The chief purses his lips. “PTSD is pretty common in situations like this, Erin. That stands for post-traumatic stress disorder. In other words, your fear and anxiety could be affecting your ability to accurately process what happened.”
“Dude, I think I know what PTSD is, my mom was murdered when I was a baby,” I snap. I sit back down and slouch even lower in my seat. Nobody’s listening to me.
“This must be a technique I’m not familiar with.” Victor kicks back in his chair and props his right ankle on his left knee. “Is it more efficient to tell the victim what happened rather than take her statement?”
The chief’s eyes darken, like storm clouds over the ocean, but his smile gets wider and appears to fill with even more teeth. After a brief, awkward moment, he twists his body to greet Victor, as if he’s just realized he’s sitting there.
“Ahh, yes,” Chief Culson says with a chuckle. “You Feds are such sticklers on technique.” He stands and thrusts his hand across the table. “Nice to see you back, Vic. I’m sure Rachel loves having the family together again.”
Victor gets to his feet and accepts Culson’s hand. “It’s good to be back and comforting to see that so little has changed.”
I watch in amazement as the two men try to polite each other to death. Victor’s comment sounds innocent enough, but I can’t miss the fact that Chief Culson’s face looks like he just smelled a fart.
The two men drop the handshake, but retain the polite veneer. Victor shoves his hands into his front pockets and rocks back on his heels. Chief Culson rolls his fancy pen around between his fingers. “Change is overrated. We small-town guys have learned the value of status quo. So, any official reason you’re—?”
“Vacation,” Victor answers before the question is even fully on the table. I’m not sure what the story is between them, but Victor seems to have lost a little of his laid-back hipster shine. And Chief Culson suddenly has twice as many teeth. If I had to guess, I’d say these two hate each other.
“Well, our girls couldn’t be in better hands,” Culson says. He lays his pen on the table in front of me. “Take my pen, hon. And use a couple of pages from your notebook there. Just write down everything that happened today. Make it as long or as short as you like. Anything and everything you think we need to know to get to the bottom of this, because I promise you, we will get to the bottom of this.” He glances at Victor.
I slide his pen back across the table. “Thanks, Chief. I have a pen.”
He closes his hand over mine, sealing the pen inside. “Please, Erin, I insist. This is a Conway Stewart. I have an aunt who lives in London and she used to work for the factory. Every year she would send me a whole box of these pens for free, because she knew they were my favorite. You can consider it a gift from me to you. After what you’ve been through, you could use a little something. Don’t you think?”
Before I can even answer, Sydney strides up. She gives me a little half smile, but otherwise she’s all business. “Here’s where we’re at, Chief. We’re all in agreement that we want him held on probable cause regardless of whether she makes a statement against him or not.”
I erupt out of my chair. “You can’t do that. He saved my life. Why can’t you people get that through your heads? That’s it. I want to see him. Now. I’m not saying another word until you let me.”
Rachel joins the conversation. “Sit down, Erin. You’re in no position to demand anything. Chief, every time she’s with that boy something bad happens.”
I plop down into my chair and aim a frustrated, helpless gesture to Victor. As the others wander back over to the door to continue plotting against Journey, Victor nudges the notebook and pen in front of me.
“Sketch me the layout. Where was the van, where were you, where was Journey?” he says.
Finally, someone is asking questions that make sense.
I quickly make a few marks on the page. I sketch a rectangle labeled van near the bottom, surrounded by some squiggles labeled junk and pallets. A line across the page is labeled stone wall. An X labeled house on the other side of the wall. A stick figure next to a scooter, labeled me, on the van side of the wall and finally, a stick figure Journey on the house side of the wall. Then I spin the notebook back to Victor.
He cracks his knuckles and looks it over for a couple of seconds. “How high is the wall?” I hold my hand up about hip height. He nods. “And this distance here?” He points to the space between the van and my stick figure. “About the same as the width of our yard?”
I agree.
He presses the pen into my hand. “Hold on to your socks,” he says.
Victor walks over to the whiteboard and erases what was on there. On one side of the board he quickly reproduces my sketch in bold black marker. He curls his lower lip in and whistles for attention.
The room goes silent as everyone stops talking and turns toward Victor.
“Here’s the question, folks.” At the top of the whiteboard he pens the key words as he says them. “Is it possible for a teenage boy to apply a brick to the gas pedal of a rickety van launching a deadly trajectory … then run, vault a four-foot-high wall, and drag an average-sized teenage girl to safety before the van can reach her?”
“Just so you know, Vic, that boy is a star athlete,” Principal Roberts says.
“Okay.” Victor scribbles the word “athletic” above the words “teenage boy.” “Any other qualifiers I need to factor in?” No one responds. Victor looks to me. “This is the layout, right?”
I nod.
“Okay. Let’s break this down. A Tesla Roadster Sport accelerates zero to sixty in three point seven seconds.” He draws a rocket on wheels. “I’ll assume Journey’s van has almost nothing in common with a Tesla Roadster?”
I shake my head and stifle a giggle.
“Then it’s probably fair to say the van would take at least ten seconds to achieve sixty miles per hour, giving it an acceleration of approximately eight point eight feet per second per second. I didn’t just stutter. I know it sounds weird, but that’s how you say it.”
I sneak a look at Rachel and the rest of the adults. While Victor is clearly enjoying the hell out of this, their enthusiasm for blaming Journey is sinking fast.
He continues. “Since we know the van traveled a distance of approximately eighty feet, we can use a basic physics formula and determine that it probably took the van about four seconds to hit the wall with a final velocity of twenty-five point eight miles per hour.”
Chief Culson interjects. “Okay. We’ve heard enough, Vic. You can stop there.”
Rachel, Sydney, and Principal Roberts head for the door. I don’t know what they’re going to do and they show no intention of including me in their plans.
“Wait. Don’t you want to hear how it’s technically possible?” Victor asks.
Sydney walks back to the whiteboard. “Are you saying he did it?”
“I’m saying Usain Bolt—the fastest man in the world, with a top sprint speed of twenty-seven point seventy-nine miles per hour—could’ve done it.” Victor writes this number on the board and underlines it. “Which means it’s technically possible … but highly improbable. I don’t see how holding this boy will generate the outcome you desire.”
Rachel takes Sydney by the arm and guides her toward the door. “Sorry. My brother’s always been an a-hole,” she mutters.
Meanwhile, I’m elated. Mini fist pump.
That. Was. Amazing.
20
Arches, loops, and whorls might sound like hot roller coaster moves but really they are how we distinguish between the three common fingerprint patterns.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
An hour later we’re back home, sitting around the kitchen.
My head is throbbing, but I’m relaxed knowing that at least Journey isn’t spending the night in jail. Rachel and Sydney weren’t happy with the way Victor cleared him, but they had to agree it didn’t make any sense to hold him.
Victor is totally my hero.
Rachel combines ingredients for her famous spaghetti sauce while Victor and I hang out around the dining room table. Victor’s sleeves are pushed up and he rolls Chief Culson’s fancy pen between his fingers.
“I can’t believe he’s still handing out the hoity-toity pens from England,” Victor says with a snort. “Who cares? It’s so juvenile.”
Rachel slips a lid onto the sauce pot. “What’s juvenile is how you and Charles continue to cling to your grudge after all these years. It was high school, Victor. Let it go.”
“I’m not holding on to a grudge.” He passes the pen back to me. “These are seconds, you know; damaged in some way. That’s why she sent them to him for free.” Victor uses air quotes as a mocking gesture.
Rachel throws her hands in the air. “Honestly, who cares?” she says. “I’m going to change.”
Once Rachel leaves, I grab my messenger bag to take my stuff up to my room. The bag tilts, spilling the fingerprint cards I lifted from Journey’s van. I make a quick swipe to scoop them up, but I’m not quick enough for Victor.
“Hey, fingerprint cards,” he says. “Let me see those.”
I hand the cards over, excited to see what he’ll say but also a little nervous. If Rachel spots these cards, she’ll know what we were up to at Journey’s house, and that won’t go over well. “I was just messing around,” I say.
Victor studies the cards. “Are you in one of those special forensic classes? I think they’re using one of my cases for classroom instruction.”
“Really? Which one? I’ve read all of your books—several times. I’m kind of a fan so I’m sure I’d know all the details.”
“A fan, huh?” Victor smiles. “These fingerprints look more like an apprentice.”
My eyes grow huge. “Really? You think so?”
“I do,” Victor says. “Your technique is good. You’ve almost captured the fingertips of two complete hands. A right and a left. They’re not from the same person, though.”
“They’re not? How can you tell?” I peer at the cards, trying not to fangirl freak out over getting to see them through Victor’s eyes.
“Well, there are three main patterns to fingerprints—” he says.
I jump in. “Arches, loops, and whorls.”
He chuckles, pointing at one card with his little finger. “Good. But are you aware that arches are only found in about 5 percent of the patterns we see?” He gestures to the card in my other hand. “While we see loops in 60 to 70 percent of the patterns. So yeah, my guess is these are not the same person.”
“Wow.” I’m in complete awe. I make a mental note to check Journey’s fingertips next time I see him. Is he a whorl or an arch?
“But you’re not in one of those classes, huh?” Victor asks, handing the cards back to me.
“I wish.” I stash the cards more securely in my bag.
Victor frowns. “Too bad. I keep hoping I’ll come across a classroom that’s doing it. But not having kids, you know, I’m not around that many classrooms.”
Suddenly, “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga blasts out loud and clear.
Victor and I lock eyes, momentarily baffled, until I realize it’s the ringtone on my new cell phone—the one Spam gave me. She would set her ringtone to Lady Gaga.
I grab the phone and answer, “Hi, hold on.” Then I give Victor a quick wave as I exit the kitchen and take the stairs, two at a time, up to my bedroom. Once inside, I close the door and lean my back against it.
“You’re not going to believe this.” I’m breathless with excitement.
“What? That someone tried to kill you?” Spam sounds upset.
“Oh. You heard.”
“I just got off the phone with Lysa. What the eff happened at Journey’s house?”
“Someone put a brick on the gas pedal of Journey’s van and sent it speeding toward me.” I drop my messenger bag on the floor and slide under the comforter on my bed. The sheets are cool and soothing.
“It wasn’t Journey?” she asks.
“No. He was behind me.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t an accident?” demands Spam.
“How could a brick on the gas pedal be an accident?”
“I’m coming over,” she says.
“Great. Then you can meet my uncle.” I pause dramatically. “Because he’s here.”
“Wait. Your uncle? The FBI dude?”
“Yeah. Crazy, huh? I’ve wanted to meet him my whole life. He’s a-mazing. Like the god of evidence. You won’t believe what he did to keep Journey from being arrested.”
“On my way,” she says.
I throw back the covers and attempt to stand up. It’s a lot more difficult than it should be. The aftereffects of nearly getting killed have settled into my muscles and joints. This calls for a hot shower before dinner.
By the time I make my way downstairs, Spam has arrived and is setting the table while regaling Victor with stories of her online gaming escapades. She throws out words like “MMOG,” “first-person shooter,” “mezz,” “caster,” “noobs.” I shake my head. She’s wearing a black short jumper with the sleeves rolled up, and red-and-black-striped leggings that stop above the knee.
I worry that Victor will think she’s silly. But that’s not how he’s treating her. He’s talking to her the same way I saw him talk to Sydney.
“Okay. So then what’s an M-M-O-R-P-G?” he asks.
Spam goes to the cupboard where we keep the bowls, pulls out four, and ferries them over to the stove for Rachel to ladle out the food. “Massive multiplayer online role-playing game,” she says.
“The first M stands for massive?” he asks.
“Right,” she answers.
“Okay. And how is that different from a first-person shooter game?”
Spam brings a couple of bowls of steaming pasta drenched in a rich sauce to the table. She sets one in front of Victor and one in front of me. Then she takes the chair opposite Victor and waits while Rachel brings two more bowls of food.
“Well, a massive is a virtual online playing field where a huge number of players come together and play all at once. You see all the characters, like watching television. And one of those characters is yours to move around and do things with.”
Victor looks like he’s really interested in what Spam has to say. “And?” he says.
“And in a first-person shooter all you see of yourself is your hand and your weapon. Everything else is your prey.”
“Okay. I get it,” Victor says.
Rachel sets Spam’s dish in front of her and another in front of her own chair. Then she takes her seat, pausing to give me a quiet, simmering look. She hasn’t said much since she found out I left school with Journey. I’m pretty sure if Victor and Spam weren’t here right now, I’d be getting an earful.
“With whom do you play these online games? Friends from school?” Victor asks.
“Some are from school. But they could be from anywhere. It’s kind of cool, I’ve played with people from all over the world,” Spam says.
Victor frowns. “How do you know who you’re playing with?”
Spam shrugs. “Because it’s online, you never know exactly, I guess. The cool wizard dude could be some forty-year-old perv, which is why I never give out any personal info online.”
“Good. That’s what I was trying to find out. Smart girl,” Victor says. Then he turns to me. “Are you into this online gaming stuff, too?”
“No. Spam tried but I’m not that much of a dork.” I give Spam a smirk and she responds with a poisoned grin.
Victor looks pleased. “Perfect. Don’t suddenly get interested, okay?”
“I won’t. But why?”
Victor lays down his fork and looks at each of us as if considering what to say.
“It’s okay. You can tell them,” Rachel urges.
Victor leans forward
, clasping his hands in front of him. “There are obvious reasons why I want to keep this between us. But the truth is, I’m not actually here on vacation. Rachel asked me to come to look into what happened to your teacher. She wanted to be sure it didn’t have anything to do with you. After today’s incident, well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m here.”
I gasp. Even though I know it’s probably true, hearing the words spill out of his mouth pretty much scares the crap out of me.
Rachel adds, “We’re not telling you this to worry you. I contacted Victor after Miss Peters’s murder because I was concerned. At the time, I thought I was just being my crazy, overprotective self. But now I’m not so sure. I don’t want to take any risks.”
“I’m glad you called him, Rachel. Journey and I need someone on our side.” My heart soars. Having Victor help us with the investigation will be the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.
Rachel pauses, gnawing on her lip. “Let me be clear, Erin. This isn’t about sides. And it isn’t about you and Journey or even you versus Journey.…”
I get a sinking feeling that I know where this is going and I don’t like it.
“He’s already dealing with a troubling family situation,” she says.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with him,” I exclaim.
Rachel puts out her hand to calm the conversation. “I’m not saying it does … or doesn’t. I’m just saying that for now, this boy is off-limits outside of school. I don’t want you seeing him.”
Wow. She can’t be serious. Just when there might actually be a me and Journey, she wants me to stop seeing him. Separating me from him won’t solve anything, especially not Miss Peters’s murder.
Instead of answering her, I pick up my fork and begin pushing sauce and noodles around my plate. I can sense everyone’s gaze on me.
Spam reaches over and grabs my free hand, giving it a squeeze. “No sweat, Rachel. We don’t really hang out with him anyway, right, Erin?”
I can’t lie straight to Rachel’s face, so I just nod.
“Good. Then we’re on the same page,” she says.
I swirl some pasta onto my fork and manage to deliver it to my mouth. Rachel doesn’t get it. There’s no such thing as no Journey. The person who killed my mother and Miss Peters might not have intended to bring us together, but he did. Together we know things no one else knows, and together we will survive this.
To Catch a Killer Page 12