Three bodies in three days, and nothing to go on but a riddle. This little game of syntax Artie was playing with the powers that be was becoming even more gratifying than he had originally envisioned.
With law enforcement flummoxed, and the media ravenously clawing at the public drawing the rich red blood of indignation- he had a moment to sit back on his haunches and languish in his hard earned moment of triumph.
Success had been fleeting, and completely unsatisfying when he had pursued it through more traditional channels.
He had squandered his youth engorging his brain with the scientific rhetoric, theories, and hypothesis that should have culminated in the creation of a great name for himself in the field of asexual human reproduction- but in the end, he had been reduced to perfecting the production of an elite strain of genetically modified donor sperm, all of which having had its humble beginnings in his own testes.
The flaw it seems had been in the heterochromatin region. Before he was able to isolate and correct it, he had sired exactly four of these inept genetic re-combinations- which meant he continued to have his work cut out for him.
Three down. One to go.
The artistry was not in the eliminations themselves, they were just a series of unfortunate events that were necessary to protect the perfect line of prodigy he had successfully produced once the tweek had been made to the heterochromatin.
The true brilliance had come to him over a cafe au lait, at a popular coffee house in the trending Gatsby District downtown, where he had the good fortune to choose a seat directly across from a mural of what appeared to him to be a translucent woman. Though fully clothed, the artist had seen fit to etch some of her skeletal structure into her persona, and it struck him- the spinal column that corresponded with the braids in her hair resembled the double helix of the DNA chain that was currently his nemesis.
A simple transposition of his own genetic fopaux onto woman’s braids in the the mural, and the proverbial die was cast.
The riddle, stroke of genius that it was, had presented itself as more or less an afterthought, but what a delightful element of cat and mouse it had interjected into what otherwise would have been a rather mundane task.
As Artie settled into his newly favored point of vantage across the street from the mural that bore his distinguishing mark of genius, he sipped a cafe au lait and waited for the fourth and final testimony to any miscalculation on his part, to arrive.
Photo Prompt courtesy of: Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Imagination