I shift page one to the back of the stack and scan page two. The top reads, TEST RESULTS. It’s a list. A sequence, actually. Numbers across the top of the page are labeled MARKERS. Below each marker are coded entries. Each entry contains a string of numbers. The numbers are all different, a jumble with no distinct pattern, a list that wouldn’t mean anything to anybody … unless you know what DNA test results look like.
My nerve endings rev up and the swish-thod, swish-thod of my pulse is loud in my ears. I count the markers. Thirteen.
The exact number most commonly used to identify and compare human DNA.
I was right; Miss Peters had already run at least one DNA test using four samples. But will I be able to figure out whose DNA she tested?
The results page contains four entries labeled with letters: JM, EB, CC, ME. Initials, maybe? JM could be Journey Michaels, and EB could be me—Erin Blake. Miss Peters and I did play around with those sponge lollipop swab things that they use for getting DNA from your mouth, but I want to believe that if she had actually run my DNA, she would’ve told me.
There’s a light tug on the back of my hair. I whirl around. Journey, along with a couple of his basketball bros, has strolled past and is heading toward the quad. He glances back with a quick, brilliant smile.
“Just saying hi to your hair,” he says.
Agh. I laugh and shake my head, but turn back around quickly. My cheeks burn. I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I have to get smoother at this communicating with boys thing.
I get through the rest of the day by alternating between contemplating the mystery aspect of Miss Peters’s test results and reveling in Journey saying hi to my hair. When the final bell rings, I head out toward the bus stop. A Snapchat comes through from Journey showing a photo of the empty passenger seat in his van. The caption says: Got the van back. I’d give you a ride but I have a job interview.
He’s so cute.
I reply with a photo through the windshield of the bus that includes the back of the bus driver’s bald head. I include the caption: No sweat. Caught a ride with this guy. The truth is that taking the bus downtown to Rachel’s office is part of my plan.
Rachel’s office has a separate entrance, but it’s in the same building as the police station. As I’m walking in, I run into her coming out with her purse and keys in her hand. She’s surprised to see me. “Hi, sweetie,” she says. “What brings you here?”
I give her a pitiful look. “I didn’t want to walk home, so I took the bus over. I figured I could hang out here and catch a ride home with you.” I have to be careful not to oversell this or Rachel will get suspicious.
She looks a little pained, like this is somehow inconvenient, but she leads me back into her office anyway and stashes her purse and keys back in her desk drawer. “Were you going somewhere?” I ask.
“Not really,” she says. Her voice sounds light, like it’s no big deal. But there is a faint frown on her lips. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Do you think Syd will let me use the new computer? I’d like to get a jump on my homework.”
“We can ask her,” Rachel says.
Syd’s let me use it before, but it’s not the computer I’m after, exactly. It’s what’s attached to it. A few months ago, the department purchased the new IAFIS system, which hooks into the national fingerprint database. I was so psyched, I begged Sydney to show me how it worked. Turns out it’s exactly like making copies, which means it’s unbelievably easy.
We walk from Rachel’s side of the building through a door, down a hallway, and into the squad area, where Sydney and the other officers have desks. The copy room is at the far end, right around the corner from Chief Culson’s office.
Sydney spots us as we come through the door. “Hey,” she says, hurrying over and putting an arm around my shoulders. “I heard you had another close call yesterday. You okay?” She and Rachel exchange bug-eyed worry looks. Sydney’s sudden attention causes everyone in the room to look at me, too. I keep my head down and answer her question with a nod and a shrug.
“Thankfully, she’s fine, but we haven’t replaced the scooter yet,” Rachel says. “She took the bus over to catch a ride home with me, but I’m going to be tied up for an hour or so. Can she use the computer to get a jump on her homework?”
“Sure. If no one’s using it.” Sydney lowers her voice. “FYI, we’re probably going to be releasing all the stuff from your room tomorrow morning anyway.”
“Yay!” Rachel and I grin at each other.
“So that means she’s clear?” Rachel asks. “That part is over?”
Sydney bobs her head. “Yeah. More or less. We didn’t find anything, obviously. The timeline is a little faster than normal protocol, but the chief’s insisting on it, so why not?” Sydney motions toward the back of the office. “Anyway, go ahead and hop on the computer, hon, you know the drill.”
“Thanks, Sydney.” I hurry off. But my brain is whirling. Lately nothing is going where I think it’s going to go. Both Miss P and the chief had pens that matched the note. Miss P ran a DNA test before she was killed. The chief screwed up and nearly accidentally got me killed and now he’s insisting they give me back my stuff.
I can’t wait to see if we got anything on the fingerprints.
The new computer, with the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System (IAFIS) software installed, is located in the copy room, an all-purpose area where they keep the fax machine and the copy machine, office supplies, and now a computer that anyone can use. A desk is wedged in beside the copier.
On the desk next to the monitor is a latent print scanner. It looks and works exactly like an ordinary scanner, only it’s connected to IAFIS, which is maintained by the FBI.
Someone’s fingerprints will show up in IAFIS if they’re in the system already. When Sydney did her test, she showed us how Rachel’s prints came up because she works for the police department. Mine were in there, too, because of the investigation into my mother’s murder. In both cases, the search brought up our names and photos from our drivers’ licenses.
Since everyone in this building has access to this area, someone could pop in to make a copy or send a fax at any second, so I have to be on my toes. I waste no time scanning the two full hand prints from Journey’s van into the system and set IAFIS to search for a match. I make sure that I stash the original fingerprint cards back in my bag. A slipup here might lead to some embarrassing questions.
Now I wait. A real IAFIS search takes about twenty minutes to an hour, not the bogus instant results you see on TV cop shows. I’d like to put my headphones on and zone out to some music, but I don’t dare. I keep a file that looks like a book report up on the computer as a cover.
“How’s it going?” Rachel appears behind me in the doorway and I jump about a mile. My knees shake when I realize Chief Culson is with her.
“Oh. You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Rachel hangs by the door but Chief Culson saunters all the way in. I freak as he goes straight to the scanner and straightens it on the desk. “Aha! I have you now.”
Gripped with fear, I glance around. Is there a security camera in here or something? My insides quake, but I struggle to keep my outside looking calm. “M-m-me?” My voice is a ragged squeak.
The chief idly lifts the cover on the scanner, but finds it empty. “That depends, Erin,” he says. “Have you done something I should know about?” I look up as he raises a pair of giant caterpillar eyebrows in my direction.
“Ah … just homework,” I joke, gesturing at the computer screen and the two fake paragraphs of my book report.
“Well, that is a crime on a day like today. Shouldn’t you be out having fun with your friends?” He tosses a laugh over his shoulder to Rachel.
I don’t know how the two of them can avoid hearing my heart hammering from across the room, since the sound is deafening inside my head.
“Don’t encourage her,” Rachel says. “She works hard for her grades.”
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I flash her a grateful smile, since I’m still trying to get my breathing under control.
“I’m going to lock up my office,” Rachel says. “Get your stuff ready, Erin, we’re going to leave a little early and give Charles a ride to pick up his car.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Chief Culson says. As Rachel leaves, I poke around on the keyboard, trying to form my face into a neutral mask even though I’m freaking out inside. I have to figure out how to cancel the IAFIS search before it’s finished.
Chief Culson wanders around the copy room, lining up pins on the bulletin board and nudging stains in the carpet with his toe. Rachel returns. “Ready?”
“Um. Yeah. Almost,” I say.
I’m so stressed I can hardly breathe. This is so not good.
I can’t clear the IAFIS search from the screen without them seeing it. And I can’t very well leave it running and walk out of here for someone else to find.
I’m so royally screwed.
28
A profiler studies a crime scene and makes educated guesses about the personality and identity of the perpetrator. This helps to narrow our search.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
My terrified brain is forced to multitask. One: Look normal. Two: Breathe in and out. Three: Pray for a cataclysmic distraction. A volcanic eruption would be nice … or maybe a homicidal maniac alert. At this point I’d be happy with a basic robbery in progress.
“Earth to Erin,” Rachel says.
“Sorry.” I wave over my shoulder, eyes glued to the monitor. “I messed up trying to send this file to myself. I just need a second.” Or a miracle. Yeah. That’s what I need, a freakin’ miracle.
“I’m in no rush,” Chief Culson says as he busies himself tidying things up around the copy machine.
His chatter reminds me that I know the number to his private line by heart. It’s two numbers away from Rachel’s. With my phone concealed against my middle, I key in his number and hit send. “Okay. I’ll hurry,” I promise.
A phone begins ringing in a nearby office. Someone hollers, “Hey, Chief … it’s your private line.”
“I better get that.” Chief Culson moves off.
One down … one to go.
Rachel fluffs her hair and digs in her purse for her lipstick while I gather my books at the speed of Jell-O melting. Finally, she checks her watch and says, “I’m going to stop at the bathroom. Meet us up front.”
“Okay,” I say.
Just as Rachel leaves, the computer beeps, signaling the IAFIS search is complete. Thank God. I glance at the door before checking the results. IAFIS only matched one of the two prints, but it was the most important one. It was the full handprint I found on the back seat of the van. According to IAFIS, that print belongs to Police Chief Charles A. Culson.
Bah. I went through all of that to get the prints of the chief of police. The only thing that’s a surprise about this is that he touched Journey’s van without putting on gloves.
Maybe Victor’s right. He is incompetent.
I forward the results to my e-mail for safekeeping, clear the cache on IAFIS, and power down. I grab my stuff and head out the door just as an exasperated Rachel is coming back for me.
I ride in Rachel’s backseat and Chief Culson rides next to her. They make pleasant conversation between themselves while I stay quiet. Victor’s car is in the driveway when we pull up, so Rachel doesn’t even turn in; she just pulls over to let me out. She leans around her seat.
“I’ve got plans for dinner; do you think you and Victor can fend for yourselves?”
“Yeah, no problem.” My mind is still kind of blown over the way the evidence seems to be tilting. I was hoping one of those prints would reveal something important. I wave good-bye to Rachel and the chief and amble away from the car without looking back. I climb the back stairs and bang the door into the wall as I enter the kitchen.
I start to smile because Victor’s sitting at the kitchen table. But a second later, I see what’s sitting on the kitchen table and it stops me cold.
The evidence box from up in my attic.
My bag thunks to the floor.
“Erin,” he says, “we need to talk.”
Giant Blue Angel jets filled with every lie I’ve ever told scream through my head at Mach speed. They fly loops and angles across the back of my brain. I force my mouth closed because I have nothing to say.
Victor pulls out a chair at the table. “Please. Have a seat.”
Numb, I walk to the chair and flop down.
He doesn’t look mad or crazy-psycho, which is how I imagine Rachel would look. Instead, there’s softness around his eyes. He seems truly interested in what I have to say.
“I think you know what this is and I think you know where I found it.”
I prop my elbows on the table and bury my face in my hands.
Victor sits back in his chair. “So, what would you like to tell me about it?”
I tilt my head back, pushing my chin out and getting just the right sweep of the hair veil over my eyes. “You haven’t been around even once in my whole life and now you show up and start going through my stuff?” My voice cracks with emotion, which I hope he will believe is anger, not fear. My expression is scornful. “I can’t believe you cut the padlock off.”
Victor reaches into his pocket and pulls out my combination lock. He lays it on the table. “It was sitting out on the desk.” He pokes a finger in his chest. “My old desk, in case you’d like to know.”
I sink lower in my seat. I was so flustered when Rachel came home early yesterday that I forgot to lock everything back up.
“I know it seems like I’m spying on you, but honestly, I wasn’t. I kept hearing noises in the attic late at night. I thought maybe there were rats up there or something. I went up there to help you and Rachel.”
I hear what he’s saying, but I’m too tired to process it. A huge blanket of brain fog settles around me. Nothing has been the same since I brought that box home. Maybe Lysa’s right. Maybe it is my Pandora’s box.
I can’t think of anything to say, so I stare at my hands. Victor gets up and paces the room.
“Look,” he says, “I get the violated privacy issue and all that. Maybe if I had found something else up there, I might have turned a blind eye to it. Or, if I thought it was serious enough, alerted Rachel.” Victor plants his hands on the table and leans across until we’re almost face-to-face. “But Erin, this is the evidence from your mother’s murder.”
“Yes.” My eyes become watery.
“And there’s other evidence up in that attic, too.”
I nod.
“I am a forensic expert. You want to talk to me about this. In fact, there is no better person for you to talk to.”
He’s right, of course. This is my dream come true. He uses his foot to pull out the chair across from me and sits down, pressing his elbows into the table.
“I knew your mother.”
I study his eyes. They’re a rich blue with a slight shimmer of gold.
“She was a fixture around here. She and Rachel were inseparable. I called her my other little sister.” He gets a faraway look. “She was quite the beauty, too.”
His gaze settles back on me.
He doesn’t say it, so I do. “I know, I don’t look like her, but she was strong and independent and in that way I’m just like her.”
His mouth twitches up at the corners. “I think you look quite a bit like her, actually. Even when she was nine or ten years old she was tall for her age, and she walked with this regal attitude. I used to call her the queen. You have her height and shape: slender like a dancer, and you move with that same regal attitude. I’ll bet Rachel tells you that all the time.”
I try to imagine what a regal attitude looks like. “Rachel never mentions her at all.” I take a moment to wonder if what I’m about to do makes any sense or if I’m just too tired to try to stay ahead of things. “Okay. I’ll tell you about the box, but you have to
promise not to tell Rachel.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t make that promise. How did you get this, by the way? Through some access with Rachel’s job?”
I slink my shoulders up around my neck. I know how bad it sounds and how much I have put Rachel at risk for my selfish needs. Victor softens at my reaction.
“Okay. I can’t promise to keep this from Rachel, but I will help you present things to her in a way that won’t send her too far over the edge.”
I grip the edge of the table. I want to speak … tell him everything … spill my guts. But I can’t seem to get the words swirling in my brain to come out of my mouth.
“Erin,” he says. “Just say it. It’s okay.”
“Why? Because you say it is?” It’s not what I expected to say, but it’s what comes out. I sound like I’m blaming him.
“I know you don’t know me very well, but you can trust me with your feelings … especially about this.”
“You don’t get it.” My whole body begins to tremble.
“I don’t have to get it. Just tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I’m not allowed to have feelings!” I bellow the words as loud as possible, and when the words are gone I just keep making the sound of rage until all the air in my lungs is expelled and my voice fades. When it’s gone, my anger leaves with it. I flop back in my chair, spent.
There. That’s the truth. I’ve admitted it and I dare him to deal with that.
Victor sits back in his chair, his voice neutral and his face a mask of calm. “Okay,” he says. “We might be getting somewhere.”
29
People lie to avoid getting caught. It’s that simple.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
Victor and I are in a stare-down.
No one, not Rachel or any of my many therapists, has ever provoked me to this level of rage. All Victor did was talk about my mother like she was a real person and not a curse on my life.
He stands up, breaking our gaze.
Is he going to walk out and leave me hanging? If I screamed at Rachel like this, she would be fluttering all over. She would do anything to keep from having to let her real feelings out or having to deal with mine.
To Catch a Killer Page 17