To Catch a Killer Page 4

  I borrowed the keys to Lysa’s car and, when no one was looking, I carried the box out and stashed it in her trunk. I didn’t even tell my friends about it right away. I waited to confess until we were celebrating the end of the job with ice cream sundaes.

  Lysa was horrified. “You’ve made me an accessory,” she screeched.

  Spam just thought it was an incredibly creepy thing to do.

  They were both right, of course. But, like the great friends they are, neither of them turned me in or insisted we take it back.

  My next problem was getting the box into my house. Rachel was taking a couple of days off from work that week, so Lysa had to drive around with my mother’s murder box in her trunk until I could slip it into my house. When I brought it up to my room I realized how much it stuck out. It looked out of place on my shelves and wouldn’t fit under my bed. I needed a secure place to stash it. One that Rachel wasn’t likely to find.

  That’s how I discovered the secret space in the attic.

  * * *

  “Hi, Mom.” I lay my hands on the lid of the box, allowing narcotic tendrils of calm to work their way into my bones. After a few minutes, I move us over to the desk. Just having her near me is all I need.

  On the desk I’ve arranged a microscope and the beginnings of a small lab from a box of things I found stored up here. I know this stuff belonged to my uncle Victor. Maybe someday I’ll get to ask him about it.

  For hair analysis, I only need to line both hairs up on a slide and look at them under the microscope. It will be easy to see if the hairs match each other, which is of course what Brianna is hoping. If they don’t match, I’ll have no way of knowing who the other hair might belong to, but at least Brianna will have some warning and she’ll know to be careful about trusting Mark.

  I place Brianna’s hair at the top of the slide and the “tramp” hair at the bottom. I slap another slide over the top to hold them in place, then arrange the hair sandwich under the lens. A few tweaks bring them into perfect focus, giving me a view of the three main parts of these hairs. The part I’m most interested in is the medulla.

  Hmmm.

  I open my notebook to a clean page and draw a sketch of what I’m seeing.

  Without the microscope, both hairs look identical in size, shape, and color. And yet the magnified versions could not be more different.

  The outside layer of Brianna’s hair is smooth and the middle is a long, dark, broken streak. The sample hair has a rough outside cuticle with little points that stick out, and the medulla isn’t a streak at all, but made up of small, light, round shapes.

  Once the sketches are complete, I put the hairs back in the bags and lock them and my mother’s box back in the cabinet. I turn out the lights and head down the stairway, putting everything back as I go.

  Since I’m unfamiliar with what round shapes in the medulla means, I go online to check it out, typing “medulla pearl shape” into a search engine.

  The answer comes up immediately. I smile, because Brianna’s going to love this. I send a quick text to Spam: CHECKED OUT HAIRS. TELL BRIANNA MARK’S COOL.

  7

  It’s all about observation. Example: If a hair falls out, the root is going to have a little club shape to it. But if it’s been yanked out it will be stretched and include small tags of skin. Now you’ve got evidence!

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  According to Rachel I’m supposed to spend the weekend—well, as much time as I need, but at least the weekend—wrapping my brain around what happened to Miss P.

  Both the reality and the finality of it.

  I’d give anything to be able to create a different ending to that night. But I am clear that I didn’t cause what happened to her … any more than my little baby self caused what happened to my mother.

  Rachel wants to be sure I understand this so it doesn’t become another survivor-guilt situation. It was just a wrong-time, wrong-place moment. And sometimes those things just happen.

  I see her point, but accepting it is easier said than done.

  So when Spam and Lysa drop by on Saturday to see if I can go to the mall, I’m not really feeling it. Rachel encourages me to go, though. She thinks it will do me good to get out.

  Lysa drives and I take the backseat. No one says much on the ride over. But when Lysa parks in front of Battery Burger, I can tell this isn’t a normal shopping excursion.

  They’ve chosen our favorite restaurant. Also, Spam and Lysa look about as happy as the statues on Easter Island. I follow them to an outdoor table without protest. Spam makes it clear this isn’t just about lunch.

  “Time to spill,” she says.

  “Spill what?”

  “Spill why you went to Miss P’s house,” Spam says.

  I glance over my shoulder; the tables near us are becoming populated. “Not here. Okay?”

  The waitress comes to take our orders. Spam orders pasta, I order a salad, and Lysa goes for the burger. We stay quiet until she leaves.

  Lysa whispers, “My dad says they’ll probably want to talk to us, too. We need to know what we can say.”

  “You weren’t there. Just say that.”

  “That stupid box has changed you, Erin.” Lysa leans in close to keep from being overheard by other diners. “Ever since we helped you take it, you’ve been … different.”

  “Guys, the box has nothing to do with this.”

  Spam pins me with a harsh glare. “Admit it. You thought you could find your mom’s killer without our help.”

  “Wrong. I thought I could find my father.” There, I said it. “Sue me for wanting to know the basic things about my life that you guys take for granted.”

  Spam and Lysa blink at each other.

  “I did not see that coming,” Spam says.

  “Me neither,” Lysa says. “But how?”

  “Okay, it kinda did come from the box,” I say. “In with all the police stuff was a report listing three guys the police talked to after my mother’s murder.”

  “They only talked to three guys?” Lysa looks appalled.

  “Well, no, they talked to a lot of people and, of course, they interviewed all of my mother’s friends, like Rachel and Mr. Roberts. But these guys were special.”

  “They were suspects,” Lysa guesses. “And they had motives.”

  “They were boyfriends.” I drop that word like a bomb.

  Lysa and Spam share a shocked look.

  “Whaaat?” Lysa says. “The report called them boyfriends?”

  “Actually, it just said she might have dated them.” The notion of my mother doing something normal like dating brings a soft smile to my lips. “So I figured—you know—one of these guys could be my DNA dad and not even know it.”

  “Wow.” Lysa and Spam say it at exactly the same time.

  “I know, right?”

  “How did you find them?” Lysa asks.

  “Did you see them? Did you talk to them?” Spam clearly craves every detail, which is so funny, because I was sure she’d be against me trying to find my father. “Do any of them look like you?”

  “I only saw tiny glimpses, and no, I don’t think they look like me.” I tear off a strip of my napkin and curl it around my finger. “Miss P thought I shouldn’t get them involved unless we found a connection, but one was a boat captain who lives at the docks. Another was an artist who lives in that cute bungalow neighborhood on the south side. And the last one’s an accountant who lives near Miss P.”

  “The boat captain would be great,” Spam says. “He would probably be adventurous and brave.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell her that when I spied on him, he was actually tired and a little drunk, which is how he ended up cutting his hand and I scored a bloody towel with his DNA.

  “Yeah, but an artist,” Lysa says. “Your mom was a photographer, so I could totally see you having an artist for a dad. Think how awesome and romantic it would be to hang out in one of those bungalows.”

  I don’t think Lys
a would find the artist chain-smoking on his back porch to be very awesome or romantic, but I’ll save sharing that image with her for another day.

  “So how are you going to figure out which one is your dad?” Spam asks.

  “IF. It might be none of them. The plan was to find out by comparing their DNA with mine. I went by their houses late that night, when the trash was out at the curb for collection, and pulled out something that would have DNA on it. Miss P was going to run the test. It was a long shot, but at least I’d know.“I sit back in my chair, allowing the tension to drain out of me. It feels good to finally come clean about this with them. And for the first time in a couple of days, I’m hungry. The waitress brings our food and I steal some of Lysa’s fries.

  “That’s a genius plan,” Spam says, spreading her pasta around the plate to cool it off.

  “It is,” Lysa agrees. “Because taking things out of the trash at the curb isn’t against the law. But why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?”

  “I didn’t know how I was going to feel about the results. If there was a match—or if there wasn’t. I was definitely planning to tell you the next day, but then the whole thing with Miss P happened.” Whole thing doesn’t even begin to describe the horror of that night or the realization that it will never be over. A glance at their sad faces tells me they don’t need or want any more specific details, though. So I’m happy I let it go at that.

  “What if one of them killed her?” Lysa says.

  I gasp. It’s not like I haven’t thought about that. But the last thing I want is to be responsible for what happened to Miss P.

  “That’s impossible,” Spam says. “If all Erin did was go through trash, then none of them even saw her.”

  I rest my elbows on the table and press my fingers against my eyelids. As much as I try to block them out, the gory kaleidoscope images from that night cut through. “I tried to be careful.”

  “See,” Spam says. “She was careful.”

  “No. She said she tried to be careful,” Lysa argues. She curls her hands into fists and rests them solidly on the table. “But look what happened anyway. This is why I keep saying we shouldn’t be messing around with all this DNA, CSI crap.”

  “Hey, it’s not like Erin killed Miss P,” Spam argues.

  “Maybe not,” Lysa says. “But what if she led one of those guys there and he got upset over his DNA being stolen and did something? And it was all because she wanted to play criminal investigator instead of leaving that stuff to the professionals.”

  My voice is so small it’s nearly buried by the sounds of the lunch crowd. If only I could bury my guilt, too. “Just so you know, Miss P wanted this DNA project as much as I did, and it couldn’t have been one of the potential dads who hurt her because when I got there she was already…” I make a side slash with a shaky hand, which is easier than saying the actual words.

  Spam crosses her arms over her chest. “So who killed her then?”

  I shrug, palms up. “No clue.”

  “My dad always says the most obvious choice is probably the right one. Which means it must have been Journey,” Lysa says.

  “I’d go with that,” Spam says.

  I can’t agree or disagree. I’m just not sure. “I-I don’t know.”

  “It’s okay that you like him,” Spam says. “Serial killers are really popular. They get prison married and everything.”

  “Stop it. I don’t even know him,” I say.

  “We know you like him, though,” Lysa says, glancing at Spam.

  I start to deny it but Spam gives me the hand. “Don’t. Okay?”

  “It’s not like that. He’s just—I don’t know—a fantasy or something. I have no clue why he was there that night, but it didn’t have anything to do with me. None of this has anything to do with me.”

  Just then Brianna and two friends stroll by our table.

  Brianna opens her arms wide. “Erin,” she calls out. “Thanks for the brilliant news about the hair. You always save the day.”

  Brianna is a perfect distraction.

  The sketch I made of the hairs she gave us is in my notebook. I pull the book out of my bag and tear out the page with the sketch.

  “Bri, hold up.” I slide the paper across the table. “You’ve got to see this because it’s so cool. You know how the two hairs you gave us looked identical?” I point to the top sketch. “Well, this is your hair under a microscope. See how it’s all smooth on the outside, and inside there’s a long dark broken streak?”

  “Wait. They’re different?” Brianna shifts a confused look to Spam.

  “They’re crazy different,” I say.

  Brianna frowns. “Spam said they were the same … that the hairs matched.”

  Now Spam looks upset. “That’s what you told me to tell her.”

  Feathers are getting ruffled. Tensions are rising. Brianna is about to cry.

  “Everybody just calm down.” I fan them lightly with my hands. “Spam, I told you to tell her Mark’s cool. Because he is. Watch.”

  I hold the sketch out where they both can see it.

  “The second one is a cat hair.” I point to the bottom sketch. “That’s why forensics is so amazing. See these round, pearl-like shapes? Well, only cat hair has that. I’m guessing it’s an apricot Persian or some other long-haired cat.” I press the sketch into Brianna’s hand. “You can keep the drawing.”

  But big fat tears have replaced Brianna’s smile. I take back the drawing and find a Kleenex in my purse. I press that into her hand instead.

  “You heard what I said, right? Not blonde-girl hair but cat hair?”

  “I heard you,” she says, sniffing. “And I have an ex-best friend who owns that stupid Persian cat, too.”

  Oh. As Brianna rushes off in search of Mark, I’m starting to think the drama is piling up faster than I can process it.

  8

  Evidence is the engine of an investigation, but you still need the rest of the car in order for it all to make sense.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I spend the rest of the weekend following Rachel’s orders to rest and process.

  By Monday, I’m ready to go back to school even though Rachel thinks it’s still too soon. She runs me through a quick Q and A, just to make sure I’m not blaming myself, and I must pass because she agrees to let me go.

  What she doesn’t know is I’ve made a list of things to check out regarding Miss Peters’s murder. And Journey Michaels is item number one.

  I’ve always felt drawn to him, but never in a fearful way. Now I’m wondering if my instincts were telling me to look at him for another reason. Spam and Lysa think he’s dangerous. But the police let him go, so how bad can he be?

  If I can look straight into his eyes, I believe I’ll see the truth.

  It’s early when I pull into the school parking lot, even though I don’t need to be early to get a good spot. I’m allowed to park my scooter, which I affectionately call Vespy, in the green zone next to the flagpole and the administration building.

  I’m not there three seconds before Principal Roberts is out the door and making his way toward me.

  “Erin,” he says. “It worries me to see you back so soon. Are you sure you’re not rushing things? You need time to recover from your connection to this tragedy.”

  I give him my standard bland smile, but I honestly have no idea how I would know if I am rushing things or not. Why do the adults always think time will make a difference? Aren’t I living proof that time doesn’t heal anything?

  Mr. Roberts must be fascinated with static electricity, because every time I take off my helmet he can’t seem to curb the impulse to pat my hair back into place.

  Today is no exception.

  “This has been devastating for all of us,” he says, patting right and then left.

  Mr. Roberts has been my principal since kindergarten. When I moved on to middle school, he was promoted and became my principal there, too. Then, last year, when I headed to
high school, he moved again. He likes to joke that he’s growing up along with us.

  This probably came from one of the shrinks I’ve seen along the way, but Rachel says it’s important for me to have constants in my life, meaning things and people I can count on to be there every day. If nothing else, he’s been constant.

  “Thanks, Mr. Roberts, but I think I’m okay.”

  “You sure?” he asks. “If it gets to be too much, come see me. My door is always open.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “I’m here for you.” His expression is somber but he still mimes a bowling move to send me off to class. It wouldn’t be a Mr. Roberts encounter without a sporty farewell.

  I keep my head down as I hurry toward the four-story building at the center of our campus and I steel myself for the whispers. There she goes … that’s her. The murder girl.

  Deep breath. Shoulders back. I’m about to step through the doors when a stray football drops out of the sky and makes direct contact with the top of my head. For a second, everything dims and sparks detonate behind my eyes.

  Footsteps run past me. A guy’s voice says, “Sorry,” and then he’s gone without a backward glance.

  A lump swells under my hair. It feels huge.

  Meanwhile, throngs of students stream past me, heading for lockers and classes. I realize they all have one thing in common: They don’t know who I am, and they don’t care, either.

  Fine. I didn’t want to be the murder freak anyway.

  At the base of the stairs, a group of seniors huddle, talking in hushed tones. I slow up to listen.

  “My parents are calling Principal Roberts,” a blonde girl says. “They want to know how he’s going to keep us safe.”

  “They’re saying he’ll get bumped from the team,” a guy in a basketball jersey says.

  “My dad says he’s going straight to jail, so we can kiss the championship good-bye,” says another.

  “Who cares about a stupid championship; we lost Miss P.”

  “Not only that, but we’ll always be remembered as the class with the killer!” The girl speaking glances over her shoulder and glares at me. I move off. I’ve heard enough anyway. It’s pretty clear they’re talking about Journey, and it sounds like they hate him now. I’ve just reached the top of the stairs when I hear one of the girls say, “Hey, wasn’t that her?”