To Catch a Killer Page 2

  Her smirk called BS. Then she ripped off a wolf whistle loud enough to set dogs barking a block away. Once she had everyone’s attention, she hollered, “Oooh, Journey. Work it.”

  Her final insult was to drop down behind me when he looked up.

  That was the first time he had ever looked directly at me, so I’m not sure if I only imagined the little sizzle as his eyes met mine. He smiled, though. Shook his head and kept walking.

  “Screw you, Spam,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Hey, I got him to look at you,” she bragged.

  It was true. Despite the fact that she was wearing rainbow suspenders and matching over-the-knee socks, she still managed to make me the attraction. Spam’s idea of fashion is an extension of her personality—sort of shock-and-awe chic.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said. “I know you want to marry him and bear his freakishly tall basketball-star children.”

  * * *

  Baldwin returns with the sugar. He’s careful with the door this time, allowing it to close all the way before crossing the room and dropping into his chair. He pauses to take a sip of his coffee, then opens his notebook. “Are you okay? Can we continue?”

  I give him a weak smile and set about adding the sugars to my coffee.

  “So, it was dark. You had just stumbled across this horrific scene with your teacher. You had to be extremely upset,” he says.

  The pleasant images from this morning dissipate.

  Baldwin’s chair groans as he settles in further. “Then you see someone running away. And you recognized him as a classmate.”

  “Journey Michaels.”

  “What?” Baldwin asks.

  “That’s his name. Journey Michaels.” I press my fingers into my eye sockets. Of all the people in this world, why did it have to be him?

  “And you’re sure it was him?” Baldwin says.

  I nod, keeping my fingertips against my eyelids as if that could block some of the horror.

  “What makes you so positive?”

  I reach for my coffee. “Well.” My voice trembles. I dig my thumbnail into the Styrofoam and carve a curved line resembling a stretched-out letter C. “Um. He goes to my school.” Baldwin waits, pen poised above paper. “And I see him every day.” Baldwin’s still not writing. How do I explain it? I carve another squiggle on the other side. Will it be enough to simply say that Journey is the boy every girl wants to notice her? Will it mean anything to Baldwin that I make a point not just to see him every day but also to actually study him?

  Baldwin waits as I stare at the shape I’ve carved into the cup. It’s not a heart, exactly. The lines are too far apart and not even close to symmetrical. Maybe it’s my heart, weak and dysfunctional.

  “Um, okay. It’s hard to explain. It’s like he has this way of moving forward with one shoulder sort of tilted in.” I demonstrate, twisting in my seat and leaning my right shoulder forward.

  At first Baldwin looks as though he understands but then the folds between his eyebrows deepen. “You’re saying you knew it was him because he tilts his shoulder?”

  “Most people just walk. But not Journey. He always looks like he’s pushing a giant, invisible boulder uphill with his shoulder.”

  Baldwin shakes his head but proceeds to write down my description. “Tilted shoulder, pushing boulder.”

  For the first time in a long time I need someone to get it … to get me.

  I lean across the table, hands cupping the air in front of me. “It’s just, every day I watch this guy move through the world, and even though he’s all cool and everybody loves him, he looks exactly like how I feel. Life’s a huge strain, but everyone everywhere tries to hide it. Not him, though. He plows forward, jamming that invisible boulder out of his way. It’s like he’s saying: Force it. Make it happen.”

  Baldwin’s face lights up. “Ah. You’re saying he has a chip on his shoulder?”

  It’s actually the exact opposite of that, but as I open my mouth to refute him, a squawk comes from his radio.

  “Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll be right back.” He pulls the brick-shaped device off of his belt and heads for the door. “On my way.”

  The door stutters shut behind him and I’m once again wrapped in the disapproving silence of the room, only now I’m steeped in thoughts of Journey Michaels and the things I saw versus the things I didn’t see.

  3

  The hardest thing to teach new crime-scene techs is not to cover the body. But dignity can destroy evidence.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I go back through it again.

  It was just about midnight. The moon hung low and large in the sky, like a giant Olympic gold medal. Its glow felt like praise. As predicted, I had acquired all three of my targeted DNA samples.

  Miss Peters’s mailbox sat out by the curb on top of a short post. I opened it and shoved the bag of evidence inside. She didn’t want to know which sample came from whom. Only I would have that information. She called it a blind study.

  As I was leaving, her front door blew open.

  “Miss Peters?”

  I edged up the walk. Even though she lived in an average neighborhood only a few miles from mine, the late hour gave the area a graveyard hush. As I approached her porch, a faint shadow in the shape of a cross bobbed low against the baseboard, sending terror through me like a drop of ink in water. Even once I realized it was just the moon shining through the slats of Miss P’s trellis the panic was overwhelming.

  Then the smell hit me.

  That smell triggered a memory so vivid and deep that it dropped me to my knees. It was a strong, raw scent, like shoving your face into a vat of pennies mixed with freshly ground hamburger.

  It was the smell of blood.

  Lots of blood.

  And there she was, lying on her back inside the doorway. She floated on a huge sea of red.

  I might have screamed. I don’t know. White noise filled my ears and my vision slid to gray. I crawled to her side, ignoring the wash of blood. I was there, but nowhere. I was breathing, but holding my breath.

  “Oh, Miss Peters…”

  A motion light in the front yard blinked on, shattering the dark. Someone was watching me from the shadows. Once he triggered the light, he ran. But I saw him clearly, and when I realized who it was, my insides filled with lead and sank all the way to my knees.

  * * *

  The interrogation room door bursts open, introducing a whoosh of fresh air.

  “Oh my god, Erin.”

  Rachel drops her purse and coat and rushes to me. Her arms circle my neck. She was my mother’s best friend and the one who found her lifeless body. She scooped me up that day and ever since, she has stood between me and any harm that might come, large or small. I know she would literally throw herself in front of a train for me. Without her, who knows where I would have ended up?

  “I’m sorry you had to get out of bed for this.” Even though I feel bad, I’m grateful to have Rachel’s warmth enveloping me. Now that she’s here I don’t have to pretend to be so strong.

  “Shhhh. I’m fine. Just worried about you.” Rachel brushes the hair off my face and runs her hands over my back and my arms as though she has to feel for herself that I’m really in one piece.

  Hovering near the door is Detective Sydney Rankle, Rachel’s best friend. At the station she acts more formal, but when she’s at our house she calls herself Aunt Sydney.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Sydney says to Baldwin. “But come get me when they bring him in.”

  Rachel takes my face between her hands. “Sydney says you know the boy who did this?”

  I open my mouth to speak but Sydney beats me to it.

  “Alleged. We can’t say he did it. Not yet.”

  “But you know him, right? He goes to your school?”

  I nod.

  “That settles it. We’re changing schools,” she says.

  “No.” It comes out frantic. “I can’t change.
”

  “You don’t know what’s at work here,” Rachel says.

  What I want to say is: I was there, and You don’t know what’s at work here, either. But now’s not the time for that.

  “We shouldn’t knee-jerk, remember?” That was my therapist’s go-to phrase. Good for any occasion. I stopped seeing him a year ago. We weren’t getting anywhere anyway. But I still use his words when they suit me. Changing schools is not an option. Rachel needs to hear that.

  She keeps her hands on my shoulders and holds me out away from her while she scans my face. Then she squeezes me in close, rocking us both from side to side. “I’m so sorry this happened; you must’ve been terrified.”

  I was. What if I caused it, and Miss P’s death is my fault? What then?

  There’s a light knock. Sydney opens the door. It’s Baldwin. He nods his head toward the squad room. “He’s coming in now.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Sydney glances at us. Rachel’s arms are wrapped tightly around me. “Take her home,” she says. “Keep her home tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.”

  Baldwin leads a group past the door. One in the middle is taller than the others and his hands are cuffed behind his back. Caramel tufts of hair curl against a chiseled profile that’s pale beneath the tan.

  There’s a quick jolt of recognition. I wasn’t expecting to see him here like this, and I definitely hope he doesn’t see me.

  Journey Michaels’s jaw tightens. His gaze sweeps the room, looking for who or what brought this down on his head. For the second time today, he looks directly at me, only this time instead of sizzle, his expression reveals an anger so hot it could melt tungsten.

  I expected him to look different to me now. I mean, if he’s a killer he should look different. Right? I can’t help it, though—I still feel a tug. There’s something about Journey Michaels that draws me to him.

  I bury my face in Rachel’s shoulder and she strokes my hair.

  “Hey, it’s okay to cry, you know. This is one of those times.”

  Rachel means well but she never totally gets it.

  4

  The crime scene tape will separate you from everything but the emotional impact. You still have to be able to deal with that.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I wake to the potent scent of orange.

  There’s a pile of orange peels on my nightstand—Miss P’s orange. I’d savored it in the dark. It was sweet and salty, mixed with my tears.

  I pick up one of the peels and pinch it under my nose, memorizing the scent and packing it away. I vow that for the rest of my life, every time I smell the scent of orange I will think of her and it will remind me of the bright orange safety goggles she wore when using ultraviolet light. It also brings to mind her sunshiny outlook on life.

  By pairing the image of an orange with Miss P maybe one day I can forget my final image of her, lying still just inside her door, several officers standing guard.

  What I won’t forget though are all her cute mannerisms, like the large pair of glasses she was always pushing up onto her nose, and how she kept her scrunched-up bun in place with strategically placed pencils. In the same way that Mr. Roberts isn’t just a principal, Miss Peters wasn’t just a teacher. Not to me, anyway.

  I hear Rachel rattling around in the kitchen, but before I go join her I swipe the orange peels off my nightstand and drop them into a small potpourri basket. Then I wander down to the kitchen in search of some quiet comfort. I’m greeted by the smell of coffee and Rachel’s worried look. “Did you get any sleep last night?” she asks.

  “A little. How about you?” I sit down at the table and take a fresh orange from the bowl. I press it to my nose, inhaling deeply even though the smell makes my heart hurt. I wonder if Rachel will ever mention Miss Peters to me again or if my favorite teacher will now join my mother on that list of things Rachel deems too dangerous for us to discuss.

  She brings her coffee to the table. When she doesn’t say anything right away, I look up and find her staring at me.

  She rubs the spot between her eyebrows with two fingers, as if trying to erase difficult thoughts. “Last night was—” She pauses, and then begins again. “Sydney doesn’t want us to talk too much about what happened because she might need to interview you again and she wants what you say to be fresh and not rehearsed. But she asked me something and I didn’t have an answer. Erin, what were you doing at your teacher’s house after midnight?”

  I sit up slowly. I should have a Rachel-ready lie to roll off my tongue. She was asleep when I snuck out and I wasn’t planning on getting caught. I know I owe her the truth, but it’s been so long since we’ve been honest with each other, I don’t know what she can handle. I do know she can’t handle me wanting to delve into my past. She closed the door on that a long time ago. I’m supposed to just forget it and go on. As if.

  I roll the orange back into the bowl and shutter my eyes to look extra exhausted.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I left here around midnight.” I’ve had insomnia for years and she knows this. “I just went for a little drive … to clear my head and get sleepy.”

  “Alone?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t with anyone? Not even Spam … or maybe a boy?”

  I shake my head. Here we go—Rachel’s denial in action. How can she even think I could sneak out to be with some boy like a normal teenager? She’s seen the way people act when they hear my name. How the recognition lands in their eyes like cherries in a slot machine. The looks of pity that wash over me as they think, but never say, Oh, she’s the one. Rachel sees all of that but thinks I should just ignore it.

  Miss Peters got it. She understood how the stigma of a notorious unsolved crime kept me from getting close to people—especially boys.

  I bite into the skin of the orange, releasing even more of its rich scent.

  When I finally do have a relationship, I want it to be honest. How can I tell someone everything about myself when I don’t even know the most basic facts? Miss P agreed that I deserved to know everything that was possible to know.

  Rachel blows on her coffee before trying again. “Just be honest with me, Erin. This is no time for secrets.”

  I widen my eyes and aim a searing look directly at her.

  “I need words, not pop-eyes,” she says.

  “I said I was alone.” Clearly, seeing Journey Michaels doesn’t count.

  “Okay. Just checking.” The hand bringing coffee to her lips trembles. I sense she’s holding something back. Guess what, that makes two of us. Her gaze drifts around the kitchen as if she’s seeing it for the very first time. Then she stops and pins me with her own hard look. “Did you really leave a bloody towel in Miss Peters’s mailbox?”

  Crap. I forgot they’d tell her about that, too.

  “It’s not Miss Peters’s,” I say quickly. “The blood, I mean.”

  “Whose is it? Sydney said there was a lot of it.” Rachel’s knuckles turn white against the coffee cup.

  “It was just some random DNA that I picked up.” It’s partially true. “For extra credit.”

  “Erin.” Her eyes stay locked onto mine in a gaze so direct I have no choice but to look away. “You honestly expect me to believe that you went through a stranger’s trash and touched a bloody towel?” Rachel frowns. “I know you. You wouldn’t touch it if it was your own blood.”

  Usually I pretend I’m telling the truth and Rachel pretends to believe me, even though I’m sure she really doesn’t. In the end, we agree I won’t do the things that worry her, like sneaking out of the house, and she won’t nail me to the wall with punishments. We keep it very civilized. But today is different. Neither of us is pretending in quite the same way.

  “I was wearing gloves,” I say, adding an indignant tone, as though I only did what anyone else would’ve done.

  “You understand the problem, right? If you know more than you’re saying, they’re going to find out. Sydney is probably testing tha
t bloody towel right now.”

  “She doesn’t have the equipment to test blood. The best she can do is to send it to the FBI. They won’t get the results for at least a week. Probably more.”

  “How do you know that?” Rachel adjusts her sweater, wrapping the fabric tighter around her neck. Her expression is a combination of scared and proud.

  “How do you think? Uncle Victor’s books.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve actually read those gory things.” At least now Rachel’s “the world’s gone mad” look isn’t all about me.

  “And I can’t believe you haven’t. He sends us autographed copies.”

  Miss P might have introduced me to forensics, but the blow-by-blow instructions came directly from my uncle’s books.

  “Those books exploit the tragedy of real people,” Rachel says, slapping the table. “You shouldn’t put my brother on a pedestal like that.”

  “Solving crime is his job.”

  “No. Your grandfather was a police detective. He solved crimes.”

  “My grandfather?” I force one eyebrow into a higher arch than the other. It might be mean, but sometimes Rachel needs to be reminded that we’re not actually related by blood.

  She makes a pruney face. “Don’t get smart. He was the only grandfather you ever knew.” She tightens her jaw, which makes her voice sound strained. “What my brother does is process evidence to be used in court, and that’s different. Trust me. Dad was never thrilled about Victor going with the FBI instead of the police academy.”

  I know I won’t win this argument, but I still have to try. “If you had read even one of his books you would understand why Uncle Victor does what he does. He does it for the survivors and the families of the victims. He believes they deserve to know the truth about what happened to the ones they loved.” I let that statement hang there for a minute, leaving the obvious unsaid. Uncle Victor believes the survivors deserve to know all of the things Rachel thinks I should ignore.

  She starts to interrupt but I hold up a finger, keeping her silent for one more second. “He does it because he believes that in all cases, good should triumph over evil.” I sit back in my chair. There, let her deal with that.