Dna Fingerprinting Quotes

Our responses are the fingerprint of our heart and the DNA of our conscience.

The Deliverator had to borrow some money to pay for it. Had to borrow it from the Mafia, in fact. So he's in their database now—retinal patterns, DNA, voice graph, fingerprints, footprints, palm prints, wrist prints, every fucking part of the body that had wrinkles on it—almost—those bastards rolled in ink and made a print and digitized it into their computer.

It is in the instinctual interpretation of voice and personality that we form our judgments of others. Nothing beats that. Not fingerprints, not DNA, not the pointed finger of an eyewitness.

As you know, Bob, what with DNA analysis, this whole business is getting highly sophisticated these days. Why, they can break down a sample into so many signatures that a person’s blood is almost as unique as his fingerprints.

This is sometimes how I think of pain in our lives. Even if our bodies and lives are a landscape of hurt and healed wounds, because we are humans and we live in a story as unique to us as our fingerprints or DNA, every cut is new and foreign, never before seen or experienced.

Most fans of forensic books and television shows are aware that the biochemical building blocks of DNA can be assembled in many billions of different ways, ensuring that no two people—except for identical twins—will possess the same genetic “fingerprint.” Not many of those same people realize that there are likewise billions of possible combinations of tooth shapes, sizes, orientations, and anomalies, including cavities, fillings, chips, and distinctively shaped roots. Although identical twins can’t be distinguished from one another by their DNA, they can be told apart by their teeth.

Kennewick Man is a skeleton discovered in Washington State in 1996, carbon-dated to older than 9,000 years. Anthropologists were intrigued by anatomical suggestions that he might be unrelated to typical Native Americans, and therefore might represent a separate early migration across what is now the Bering Strait, or even from Iceland. They were preparing to do all-important DNA tests when the legal authorities seized the skeleton, intending to hand it over to representatives of local Indian tribes, who proposed to bury it and forbid all further study. Naturally there was widespread opposition from the scientific and archaeological community. Even if Kennewick Man is an American Indian of some kind, it is highly unlikely that his affinities lie with whichever particular tribe happens to live in the same area 9,000 years later. Native Americans have impressive legal muscle, and ‘The Ancient One’ might have been handed over to the tribes, but for a bizarre twist. The Asatru Folk Assembly, a group of worshippers of the Norse gods Thor and Odin, filed an independent legal claim that Kennewick Man was actually a Viking. This Nordic sect, whose views you may follow in the Summer 1997 issue of The Runestone, were actually allowed to hold a religious service over the bones. This upset the Yakama Indian community, whose spokesman feared that the Viking ceremony could be ‘keeping Kennewick Man’s spirit from finding his body’. The dispute between Indians and Norsemen could well be settled by DNA comparison, and the Norsemen are quite keen to be put to this test. Scientific study of the remains would certainly cast fascinating light on the question of when humans first arrived in America. But Indian leaders resent the very idea of studying this question, because they believe their ancestors have been in America since the creation. As Armand Minthorn, religious leader of the Umatilla tribe, put it: ‘From our oral histories, we know that our people have been part of this land since the beginning of time. We do not believe our people migrated here from another continent, as the scientists do.’ Perhaps the best policy for the archaeologists would be to declare themselves a religion, with DNA fingerprints their sacramental totem. Facetious but, such is the climate in the United States at the end of the twentieth century, it is possibly the only recourse that would work.

GCHQ has traveled a long and winding road. That road stretches from the wooden huts of Bletchley Park, past the domes and dishes of the Cold War, and on towards what some suggest will be the omniscient state of the Brave New World. As we look to the future, the docile and passive state described by Aldous Huxley in his Brave New World is perhaps more appropriate analogy than the strictly totalitarian predictions offered by George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. Bizarrely, many British citizens are quite content in this new climate of hyper-surveillance, since its their own lifestyle choices that helped to create 'wired world' - or even wish for it, for as we have seen, the new torrents of data have been been a source of endless trouble for the overstretched secret agencies. As Ken Macdonald rightly points out, the real drives of our wired world have been private companies looking for growth, and private individuals in search of luxury and convenience at the click of a mouse. The sigint agencies have merely been handed the impossible task of making an interconnected society perfectly secure and risk-free, against the background of a globalized world that presents many unprecedented threats, and now has a few boundaries or borders to protect us. Who, then, is to blame for the rapid intensification of electronic surveillance? Instinctively, many might reply Osama bin Laden, or perhaps Pablo Escobar. Others might respond that governments have used these villains as a convenient excuse to extend state control. At first glance, the massive growth of security, which includes includes not only eavesdropping but also biometric monitoring, face recognition, universal fingerprinting and the gathering of DNA, looks like a sad response to new kinds of miscreants. However, the sad reality is that the Brave New World that looms ahead of us is ultimately a reflection of ourselves. It is driven by technologies such as text messaging and customer loyalty cards that are free to accept or reject as we choose. The public debate on surveillance is often cast in terms of a trade-off between security and privacy. The truth is that luxury and convenience have been pre-eminent themes in the last decade, and we have given them a much higher priority than either security or privacy. We have all been embraced the world of surveillance with remarkable eagerness, surfing the Internet in a global search for a better bargain, better friends, even a better partner. GCHQ vast new circular headquarters is sometimes represented as a 'ring of power', exercising unparalleled levels of surveillance over citizens at home and abroad, collecting every email, every telephone and every instance of internet acces. It has even been asserted that GCHQ is engaged in nothing short of 'algorithmic warfare' as part of a battle for control of global communications. By contrast, the occupants of 'Celtenham's Doughnut' claim that in reality they are increasingly weak, having been left behind by the unstoppable electronic communications that they cannot hope to listen to, still less analyse or make sense of. In fact, the frightening truth is that no one is in control. No person, no intelligence agency and no government is steering the accelerating electronic processes that may eventually enslave us. Most of the devices that cause us to leave a continual digital trail of everything we think or do were not devised by the state, but are merely symptoms of modernity. GCHQ is simply a vast mirror, and it reflects the spirit of the age.

on the back steps, there's an ashtray full of cigarette butts," lucy says. "i don’t think her dna's going to be a problem. or her footprints, fingerprints. the problem's him. he knows what he's doing. these days, everybody's an expert." "no," scarpetta says. "they just think they are.

DNA technology is increasingly being used as one of the most effective tools to exonerate or convict a suspect. Browse the anilguptaforensicservices.com directory of DNA experts to find a consultant who can help you understand your DNA evidence and your legal issues . The commonly known method of forensic analysis, DNA analysis (also called DNA analysis, DNA typing or genetic fingerprinting) is the technique used by our forensic DNA experts in collecting objects or samples of body material to determine The identity of individuals based on their A unique DNA profile or an encrypted set of numbers that reflect the individual composition of a person.

Caesar’s image is branded on lifeless metal, while God’s image is placed on life itself. We are God’s coins, divine image-bearers. Caesar’s coins are all the same, but people are not. Caesar is about uniformity, mass production, sameness. God is about diversity, every person with unique DNA and no one with the same fingerprint.

As this book has explored, we have always had different, complex motives for our relationships with our books. Jorge Luis Borges described a book as ‘a relationship, an axis of innumerable relationships’: Portable Magic has argued for two particular kinds of relationship in our long love affair with books. One is the interconnectedness of book form and book content. And the other is the reciprocity and proximity of books and their readers, in relationships that leave both parties changed. This copy of Portable Magic now carries traces of your DNA in its gutter, your fingerprints on its cover. If you own it, you can bend its page corners or write your name in it or make satirical comments in the margin. You can lend it, or return it to the library, or give it away, or send it to the charity shop, but it will always be somehow yours.

We Need your Prints and DNA to Eliminate You as a Suspect' {Couplet} If you believe naught is naughty in this world, Why is every crook's fingerprint uniquely whorled?

wonder if something like that can leave a DNA fingerprint of sorts. Something that creates a physical longing in one for a place in order to feel whole.

Got himself fired for pulling a sword on an acknowledged perp. Slid it right through the fabric of the perp’s shirt, gliding the flat of the blade along the base of his neck, and pinned him to a warped and bubbled expanse of vinyl siding on the wall of the house that the perp was trying to break into. Thought it was a pretty righteous bust. But they fired him anyway because the perp turned out to be the son of the vice-chancellor of the Farms of Merryvale. Oh, the weasels had an excuse: said that a thirty-six-inch samurai sword was not on their Weapons Protocol. Said that he had violated the SPAC, the Suspected Perpetrator Apprehension Code. Said that the perp had suffered psychological trauma. He was afraid of butter knives now; he had to spread his jelly with the back of a teaspoon. They said that he had exposed them to liability. The Deliverator had to borrow some money to pay for it. Had to borrow it from the Mafia, in fact. So he’s in their database now—retinal patterns, DNA, voice graph, fingerprints, footprints, palm prints, wrist prints, every fucking part of the body that had wrinkles on it—almost—those bastards rolled in ink and made a print and digitized it into their computer. But it’s their money—sure they’re careful about loaning it out. And when he applied for the Deliverator job they were happy to take him, because they knew him. When he got the loan, he had to deal personally with the assistant vice-capo of the Valley, who later recommended him for the Deliverator job. So it was like being in a family. A really scary, twisted, abusive family. CosaNostra

It’s just like I always say. Better to be lucky than good.” I think about fingerprints and DNA and a computer team poring over evidence in a lab downtown. “No, McDuff,” I reply. “It’s better to be both.

People aren't replaceable, if they were, God wouldn't waste His omnipotent endowing human beings with purpose, ability, ingenuity, intellect, fingerprints, DNA and uniqueness. You might replace their proportionate value to you but you cannot replace their overall value to humanity and universe. - Dr Lloyd Magangeni

Despite the advantages offered by advances in technology, computers, DNA, serology, and arson science—and the reevaluation of such standard tools as fingerprints and ballistic analysis—there remains no substitution for good gumshoe detective work and investigative analysis.

God can’t bless who you pretend to be. His promises, His blessings need your fingerprint and DNA.

Your genome is the totality of your DNA, 3 billion letters of it, and due to the way it comes together – by the mysterious (from a biological point of view) business of sex – it is unique to you. Not only is this genetic fingerprint yours alone, it’s unlike any other of the 107 billion people who have ever lived. That applies even if you are an identical twin, whose genomes begin their existence indistinguishable, but inch away from each other moments after conception. In the

When we searched his apartment, it had been cleared out. No fingerprints, no DNA anywhere. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure we couldn’t find them.

Of course we all have different handwriting. Just like fingerprints or DNA, it’s to remind us that we are individual beings. Our thoughts and feelings are there to be expressed and they are our own: unique. I don’t feel the same way as you about the world, and that’s fine. We’re not designed to always think and feel the same. We are not sheep. Agreeing with someone about something is a choice, try to remember that. Don’t waste your life wishing to be like someone else, decide who you are and be you.

Tacoma and Calibrisi remained at Cosgrove’s house as two teams of CIA forensics experts and a six-person sanitization crew made it look as if nothing had happened at the house. The plaster wall where the bullet that had passed through the Russian’s thumb was embedded had been sanitized and patched up. All traces of blood upstairs and down were gone. Even an experienced investigator would have found nothing more than some molecular-level DNA. The cleaning process had included a thorough cataloging of all fingerprints in the house, followed by a methodical washing of every surface, followed by a radiological burst, in which every room in the house was exposed for a brief time

Stop or you’ll invite the wrath of the islands. And each letter ended with The Menehune are coming for you. “Whoever it is has excellent spelling and punctuation,” she said, glancing at Marco. “No dyslexia. Can you believe it?” He gave a careless shrug. “It’s a burden some of us have to carry.” She laughed and searched through the letters again. “You checked for trace DNA? Hair? Fingerprints?” she asked Willis. “I did. Nothing but the cigarette ash.” “Right,” she said, considering. “But why blame the Menehune?” “What do you mean?” asked Kahele, taking a seat. “I mean, that’s just a little out there, isn’t it? Blaming a fictional people for a revenge crime. If it is a revenge crime.” “I’m not following. The Menehune are the protectors of the island.” “Right. Just like Manny Wong tries to be. Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. Maybe we’re too focused on Meridew and we should be looking at Wong.” “You mean you think he’s our top suspect?” “He is because we were guided to him.” “You mean he could be a red herring?” said Marco. She held up a hand. “Why

Someone had once told him that the past, more than DNA or fingerprints, was what made each human being unique.

On a gray afternoon I sit in a silent room and contemplate din. In the street a single car passes - a rapid bass vowel - and then it is quiet again. So what is this uproar, this hubbub, this heaving rumble of zigzag static I keep hearing? This echo chamber spooling out spirals of chaos? An unmistakable noise as clearly mine as fingerprint or twist of DNA: the thrum of regret, of memory, of defeat, of mutability, of bitter fear, made up of shame and ambition and anger and vanity and wishing. The soundtrack of a movie of the future, an anticipatory ribbon of scenes long dreaded, of daydreams without a prayer of materializing. Or else: the replay of unforgotten conversations, humiliating, awkward, indelible. Mainly it is the buzz of the inescapably mundane, the little daily voice that insists and insists: right now, not now, too late, too soon, why not, better not, turn it on, turn it off, notice this, notice that, be sure to take care of, remember not to. The nonstop chatter that gossips, worries, envies, invokes, yearns, condemns, self-condemns.

So he’s in their database now—retinal patterns, DNA, voice graph, fingerprints, footprints, palm prints, wrist prints, every fucking part of the body that had wrinkles on it—almost—those bastards rolled in ink and made a print and digitized it into their computer.