To Catch a Killer

by Sheryl Scarborough

  With my chin clamped down on the stack of boxes to keep them stable, my field of vision is limited. I can see up and slightly right or left. But that’s it. The only way to see directly in front of me is to stop and turn sideways. Glancing to the side, I see the chief in front of the barricade, talking into a walkie-talkie.

  “Thanks, Chief,” Spam calls out.

  He nods and points, instructing us to take a different—more secluded—route.

  Spam happily follows his directions. “He’s only letting us in because of you.”

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “It is,” she insists. “His whole attitude changed when he saw you were in the car with me.”

  “Whatever.” I’m not going to argue with her about it.

  The route the chief pointed us to is a man-made walkway that skirts along the back of the hotel. It’s essentially a tunnel constructed of plywood and scaffolding. One side is an open, steel grid and the other side is lined with solid sheets of protective plywood. The floor is made of wobbly strips of wood.

  The tunnel is easily as long as a city block and we’ve barely traversed half of it when I hear a loud “all clear” shout in the distance.

  Immediately, there’s an ear-shredding buildup of vibrations and mechanical noise.

  “What’s going on up there?” I shout to Spam. “Is everything okay?”

  It’s so loud I no longer hear her heels tapping ahead of me. I strain to peer over and around the boxes. She’s walking … and texting.

  “Spam. Pay attention. What’s going on up there?”

  “What?” She continues staring at her phone.

  I turn sideways and rest my armload of boxes against the steel railing to get a better view of what’s happening ahead of us.

  Just then, the protective wall about ten feet in front of Spam splinters without warning as the blade of a giant earthmover breaks through the barrier and grinds toward us.

  “Spam!” I ditch the computer stuff and grab for her at the same moment she’s grabbing for me.

  We try to squeeze through the steel grid but the openings are too narrow.

  We grab the grid and shake hard. It’s too sturdy.

  We have no choice but to turn and run.

  It seems like we should be able to outrun an earthmover, but the freaking thing literally stays just a few feet behind us. As it chews through the tunnel we have to duck the chunks of wood and debris it flings at us. Even the wobbly floor rips apart under our feet.

  The only way to continue moving forward is to pull each other along.

  “Help! Stop!”

  We scream, but no one’s going to hear us. I can’t even hear us over the shrill whine of ripping wood and mechanical feeding.

  I choke and cough on dust that collects in my throat.

  I can’t scream and I can barely run.

  This is more surreal than any bad dream I’ve ever had. But Spam’s nails biting into my skin and the absolute certainty that we’re about to die keeps me fully aware that this is no dream.

  The earthmover continues to advance, literally chasing us down the narrow chute by nipping away at the wood under our feet. Our only chance to escape is to outrun him and we still have half a block to go.

  As my legs melt into rubber and my lungs refuse to gulp another speck of dust, Chief Culson suddenly appears on the path in front of us.

  “Stop! STOP!” he shrieks into the bullhorn.

  At first I think he’s telling us to stop and I’m about to put my head down and butt him out of our way. But instead he barges between us and heads straight for the earthmover. In a frantic burst he maneuvers around the blade and bangs the bullhorn against the giant slice of metal as hard as he can. With each slam of metal against metal, the bullhorn erupts with a very loud, amplified metallic whang!

  Seconds seem like hours, but within a few of them the earthmover sputters and the engine stops.

  The driver of the earthmover stands up and looks over the top of the blade. “Holy— Chief! I thought you said it was all clear?”

  Chief Culson points an angry finger at the driver. “You, shut up! Just shut up.” Then he strides over to us. “Erin. Are you okay?”

  “That was crazy messed up. But we’re okay,” Spam says even though she’s gasping to catch her breath.

  I give her a look. Seriously?

  I’m bent over, hands on my thighs, begging for a breath that won’t rip my lungs apart. And I’m not so sure. I’m not hurt. But I’m not okay, either. What the hell just happened? I shift my gaze between the earthmover driver and the chief, and then look over at Spam. I have no clue what any of them are thinking.

  I also don’t know how to explain what just happened or who’s to blame, but I’m pretty sure someone just tried to kill me … again.

  26

  Being extremely thorough—especially if you think it will prove nothing—is the number-one rule to remember when processing a crime scene.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  While Spam and I pull ourselves together, the earthmover driver scrambles over the piles of debris and gathers up Spam’s tool bag and all the scattered computer equipment. He apologizes profusely when he brings the stuff back to us.

  He says he couldn’t see us. We were in his blind spot. Blah, blah, blah.

  My scrutiny is on the chief. The way he’s standing off to the side, with his back turned to us, talking on the phone. He definitely looks upset. But there’s a part of me that wonders, is he upset that he screwed up and almost got us killed, or is there something more?

  The chief hangs up his phone and slips it into his pocket before he turns to face us. His shoulders sag as he shuffles over. “Erin. Samantha. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Thank God you’re okay.”

  “We are. We’re fine,” Spam agrees. She looks over the boxes of computer gear, which also managed to survive. “Even the computers made it.”

  He looks to me for my reaction.

  I nod. That’s the best I can do. It may just be nerves but something about this feels hinky.

  “I called Rachel,” he continues. “She’s on her way.”

  “What?! No. You can’t do that.” I grab Spam’s arm. “We have to go.”

  The chief looks confused. “What about Rachel?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I snap.

  Once we’re in Spam’s car, I get Rachel on the phone. It takes a lot of fast convincing for her to turn around and go back to work, but the last thing I need is for her to actually see what Spam and I went through and what could have happened. She’s so overprotective and skittish about me that if she saw this mess I’d never be allowed out of the house again. Both of us will be a lot better off with her not knowing.

  But as Spam pulls her car out from behind the Dumpster, I snap a photo of the precariously chewed-up tunnel and vicious-looking earthmover with my phone anyway. I want to show it to Journey and see what he thinks.

  The ride home is pretty quiet. Both Spam and I are mired in our thoughts. She pulls into my driveway and we exchange a hug before I get out of the car.

  “So all that back there was just some random, bizarre thing that happened, right?” she asks. I scan her face to discern if she wants truth or comfort. The folds on her forehead and slight frown to her mouth tell me she wants comfort.

  “Oh yeah. Getting attacked by earthmoving equipment is about as random as you can get.” I add a chuckle to make it convincing.

  “Good.” She exhales in relief. “That’s what I thought, too. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” I get out of the car and head into the house. Rachel said she won’t be home until dinnertime, which means I still have a couple of hours to spend up in the attic. I can run the chroma test on the scrap of paper I found in Journey’s van. It probably won’t reveal any crucial information. But being thorough is the number-one rule of processing a crime scene—just ask Victor.

  Even though I’m certain I’ll be done and out of the attic long before Rach
el gets home, I prep my room by shoving the binder under my door just in case. It’s a habit. With my laptop under my arm and my bag slung over my shoulder, I sneak up to my attic. The room is untouched from the way we left it on Friday night, so the rug is still pulled back, revealing my chalk outline. I know Spam and Lysa think it’s creepy, but Journey nailed it.

  These details are what make my mother real.

  I stare at the outline for a long minute before gently covering it with the rug.

  I set my stuff on the old wooden desk and open the padlock on the cabinet. Whenever I’m up here, I bring out the box and keep it near me. I just like the way it feels, having it close by.

  I squint and flatten the scrap of paper I pulled from the seat-belt clasp in Journey’s van to see if I recognize the handwriting. But there’s not enough handwriting to tell. All I know is I need pens with blue ink. I check the ones I brought from Miss Peters’s desk in the biology lab. Three are black ink and the fourth one kind of looks like the special pen Chief Culson gave me.

  I paw through my purse until my fingers wrap around the chief’s special pen. Now I inspect it more closely. The outside is black with a brass band and a brass lever and clip. I pull off the cap and test it. It’s a fountain pen and the ink is blue. There’s a decorative CS crest stamped into the top of the clip.

  I compare it with Miss P’s pen. They are identical, except instead of being black, the outside of hers is a green marble color. Both of them have blue ink, though.

  I decide to test them both.

  The FBI has sophisticated machines that do all the work breaking down ink. But instructions for do-it-yourself versions are all over the Internet. I’ve done it several times in our lab at school, and even demonstrated it live once for a science fair project.

  The scientific part is that ink—or lipstick, or any other product with color—isn’t just one color; it’s made up of different dyes and compounds all mixed together. Each pen company has their own unique recipe. Who knew, right? Blue ink might look the same on the page, but a chroma test breaks the ingredients down so that they show up as bands of different colors. These bands of color are so specific they’re like a serial number or fingerprint of the exact brand of ink. The colors can be pretty wild, too, like violet and rust.

  In about twenty minutes, I’ll know if any of these pens match the note.

  The supplies for a chromatography test can be found in almost anyone’s home. The important items are pure acetone (basically nail polish remover) and a coffee filter cut into strips about the same length and width as the scrap of paper.

  I work quickly to prepare the strips. I label the back of each one with the type of pen and place a dot of ink exactly one-half inch from the bottom edge. I prepare the fourth strip by lifting some ink off of the note with a drop of acetone on a Q-tip and then transferring it to the bottom edge of a fresh filter strip.

  When all four strips are lined up in a row, the location of the ink on the bottom is identical. When the strips are ready, I attach them to paper clips and thread them onto a chopstick, which will hold all four strips in a straight row. I lower the whole row of strips into a measuring cup containing a small amount of the acetone. The chopstick rests across the top of the cup, allowing the strips to hang side by side—without touching each other—while only the ends soak in the liquid.

  I kick my feet up on the desk and set the timer on my phone for twenty minutes, an amount of time which I plan to spend doing some deep wondering about what Journey is doing right now.

  Almost immediately my phone vibrates. I drop it into my lap like a hot rock.

  Holy crap! It’s a Snapchat friend request from B-Baller386.

  My heart vaults straight out of my chest. It has to be Journey. Right?

  I quickly accept.

  A moment later, a stunning photo of the lighthouse at Cape Disappointment appears on my phone. The caption reads: YOU = THE OPPOSITE OF DISAPPOINTMENT.

  I leap up and pogo dance around the attic, waving my arms like a crazy person before racing back to my phone to read his message again … and again.

  But, sigh, Snapchat. It’s already gone.

  I want to send him a message back.

  My hair’s a mess. No makeup. I look around the attic. There must be something I can photograph to remind him of us. Ah. I snap a photo of the spot on the rug where we were sitting Friday night.

  Then add a caption: WE NEED TO STICK TOGETHER.

  I pause before hitting send and read it back. Stick together? What am I thinking? Could I be more boring? This is like saying you gave me a cookie, let me reply by giving you oatmeal.

  I change my response to read: THANKS, YOU TOO. My finger hovers over send. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m saying thank you for the compliment and you aren’t a disappointment, either. No, wait. That’s not what I want to say. I change it again: YOU’RE WELCOME.

  I read it back. You’re welcome—over the photo of a dark spot of worn rug. Are you kidding me? Who am I, his grandma?

  Agggh. I tap my head with frustrated fists, actually accidentally snapping a photo of the tips of my hair sticking up from my messy clip. Arrgh!

  What’s wrong with me? Why is this so hard?

  The timer goes off, signaling that the test is complete. I lift the chopstick off the measuring cup, carefully slide the strips off, and lay them on a paper towel to dry. I make sure that the strips don’t touch each other, but I don’t take the time to inspect them. I’m still panicking over creating the perfect response to Journey.

  I’m trying to think of something witty to say and a new photo to take when I remember how the last time we were together he was playing with the tips of my hair. That memory sends some dreamy goodness through me and gives me a strange confidence. Over the weirdly angled photo of my hair I type: “My hair misses you.” Yep. I’m going with that. I’m just going to hit send and not look back.

  But then I do look back. My hair misses you? Really? How many layers of lame is that? Thinking … thinking … thinking … I glance over at my ink tests and realize—holy crap—I’ve got a match.

  I’m so shocked that I hit send and my weird photo and hair-missing-you caption is off to Journey. And, while I’m mildly freaked out about that, I’m kind of amazed that I have one pen—no wait—two pens in my possession that match the ink on that scrap of paper. A weird, creepy realization comes over me. I turn the strips over.

  Chief Culson’s two pens are the winners. They both match the ink on the note.

  Miss P would be so proud. Pulling clues together is hard work. I try to think through what this means. It means Miss P could have written the note. But it also means Chief Culson could have written it, too. And, if I’m being completely honest, and thinking like Victor, there are a bunch of other people who could have written it. How many of these pens has the chief handed out? Who has he been giving them to? Is it possible one of them is a killer?

  “Erin?”

  Holy crap. Rachel. Outside my bedroom door.

  And I’m in the attic.

  27

  Forensic psychologists are scary good profilers. They can tell if a person is lying by reading their body language like a newspaper.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I cram my laptop into my bag and skim down the stairs. My feet barely touch the rungs. I step out of the closet as Rachel manages to force my bedroom door open a few inches.

  “What’s wrong with your door?” she asks, struggling.

  “Hold on. There’s a binder on the floor.” I have to shut the door all the way before I can pull the binder out. Rachel opens the door, steps in, and looks around.

  “You should be careful about leaving your binders on the floor like that,” she says. “It could be dangerous.”

  “Good point.” My heart’s pounding and I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. But on the outside I try to appear normal. “So, what’s up?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says, her gaze flitting around the
room. “I’m just letting you know I’m home early.”

  “Great,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “Okay.” She shrugs, looking around my room again.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” I twist the ends of my hair nervously.

  “Okay.” She grips the edge of the door and hesitates as if she has something else she wants to say.

  I brace myself, lecture or an interrogation. It could be either, especially with all the craziness that’s been going on.

  “See you at dinner,” she says finally.

  “Yum.” It’s my stupidest response so far, but I can’t think of anything else. I’m struggling to rein in my tension.

  Once she leaves I collapse on the bed. Rachel almost caught me in the attic. That’s huge. And it’s certainly a much bigger deal than sending a lame message to Journey. I need to get a grip.

  * * *

  After the longest weekend in history, Monday finally arrives. Thanks to Rachel’s friendship with Detective Sydney, finding out what the fingerprints reveal about Journey’s van won’t be that hard. But first I have to get through the day. At least I’m here at school where I can see Journey.

  English and algebra are boring as usual. I only survive because I’ve mastered the fine art of sleeping with my eyes open. At the nutrition break, I head for the café express line because I won’t survive without a bagel. I pass Spam coming out of line as I’m going in. “I got the last sesame,” she says, raising her hand for a high five. I mouth brat but slap her hand anyway. When I do, she palms a wad of folded paper from her hand into mine.

  I settle for cinnamon raisin and grab an empty table so I can concentrate on what Spam slipped to me. The wad of paper turns out to be three pages. I unfold them and smooth them out on the table. The first page is a list summarizing the files she copied from the computer in Miss Peters’s lab. I scan down the list of headings: homework (8 files), class research (3 files), quizzes (2 files), labs (4 files), answers (8 files, Spam drew a happy face next to that entry). The last item is labeled PROJECT (2 files). Spam has drawn a star next to this folder and added a note to see page two.