door and pulls out a small box. It’s his fingerprinting kit. He opens it carefully and extracts a few items. He offers me a pair of rubber gloves. “I’m good,” I say.
“Come on,” he says. “You can help. It will be fun.”
I’m skeptical, but I shrug and do it. The gloves feel weird, all tight and sweaty. I keep wiggling my fingers.
“You get used to it,” Mr. Zant says.
“Spend a lot of time wearing rubber gloves, do you?” I ask. “Sounds like you have an interesting home life.” He laughs, but doesn’t answer my question.
“Okay, now we need to lightly dust the picture,” he says. He shakes, then opens, a tiny blue bottle marked FINGERPRINTINGPOWDER . The lid has a small brush attached to it, sort of like a bottle of rubber cement. He hands it to me.
“No, no, you do it,” I say. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Messing things up is the only way anyone ever learns anything,” he says. “Why do you think surgeons practice on cadavers?” I can’t really argue with that logic. It seems like it might fit in the book, even if Dad didn’t say it. I take the brush from his hand. I drop it on the desk, leaving a large blot of a black mark on the desk.
“Sorry!” I say.
Mr. Zant shrugs. “These desks were built to withstand nuclear war, so I think a little bit of dust is okay.” I start to dab the brush toward the top right corner of the back of the picture. “Tell me why you chose that spot to start with,” he says.
“I’m sorry, is that wrong?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he says. “That’s how most people would handle a picture, so that’s the spot where you’re most likely to find a print. It’s the perfect place to dust for prints.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I say.
“Good work,” he says. “Now, not too much dust. You really just need the tiniest amount. The next step is to carefully lift the print with the tape.”
I take the fingerprinting tape and carefully set it onto the picture. I feel like a surgeon. It’s pretty fun. But when I lift the tape up, all I see is a blurry mess.
“Ah,” I say. “I told you I’d screw it up.”
“No, you were perfect,” he says. “That’s just what we call overlap. It just means there are a bunch of prints on top of one another.”
“Hey,” I say. “If the person we’re looking for is left-handed, they’d probably handle the opposite corner, right?”
“Right!” he says. “Is he left-handed?”
“
She
,” I say. “She is left-handed.”
I repeat the process, this time lifting a print from the top left-hand corner of the back of the picture. Like magic, a print appears before my eyes. The ridges and whorls—they are all visible. So too is the blank space in the middle.
“I can’t believe it,” Mr. Zant says. “It
is
almost like this person doesn’t have a fingerprint on that finger … I’ve never seen anything like it, but it’s just like you predicted. You
do
have the hunches, Guy! Now tell me what it means.”
Before I can explain to Mr. Zant that I know exactly who the mysterious left-handed, no fingerprint woman is, Anoop sticks his head back in the door. “I really have to go, you guys,” he says. “Train Chattopadhyay is leaving the station, Guy. Get aboard or you’re on your own.”
“Thanks a million, Mr. Zant,” I say, tucking the picture back into the envelope. “I guess I gotta run. I’ll give you the scoop tomorrow.”
“Now would you tell me what
that
was all about?” Anoop asks as we walk toward his car. But I don’t want to. There’s only one person I want to talk to about this. Luckily, I know right where she lives.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Where are the other six, GL?” Mom says after hearing me slam the door and taking one look at my flaring nostrils. I know what she means. I don’t hide anger well. I’m not even past the foyer yet, just standing there inside the big front door, looking up at her. She’s smiling, trying to be funny. She knows I am
“Come on,” he says. “You can help. It will be fun.”
I’m skeptical, but I shrug and do it. The gloves feel weird, all tight and sweaty. I keep wiggling my fingers.
“You get used to it,” Mr. Zant says.
“Spend a lot of time wearing rubber gloves, do you?” I ask. “Sounds like you have an interesting home life.” He laughs, but doesn’t answer my question.
“Okay, now we need to lightly dust the picture,” he says. He shakes, then opens, a tiny blue bottle marked FINGERPRINTINGPOWDER . The lid has a small brush attached to it, sort of like a bottle of rubber cement. He hands it to me.
“No, no, you do it,” I say. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Messing things up is the only way anyone ever learns anything,” he says. “Why do you think surgeons practice on cadavers?” I can’t really argue with that logic. It seems like it might fit in the book, even if Dad didn’t say it. I take the brush from his hand. I drop it on the desk, leaving a large blot of a black mark on the desk.
“Sorry!” I say.
Mr. Zant shrugs. “These desks were built to withstand nuclear war, so I think a little bit of dust is okay.” I start to dab the brush toward the top right corner of the back of the picture. “Tell me why you chose that spot to start with,” he says.
“I’m sorry, is that wrong?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he says. “That’s how most people would handle a picture, so that’s the spot where you’re most likely to find a print. It’s the perfect place to dust for prints.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I say.
“Good work,” he says. “Now, not too much dust. You really just need the tiniest amount. The next step is to carefully lift the print with the tape.”
I take the fingerprinting tape and carefully set it onto the picture. I feel like a surgeon. It’s pretty fun. But when I lift the tape up, all I see is a blurry mess.
“Ah,” I say. “I told you I’d screw it up.”
“No, you were perfect,” he says. “That’s just what we call overlap. It just means there are a bunch of prints on top of one another.”
“Hey,” I say. “If the person we’re looking for is left-handed, they’d probably handle the opposite corner, right?”
“Right!” he says. “Is he left-handed?”
“
She
,” I say. “She is left-handed.”
I repeat the process, this time lifting a print from the top left-hand corner of the back of the picture. Like magic, a print appears before my eyes. The ridges and whorls—they are all visible. So too is the blank space in the middle.
“I can’t believe it,” Mr. Zant says. “It
is
almost like this person doesn’t have a fingerprint on that finger … I’ve never seen anything like it, but it’s just like you predicted. You
do
have the hunches, Guy! Now tell me what it means.”
Before I can explain to Mr. Zant that I know exactly who the mysterious left-handed, no fingerprint woman is, Anoop sticks his head back in the door. “I really have to go, you guys,” he says. “Train Chattopadhyay is leaving the station, Guy. Get aboard or you’re on your own.”
“Thanks a million, Mr. Zant,” I say, tucking the picture back into the envelope. “I guess I gotta run. I’ll give you the scoop tomorrow.”
“Now would you tell me what
that
was all about?” Anoop asks as we walk toward his car. But I don’t want to. There’s only one person I want to talk to about this. Luckily, I know right where she lives.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Where are the other six, GL?” Mom says after hearing me slam the door and taking one look at my flaring nostrils. I know what she means. I don’t hide anger well. I’m not even past the foyer yet, just standing there inside the big front door, looking up at her. She’s smiling, trying to be funny. She knows I am
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