To Catch a Killer

by Sheryl Scarborough

  “How did you…?” Victor frowns.

  I bring up my e-mail from the IAFIS search and swivel the laptop so he can see it.

  “I’ll explain everything, but just listen first.” I rummage in the box and find the Ziploc bag containing the scrap of paper. I slide it across the table to Victor.

  “I found this lodged in Journey’s seat belt. He says it’s not his handwriting and an ink test shows it matches the chief’s special pen.”

  Victor snorts. “Chuck and his special pens. What else?”

  I pull out the pages Spam gave me and put them on the table. “Phone records. Miss Peters received a buttload of calls from the chief’s private line in the days right before she was killed.”

  “Wait. How did you get private phone records?”

  “Um. I don’t want to reveal all my sources just yet. Just let me keep going.”

  Victor rolls his hand in the air for me to continue.

  I’m down to the last two pieces of paper in the box. “Last but not least, DNA results from Miss Peters’s lab computer.” I push the DNA printout to the middle of the table and slide the page with the footprint I found in my room off to the side.

  Victor nods at the footprint. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a footprint, it connects, I just don’t know exactly how.” Actually, I know how. I’m pretty sure the person who left this footprint was looking for the tie that matched my mother’s shirt. But since I don’t want to tell Victor about the tie just yet, I can’t really explain the shoe print either.

  Victor frowns. “Where’d you find it?”

  “In my bedroom.”

  Victor uses the smooth end of his pen to slide the footprint back into the middle of the table. “For now, it stays in. Everything stays in until we eliminate it.”

  I shrug okay and curl onto my chair. I watch him review one item after another on the table. His hand hovers over the group until he picks up the page Spam printed from Miss Peters’s computer files. Donning a pair of reading glasses, he gives me a pointed look over the rims.

  “What makes you think these are DNA results, and why do they implicate Chuck Culson?” he asks.

  “Duh.” I lean in and point out the obvious. “Subjects are down the left and markers across the top—thirteen of them. The exact number needed for comparison DNA.”

  Victor gives me a slight nod. “Impressive. But what about these letters: EB, JM, ME, and CC?”

  He’s testing me. “Initials. EB is probably me. And JM could be Journey Michaels. ME could be Miss Peters.”

  Victor peruses the page. “It fits.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Victor lays the paper on the table between us and uses his pen to point to the markers at the beginning of each string. “Well, these early markers here indicate the sex. EB is female. JM is male. ME is female as well.”

  “What about CC?”

  “Male.” Victor gives me an appreciative nod.

  I turn my palms up. “CC … Chief Culson. Works for me.”

  “Or it could just as easily be Charles Culson,” Victor says with a slight grin. Then he adopts a serious look. “I don’t know, though. DNA tests require special equipment and some expertise. I’d be surprised if your science teacher had the know-how to pull this off in the classroom.”

  “Yeah, except Miss Peters had a degree in chemical forensics and I’m pretty sure I found the actual samples in the lab freezer at school.”

  “You what?” Victor sits forward. “Where are those samples now?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “How safe?” he asks.

  “What’s your position on peas?”

  “I hate them. I’d rather die than eat peas.”

  I point to our refrigerator. “They’re that safe.”

  “You’re just an endless well of secrets, aren’t you?” Victor sets the paper aside. “So, you have a theory that your teacher was conducting secret DNA experiments for someone—we don’t know who yet—and that led to her being murdered, which you are starting to suspect somehow involves Chief Culson?”

  I nod. “I have fingerprints, an ink sample, phone records, and maybe a DNA test. And, I’m sure you heard that he practically tried to kill me and Spam yesterday.”

  Victor looks skeptical.

  I unlock my phone and swipe to bring up the photo of the earthmover and destroyed walkway.

  “First, the chief let Spam and I in there and then, when we were in really far, he called out ‘all clear’ and this was the result.” I hand him my phone. He pinches to enlarge the photo before handing it back.

  “We barely made it out alive. It’s a lot, isn’t it?” In my head it feels like a lot, but I’m clearly not igniting any flames in Victor.

  “To charge the chief of police with murder? No. Everything you have is circumstantial. It doesn’t prove anything.”

  I think for a minute. “What about Miss P’s forensic lab?”

  Victor shrugs. “Schools and police departments sharing a lab is a new paradigm for smaller communities. Cities like San Mateo, California, are making a real go of it. I would think Chuck would welcome a deal like that. But then again, he is kind of an egotistical weasel.”

  “But isn’t it weird that all my evidence points to him?”

  “Weird, yes,” Victor says. “But evidence of murder? Not by a long shot.”

  Victor picks up the Ziploc bag and closely examines the shred of notebook paper with the words “ur” and “DNA.” “Erin, this scribbling looks more like it was written by a high school kid than the chief of police.”

  “I agree, but it matches his special pen. Miss P had one, too, so I guess it could be her writing. Either way, I think he’s involved.” I turn to the page in my notebook where I’ve taped the results of my ink chromatography test.

  Victor takes the book and peruses the results. “Do you still have the pens?”

  “Right here.” I pick them up out of the shoe box.

  He chuckles. “Oh, God. That’s right. I was there when he gave you the black one. Ha! I’m a witness.”

  “I’ll admit that when it came back that the fingerprints in the van were his, I was disappointed because I figured he just goofed up and touched Journey’s van without gloves. But think about it, would he really do that?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know why he would touch Journey’s van for any reason. His people are trained and tasked with lifting prints … not him.” Victor inspects the cards and studies my laptop screen before giving me a very stern look. He taps the cards on the table. “You realize this is tampering with evidence, young lady.”

  I scoff. “If it wasn’t for me, no one would even know there was evidence.”

  He shrugs. “And you ran these through IAFIS by yourself?”

  “Well yeah, it’s like using a copier.”

  Victor looks back through everything. “I’m not buying your theory, but I’ll admit you have put in some first-class detective work.”

  Swoon. Victor always knows the right thing to say. “So what am I missing?”

  “A motive.” He sits back in his chair.

  “Do we always need a motive?”

  “If we want to indict the chief of police, we definitely need a motive.” Victor stops and looks up as Rachel walks in the back door.

  “What’s all this?” she asks, a frown forming quickly around her mouth.

  Victor helps me slide all the evidence together and clear the table. “Sit down, Rachel, and I’ll explain,” he says.

  She looks suspicious as she walks over to the hall closet to hang up her coat and purse. “I don’t like the looks of the two of you. You’re up to something.” But she comes back and takes a seat anyway.

  I’m wiggling in my seat, straining. Champing at the bit. I can’t wait to spill my guts. But Victor puts his hand on mine to slow me down.

  “First,” he asks, “how was your dinner?”

  Rachel shrugs. “Fine. How was yours?”

  �
�Incredible. We had eggs à la Victor,” he says, oozing charm.

  Rachel is not impressed.

  “Can I get you some tea or coffee?” Victor offers.

  Rachel narrows her eyes. “Stop trying to work me and just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Well.” He speaks with a very soothing tone. “It seems our Erin here has been doing a little detective work—”

  Rachel explodes. She locks the look of fury onto me. “I knew that little trip to Journey’s house wasn’t about homework!”

  “Calm down, Rachel,” Victor says. “She’s fine. There’s no harm done. And, while I’m not sure I buy her theory, I think she’s brought up some interesting points.”

  “Oh really,” Rachel snaps. “About what?”

  “Miss Peters’s murder,” I interject. I’m hoping Victor will continue to have my back.

  Rachel turns her volcanic gaze on Victor now. “Are you out of your mind? Given what she’s been through, Erin is the last person whose head you should be filling with your creepy forensic fantasies. I don’t even let her watch those shows on TV because of how susceptible she is to this stuff.”

  I snort. What I’ve been through? I’m susceptible? The person she’s describing is herself. I knew this wouldn’t go over well with her, so I just slink a little farther down into my chair and keep quiet.

  “There’s no need to be cruel, Rachel,” Victor says. “But now I’m going to ask you a question. Can you think of any reason why Chuck Culson might be threatened by a forensic lab in Iron Rain?”

  Rachel’s reaction is way off from what I had expected.

  She laughs, but it’s an angry, bitter laugh.

  She’s now angrier with Victor than she is with me. She leaps from her seat, shaking a finger in his face. “I see how it is. You saw us out at dinner together and cooked up this childish joke. You’re a forty-five-year-old man, Victor. When does it stop? I asked you to come back here and help me keep her out of trouble … not ruin my life.”

  Victor and I exchange puzzled looks. It’s a dumb move, I know. But I raise my hand and wait for Rachel to call on me. She glares in my direction.

  “Um, Rachel. We haven’t left the house all night.”

  Victor takes a different path. “You were out with Chuck?”

  “Yes, I was out with Charles, and trust me. He’s not the slightest bit threatened by you,” Rachel shouts. “He’s the chief of police, for God’s sake. I know the FBI looks down on the lowly local police, but that’s not how you were raised.”

  Victor stands up and shouts back. “This is not about how I was raised, it’s about where Chuck Culson was the night Erin’s teacher was killed. I doubt you can testify to that, now, can you?”

  At first I think Rachel is going to slap him, but she just glares—first at him and then at me. She speaks, low and deliberate. “Not that I owe either of you an explanation, but I can testify to that, because he was with me.” She points toward her bedroom. “Right in there. In fact, he’s there with me whenever we can wedge in a few hours before he has to tiptoe out so he’s not here when she wakes up or I have to come home and be a single parent.” She spins angrily in my direction. “That intruder you saw on my patio the other night was Charles Culson! Happy now?”

  “You’re dating him?” This seems incomprehensible to Victor.

  “Yes. I am. Don’t even think about bringing up that silly old rivalry you two had. I don’t give a damn about that. It’s not like you were here for me when my best friend was slaughtered like an animal, her blood spilled out all over the floor, and I was too late. Too late to help her. Too late to change any of it. Too late to do anything but pick up the pieces and soldier on … which is what I did. Where were you then, huh?”

  Victor and Rachel are going at each other and all I can think is how it never occurred to me that Rachel would want or need anyone else in her life but me. What’s wrong with me? I’m terrible to her. I lie, and I refuse to call her Mom even though she’s been here for me every second of every day. Why couldn’t I see that she needed someone, too?

  How stupid am I?

  I clearly ruined her whole life. I bolt from the table and race up the stairs and into my room. It takes four binders to span the entire bottom of my bedroom door. I shove them in place one after the other, leaving no space between them. Then I head up to my attic and plug into some music.

  31

  In order to charge a suspect you must be able to establish three things: means, motive, and opportunity. Without all three your case will likely never make it to court.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I wake up in my attic about 3:00 a.m., shivering from the cold.

  My emotions—like the battery in my phone—are completely drained. I slip down the ladder into my bedroom and listen for a second. The house is silent. I put my phone on the charger, slip off my jeans, and fall into bed. Then there’s nothing until my alarm wakes me at seven.

  After three snooze cycles, I’m dressed and downstairs. Both Rachel and Victor are gone. There’s a folded piece of paper in front of my spot at the table. ERIN is scrawled on the outside in Rachel’s handwriting. I open it.

  I didn’t mean any of that the way it sounded. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  ♥ Rachel.

  Somewhere inside I do know.

  I grab a couple of PowerBars from Rachel’s stash and head out the door. I make it all the way to the bottom of the stairs before I remember.… Damn it.

  No scooter.

  Really? How effed up is this? I can completely forget that my scooter is a mess of tangled metal, but every time I close my eyes I still see Miss P the way she looked that night. There’s no way I will make it to school on time.

  I hit the driveway moving fast. Maybe I can launch myself into a wormhole, and then through some miracle of time and space, magically arrive on campus just before the tardy bell. As that absurd thought pops into my mind, a familiar van rumbles across the end of my driveway and stops.

  Journey opens the passenger door and his brilliant, crooked smile beckons. My feet barely touch the ground as I rush to the van, toss my bag between the seats, and climb in. “You are my knight in rusty steel.”

  “Happy to oblige, m’lady,” he says.

  I settle in and fumble for my seat belt. Journey is so quiet that I’m hit with a sudden pang of concern. I look up and find him staring at me.

  “What’s wrong?” The air between us fills with dread.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he replies.

  “I’m fine.…”

  His expression doesn’t change. If anything, he looks even more serious.

  He leans toward me, sliding his hand over the back of my seat and up into my hair. He buries his fingers in the strands. As he closes the space between us, a warm flush spreads over my body. His breath tickles my cheek. I try to focus on where I should put my hands.

  I tilt my head forward, allowing strands of my hair to mingle with his. My eyes flutter closed as his lips crush against mine. I hold perfectly still, hoping time will do the same.

  Finally, even though I’m not ready, he breaks the spell and pulls away.

  We don’t go far, staying face-to-face, a few inches apart, our breathing matched and ragged. His eyes are soft and full of questions. My lips tingle with the memory of his.

  “You weren’t online last night,” he whispers. “And you didn’t reply to any of my Snapchats. I was worried.”

  My phone? I pat my pockets. It’s still on the charger. “Hold on. Don’t move.” I leap out of the van and race back into the house, up the stairs. I grab my phone off the charger, then I stop and check my reflection in the mirror. My face is splotchy and dotted with beads of sweat. But it doesn’t matter, Journey Michaels just kissed that face.

  I race back down the stairs and throw myself into the van.

  Journey offers a hand to help me in. “So what happened?”

  “Last night? Rachel and I kind of go
t into it, so I went to sleep early. That’s all.”

  “About me?”

  “No. This was some other weird family drama. Sorry you were worried.”

  He puts the van into gear and we rumble off toward school. “But everything’s okay, right?” He glances sideways at me.

  I nod, tipping my head slightly right and left. Should I tell him my suspicions about Chief Culson? Rachel says she was with him. And she has no reason to lie. Which probably means I’m wrong. But still … questions about the chief nag at me.

  “What do you know about Chief Culson?” I ask.

  “Only that he’s a giant a-hole,” Journey replies, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

  “Really?”

  “He was involved in my father’s case. He wasn’t chief then, but my mother said he never cared about the evidence, only the results. Why, what are you thinking?”

  “I don’t want to say just yet. But I have a feeling about him.”

  Journey pulls into a space in the school parking lot and turns off the engine. Instead of getting out of the car, he turns toward me again, taking my hand in both of his and rubbing my fingers. For a brief moment I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again. But instead he pulls back.

  “I thought we were partners? A team?”

  “We are.” I squeeze his hand. “I just need to think things through a little more, then I’ll tell you. I promise.”

  His quick nod says okay, but I can tell that it’s not. He gets out on his side, then comes around and opens my door. He offers his hand to steady me as I step down.

  Neither of us has much to say as we walk toward the school buildings, but he does drape his arm over my shoulders, which is a first.

  Suddenly, my worldview has changed. I get to experience what it’s like to be Journey. Everyone he passes offers a nod, or a high five. Small gifts of food are still involved. This time, instead of being invisible girl walking, I’m part of the show.

  “Hey, Journey. Hi, Erin.” The greeting is repeated at least ten times, from people I know but have never spoken to. I even score a snack pack of Mini Oreos. How cool is that?

  The topper comes when a girl with a camera asks us to pose for a photo in front of the flagpole. “It’s for the yearbook,” she says.