To Catch a Killer

by Sheryl Scarborough

  Rachel’s edict about Journey leaves a prickly edge to the air in the room. Everyone is waiting for me to say something so they’ll know that I agree with Rachel’s rule. But I just can’t. My throat’s so tight I can hardly swallow my mouthful of food. Finally, after a very long silence, I manage a compliment. “The sauce is good, Rachel.”

  Just letting my voice out in the room and keeping it steady and strong is enough to break the spell. Everyone digs in.

  Victor slurps up sauce and then makes a big display of eyeing Rachel. “Wow, Erin’s right. This sauce even beats Mom’s.”

  Rachel softens and returns Victor’s smile. Before long, they’re telling stories about when they were kids. I’m hanging on every word as Victor launches into a story about Rachel and my mother when they were young. But Rachel cuts him off. What she says sounds innocent enough: “I’m sure the girls have had enough of our ancient stories.” But I know I’m not imagining the look of warning she flashes him. Victor seems to understand her code, and switches the topic to basketball and the old hoop that used to hang out on the front of the garage. Victor inquires if Spam and I would be interested in shooting some afternoon hoops if he put up a new one. Too bad. If Journey weren’t banished from around here, Victor would have a real shot at a pickup game.

  The way Rachel was able to curb Victor’s conversation about my mom makes me realize that getting his help on the investigation is probably pretty unlikely. And without the piece of information that Journey and I have on Miss Peters’s killer, the fabric that connects her to my mom, I don’t expect he’ll get very far on his own.

  I call this an impasse.

  21

  When collecting evidence, the state that evidence is found in must not be altered at all.… Remember that: not at all.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  The next morning, a car horn out front signals that Spam and Lysa are here to pick me up for school. I asked them to show up a half hour early because I had something I needed to do in the library. But the library isn’t where we’re going.

  I race down the stairs and through the kitchen and offer a quick wave to Victor, who is sitting at the table having coffee and toast. “See you later.”

  “Yeah, later,” he mumbles, hoisting his cup in lieu of a wave.

  Spam is waiting with the passenger door open and the front seat pulled forward to let me in. Lysa has the top down on the car. As I squeeze past Spam to land in the backseat, I bark out a few basic directions. “We have a quick stop to make. Go past the school and get on highway 30 for about five miles.”

  Lysa backs out of the driveway. “I’ll drive as far as you want as long as coffee’s involved.”

  I think for a minute, picturing the intersection where we’re headed. “Not only is there coffee, but it’s donut-shop coffee. And I’m buying.”

  Spam squeals, but Lysa is quiet. “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “It’s no big deal; just a quick stop to pick something up.”

  “That’s all the way across town. What do you have to pick up over there?” she wonders.

  “You’ll see when we get there. Trust me.”

  I can tell she’s not convinced, because she remains quiet on the ride over. That’s not a problem this morning, though, because Spam is talking enough for all of us. She’s right in the middle of jabbering about how Chelsea caught her boyfriend making out with Sarah when I see him, walking toward the corner, in that style that’s all his own.

  “Stop!” I yell.

  With a loud squeal of brakes, Lysa slams the car to a halt right in the middle of the street, sending Spam and me forward against our seat belts. She whips her head right and left, looking for something that’s about to hit us. When she sees nothing, she turns to glare at me. “What?”

  “Oh, um. We’re here.” I hardly need to point out the donut shop on the corner, since the smell of old grease hangs heavy in the morning air. A little unsure of me and the neighborhood, Lysa eases the car into the parking lot, but hesitates to pull into a space. “Why are we stopping here again?” she asks.

  “Just park and let me out. I’ll get our coffees.”

  Lysa parks, but neither she nor Spam hurry to open the doors. They both turn toward me in the backseat.

  “What’s going on?” Spam asks.

  “Yeah, why did you make me bring you all the way out here?” Lysa asks.

  I don’t answer.

  At first, Journey looks a little confused as he walks toward Lysa’s car. But once he’s sure it really is me, his smile beams as brightly as the sun coming out from behind clouds. He strides toward us. “Hey guys.”

  My plan should be pretty obvious from this point on. Journey’s van was towed to the police impound lot last night, along with my munched scooter, so I texted him last night that we’d give him a ride to school.

  He texted back that this was a good place to meet.

  I should hide my extreme euphoria at hearing his voice, but I can’t. “Hey guys. Look, it’s Journey.” I flash him my most inviting smile. “Need a ride? Hop in.”

  Lysa turns around in her seat. “Why didn’t you just tell us you wanted to pick him up?”

  “I was afraid you’d say no,” I say.

  “That’s right, because Rachel doesn’t want you around him,” Spam says.

  “What are you, my parent?”

  Lysa shrugs. “I’m not supposed to be around him, either.”

  I rise out of my seat and throw one leg over, ready to climb out of the car. “Fine. I’ll ride the bus with him.”

  Journey stands by the car, his gaze shifting back and forth between our faces. He’s a little baffled. “What’s going on?”

  Spam and I glare at each other for a long minute. I shift my weight toward the outside of the car. She snaps the door handle, opening her door and getting out. Pulling her seat forward, she gestures Journey toward the backseat. “Get in.”

  “Erin?” he asks.

  “It’s okay. Come on.” I bring my leg back inside.

  He climbs into the back and slides over to sit behind Lysa.

  “Who wants coffee?” I ask.

  Lysa waves her hand in the air. “I’m good.”

  Spam sinks back into her seat. “Me, too,” she says, buckling her seat belt.

  “Okay. On to school, I guess.” I slide down in my seat and buckle in. Journey watches me with a puzzled look. “What?” I smile. “We’re a team now.”

  “You better hope my dad isn’t monitoring my GPS this morning,” Lysa says as she guides the car out of the parking lot and drives toward school. “Or I will be seriously grounded.”

  Journey snakes his hand across the seat and pats my hand. I pat his hand in reply, but when I sense Spam eyeing me over her shoulder, I move my hand and replace it with my messenger bag.

  “You’re not supposed to see me anymore?” he whispers.

  “Don’t worry. Rachel’s just a little freaked out about the whole van-munching-Vespy thing.”

  Spam turns in her seat. “Maybe she has a reason to be freaked out.”

  “How can you say that?” I’m feeling attacked from every side.

  “Because every time something bad happens, he’s there, too.” Spam crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Don’t get all Judge Judy. Journey saved my life. And besides, we agreed we’re a team.”

  “How are we a team when you promised Rachel you wouldn’t see him outside of school?”

  My finger comes up, right in her face. “I didn’t promise her that … you did.”

  Journey puts his arm up between Spam and me. “Hey, whoa. This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  I sit back and gaze at the business neighborhood whizzing past; we’re a couple of blocks from school. “We need a homework session … tonight, my house. Six o’clock, okay?”

  “Are you including him?” Spam asks.

  “Of course I’m including him.”

  Spam starts to open her mouth to argue, but I read her mi
nd.

  “Rachel’s covering three to midnight again tonight. She won’t be home.”

  Lysa pulls into a parking space at school and there’s complete silence in the car.

  Journey speaks first. “I’ll be there.”

  “Me, too,” adds Lysa.

  Spam is quiet for a long minute. “Fine,” she says.

  We get out of the car, slam the doors, and each head toward class separately.

  Picking Journey up this morning must’ve pushed Spam and Lysa pretty hard because even though I stop by all of our usual spots I don’t see either of them during lunch. Instead I find a quiet table and try to figure out our next steps.

  I refer back to the list in my notebook. Item one: What was Miss P working on. Spam’s already agreed to check out the phone records. Miss P’s house is the crime scene, so I’ll never get in there, but I do know another place that might help us.

  I need to get us into the lab at school.

  22

  There’s always right and wrong. And then there’s what your gut tells you to do. My gut has never steered me wrong.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I slide into biology class as the echo of the tardy bell fades. Of course, we have a substitute teacher again today, and we will continue to have them for some time to come.

  This one, an older grandmother type, offers me a patient smile before scrawling her name on the board: Mrs. Henderson.

  I give her two days.

  She announces we’ll be watching a movie. My guess is we’ll be watching a lot of movies over the coming weeks, until they sort out who’s going to take over the class.

  To follow through on finding out what Miss P was up to during her final days, I need to get into the lab and snoop around, but without a qualified biology teacher on hand, that’s not going to happen. If I want in there today I’m going to have to be creative.

  I’m wearing a navy blue hoodie over a white tank with thin straps. I slip my hand inside my hoodie, grasp the strap, and pull hard. It takes a couple of tries, but I manage to break the strap. I rummage in my purse for my mini sewing kit.

  While the TA sets up the equipment for the movie, Mrs. Henderson moves her papers to the back of the room. Just beyond her is the door to the lab. Holding my strap in my hand, I make my way over to stand in front of her. In a low whisper, I explain that my shirt ripped and ask for permission to slip into the next room to fix it.

  “Oh dear,” she says sincerely. “Maybe you should go to the nurse instead.”

  “Huh? No. I mean, uh, I can’t. Because … um, well I’m not hurt, and what if someone else was really sick and the nurse ignored them because she was fixing my strap? That would be awful, right?” I add a pleading-puppy look to seal the deal.

  Mrs. Henderson is grandmotherly and kind, not stupid. She narrows her eyes. “Calm down, dear. What I meant to say is that the nurse can probably hand you a safety pin, which shouldn’t prevent her from providing care to others.”

  Great. Since when are subs such devoted problem solvers? I shake my head. “Oh, yeah, but see, a safety pin will show, and look, I have this sewing kit and everything. My friend can help me fix it quickly.” I motion to Spam, who responds with a scowl.

  Mrs. Henderson glances from me to Spam and back to me again. I try to look hopeful and trustworthy. Reluctantly, she agrees. I motion for Spam to follow me. But she shakes her head.

  What? Like I have time for this.

  I grab Spam’s sleeve and tug. She either comes with me or her favorite pink sweater is going to have one arm longer than the other. She frowns, but follows. We slip into the lab and I lock the door behind us.

  The lab is a large room, about the same size as the classroom, but designed with tables in the middle and room for activity stations along the counters against each wall. A certain amount of clutter is normal for this space. But today things look particularly disorganized.

  Spam slouches. “I was planning to sleep through the movie.”

  I guide her straight over to Miss Peters’s desk. “No time for naps. Boot up her computer and copy all of her files to your cloud drive.”

  Spam starts clicking keys. “We shouldn’t be in here,” she says.

  “Maybe not, but I’m guessing we’ll only get one shot at this, and we owe it to Miss Peters to do our best. Besides, we know what the lab looked like before. The police won’t have a clue if something is missing … or new.”

  Next to Miss Peters’s computer is a holder containing pens and pencils, and I remember the scrap of paper we found in Journey’s van. It had the word DNA on it.

  I know it’s a long shot but if I could prove that scrap came from a note written by Miss P, it might actually be a real clue. I scoop up all the pens and jam them into my pocket. Next, I open the sewing kit and find a tiny safety pin. I slip my arm out of my top and reattach my strap. Then I take a closer look around.

  “Whoa. Somebody trashed this place,” I say.

  “It looks the same to me.” Spam glances up from the keyboard and shrugs.

  “Not really.” I gaze at the chaotic mess of papers covering the entire top of Miss P’s desk. Along the walls, all of the activity stations have been shoved to one end of the counter. Instead of being spaced out to accommodate two or three students, the microscopes are shoved together and toppled over. The cupboard doors are ajar.

  There isn’t stuff thrown all over the floor, but otherwise, the status of the lab isn’t that different from my bedroom after the police executed their search warrant. “Someone’s been in here looking for something.”

  “Probably the police,” Spam says.

  “Maybe,” I say, but I’m thinking, Not really. The mess they left in my room was methodical. This is haphazard.

  I wander toward the back of the room. “This stuff is new.”

  Stuck in a big jumble with everything else is a small centrifuge and a plain box made of clear acrylic with a black and red electrical wire coming out of it. There are also bottles of gels and dyes, gel trays, and a small light box.

  Bam! “Here it is. A motive for Miss Peters’s murder.”

  Spam’s head snaps up. “What?”

  “This is everything she needed to run DNA.”

  Spam shakes her head. “But she was killed before she could actually do it, right?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” I inspect the bottles. “These bottles have been opened.” Neither Journey nor I knew Miss Peters was looking to run DNA for anyone else. And this makes me wonder: What else didn’t we know? “She told me she was keeping her plan under wraps until the right time. But if she ran DNA on the wrong person, it could definitely be a motive for them to kill her.”

  “Maybe you should show all of this stuff to the police,” Spam says.

  “The equipment doesn’t prove anything, though. We need to know if she actually ran any tests.”

  Since I’m standing next to the lab refrigerator, I open the freezer. It’s empty except for a large, white plastic tub with a bold black label that reads: LIVE BACTERIA. I smile. This was my favorite Miss P joke. There’s no live bacteria in here. This is where Miss P used to hide her Popsicles and candy bars.

  I take out the tub and pry off the top, expecting to find a couple of fruit pops and a Snickers bar. What’s there instead is a plastic box about the size of an iPhone. Inside are four small vials. I inspect the box and the labels on the side of each vial. It’s a kind of code. I’m in the process of deciding what to do with this discovery when there’s a light tap on the door. The knob turns, but it’s locked.

  “Ladies, I need you to come rejoin the class.” It’s Principal Roberts.

  I glance at Spam, my expression full of questions. She gives me a thumbs-up and shuts down the computer.

  “Erin?”

  I make a snap decision and shove the box into the front pocket of my hoodie. “Okay, we’re coming.” With Spam behind me, I open the door. Principal Roberts is all smiles. He steps aside, allowing Spam and I to move past him i
nto the classroom. “Is everything squared away?” he asks.

  I pat my strap.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He mocks a golf swing to motion us through the door and into the classroom.

  I’m stunned to see Sydney and a couple of uniformed officers standing by. Spam’s face fills with fear as she slips out ahead of me.

  “The lab is all yours, Detective. Please let us know if you need anything else,” Principal Roberts says.

  “I’ll do that,” Sydney says, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. She gives me a wink as she files past me into the lab.

  The cold lump of the frozen box in my pocket is nothing compared with one that’s twice its size in the pit of my stomach. Should I hand this box over to Sydney? If it’s what I think it is, it shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. I’m afraid if I give it to her it will wind up in a file box on a storage-room shelf, and fourteen years from now no one will have even looked at it, let alone figured out what it was.

  I glance at Spam. She doesn’t know I took anything. But if she did, she would expect me to turn it over. I could probably even get out of trouble with a little explaining, but something in my gut holds me back.

  In every one of Victor’s cases, outlined in his books, he described a point where there was obviously the right thing to do and for some reason his gut told him not to do it. And in every case, his gut proved him right. This DNA might not have anything to do with what happened. But for some reason I don’t want to give up this evidence. Not yet. So I’m going to hang in there with my gut, too.

  After class, I wait in the hallway for Spam. She joins me and we start walking toward the parking lot. “I hope you’re not getting in over your head with this investigation,” she says.

  “I’m not.” I hesitate at the door to the nurse’s office. “But if we don’t check this stuff out, no one will.”

  Spam frowns. “Why are you going to the nurse?”