To Catch a Killer Page 11

  “I had no idea searching for evidence required makeup,” he says.

  “This?” I ask, offering a smug smile. “This is an original Zephyr fingerprint brush. It’s what the pro crime-scene guys use.”

  “The pros? Really?” Journey’s skeptical. “Because I have a paintbrush that looks just like that and it only cost five bucks.”

  “Wow. A whole five bucks?” I expertly roll the slender handle between my fingers. The shimmery bristles fan out until it looks like a supermodel dandelion on steroids. “Well, my brush is made up of a whole bunch of little fiber bundles.”

  Journey’s eyes widen with mock interest. “A whole bunch? Really? Is that a scientific term? Exactly how many is in a whole bunch?”

  “Yes. It’s a scientific term.” I hold my arms out wide. “A whole bunch is thousands of bundles. Each bundle is hundreds of individual treated-glass filaments.” Now I’m reciting the description off the Zephyr package from memory. As I walk slowly toward him I continue to twirl the brush at eye level.

  Journey chuckles and backs away, inching closer to the van.

  “And each one of these filaments is a fraction of the thickness of a hair.”

  “Okay. You got me,” he says, throwing his hands up.

  “Not yet,” I caution. “I scored my brush online for the low price of eleven dollars and four cents, plus shipping.” I shake the brush at him like a pom-pom. “Now I got you.”

  Journey leans back against the van and looks down on me with a crooked smile that adds tiny crinkles to the outsides of his eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve got you,” he whispers. “But I think I get you.”

  “You do?” I sound stunned but I’m not really. There is an overall easiness when I’m with Journey that I’ve never felt before. I don’t know what it means but it’s like nothing in my whole life has ever felt this right. I look off in the direction of the lighthouse, silently praying it will protect me from a disaster. “The light’s not going to last long,” I say.

  “You’re right. I should let you get to work,” he says.

  I know they’re just words, but that thick, wistful tone is back and it seems to say so much more.

  From the traces of black powder the police left behind, I can tell they only dusted the driver’s door and the steering wheel. No doubt these are the best spots where someone might leave their prints, but I’m hoping some creative thinking will find some the police missed. As I make a tour around the van, I try to recall everything about that night. It was late and the air was frigid. I remember how it burned as I sucked it into my lungs.

  Journey says he parked on the side of Miss Peters’s house and left the engine running while he stepped across the grass to the porch. Someone—he didn’t see who—jumped in and took off.

  I walk around the van and try to imagine how I would approach it if I wanted to steal it and not be seen. I’d stay low and come up from the back, hugging the shadows near the bumpers. I would first peer around and locate Journey before trying to take his van. With my right hand I would steady myself against the bumper, at about the spot where it curves toward the front of the vehicle.

  So this is where I start.

  Kneeling next to the bumper, I load the superfine, florescent powder onto the brush and let it lightly sprinkle onto the paint. I work the brush over the area by twirling it right and left between my fingers. I work several inches in each direction, but no prints emerge. I get up and slowly move around the back of the car, toward the driver’s side. I scan close. Any spot that looks even a little smudgy to my eye gets the powder treatment from my brush. Sometimes I check myself by using the ultraviolet penlight to reveal telltale finger marks.

  I continue to work my way around the outside of the vehicle, keeping my face only an inch or two away from the surface. I check low and then high. Journey shadows me, looking over my shoulder, trying to see what I see.

  I don’t see any prints … until I reach the side view mirror. There I discover the mother lode: all four fingertips plus the thumb of a left hand.

  “When was the last time you adjusted this mirror?” I ask.

  Journey shrugs. “I have no idea.”

  Fortunately, I brought the large size lifting tape that’s designed to capture a whole handprint. I powder the mirror, apply the tape, and peel off the prints. Journey holds the index card flat while I tape the prints onto the card.

  “Wow. You made that look easy,” Journey says.

  “Lifting prints isn’t hard; it just takes a lot of practice to keep the tape from sticking to itself.”

  “What’s next?” he asks.

  “The inside.”

  I open the door and look for any and all smooth surfaces where fingerprints might show up. There’s not much. The dash is old and the paint is chipping off so it’s not a good candidate for maintaining fingerprints. The seats are worn and rough. Still trying to put myself into the mind of the person who took the van, I pretend like I’m getting in for the very first time.

  Being mindful of every action I would have taken, late at night, in an unfamiliar van, I decide I would look into the back and make sure there was no one else in the van with me. I carefully tip the driver’s seat forward using only one gloved finger. The back of the seat is smooth black plastic that is not worn like the front. At the very top, I can see four clear fingerprints before I even dust the area with powder. It looks like someone gripped the back of the seat and turned around to peer deep into the van.

  Journey and I exchange a look. “I touched the back of the seat earlier,” he says. “Remember?”

  “We’ll eliminate your fingerprints if they show up,” I explain. “We’re just hoping to find the prints of someone who never should have been in your van to begin with.”

  After we’ve taken care of the fingerprints, I give the whole inside of the van a detailed inspection. Only one other thing stands out: a shred of notebook paper wedged in the driver’s seat-belt clip.

  I retrieve tweezers from my kit to remove the crumpled scrap. I smooth it out. It’s about one inch long and half an inch wide. It’s part of a note, written in blue ink. The top line reads: “ur DNA” and below that are the letters “ked” and “Pre”. But I can’t decipher that.

  Grasping the corner of the note with tweezers, I hold it up for Journey’s inspection. “Is this yours?”

  He shakes his head. “Seriously, chimpanzees have better handwriting than I do.”

  “Okay. I think we’ve done all we can do here. I’ll save this anyway. It could be a clue or it could be nothing.”

  I get out of the van and carry everything over to the wall where I parked Vespy. I take a seat on the ground and open the cargo area. I have to enter every piece of evidence into my notebook and organize it before I can stow it. The scrap of paper goes into a small Ziploc bag and back into the toolbox. The fingerprint cards slip into an outside pocket of my messenger bag. I jot down everything we found and where we found it.

  Behind me, there’s a rusty creak as Journey opens the door to the van. “Cross your fingers that this piece of junk will actually start,” he calls out.

  I raise my hand over my head, fingers crossed. I make a conscious choice not to turn and gaze at him because it would be easy to get all distracted. Journey Michaels almost freakin’ kissed me. That’s huge. Huge. My lips tingle a little.

  He’ll try it again. Right?

  The van engine rumbles to life and I smile. Sure, I could get home on my scooter, but it would mean going it alone.

  “We’re good to go.” Journey strides past me and hops the wall on his way to the house. “Want a soda for the ride home?” He walks backward for a couple of steps and nearly trips. I shoo him on and go back to organizing my notes. Damn, he’s adorable.

  Behind me the van engine revs high—our chariot is warmed up and ready. Strangely, the engine continues to rev until it becomes a scream. I glance over my shoulder at the exact moment that something snaps and the van rockets forward on a straight path
toward me.

  Literal deer in headlights.

  I’m gripped with fear; nothing moves right. I untangle my legs and struggle to my feet. The van thunders toward me. My brain tries to decide—right or left?

  Vespy!

  I grab her handlebars and tug. She doesn’t budge.

  Her foot peg is snagged on the wall.

  I tug harder as the van screams toward me.

  19

  An investigator’s first step, before collecting any evidence, is to develop a theory regarding the type of offense that occurred.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  A thousand thoughts collide all at once: the missed kiss, moon, Rachel, Mom, peaches, Miss P, oranges.

  Nearly on top of me, the van appears monstrous.

  I cringe and brace for the impact, frozen where I stand. Journey looms over me from the other side of the wall. He’s right in my face: his eyes huge, his jaw muscles bulging. His fingers gouge the soft flesh of my armpits. He yanks me toward him.

  “Erin!” he bellows.

  I go limp, and with one massive effort he falls back. My head slams the top edge of stones as he hauls me over the wall. At the last second my right foot tangles in Vespy’s handlebars.

  “My foot,” I gasp.

  Journey rolls to free me from the scooter, winding up on top of me. He hunkers down, forming a protective shield against everything but the screech of metal compacting metal and the huge cloud of dust. Finally, with a choke and shudder, the van dies, it’s quiet again, and we’re still alive.

  “What the—?”

  Journey leaps off of me, his expression a twist of horror. “You’re bleeding.”

  I sit up, even though I’m woozy. My fingers explore my forehead, finding a large, tender lump and some fresh blood. “Is it bad?”

  Hopping nervously from one foot to the other, he puts his hands out, afraid to touch me. “We have to get you to the emergency room.” He gingerly lifts me up and sets me on my feet. Then he stands back as if he’s afraid to be too close.

  I brush myself off, checking for spots that hurt more than others, since basically everything hurts. I dab at the blood streaming into my eyes.

  “Your freaking van nearly killed us,” I say.

  “Sorry. Sorry. So sorry. The emergency brake must’ve slipped. I can’t believe I got to you in time.” Journey looks over the wall and grimaces. Then he wraps his arms around my shoulders and turns me away.

  “Don’t look, okay?” he says. He tries to use his shirt to wipe away some of the blood.

  Hearing “don’t look” makes me snap my head around.

  The front of the van is wedged against the wall. If it’s dented or scratched at all from the impact, it barely shows.

  What I don’t see is Vespy.

  I rise onto my tiptoes and peer straight down. Now I see her. My poor scooter lies mangled between the brick wall and the van. A low moan escapes my lips.

  Journey hops the wall and opens the driver’s door, peering in. His expression ratchets from worry to shock. “I’m calling 911.” He pulls out his phone.

  “No!” I stagger to the wall but it’s too high for me to simply hop over. Plus, I have to keep one hand pressed to my forehead to hold back the blood. “Seriously, don’t.” It would be really bad for a call about me to come in while Rachel’s on duty.

  Journey stares helplessly into his van.

  I manage to slide my hip onto the top of the wall and swing my legs over. I join him at the door of his van. Now I see it.

  A brick is holding down the gas pedal.

  He looks at me like What should we do?

  “Don’t touch anything.” I pull out my phone. This’ll go down better if I make the call.

  * * *

  First one police car shows up, then two more, along with a sergeant. Paramedics treat the lump and gash on my forehead at the scene. Then Journey and I are transported back to the police station in separate cars. Once we arrive, we are placed in separate rooms.

  I’m in the room they use for briefings. It’s large, with several tables, a bunch of chairs, and a huge whiteboard. I take the seat farthest from the door, at an angle that allows me to see everyone who walks past.

  Not long after I arrive, Rachel storms in and walks up to the table. She simply glares, her arms crossed over her chest and her foot tapping angrily.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You better have a damn good reason for ignoring my rules,” she says.

  I’m almost killed, Vespy is wrecked, and all she can think about are her stupid rules? I stack my fists one on top of the other and rest my chin on them.

  She turns on her heel and storms out, slamming the door. Every couple of minutes a new group barges in. They stand over by the door, talking in hushed tones, and then leave.

  Everyone seems to be talking to everybody … except me.

  I wonder what they’re doing to poor Journey. The first cop who arrived on the scene saw the brick on the gas pedal, but acted like we were trying to pull something. Not that he came right out and said that, but I could tell. I think they even put Journey in handcuffs again when they took him.

  I’m exploring the huge bandage on my forehead with my fingers when the door opens again. Out of the corner of my eye I see a man walk in. He’s wearing a rumpled suit. I place him somewhere in his forties, but there’s a kind of hipster air about him. For one thing, he’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Another is the hair: It’s short, but mussed in a way that looks cool, not sloppy.

  Based on his confident swagger, I conclude he must be a new shrink that Rachel’s hired to check me out. She thinks I’m acting out over what happened to Miss Peters. Fine. I’ll show her acting out. I take my sunglasses out of my bag and put them on. Two can play this game. I slouch in my seat and wait. Mystery Man strolls over to the opposite side of the table and takes a seat.

  I concentrate on reading text messages on my phone.

  Pretty soon the door opens again. Sydney leads Rachel and Principal Roberts inside and shuts the door behind them.

  Principal Roberts glances over at me with a tepid smile as he explains, in hushed tones, how worried he was when he saw that boy following me out of the school parking lot.

  Rachel shoots me an angry look. Yeah, okay; I’m supposed to call her if I go somewhere after school.

  Mystery Man leans forward. “Maybe you should take off your sunglasses if you don’t want to piss her off even more.”

  “What about your sunglasses?”

  “It won’t make her less angry with you, but if you insist, I’ll go first.” He takes his sunglasses off and slips them into his pocket. “Now your turn.”

  I slide my sunglasses off and look directly at him. “Oh my god. You’re—”

  He extends his hand across the table. “Victor. Nice to finally meet you.”

  Holy crap. It’s Uncle Victor.

  “I brought this for you,” he says, handing me a small shopping bag. Inside is a tiny white ceramic unicorn wrapped in tissue paper. I give him a puzzled look.

  He shrugs. “I guessed at what girls your age like and I obviously guessed too low. But, in my experience, you’ll appreciate stuff like that again in about twenty years.”

  I smile. It was sweet of him to bring me something. “It’s cute. Thanks. You picked kind of a sucky day to arrive, though. Rachel’s acting like I’m all Mallory Knox or something.”

  Victor sits back in his chair and sticks his feet out. “It sounds like she thinks you’re okay but your boyfriend might be Mickey Knox.”

  I grin. “Ha! A Tarantino fan. Me, too.”

  “Actually, I’m an Oliver Stone man,” Victor says. “But you’re not old enough to know Natural Born Killers, are you?”

  “Netflix plus insomnia. You’d be surprised. And for the record, he’s not my boyfriend.” I’m telling the truth, but wish I were lying.

  Victor rests his elbows on the table. “But is he Mickey Knox? That’s the question.”

  I get c
aught in his hard stare. Sitting up straight, I give him a direct look right back. “He’s not Mickey Knox. Not at all.”

  Victor nods. “I hope you’re right, because from where I sit, this is about to turn into a major cluster.”

  As if on cue, the door opens and Police Chief Culson sweeps in all official-like. He wears a cloud of concern around him like a superhero cape. After a taut hello to Sydney and Rachel and a nod to Principal Roberts, he heads straight to me.

  “Erin, dear. Let’s have a look at you?” He rolls his hip onto the table, turning his back to everyone in the room, including Victor. He inspects my forehead. “Stitches?”

  I touch the bandage. “No. Just a bump. I’m okay.”

  “You can’t be too okay, you’re in a police station.”

  “What I mean is, physically I’m fine, but I do think someone tried to, um, kill me.” I look to Victor, then to the chief. This is the first time I’ve actually put it into words, but that’s what it boils down to. Someone snuck up on us and tried to turn Journey’s van into a killing machine. It’s time to admit that I’m scared.

  I expect them to mull over the question of who did this, but the chief pulls a small notebook and a stylish pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Do you know of any reason why that boy would want to harm you?”

  “Journey? What? No. He saved me.” I stand up. “Where is he? I need to see him. Let us explain.”

  The chief puts out his hands to calm me. “So, you believe it was just a bizarre accident? Mechanical failure, groundhogs or something like that?” he asks.

  “Groundhogs?! It was sabotage.”

  “So you saw someone else in the area?” he asks.

  “No. But—” I glance around the room. Rachel, Sydney, and Principal Roberts are in the corner, arguing. Chief Culson is concerned, but skeptical. I turn my pleading gaze to Victor; he’s my last hope. “Please. I need to see Journey. Make them let me.”