To Catch a Killer

by Sheryl Scarborough

“I need an ice pack.” When she tilts her head to one side, I flash just the corner of the box in my pocket.

  She gasps. “You took that from the lab? Erin, you can’t do that.”

  “We need to know what it is. Don’t freak out. We’ll go over everything tonight.”

  I slip into the nurse’s office, feign a sprained wrist, and pick up an ice pack, which I wrap around the box in my pocket. I hurry to the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of Journey.

  “Need a lift?” The voice comes from behind me.

  Ugh, Principal Roberts.

  I pause, mouth open, not really knowing what to say. “I-I…”

  He smiles. “I’m on my way to your house anyway. Your uncle and I are going to relive our old high school glories by shooting hoops in your driveway.” He raises a couple of gym bags bulging with balls and shoes.

  How is it even possible for cool, insightful Victor and clueless, dorky Principal Roberts to exist in the same universe, let alone be friends?

  I blink. “But we don’t even have a basketball hoop.”

  “You do now.” He flashes his phone at me for confirmation. There’s a photo of our driveway with a shiny new basketball hoop hanging above the garage door. The text reads: IT’S ON. “I’ll let him know I’m bringing you home.” He dials the phone but keeps talking to me. “Damn shame about your scooter. That was a classic. Oh, hey, Vic. I’m on my way and I’m giving your niece a ride home, too. Okay. See you soon, buddy.”

  I follow Mr. Roberts to his car, which is parked right by the office. I hope no one sees me leaving school with the principal. Talk about sketchy.

  * * *

  Victor’s out in the driveway as we pull in, gesturing proudly to his new installation. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt and an ugly pair of sweats. I really can’t bear to see my idol reduced to this level of mortal humiliation, so I leave them to do their thing while I head upstairs into the house.

  First order of business is to find a place to stash Miss Peters’s samples. Hiding things in plain sight was easier before Victor showed up. I could always just tell Rachel it’s one of my experiments and she wouldn’t ask any more questions, but I can’t take the chance that Victor won’t recognize DNA samples.

  I rummage through the frozen food. Popsicles? No, Rachel eats those sometimes. Buffalo wings, potpies, those get eaten pretty regularly, too. Hmmmm … I dig out a tattered bag of frozen peas from the very back. Neither Rachel nor I like peas. We never eat them. But Rachel’s idea of the perfect ice pack is a bag of frozen peas, so there’s always at least one in the freezer.

  I lay the bag on the counter with the seam side up. Lifting the seam, I carefully slit open the bag a few inches along the underside. I dump out some of the peas and slip the small box into the bag, then fold the flap of the seam back to hide the slit and stash the bag in the very back of the refrigerator.

  I step back and give the freezer a discerning look. As long as Victor doesn’t love peas, Miss Peters’s samples should be safe.

  23

  Tracking Internet activity is one of the easiest forms of forensic surveillance. Every mouse click and key press can be traced by a computer specialist.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Rachel is already at work and Lysa and Spam are allowed to come over anytime, but getting the forbidden Journey past Victor could be a problem.

  I finish my homework around five-thirty and head downstairs. Victor and Principal Roberts are collapsed around the kitchen table guzzling neon sports drinks.

  Sweat streams down Victor’s neck and his T-shirt clings to his torso in damp patches. “Man, I’m at the gym four days a week, but you killed it out there,” he gasps. “Who do you play with to stay in that kind of shape?”

  Mr. Roberts is damp, too, but he appears less exhausted than Victor. He blots his forehead with a small towel. “It’s high school, those guys can play for days,” he says. “Seriously, our team went all-state last year. I try to hang out with them once or twice a week.” He grins as I enter. “Hey, there’s the little lady. Grab a seat.”

  I try not to think about the fact that my high school principal is in our house and just focus on how long I’ve known him … basically, since I started kindergarten. He called me “little lady” back then, too.

  I slip into my chair and curl my foot up under me. “Should I even ask who won?”

  “No,” Victor says. He slips off his shoes and pretends like he’s going to toss one at Principal Roberts. “This guy here totally humiliated me. It was like being time-warped back to high school.”

  “Hey, wasn’t me dishing out the humiliation back then. It was Chuckles. And, if you recall, he smoked both of us.”

  Victor snorts. “I saw him yesterday. He’s the same pompous bag of crap he always was.” Victor glances at me. “Sorry, you didn’t hear that.”

  I shrug. “No worries.” He must mean Chief Culson, whose real name happens to be Charles.

  Victor stuffs the basketball shoes into the gym bag and nudges it toward Roberts with his toe. “Thanks for the loan of the shoes, that was fun.”

  Principal Roberts nudges the bag back to Victor. “Keep them here, at least until you leave. Maybe we’ll have the chance to do it again. They’re my old pair anyway.”

  “If you insist. I’m entitled to a rematch.” Victor picks up the bag and takes a few steps to the hallway outside the kitchen. He opens the closet door, which is built into the space under the stairs, and stashes the gym bag inside. At first it seems weird that he would make himself so at home. Then I remember that he and Rachel grew up in this house.

  I glance at the clock. It’s a quarter to six, and the girls will be here soon. I send Journey a text asking him to hold off. First I need to figure out what Victor has planned.

  “So you know Rachel won’t be home for dinner tonight, right?”

  Victor nods. “She called a little while ago. I’m going to run through the shower and then Carl’s taking me out on the town.”

  Mr. Roberts grins. “I promised to show him the Iron Rain nightlife.”

  “That’ll take fifteen minutes,” I joke. It gets a laugh out of both of them. I hope they don’t notice how relieved I am that I’ll have the house to myself for a couple of hours.

  Victor plucks a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Rachel told me to buy you a pizza. Will this cover it?”

  “Yep.” Normally, I’d mention that Spam and Lysa are coming over, but with our principal sitting right here, I pass. He already knows more than enough about us.

  Instead, I stuff the bill into my pocket. “Have fun, you guys.” I’m smiling as I head back to my room to send Journey another text.

  About thirty minutes later, Victor and Principal Roberts are gone, and the pizzas and Lysa and Spam have arrived. I lead them upstairs to my bedroom.

  “Where’s Journey?” Spam asks. “Did he bail?”

  “No. He’s on his way.” An awkward silence develops between the three of us as we just stand there in my bedroom. Finally, I clasp my hands together and take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to show you something and I don’t want you to freak out.”

  Spam slides her tongue over her teeth and exchanges a heavy eyebrow look with Lysa. I’m getting a little sick of all the meaningful looks going on around here.

  “It’s nothing bad. In fact, it’s actually really cool. It’s just something I haven’t told you about yet.” I open the door to my closet and perform the ritual of moving in the desk chair, standing up on it, and pulling down the stairs. I don’t tell them, but I’ve left the balcony doors unlocked for Journey.

  “You want us to see your attic?” Lysa asks.

  Bringing the pizzas, paper plates, and napkins with me, I head up the ladder. “Yes. C’mon.”

  First Spam and then Lysa tromp up the ladder behind me. Balancing the pizzas over my head, I slide through the narrow opening at the top and switch on the light. I motion them past the decoy pile of junk and into the open area. I’m slight
ly breathless at what they’ll think of my makeshift lounge/lab.

  Their faces are a mix of confusion and awe.

  “Where did all this stuff come from?” Spam asks.

  “It’s my mom’s. Take a seat.” I gesture to the stylish red leather sofa.

  Lysa thumps down on the sofa and bounces a little, trying it out. But Spam slowly stalks around the space, taking everything in.

  “How did it get up here?” Spam wonders.

  “Rachel must’ve put it up here. I found it when I needed a place to stash the box. Remember how weird it was that I didn’t have anything of hers? Well, now I do. It’s all up here. And not just her furniture.”

  “How do you know all this stuff belonged to your mom?” Spam is cautious and skeptical. “It could be Rachel’s, right?”

  “I found pictures. Whole photo albums.” I pull a binder from a box. “Wait ’til you see this.” I hold the album out to Spam. Instead of taking it, she crosses her arms over her chest.

  I move in close so she can’t avoid looking at it. On the front is a photo of a pastel-colored beach cottage. “My mom inherited this cottage from her parents … my grandparents. Look what she wrote: ‘It is important to feel tethered to somewhere.’” I flip through the pages and stop on a downward picture of her bare feet on wet sand, each toe painted a different color. “And here she wrote: ‘Ready to put down roots.’ It’s so cute, her toes all painted…”

  Spam presses her lips together and glances at Lysa. “Erin…”

  “Wait. Wait. This is the best one,” I say as I flip to a photograph of just my mother’s flat belly. In pen, she had drawn an arrow pointing to a spot below her belly button. In her spidery handwriting she scribbled: “Eric? Or Erin?” “My name could have been Eric. How weird is that?”

  Lysa turns away. “Erin.” Her voice is gentle. “All of this stuff is your past, and it worries me that you’re living so deeply in it.”

  “This is not my past. Don’t you see? It’s my beginning.” I snap the album closed. “I was loved and wanted. My mom had a dream for the two of us to be a family, and someone took that dream away.”

  “You’re still loved and wanted,” Lysa says.

  Spam looks down. “What’s that?” She has noticed the edge of a chalk design on the floor, most of it covered by a rug.

  I start to say it’s nothing. But Spam bends down and peels back the rug, revealing an outline of a body on the floor. An outline that exactly matches the crime-scene photos I found in the evidence box.

  “Oh my God, you drew that?” whispers Lysa, covering her mouth with her hand.

  Spam steps back, her face a mask of shock. “I’m guessing you didn’t find this layout in a photo album.”

  24

  Evidence, at its most basic level, is simply visible proof that something happened.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Spam looks at me like I’m the prized panda who just devoured her newborn cub. Lysa seems less judgy, but her eyes are huge and sad. A few tears stain her cheeks.

  “Erin, you realize this isn’t normal, right?” Lysa says. “You’ve re-created the scene of your mother’s murder.”

  “But—” I try to interject.

  Lysa holds up her hand, quieting me. “Your feelings about your mom were always in there. They had to be. And I can imagine the things in that box set you off on a river of rage and sadness. But instead of dealing with those emotions, you’re standing here saying, hey, check out this cool secret life I’ve created.…” She trails off, gesturing helplessly in every direction.

  I get it, they’re afraid for me … or maybe of me. But they still don’t see the real me.

  “You have the privilege of knowing who your parents are. Yes, your mom walked out on you, Spam. But if you passed her on the street tomorrow you would still know who she is. I grew up knowing nothing. Every photo and stick of furniture that you see up here is a brand-new link to my past. I’m learning what my mother thought about things, that her favorite color was red, that she wanted to be a mom more than anything.” I touch the chalk outline lightly. “Even this comforts me.”

  A voice comes from behind me. “It comforts you because it makes her real.”

  I turn around. Journey is standing just inside the attic, next to the pile of junk. His voice unleashes a slight flutter of anticipation in my chest.

  He ducks to clear a low beam and moves toward us. “Otherwise, your mother would just be another one of those things we are taught to believe in—like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny … God.” He shrugs. “My dad.”

  There’s a long moment when no one speaks.

  Spam unfreezes first. “Seriously? He knew about your secret attic-slash-reenacted-crime-scene before we did?” I add hurt to the array of looks on her face.

  “This is freaking me out,” Lysa whispers.

  Spam goes to sit on the sofa next to her. Journey and I take seats on the floor.

  “Erin, I’m concerned about your mental health,” Lysa says.

  “My mental health is fine,” I insist. “It’s my physical health you should be worried about.”

  Spam and Lysa exchange an ominous look.

  I tick the points off on my fingers. “Fact: The person who killed my mother is definitely still out there. Fact: He killed Miss Peters. Fact: I need your help so I’m not next.”

  “The second one is not a fact yet.” Spam sits forward. “Before we go any further I want to see every piece of evidence you have. No holding anything back.”

  “Agreed.” They wait quietly while I go to the cupboard, remove the lock, and bring out my mother’s murder box, along with a small paper bag. I set everything on the floor in front of me while I slip into my gloves. Once I’m ready, I level a probing look at each of them before lifting the lid. I’m not sure if it’s the knowledge we’ve acquired or the danger we’re in, but we’re not the same as we were. We’re different.

  The tie Journey found in his van is on top. I pull it out.

  Journey takes it and stretches it between his hands. “I found this on the floor of my van after Miss P was killed,” Journey says.

  Next I hold up the plastic sleeve containing my mother’s shirt. “My mother’s shirt has been in this box for fourteen years. It’s missing a tie exactly like that one.”

  Lysa curls into a ball, hugging her knees. “Wow.”

  Spam snaps her fingers and points at me. “Motive? Why would someone do that? Why now? Why leave behind a trophy he kept for fourteen years?”

  I gently pack the shirt and the tie back in the box. Not sure I have an answer for her.

  “Come on,” Spam says. “You always say motive first.”

  “He didn’t mean to leave it. He screwed up,” Journey says.

  “But why now?” Spam says.

  No one says anything for a long moment.

  “I agree with Journey. I think it was an accident. A fluke.”

  “Too many flukes and we have a problem.” Spam shakes her head. “Is there anything that actually makes a case?”

  I put the lid back on the box and dump out the contents of the paper bag.

  “Not sure yet. I found fingerprints on the van that the police missed. According to Victor, they’re from two different people, but I haven’t had a chance to run them yet. I’m pretty sure the box I took from the lab freezer will turn out to be DNA samples. But I have no clue how to verify that or how to read them.”

  “What do the police have?” Spam asks. “Anyone know?”

  “They have a glass nail file with my name on it, which they say is the murder weapon.” I hate admitting this, because it’s another thing in a long list that I can’t explain.

  “What?” Spam looks wary.

  “The nail file from my party was the murder weapon?” Lysa says.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” I add a sigh. “I don’t know what it means, but I’m pretty sure it’s the reason Rachel keeps looking at me like I’m a ticking time bomb.”

  “Well, that p
roves for sure it couldn’t have been me.” Journey inspects his fingernails. “Anyone who’s seen my nails knows I have no use for a nail file. That’s what teeth are for.”

  I flash him a quick smile. “Besides, where would you get my nail file unless I gave it to you?”

  “Where would anyone get your nail file unless you gave it to them?” Spam wonders.

  “Good question,” I say.

  Lysa raises her hand. “Oh. I overheard there was a partial footprint in blood at Miss Peters’s house, but Journey’s shoes came back clean. I was in the hall when my father took that call from the detective.”

  Journey looks relieved. “Sweet. Maybe I’ll get my Nikes back.”

  “Is that all?” Spam looks at me.

  “There’s the size-eleven Nike footprint I found in my bedroom.”

  Spam and Lysa silently shift their gaze to Journey’s feet. He says, offended, “Yes, I wear a size eleven and I have a pair of Nikes, but did you not just hear Lysa? The police have had those shoes since the first night. It couldn’t have been me.”

  Spam offers Journey a small wink. “Way to rock an alibi.”

  Journey smiles. “I try.”

  “Good point,” I say. “Lysa, Spam, you guys have been suspicious of Journey this whole time. Well, Lysa just confirmed that the police have had his shoes since that first night. Can we finally agree that Journey is no longer creepy or a suspect and accept him as part of the team?”

  Spam and Lysa exchange a nod. “Yes. Okay,” Spam says.

  “He’s in. No more weird looks,” Lysa agrees.

  “Thanks,” he says. “And I mean that.” Then he turns toward me. “No one has been in your bedroom since that night though, right?”

  “Not that I know of.” I paw through the evidence in the small bag. I isolate a small Ziploc bag and hold it up. “Oh. There is one last thing, a torn scrap of paper I found stuck in the seat-belt clip on Journey’s van. There’s some writing on it and Journey says it’s not his. Chromatography doesn’t tell us much but I’m going to run a test on it anyway. And that’s it. That’s the extent of our evidence.”

  Now that I say it out loud … it’s not much. But I know from Victor’s books that even the smallest, most unlikely piece of evidence can tell you something.