To Catch a Killer Page 3

  Rachel’s face turns to stone. “After what you’ve been through, Victor’s books are not appropriate reading material for you. Case closed!” Then she turns her attention to cleaning out her purse, a signal that our discussion is over.

  I fume silently. Maybe someday she’ll understand that I am not a case. I can’t be closed.

  “I have to go in to work for a couple of hours. You—”

  “I know. Stay here.”

  She opens the back door and pauses with her hand on the knob. “Should I put in a call to Dr. Engle?”

  “No more therapists.” I add wide, laser eyes. “Unless you’re willing to open up and gut it out with me.”

  Rachel leaves the door standing open and comes back to give me an awkward hug. Awkward because she’s five foot four and I’m five foot eight. I bend my knees to make it easier for her. “I’m sorry. I simply can’t relive all of that again,” she says. “I wish I could wave a magic wand and make you understand that none of the past has anything to do with who you are.”

  And I wish I could make her understand that she’s wrong. It has everything to do with who I am.

  “No worries, Rach. We’re good,” I say.

  “We’re better than good.” She gives me a pat on the cheek. “Lock the door, okay?”

  5

  Most people believe that forensic evidence is the ironclad truth but they’re ignoring the fact that it’s handled by humans.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Back in my room, I sink into bed and wrap a pile of blankets around me like flotation devices. When I was little we tried a bunch of things to jump-start my memory, including therapy and hypnosis, even acupuncture. Doctors said there was a chance I could remember the murder one day. But that never happened.

  For my part, I just wanted to remember something—anything—about my mother.

  I’ve read the report describing her cold, stiff body, lying on her back in an area of blood the size of a child’s swimming pool. They believed she had been dead for three days. Apparently the trail of my footprints, stamped in blood, told them how I survived three days alone by raiding the low shelves of the refrigerator and drinking toilet water. Two-year-old me, terrified, hungry, and dehydrated, but left alive, by whom and for what reason? The report is hard enough for me to stomach all these years later. Rachel was hit with the real deal. Who wouldn’t want to forget that?

  Now I have a grasp on what she’s been dealing with all these years.

  It’s hard, but I can read about my mother’s death scene because I don’t remember it. But I’m afraid the vision of Miss Peters, arms outstretched and golden curls floating on top of a seeping red sea, has become a permanent scar.

  I even understand Rachel’s constant fear for me.

  When I was ten, she sat me down and explained how the man who killed my mother had never been caught. Her tone was comforting, but her words were very blunt. He’s still out there walking around. He could be watching you every day and we would never know. He could come after you at any time. It was the most difficult and terrifying conversation of my life.

  To keep me safe when she wasn’t around, Rachel actually gave me my first training in forensics. She taught me to pay attention to details by constantly reminding me to think about where I was and whom I was with. Over time my eyes became like a camera and my brain a recorder. I learned to speak less and listen more. I didn’t just think about my mother’s killer, I obsessed over him. Is he tall? Short? Mean? Nice? Old? Young? He could be any man walking down the street.

  Someone pounding on the back door startles me out of my thoughts. I throw off the covers and slip down the stairs, cautiously scanning gaps in the front curtains for a familiar car in the driveway. I relax when I see a sliver of red.

  I unlock the back door and Spam shoots through the opening with the speed of an alien popping out of a corpse. She’s wearing a short, puffy vest that’s gray and clear. Looking closer, I realize she made it out of duct tape and Bubble Wrap. She flings her arms around my neck and hugs me so hard that one whole side of her vest explodes. She doesn’t let go, even as I stumble backward into the kitchen. Our other friend, Lysa, steps in quietly behind her and closes the door.

  Of the three of us, Lysa is the one who looks like she just stepped off the page of a magazine. She always wears a pair of crisply pressed designer jeans paired with hoodies, tanks, Vans sneakers, and socks that all color-coordinate. Today she’s decked out in five different shades of teal, which nicely complements her flawless, golden-brown skin.

  I pry one of my arms out of Spam’s iron grasp and hold it out toward Lysa. She joins us in a quick group hug.

  “You heard?” I ask.

  Spam pulls back and squints, inspecting me all over.

  “I’m okay.” I break from the hug and move toward a chair at the table. Lysa joins me, nervously gnawing on a cuticle.

  Spam heads for the refrigerator. “We would’ve been here sooner but they had us in an assembly all morning.”

  “Grief squad?” I ask.

  Lysa slides her hands down the side of her face, dragging her skin into an exaggerated, sad look.

  “They brought us all to the auditorium and just dropped the news on us.” Spam moves things around in the fridge.

  “I still don’t believe it,” Lysa says.

  Spam settles on a tub of spicy hummus and a bag of baby carrots, bringing them to the table. “Oh.” She stops and digs around in each of her pockets. “Before I forget, I know the timing sucks but we got a Cheater Check this morning.” She pulls two small Ziploc bags out of her back pocket and slides them across the table. “Hair analysis.”

  Cheater Checks is a little side business we run. My obsession with forensics started by reading my Uncle Victor’s books. Following his detailed descriptions I taught myself the basics, how to lift fingerprints and analyze hair. Then freshman year I entered a chromatography test in the science fair comparing different shades and brands of lipstick. About that same time, we had a friend who thought her boyfriend was cheating on her. We tried the lipstick chromatography test on his shirt and proved it! Word got around about what we could do and people were willing to pay us to do it for them. So, we combined my forensic skills with Spam’s computer savvy and Lysa’s profiling ability and our little underground business was born.

  We take on all kinds of jobs for our friends at school, like outwitting spying parents and neutralizing brothers and sisters who like to snoop. But we get the most requests for Cheater Checks—girlfriends and boyfriends who want proof they’re dating cheaters.

  I hold up the bags. Inside each one is a single blond hair about five inches long. One bag is labeled with the letter B, the other reads TRAMP. I shake my head. “Brianna found a random hair in Mark’s car again?”

  Spam chuckles. “I think this one came from inside his jacket.”

  “How will you do this without Miss P to let you into the lab on Monday?” Lysa says.

  I roll my head from side to side, contemplating the changes I know are coming. “It’s okay. I can do it here.”

  “How?” Lysa asks. “Don’t you need a—”

  “Microscope? Yeah. I have one up…” I catch myself. “Anyway, I can do it.” I set the bags aside and grab another orange out of the bowl.

  Spam curls one leg under her on the chair. “What were you doing at Miss Peters’s?”

  “Yeah, why didn’t you call us?” Lysa asks.

  “Or text us … or IM us … or FaceTime us?” Spam adds.

  I freeze. I’m not ready to talk about last night. I need more time to get everything straight in my own head. “How’d you even know I was there?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Spam crunches a carrot. “You being there is all over school.” She pops the last bite into her mouth.

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, my internal organs slide into a dark abyss located somewhere around my knees. I press my nose to the orange and inhale deeply. I get it. Discovering
a murder has to be the pinnacle of gossip-worthy news. Seriously, what could trump that? I’ve been so crushed over Miss P I haven’t considered what being the one to find her body will do to me. All that attention and pity … again.

  I smooth the place mat in front of me with my finger. “What are they saying?”

  Lysa pats my hand. “Don’t worry, it’s really not about you.”

  Spam gives Lysa a wide-eyed look. “Dude. It’s totally about her.”

  “It is?” I squeeze Lysa’s hand. I don’t think I can deal with this.

  Lysa frowns. “Go easy, Spam. She’s been through a traumatic experience.”

  “You guys, I can’t talk about this right now.” My eyes fill with water but I hold perfectly still to keep it from spilling down my cheeks.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to. We can talk about something else.” Lysa lays her other hand on top of mine, but I notice she passes a pointed look to Spam.

  “Right.” Spam glances away from Lysa and settles into a soothing tone. “It’s just you did sort of become an instant legend, but that’s not really important right now.”

  “L-l-legend?” I can barely speak.

  “God, Spam, stop it! You’re making it sound like she won prom queen or something. Just get to the point,” Lysa says.

  “She kinda did,” Spam says with a grin. “Everybody knows who you are now.” Lysa’s glare causes Spam to drop the humor. “But we want you to know we’re really, really worried about you. And we know you must have been investigating something important at Miss P’s. We just don’t understand why you didn’t tell us about it.”

  This is so hard. I hate lying to them. “It’s not what you think. And it didn’t have anything to do with you guys.”

  “Are you sure?” Lysa asks carefully. “Because you know we think it has something to do with the box … and if that’s the case then we are involved. Big-time.”

  I need to say something but I can’t seem to dredge up a new lie.

  “Come on. We helped you steal it, and if that box caused what happened with Miss Peters, you can bet we’re going to get grilled about it.” Lysa’s voice gets higher and louder, a clear sign that she’s starting to panic.

  “Miss Peters was murdered by a person, not a box. No one even knows I have it. I promise.”

  “Erin, my father’s a criminal attorney. I know all the ways that this can go wrong for us,” Lysa says.

  “Where’s the box now?” Spam asks.

  “It’s in a safe place,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Maybe you should give it to one of us,” Spam says. “For safekeeping.”

  “No!” My tone is sharp and nonnegotiable. The box is mine. I’m keeping it. “It’s fine where it is.”

  “Where exactly is it?” Lysa asks. “Since we’re involved, I think we should know.”

  I push away from the table so fast I bang the chair against the wall. “I should be resting.” I manage a shaky half smile. “Rachel agrees that I probably have PTSD. Don’t worry about the box; it’s hidden in a place where no one would think to look.”

  I stand like I’m going to walk them to the door. Spam and Lysa rise and ease in that direction, but then Lysa turns back for one more question.

  “When did you first suspect there was something weird about Journey Michaels?”

  “Huh?” I freeze, and the image of him walking past the interrogation room door leaps to my mind. Pale and sullen, his hands cuffed behind him. “I never suspected anything about him. Why?”

  “Because isn’t it weird that just yesterday you were watching him?” Spam says.

  “The same day he killed Miss Peters and you found her body,” Lysa adds.

  “Allegedly,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. “You can’t say he did it. Not yet.”

  Lysa and Spam exchange a tight-lipped frown that suggests there’s something seriously deranged about what I just said, but I’m done talking for the day.

  “I need to lie down.” I wait quietly while they slip back out the door. Then I flip the lock behind them and race up the stairs to my bedroom, bringing the Cheater Check bags with me.

  6

  If you want to spot a liar, just remember that concealing the truth is like swallowing a slow-acting poison. It might take a while, but it will get them in the end.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I check the time and wonder how long I have before Rachel will be home. I can’t risk her catching me with the box, so I usually restrict my time with it to when she’s working a night shift or after she’s gone to sleep.

  In a true example of Rachel’s love for all things police-related, she’s the supervisor of our 911 emergency call center. Her usual hours are 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. But if someone calls in sick she has to cover their shift. Today she said she would only be there a few hours.

  I send her a quick text. I THOUGHT YOU’D BE HOME FOR LUNCH.

  While I wait for her reply, I’m already prepping my bedroom.

  I close the door and shove a thick three-ring binder into the gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet. With the door secured, I roll my desk chair into the roomy walk-in closet. Then I stand on the chair to reach a small knot of rope that blends in with the murky old plaster ceiling.

  Pulling gently on the rope releases a wide trapdoor, and a sturdy wooden stairway unfolds from the attic. My phone vibrates with Rachel’s reply. GO AHEAD AND EAT. I’M STUCK HERE ANOTHER TWO HOURS.

  Two whole hours!

  Relieved, I fly up the wooden steps that emerge into the middle of a huge attic that spans both my bedroom and the guest bedroom next door.

  It’s pitch-dark up here even in the middle of the day because I’ve covered the small round window at the peak in the roof. Rachel never comes up here, but just to be on the safe side, I’ve staged it to look like I don’t come up here, either. I shifted most of the boxes to the guest room side. Then along the stairs on my side, I’ve carefully arranged a pile of boxes, trunks, suitcases, tarps, and rolled-up rugs to act as a screen. If anyone sticks their head up here they’ll think there’s nothing to see on the other side of this pile but more junk and storage.

  I tap my foot in an arch until I find the pedal switch. When I step on it, two lamps on the other side of the room blink on, bathing the area in a warm glow. I have separated the furniture and arranged it like a living room. There’s a smooth, red leather sofa, a coffee table shaped like a kidney bean, and end tables and lamps. Some nights I just come up here to lay on the sofa and read, pretending like it’s my own apartment. Other times I putter in the lab area I created from a desk and matching cabinet. But today, after everything that’s happened, I need the box.

  I keep it in a large wooden cabinet that I can secure with a padlock. I do this so often that my fingers spin quickly through the combination. I remove the lock and set it aside. I pause for a couple of seconds, inhaling deeply and then forcing air out through tight lips. No matter how stressed and anxious I am, I never rush this part. It’s ritual. I want to feel it. Savor it. I need to make it part of me.

  I sink to my knees and part the doors. On the bottom shelf is a simple white cardboard box, like the kind they use in offices to store files.

  I take a pair of rubber gloves from the shelf and slip them on. Then I carefully slide the box out of the cabinet. I set it on the rug as gently as if it contained a baby.

  In many ways it does. It contains baby me.

  The day this box came into my life, it was as if the world cracked open and possibility was born. Today I worry where that will take us now.

  * * *

  Last summer, Sydney offered us a short temp job at the police department. Three or four days archiving regular files like bills and things. Spam, Lysa, and I were happy to earn some extra cash. It was boring work, but we made it fun—shredding the old files to make room for new ones.

  Almost immediately I keyed in on the fact that this huge storage area held
all of the police department files. The work files were on one side but the evidence files were on the other. There was no reason for anyone to think that we would wander into the evidence side. There was also no one else in the storage room with us for long periods of time.

  At first I just wanted to find my mother’s evidence box, to know that it existed. So that one day, when I start my job as a forensic scientist, I can request the evidence and reopen her case. Evidence boxes are filed alphabetically by the name of the victim, so it only took me a few minutes to find the box labeled BLAKE, SARAH.

  But it took two days to get up the nerve to actually open it.

  Each night I would lie in bed and imagine what might be in that box. I hoped I might find something familiar, a memory or some link from me to her. What I actually found was … not that.

  On top was a plastic sleeve containing clothing, stiff and stained with dried blood. Her blood.

  That was more than I had bargained for. I closed the box and put it back on the shelf, vowing not to touch it again.

  But when we got to our last day of work, with only two hours left on our shift, I realized my chance to go through the evidence from my mother’s murder was about to expire. Shouldn’t I take a look? Shouldn’t I know what was in there? With only fifteen minutes left on the job, I decided to steal that box.

  Getting it was easy. Sneaking it home was a huge challenge. You can have secrets when your transportation is a sky-blue vintage Vespa scooter, just not secrets the size of a file box.

  What evolved was a weird no-plan plan.

  Each step just became the next most logical thing to do. I took an empty box from the trash pile and dumped the contents of my mother’s box into it. My stomach lurched when a huge knife in a plastic bag tumbled from one box to the other. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it closely, but I knew the blade was coated with dark, dried blood.

  I placed my mother’s empty evidence box back on the shelf. No one was actively working her case, so it wasn’t likely that anyone would look inside. But if the box went completely missing, that might get noticed.