for certain.  Anyway, you must -- in the future -- 
use that time machine to come back to this era and, for some reason 
known only to the future you, set out to kill politicians.  You'd 
remember your past tactics to catch yourself and easily avoid any 
trap." 

“I've never liked the bastards, but have no reason to kill them.” 

“Not now, but maybe later?” 

"I -- I.  My God.  I don't know.  It's so damned confusing.  Why?  Why
would I do such a thing? I'm not a killer." 

"That's something else we'll probably never know.  What we do know is
we've got to stop the future you from going berserk, and right now," 
Captain Transki says. 

"Am I under arrest?" 

"For what?" Captain Transki asks.  "For something you do in the future? 
I don't think we can arrest you for that.  We could arrest your future 
self, but how?" 

"Sort of a time-loop thingie," Trudi says. 

"If I'm not under arrest, how about I go home to relax and we can all
have time to think?" I ask.  In truth, I am suddenly deflated and 
tired.  First,  though, I need a jolt. 

"Alright, lieutenant," Captain Transki agrees. "Why don't we all meet at
the Jablonski labs, ten o'clock tomorrow morning?  Doctor Mengolie 
might have a solution.  He has enough time-experts working with him." 

*** 

"Science fiction writers have often brought up the subject of
time-paradoxes," Dr. Mengalie lectures the three of us in his office. 
"We have the only time machine, or at least the first in history.  So 
far, we haven't seen any disruption in time by using it.  Like I told 
two of you earlier, at the same time I held a live mouse in my hand, I 
was looking at that same mouse turned inside-out by the machine.  
Having the animal duplicated in the same moment of time didn't affect 
it or us in the slightest.  Unlike in fiction, there was no time 
paradox." 

"But you said you sent the mouse back in time later, knowing it would
appear, dead, even before you sent it," Trudi says. 

"I suppose I'm a little superstitious and didn't want to take a chance
by not sending it to its death," the doctor says. "But others have 
experimented with inanimate objects by not sending them under the same 
circumstances.  When they consciously made that decision, the 
reconstituted object simply disappeared, leaving them holding the 
original.   The moment they make up their mind to send it again, the 
other reappeared, as though the machine could read their minds.  In 
other words, you can't have two copies forever. 

“In the lieutenant's case, if he doesn't actually go into the machine in
the future, the killer will disappear now -- as though he never 
existed.  I think that will mean there were no killings, and our era 
would go back to normal." 

"You think?" I ask.  "You think?" 

"I'm a scientist.  I don't count a theory as fact until it's proven." 
He gives us a silly grin. "I plan to test the theory.  It should be 
interesting." 

"How can you test it, doctor?  If I never use the time machine, you say
the killings may never happen.  If so, I will never have talked to you 
and you still won't know the answer." 

"I have already written the entire story down and put it in my safe.  If
this entire thing never happens, I hope to find that envelope later and 
come to a conclusion," Doctor Mengalie answers. 

"How do you know that will work?" Trudi asks. 

"I don't.  If it works, I will know," he answers.  "It's just that
simple.  The scientific method.  Experiment." 

"Well ... do you have a recommendation to Jerry, here?" Captain Transki
asks. 

"Yes.  I do.  I've made a dozen copies of the missive in my safe --
changed a bit, of course.  The lieutenant can sign them, adding to them 
if he feels like it.  Then I'll send them to the past, from where I'll 
mail them to him at an early age -- which I remember already having 
done without understanding why -- to his family, hoping he or they will 
understand and keep him from becoming a police officer in his future." 

"Will they?" Jerry asks. “Naturally, I've already made a decision not to
kill, but we're all still standing here. I must  change my mind later?” 


"Possible but not likely," the doctor says. "After all, you're still a
policeman and the killer is still here." 

"Jeeze. Doesn't sound like much of a solution to me.  I'm still
confused, Doctor.  Do you mind if I use your restroom?" I ask, feeling 
a strange calm coming over an overactive mind. 

"Christ. You don't need a jolt now, do you?  It doesn't speed your
thinking," Trudi says, shaking her head, “only physical actions.” 

"Please?" 

"Up one floor and to the left.  Here.  Use my elevator card and key." 
He fishes in his desk, handing me a keyring and the card from his 
lapel. 

Calm and decisive, even without a jolt, I go to the elevator, pushing
the button marked "roof."  Not daring to take time to think, I stride 
to the edge and lean far, then even farther over.  Curious as to what 
it will feel like at that final moment, I feel myself slipping. 

*** 

"Jerry, honey.  You've got mail.  My God, but you've got mail," Jerry's
mother calls to her teenage son, him coming home from school.  "A dozen 
envelopes, all with the same logo.  It must be important." 

The killings don't just stop.  They never occur and Jerry ends up as an
excellent roofer – not a cop. 

The End.


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