Forensics Squad Unleashed

by Monique Polak

  Lloyd rests his digital pen on the tray at the bottom of the whiteboard. “That’s a great start, folks,” he tells us. “As you know, we’re going to discuss fingerprints first. Samantha? You want to give them some background?”

  When Samantha takes over, Lloyd goes to the supply closet at the side of the room. He must be preparing something for later in the lesson.

  “You’ve probably heard that no two people have the same fingerprints,” Samantha tells us. “Not even identical twins. Fingerprints are like snowflakes. Every single print is unique.”

  Which is pretty amazing, considering there are over seven billion people on the planet. Not to mention all the people who used to live here, and all the ones who have not yet been born. With all those billions, you figure there might be some overlap. But no.

  “What most people don’t know,” Samantha continues, “is that every person has ten completely different fingerprints.”

  Now, of course, we are all examining our fingertips.

  “You’ll have time for that later,” Samantha promises us. “I need to cover some more theory first.” She waits until we are focused on her again. “Some fingerprints are latent, others are visible, and others are three-dimensional. Latent means the fingerprints are there, but we can’t see them—not until we dust for them. Visible means we can see them with the naked eye. Say someone leaves greasy prints on a window or a glass—we can see those. What do you think three-dimensional fingerprints look like?”

  “Uhh, like they have three dimensions.” Nico looks insulted when no one laughs.

  “If someone pokes something soft with their fingers—for example, a donut with chocolate glaze on it—they would leave three-dimensional prints in the chocolate glaze,” Mason says. Why am I not surprised he is thinking about donuts?

  But Samantha approves of Mason’s example. “The next thing you need to know is there are three kinds of fingerprint patterns—”

  “Loops, whorls and arches,” I say without realizing I have finished her sentence. “Oops.” I cover my mouth with one hand. “That was in the Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science. Chapter four.”

  I’m glad that Samantha does not seem to mind my interruption. “All right then, Tabitha, why don’t you go ahead and tell us what you know about loops, whorls and arches?”

  I am daydreaming about how one day I want to study forensic science at the University of Montreal and maybe be a counselor at forensics camp. I picture myself at the whiteboard explaining Locard’s Principle.

  “Tabitha?” Samantha says.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. Loops have ridges that start at one end and go all the way around, then back to where they started. That’s why they’re called loops.”

  Samantha puts an image of a looped fingerprint on the screen at the other side of the room.

  “With whorls, the ridges enter at one end, make a circle, then go out the other end. Arches make an arch. The ridges enter, then go out the other end but without circling.”

  Samantha is showing us more images, but I am the only one looking at the screen. The others have moved closer to the window, where the light is better for examining their fingertips. I already know some of my fingerprints are arched and the rest are whorls.

  “I have a whorl!” Muriel says as if she has discovered a new planet.

  “That’s impossible!” Nico grabs Muriel’s hand. “We’re twins, and I have loops and arches.”

  Muriel pulls her hand away. “Didn’t you hear what she just said about twins—even identical ones?”

  Lloyd brings a cardboard box over to the table. When he hands us each a plain white mug, my first thought is that I am not thirsty. But we are not having drinks. The mugs must have something to do with our fingerprinting lesson.

  “Touch your face with your fingers. Like this.” Lloyd circles his cheeks, then runs his fingers down his nose. If he keeps doing that he is going to get even more zits. Now he grabs his mug with both hands.

  We copy him. Except for the whirring sound of a fan in the corner, the room is quiet.

  We set our mugs down in front of us. Samantha passes around a box of medical gloves, and we each take a pair.

  Stacey pulls one glove down over her wrist. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks me.

  “I just thought since they’re made of plastic, you might…you know…say something. About the planet.”

  Stacey wiggles her fingers inside the gloves. “I checked the box for the list of contents. These gloves are made of nitrile rubber. It’s a recyclable substance.”

  Samantha raises her hands up in the air. She has gloves on too. “The first reason forensic scientists wear gloves is for safety. Gloves protect us when we’re handling dangerous substances. But there’s another reason. Gloves prevent us from contaminating our evidence.”

  Lloyd hands Samantha a tray with a bowl of fine black powder in it and some wands that look like a cross between fountain pens and the kind of brush my mom uses to powder her face. Samantha holds the tip of the wand over the bowl to collect the powder. “Both the powder and the wands are magnetic, so you don’t need to dip the wand in the powder.”

  Then Samantha squeezes the handle at the top of the wand. That releases the black powder, which drifts down and sticks to the places where she held her mug. “Be careful not to let the wand touch the fingerprints, or you might lose some of the detail in the print,” she warns us.

  “Super cool!” Nico says when Samantha’s fingerprints emerge from the white background.

  We each get to dust our mugs for our fingerprints. But that turns out to be only step one of our fingerprinting lesson. “You don’t want to lose your evidence,” Lloyd explains. “This is where you’ll need your cameras again.”

  Samantha and Lloyd take out their cameras and show us how to get clear close-up shots of our fingerprints.

  I move in until all that appears in my camera screen is the mug with my fingerprints.

  “Hey, we’re taking mug shots!” Nico calls out.

  This time everyone laughs—except Nathaniel. He could be the grumpiest kid I’ve ever met.

  Taking photographs is not the only way to record fingerprint evidence. Lloyd demonstrates how to use special sticky tape to lift his prints from the mug he used. “This tape costs thirty bucks a roll,” he tells us, “so don’t waste it. Smooth the tape out with your thumb like this,” he says, “so you don’t get any creases or air bubbles. And when you’re done, always fold the tape over at the end. You don’t want to spend half an hour at a crime scene looking for the start of your tape.” I write that down in my notebook and underline it twice. It is the kind of information I could never find in the Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science.

  Lloyd presses the sticky tape down on an index card, then writes out his name in block letters along the top of the card, last name first.

  “Is this how the police do it?” Stacey asks as she tears off a piece of sticky tape from the roll.

  “Basically, yes,” Lloyd answers. “Of course, the police also enter their evidence on computers. We won’t be doing that this week. So I’m curious…any of you interested in becoming forensic scientists—or police officers?”

  Nathaniel looks up from his index card. “My dad’s a cop.”

  “You didn’t answer Lloyd’s question,” I tell Nathaniel.

  “I said, ‘My dad’s a cop.’”

  “My dad is an accountant,” I say. “So is Mason’s. That doesn’t mean we want to be accountants, does it, Mason?”

  “I want to be a pastry chef,” Mason says.

  Nathaniel blows some leftover dust off his mug. “Of course I want to be a cop.” As if there could be any doubt.

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to be a forensic scientist,” I say.


  Mason’s eyes are darting back and forth between Nathaniel and me. “Tabitha knows more about forensic science than any kid I ever met,” he says. Mason’s admiring tone makes me feel slightly guilty. Mason is annoying, there’s no question about it. But I suppose I could try being a touch nicer to him.

  “Are you two best friends?” Muriel asks us.

  That makes us both laugh.

  “Kind of,” Mason says.

  “Not exact—” I catch myself before correcting him. “It’s complicated,” I say instead—besides, it’s the truth.

  “Tabitha’s best friend is this girl named Patti,” Stacey says.

  Muriel turns to Nathaniel. “So is that why you came to forensics camp? Because you want to be a cop one day like your dad?”

  Nathaniel looks over at the poster of the skulls. Something tells me he would rather be hanging out with them than with us. “To be honest, I didn’t want to go to any kind of camp. My parents needed me out of their way this week.”

  “How come?” Muriel asks.

  “Are they getting the floors done?” Nico chimes in. “We had to stay with our neighbors when we had our floors redone.”

  Nathaniel has not taken his eyes off the poster. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Samantha looks up from collecting the wands and magnetic dust. “Whatever the reason is, we’re glad to have you here, Nathaniel.” I think she is trying to send Muriel and Nico the message that they should quit asking Nathaniel personal questions.

  But Muriel does not quit. She may not be tactful, but she has advanced interrogation skills. “Is someone sick? Or did someone die? Is that why you’d rather not talk about it?”

  Nathaniel shakes his head. “Not quite, but it’s almost as bad. Look, if you really want to know”—he finally stops looking at the poster—“my grandmother is getting married on Saturday.”

  “What’s so bad about that?” I ask. “Weddings are fun.”

  “There’s usually cake with buttercream frosting,” Mason adds. He gets a faraway look in his eyes when he mentions frosting.

  Nathaniel scowls. “My grandmother is seventy-one. That’s too old to get married. It’s embarrassing. What’s even worse is she’s marrying some guy she met at her bereavement group. She went there to mourn my grandpa—not to meet his replacement!”

  Lloyd takes the magnetic powder from Samantha and empties it into a glass container. Samantha puts the wands away in a drawer.

  Lloyd blows some magnetic powder off his fingers, then looks up at Nathaniel. “I’m sure no one could ever replace your grandpa,” he says softly.

  “You’re right about that. My grandpa is”—Nathaniel sucks in his breath—“was really cool.”

  “Some stuff just takes getting used to,” Lloyd adds. I cannot tell whether the advice is for Nathaniel or if Lloyd is speaking from experience.

  Samantha watches Lloyd. When she clears her throat, I know it’s because she wants to get us back on track. I don’t think Samantha enjoys talking about feelings. She prefers facts. I’m like that too. “Now that we’ve put all the fingerprinting equipment away, it’s time to talk about tomorrow. That’s when Lloyd and I are going to tell you about the case that will be the focus of the rest of forensics camp.”

  Nathaniel is back to slouching in his chair. “So are we ever going to find out who hit the cyclist?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Samantha says. “That was just a mock crime scene to introduce forensic photography, fingerprinting and note taking.”

  When Nathaniel groans, Lloyd does that thing he does with his arm—extending it like he’s a traffic cop at a busy corner. “Think of that bicycle case as the preview before the main attraction,” he says.

  Nathaniel’s cell phone vibrates in his pocket. “I hate that noise,” he mutters.

  “You can fix it,” Muriel tells him. “If you don’t like the steady pulse, you can adjust it. It’s under Settings. Want me to show you?”

  “My sister knows everything about cell phones and computers,” Nico says. “Unfortunately, she was not blessed with my sense of humor.”

  Muriel rolls her eyes. “You make enough bad jokes for the whole family. Including Stacey’s side.”

  Nathaniel’s cell phone vibrates again.

  “Don’t you want to see who’s calling?” Muriel asks. “What if it’s about the wedding?”

  Nathaniel shrugs. “What if it is?”

  My parents are always saying I need to work on developing my emotional intelligence. They should meet Nathaniel. Compared to him, I’m an emotional Einstein.

  FIVE

  From the outside, our house looks a bit like a prison. An eight-foot fence barricades the property, and there are iron bars over the basement windows. When the house was broken into, the thieves got in through the basement. If the city would allow it, I’m sure Mom would put barbed wire at the top of the fence.

  “It’s me,” I call when I unlock the front door and tap in the security code for the alarm. I am so used to announcing myself, I do it even when nobody is home. “Mom? Dad?”

  I expect my parents to be waiting, eager to hear about my first day at forensics camp. But nobody answers. I kick off my sandals. There is still no sign of Mom or Dad, and I can’t help feeling a little lonesome.

  Dad’s car is in the driveway, so he must be back from work. Maybe they went for a walk. Mom’s boss is so happy with her sales numbers, he agreed to let her work from home three days a week. The only problem with the new arrangement is that she isn’t getting as much exercise now that she isn’t walking to her office as often. Which is why she’s been badgering Dad to join her for walks on her at-home days.

  I leave my backpack on the floor and head for the kitchen, where I open the fridge. How can a fridge be so full and yet have nothing in it that I feel like eating? Cheese? Red grapes? Greek yogurt? Nah. I’m in the mood for chocolate pudding or tortilla chips dunked in salsa. But ever since Dad was diagnosed with high blood pressure, Mom’s been shopping strictly according to the Heart and Stroke Foundation guidelines. There’s a Canada’s Food Guide poster on the fridge door. I grab a pen from the counter and write SALSA in the vegetable area.

  That’s when I hear the music. It’s thin and reedy-sounding, like it’s coming from a snake charmer’s flute. Definitely not the soft rock my parents usually listen to. For a moment, I stand in the kitchen and listen. I am trying to decide whether I like or hate the sound. I think I am closer to hating it.

  I follow the music downstairs to the den. The air smells sweet and sort of powdery. What is going on down there?

  “Mom? Dad?”

  They do not answer.

  My parents are sitting across from each other on the rug, an ivory candle in a brass candleholder between them. Their legs are folded under them; their hands rest in their laps.

  “Tabitha!” Mom says, popping up from the rug. “You startled me!”

  The powdery smell is coming from a cone of incense burning on the mantel.

  I could apologize, but I don’t. I haven’t done anything wrong. “What are you guys doing?” I ask.

  Mom has gotten back into position. She takes a deep breath in, then exhales loudly. “Your father wanted us to try meditating.”

  “It’s harder than it looks,” Dad says, getting up to give me a hug. He is still wearing his work clothes, and his shirt feels stiff against my face. “Tell us all about forensics camp,” he says into my hair.

  I stay by the door. I am afraid that if I walk into the den, my parents will try to make me meditate too. “It was cool. We learned how to do forensic photography and dust for fingerprints. Tomorrow we’re getting a case to solve. Hey, Dad, did you know there was something called forensic accounting?”

  “I’ve heard of it. But
they certainly didn’t offer that sort of thing when I was at university. If they did, I’d have signed up,” Dad says.

  Mom lets her hands hover by her sides, thumbs and index fingers touching.

  “How did Mason like forensics camp?” Dad asks. He sits back down across from Mom and does the same weird thing with his fingers.

  “I guess he liked it. If you don’t mind my asking—why are you guys doing that thing with your fingers?”

  “It’s called the Gyan Mudra,” Dad says. “Your mother and I just watched a DVD about meditation, and we learned how to do it.”

  “The Gyan Mudra is supposed to generate wisdom and calmness,” my mom adds.

  Calmness? That explains it. Meditating must be Dad’s latest scheme to help Mom chill out. And, knowing Mom, she’s probably hoping that meditation will help reduce Dad’s blood pressure. It is probably not a good time to point out that so far the Gyan Mudra does not seem to be working.

  “Maybe you’d like to try meditating sometime too. We could all stand to mellow out a bit,” Dad says. “Meditating could be a family activity.”

  I take two steps back. “Going to the beach is a family activity. Skiing is a family activity. Meditating is not a family activity. I think I’ll go up to my room and read. That’s my way of mellowing out.”

  For people who are supposed to be meditating, my mom and dad are talking an awful lot. I hear them as I go upstairs. “I don’t know where Tabitha gets that harshness,” my dad is saying. “Neither of us is harsh.”

  “Maybe the forensics camp wasn’t the best idea after all. Maybe it’s dredging stuff up for her from—” Mom drops her voice, which is how I know she must be talking about the break-in. Though the subject comes up a lot when she talks to clients, she avoids it when I’m around. I think she is afraid it might upset me. Which it kind of does, but less and less as time goes on.

  “The meditating might help,” my dad says.

  “I don’t think I like meditating,” Mom says. “It makes me anxious.”

  My dad laughs. Not a happy laugh. A worn-out laugh. “We have to give it a try, Lila. You need to learn to relax—not only for yourself, but for me and Tabitha. We need you—even if we don’t always show it.”