To Catch a Killer

by Sheryl Scarborough

  Rachel sighs. “You’re right. I was willing to suffer for one night, but…” She opens the hall closet door and hangs the sandals on one of the hooks. “I’m going to take a bath and get ready. Charles is coming straight from the gym. He’ll shower and change here because we have a long drive.” She forms a sour face. “I’m hoping we can get out of here before my brother gets home. Will you be okay for dinner? There are leftovers in the fridge.”

  “Don’t worry about me; I have homework to do. I’ll just take leftovers up to my room.” I pick up my bag and head for the stairs. Rachel stops and comes back.

  “Oh, um. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, what?”

  “Can you work on your homework down here until after we leave? I want Charles to see that you really are okay having him around.”

  I sigh. “Sure.”

  34

  The smallest lie will taint the truth.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, working my way through an e-mail from Lysa.

  Manifesto would be a better word for it.

  She says I need to patch things up with Spam. That I must call—not text—her. She’s included a list of talking points, all the things she thinks I need to say. She’s even outlined how I should say these things and what tone I should use.

  Wow. She must think I’m a complete idiot.

  I know how to patch things up with Spam. I just need her to understand that the evidence was really confusing and I wasn’t ready to talk about it at lunch. I can’t just blatantly accuse the chief of police of murder. If it turned out he didn’t do it, my credibility, and our evidence, would be shot … and if he did, well, he could probably silence all of us and make it look like an accident.

  Victor strolls in the back door.

  I hate to say it, but he has that beat-down dog look. His collar is open and his shirt is rumpled. He’s carrying his briefcase and a large brown shopping bag.

  I take pity on him. “Subbing for a high school class is like getting tossed into a pit of snakes.”

  “That was one tough room.” He dumps his stuff on the floor behind his chair and kicks it into the corner. I note how this is more like my behavior than Rachel’s. Victor rummages in the refrigerator and comes up with a soda.

  “Trust me,” he says, joining me at the table. “If you took every piece of evidence that went down in flames after I swore to it in front of a jury … and then added every shred of data that I was convinced would reveal some important secret, but didn’t … if you rolled all of those disasters together, the resulting humiliation wouldn’t come close to what it felt like to stand in front of that classroom today.” He leans back, tipping the chair on two legs.

  “I wanted to help you out, but…”

  He stretches his arms up over his head. “It wasn’t your job, it was mine, and I royally sucked.” He tips his head toward Rachel’s room. “Is she over her snit yet?”

  I shrug. “More or less.”

  “Can you believe she’s dating Chuck Culson? I mean, c’mon. Rachel still looks great … and he’s…”

  Victor presses his fingers to his face and pulls the skin down to resemble a melted mask. He stops when he hears Rachel coming. She steps into the kitchen and nearly takes my breath away. She has makeup on and her hair flows around her shoulders. She looks gorgeous. She’s even wearing perfume. She frowns at Victor.

  “I need you to be nice tonight, and if you can’t, you need to leave. It’s that simple.”

  Victor throws his hands in the air. “I’ll be nice. You didn’t even have to ask.”

  Just then the front doorbell rings. All three of us stiffen. Rachel hurries to answer it. Victor and I listen as she invites Chief Culson inside. Victor grimaces when he hears them kiss. I have to fight back a giggle. As they enter the kitchen, Victor pops out of his chair and offers his hand.

  “Hey, Chuck. Good to see you again so soon.”

  The chief is holding a garment bag in one hand and a pair of wing tips in the other. He shrugs helplessly, unable to return Victor’s handshake. He’s dressed casually in sweats.

  “Oh yeah, hey, no handshake, no sweat,” Victor says, withdrawing his hand. “But then, you look like you just came from the gym, so maybe there is sweat.” Rachel and the chief just stand there as Victor cracks himself up.

  He looks at me. “Get it—no sweat … sweat?”

  I don’t want to take obvious sides here, but I can’t just let Victor hang. I offer up my palm. “Got it. High-five.”

  The chief mumbles something lame to me about homework. I smile and agree. Then he asks for a glass of water so I get up and get him one. With that, Rachel leads him off to her room. She pauses at the door. “He’s going to take a quick shower and then we’ll be out of your hair for the night.”

  “Roger that,” I say, and return to my homework.

  * * *

  When Rachel and the chief return to the kitchen about thirty minutes later, they shine. And not just because of their dressy clothes. They seem really happy, especially Rachel.

  Victor stands, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You look beautiful, sis.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?” the chief says as he crosses the kitchen and sets his water glass on the counter next to the sink. “Don’t wait up for us. We’ll be late.”

  As they leave through the back door, I’m watching Victor. He stays quiet and tilts his head, listening for their car to leave. As soon as they’re gone, he leaps up and claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

  I let the surprise register on my face.

  He stops. “Wait. What am I thinking? First, where do you stand with your homework?”

  “Done.”

  “Good. When I planned this I thought we’d have to work up in your attic, but since they’re gone, we can work down here.”

  I blink a few times. “Work?”

  “Yeah. What are you waiting for? Grab that evidence box and let’s get busy.”

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “The bio teacher.”

  My heart pounds as I race up the stairs toward my attic. It sounds like it’s going to be an interesting night. By the time I return with the shoe box containing all of the evidence I’ve gathered about Miss Peters’s murder, Victor has cleared the table. He rummages in his briefcase and pulls out a handful of buccal swabs. “Know what these are?” he asks.

  “Elephant Q-tips,” I say, adding a sassy grin so he’ll know I’m kidding.

  He holds a giant lollipop-sized Q-tip up next to his ear and makes a funny creaking noise.

  “Buccal swabs. All the forensic TV shows use them for getting DNA samples from inside someone’s mouth. Miss P even had some,” I say.

  “Correct,” Victor cheers. “So, do you have any idea what I have in mind, Erin?”

  “Something to do with DNA would be my guess.”

  “That’s my star pupil.” He snaps his fingers at me. “Where’s your notebook with the DNA results from Miss Peters’s computer?”

  His urgency prods me into action. I grab my notebook and flip to the correct page before handing it over to him.

  Victor points. “We’ll need pizza, extra cheese and any toppings you like. You call it in and I’ll pay for it. Then I’ll give you the full rundown of our agenda for the evening.”

  He had me at “star pupil” but pizza’s not a bad bribe, either.

  I use speed dial to order a large ham and pineapple with extra cheese. When I’m done, I curl my leg under me on the chair and sit back to watch.

  Victor paces the room, rubbing his palms together. “For starters,” he says. “Fancy pens aside, I don’t buy your theory of Chuck Culson as a murder suspect. Because if I did, I wouldn’t have let my sister leave with him.” He squints. “Where were they going again?”

  “Portand. To the opera.”

  He tosses his head, expressing a clear lack of excitement. “Okay. You have no motive and Chuck has a
pretty solid alibi for that night from Rachel, someone we believe is ironclad credible.… Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I nod. If Rachel says she was with Chief Culson when Miss Peters was killed, I wouldn’t dream of questioning her.

  “But last night Rachel admitted she has been concealing this relationship. You knew nothing about the two of them, correct?”

  “Zip,” I confirm. “That night she went to bed early, saying she thought she was coming down with the flu. I felt bad that the police had to call her to come to the station. But when she got there, she didn’t seem sick at all.”

  “Aha. You see? Alibis are hard enough to prove, but combine them with a lie and you have a problem with motivation. Why was the person lying to begin with, and why should we believe them now? Even the tiniest lie will eventually taint the truth.”

  He’s not talking about me, but I feel the weight of his words. Hopefully, he won’t pick up the guilt rays I’m radiating. “So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that part of your theory is flawed. But the other part is genius—dabbling with DNA testing probably did get your teacher killed,” he says. “So tonight we’re going to try to re-create her DNA test and see what it tells us.”

  “Wow.” I’m about to fall over in a dead faint … or float to the ceiling and bob there out of extreme bliss. Watching Victor actually do a DNA test = mind-blowing.

  There’s even an extra side of surreal because I know most of the steps he’ll be taking before he takes them. I just can’t believe he’s doing it with me.

  “I’m just going to throw this together quickly, so if you have any questions or want me to explain anything don’t be afraid to ask.” Victor moves around the kitchen gathering supplies: a pitcher, measuring cups, spoons. He dumps them at one end of the table.

  My guilt is starting to weigh me down. Victor’s treating me like an equal, but I’m still holding back information. I decide I’ll tell him about the strip of fabric and the link between the murders after we finish running the DNA.

  I don’t want anything to detract from this moment. I slide my chair closer to Victor. “I want to write down each step.” I open my notebook. “What will re-creating her test tell us?”

  He drags a shopping bag over next to his chair and starts unloading things onto the table. “The first thing we try to do in a murder investigation is come up with a profile of the victim’s behavior and activities that occurred in the days or hours right before she was killed. You had the right instincts about the DNA samples in the refrigerator. If we can duplicate that and match even one or two of the profiles from her test, it will tell us something about what she was thinking and the evidence you’ve been gathering.”

  “So, we’re going to the lab at school?”

  “Nope. We’re going to do it right here,” Victor says, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “But I thought you said it required special equipment and a bunch of stuff to pull off an accurate DNA test.”

  Victor raises his hand. “Yeah, for the don’t-try-this-at-home crowd. But I am a trained professional. I’ve pulled off many a field DNA test in a hotel room and even once in the trunk of a Lincoln. It’s tricky, but possible.”

  “So where do we start?”

  He grabs a buccal swab in each hand. “I have one for you … and one for your boyfriend.” He pins me in a serious gaze. “I’m assuming Rachel’s edict fell on deaf ears and he’s still your boyfriend. Can you lure him over?”

  My cheeks flame. I think he just officially became my boyfriend today. “You’re a bad influence. But actually Journey started a new job today so he probably can’t come.”

  Just then the front doorbell rings.

  Victor and I exchange surprised looks for a second.

  “Right, pizza!” Victor hurries to the door and I follow. I wasn’t expecting that because our normal pizza guy always comes to the back door. Victor swings the door open and Journey is standing there, holding a stay-warm pizza-delivery box.

  “Somebody order pizza?” He flashes me a crooked grin.

  I’m stunned. “You didn’t tell me,” I say.

  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” Journey says. “I know Papa John’s is your favorite.”

  Victor rubs his hands together. “Erin, look who’s here.” He ushers Journey inside. “We were just talking about you. Come in. Come in.”

  Journey looks adorable in his uniform, a white coat with a bright green armband bearing the logo for our neighborhood Papa John’s Pizza. He unsheathes two boxes from the wrapper. Victor rummages in his pockets for money.

  “Will twenty-five bucks cover it?” Victor asks, shoving bills into Journey’s hand.

  “Oh yeah. Let me get you some change,” Journey says.

  “No. Keep it.” Victor insists.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were delivering pizza to my house?” I ask.

  “I lost my phone, remember?” Journey says.

  “Oh, right.” I inspect the boxes in Victor’s hand. “Um, I only ordered one pizza. Ham and pineapple.”

  “For real?” Journey makes a face. “Who eats pineapple on pizza? The second one is mine—which I didn’t charge you for. It’s time for my dinner break and I thought maybe we could eat together.” He smiles at me. “But if I shouldn’t be here, no worries. I can always eat in the van.”

  “Your timing is perfect.” I take the pizzas from Victor and lead the way into the kitchen. “Victor just asked me to get you over here anyway.”

  Victor and Journey follow me in and take seats around the table.

  While I get out plates, napkins, and drinks, Victor gives Journey a thumbnail of what we’re getting ready to do. I notice that he chooses to leave out the part about Chief Culson.

  Victor unwraps a buccal swab and holds it by the outside paper. He offers it to Journey. “I know this requires some trust, but would you mind giving me a DNA sample? I promise I’ll only use it to compare with the results Erin found on your teacher’s computer. Nothing else.”

  Journey shrugs and takes the swab. He scrubs it around the inside of his mouth. Victor hands one to me and I do the same. When we’re done, we pass the swabs back to Victor and he pops each of them into a test tube with a stopper at the end and marks each one with our initials.

  As exciting as it is to actually see how this stuff works, there’s also a sinking sadness that always creeps in. “What about Miss Peters? We can’t get a sample from her.”

  Victor slides the test tubes around on the table. “True. But I met with her sister today and asked her for a sample. It’s called familial DNA. So, while it won’t be an exact match, we will be able to confirm if one of the original samples was hers.”

  “Are you working on her murder case?” Journey asks, scooping up a slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza.

  “You could say I’m consulting. Unofficially,” Victor says.

  He lifts the lids on both pizza boxes and takes a long look. “Sorry, Erin.” He chooses a slice from Journey’s meat-laden pizza and ferries it to his plate. “There is one more thing.…” Victor pulls a plain folder out of his briefcase, lays it on the table, and flips through, avoiding smudging pizza grease on any of the papers. He finds a photo and spins it out of the folder and onto the table in front of Journey. “What can you tell me about this?”

  Journey folds his slice of pizza taco-style. The photo is a close-up of the side view of the sole of a well-worn Michael Jordan mid-top basketball shoe. “That’s a photo of my right basketball shoe,” he says, reaching for a napkin.

  “How can you be sure?” Victor prods.

  “Well…” Journey uses his little finger to indicate an area near the toe of the shoe. “See that spot where it’s more dirty and worn than the rest of the sole? It’s kind of an OCD thing, but when I line up a shot I scrape my right foot on the court three times. My shoes always wear out there first.”

  I lean over Victor’s shoulder. “They gave you the evidence from Miss Peters’s murder?” I�
�m practically drooling.

  “Easy there, Sherlock.” Victor gives me a pointed look over his shoulder. “I asked for copies of some of the photos.” He slides another photo out for Journey’s view. This one is a close-up of the bottom of the right shoe. There’s a two-inch-long smooth spot right at the spot Journey identified.

  Victor slides the photos back into his file. “Okay. That’s consistent with the report.”

  “There’s a report? What’s it say?” Journey gives me a wary glance. I know he’s worried, but Lysa told us his shoes came up clean.

  “It says…” Victor paws through the pages for the report. Once he finds it, he gives Journey a straight, hard look. “And, for the record, this came from my department at the FBI. It says that the shoe prints found in the blood in the victim’s house are consistent with this exact style and size of shoe.”

  A knot of worry develops in my stomach and I push my pizza aside. My gaze stays on Journey’s face. He blinks a few times, swallows hard, and licks his lips. “Why would the FBI do a report on my shoes?”

  “Because Sydney probably sent your shoes to the FBI so they would analyze them as part of the evidence, right?” I look to Victor for confirmation.

  “She’s right. The FBI is available to local PDs, who don’t have crime labs, to process and analyze evidence. So anyway, about your shoes…” Victor continues. “It was determined that the prints did not come from this exact shoe.”

  I breathe out a sigh of relief. Journey’s shoulders relax as well.

  “Good news, of course. But how do they know for sure that it wasn’t Journey’s shoe?” I ask.

  “Because the shoe that left the prints had a faint kidney-shaped smear on the outside of the right shoe, but it was lower, more toward the heel. The smooth spot on Journey’s shoe is at the top, near his big toe.” Victor points out the areas as he talks about them. “Also, just so you know, your shoe was tested for blood residue and it came up negative.”

  “So, if you knew it wasn’t a match, why did you ask Journey to identify his shoes?”