To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

  Dang. I forgot to let Rachel know about detention.

  “Long story. I’ll explain when I see her.”

  I try not to outwardly cringe. But why is the chief all up in my business with Rachel? He’s not a bad guy exactly. But there’s a sudden everyone-loves-the-chief fest going on and it’s starting to bug me. Not that long ago, Police Chief Charles Culson was my prime suspect in Miss Peters’s murder over exactly this issue: a crime lab for Iron Rain. I was betting he didn’t want our city to have one because it would take some of his power away. Also, he and Victor seemed to have an uncomfortable history.

  Turned out I was wrong.

  Now they’re best buds, working on a crime lab together, and there’s a definite bro-mance blooming right before my eyes.

  The chief looms over us with a notepad in his hand. “Can one of you provide me the name of that skateboarder?”

  Lysa, Spam, and I shrug and shake our heads.

  “He didn’t look familiar,” I say.

  “Never seen him before,” Spam adds.

  “But he is a student here,” the chief says. “Right?”

  “Not necessarily,” Lysa says. “Why?”

  “Because that boy is responsible for an accident that could have injured many people and actually did cause a great deal of property damage. That’s why.”

  “Wait wait wait,” I say. “We were right there. He didn’t cause the accident.” I glance at Lysa and Spam. “He never left the sidewalk.”

  Spam nods. “Erin’s right.” She replays the accident with her hands. “The skateboarder—who was super cute, by the way, which is how I know we don’t know him—was way up here, on the sidewalk with us. That woman came from way over here.”

  The chief tilts his head to the side and gives us a sweet smile. And by sweet, I mean phony. He’s not buying our version of the story. “Look, girls, I know you think you know what you saw. But I spoke to that woman and she was very clear about the instigation of the skateboarder and when we find him, he’ll probably be charged.”

  “With what?” My words tumble out. Nothing makes me angrier than an adult blaming someone my age. Because they always do it. Somehow, in their minds, everything’s our fault.

  “Erin,” soothes Victor. “Relax. Chuck’s simply doing what police do. Trying to get to the truth. The boy was involved in an accident. At the very least we need to find him and make sure he’s okay.”

  Hmph. Bro-mance.

  I look from Journey to Victor. Do they not remember how this went down when the police were “just trying to do their job and get to the truth” the night they wanted to charge Journey with Miss P’s murder? And the only reason he was a suspect was because I said I saw him there.

  But Journey and Victor just look balefully back at me. A glance at Spam and Lysa tells me I’m not alone with my feelings, though.

  “Did you take any photos of that boy or the area that we could use to identify him or the other people at the scene? If you did I’d like to collect your phones for evidence.” The chief smiles. “But don’t worry. You’ll get them back in three or four weeks.”

  Without even looking at each other, we all shake our heads.

  “Nope,” Lysa says.

  “Not me,” agrees Spam.

  “Yeah. It all happened too fast for photos,” I say.

  Spam’s head suddenly snaps up. She turns to stare at the door.

  I follow her gaze and within seconds there’s a click, click of high heels and Miss Blankenship enters. She cradles the ever-present notebook against her chest like a shield. A hard hat wobbles slightly on her head. She’s followed by a burly guy dressed in work clothes and a thick plaid Pendleton jacket. He’s carrying a clipboard.

  I glance at Spam. She flashes me her phone. It features a pulsing red dot.

  Victor gets out of his chair and ambles over to greet her. “Taryn. Come in. We’re just going over the new plans.”

  Blankenship pauses to swivel her head in my direction and a flow of ice trickles down my spine. Under her shriveling gaze I scoot my chair a little behind Journey.

  Without a shred of emotion, she blinks a few times, then wets her lips. “Great. This is your contractor, Clay Kirkland.”

  Victor glances at the chief. “I thought we hired a guy named Dawson?”

  The chief checks his notepad. “That’s right. Bob Dawson.”

  Blankenship inches forward, gesturing toward Clay in much the way Vanna White would indicate a new vowel. “Exactly. And Mr. Kirkland is your new Dawson.”

  “But why?” Victor and the chief exchange frowns.

  “I’m happy to report that he came in with a lower bid.” There is nothing about her expression that suggests she’s happy about anything. In fact, the level of excitement she shows, she could be making funeral arrangements.

  “Was Dawson’s bid a problem?” Victor asks the Chief.

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t think so.”

  “I’m afraid…” Blankface drags out the word as she plucks a piece of lint from her sweater. “Dawson had some … shall we say … gritty things in his profile.”

  “Gritty?” Victor says.

  The chief nods knowingly. “Ah. I think she’s saying he failed the security background check. We have to be careful of stuff like that around children and schools.”

  Blankface looks relieved. “Exactly,” she says. “But Mr. Kirkland is just fine.”

  Victor’s head twitches slightly and I wonder if he believes her. “Okay.”

  At this, Blankenship turns and starts to click her way out.

  “But,” Victor adds. “We need to be on the same page here.”

  Blankface stops and swivels again. “What page is that?”

  Victor gestures to the classroom. “The classroom is your domain. You can make any decisions you want about that area. But the lab is mine. It needs to stay autonomous. It’s here to support the police department and the city of Iron Rain. Which means, with all due respect, if there’s a problem that involves the lab, you come to Chief Culson or myself. We call all the shots on this area. Nonnegotiable.”

  We’re frozen in place watching Victor and Blankface square off. She’s just as tough as he is. She doesn’t blink, sigh, or so much as roll her eyes. There’s not a single facial tic.

  “Let’s get something straight, shall we?” she says. “As principal—”

  Victor interrupts. “Acting principal.”

  She nods, her lower lip becoming rigid. “As acting principal, I call all the shots at my school. It’s the very definition of my job.”

  Victor’s jaw tightens. “As long as you respect the definition of mine, we’ll be fine.”

  “Fine,” Principal Blankenship says. Her jaw is drawn even tighter than Victor’s. She turns and stalks toward the door. Victor follows her out.

  As soon as the door closes, Clay shivers comically. “Is there a draft or is it just me?”

  Victor returns almost immediately and we stifle our giggles. He pauses, shakes it off, and then strides up to Clay.

  “If she becomes a problem,” Victor says, “she’ll be my problem, not yours.” He glances at the rest of us, pinning a pointed gaze on me. “For the record, this is not me saying the new principal is a problem.”

  “Don’t you mean acting principal?” I say.

  Victor gives me a warning look, but ignores my smart comeback. Instead, he offers to shake Clay’s hand. “Welcome to the team. We can set up an appointment to go over the specs when you have time.”

  Clay accepts Victor’s handshake. “Sounds good. I’ll get out of your hair for now.” Victor walks him to the door and the contractor slips out.

  As Victor returns to his chair, he makes a wide gesture. “Surprised?”

  “I guess.” I glance around the room still not exactly sure what’s going on here.

  “Well, if you aren’t now, you will be,” Victor says.

  5

  There’s nothing to say mistakes can’t happen in a crime
lab. They can and do. But before there were crime labs and DNA tests, literally hundreds of people were wrongly sent to jail and there was no way to prove their innocence.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Victor gestures for us to get up. “Time for a tour. Come on. Up, up.” He leads us into the classroom area. “This will be your new, state-of-the-art classroom with me as your teacher.”

  I wander over and inspect the lab tables. Lysa heads for the storage cabinets and Spam tests the water in the sinks. “It’s gorgeous,” I say.

  “You can thank your bio teacher. She did all the heavy lifting. This part is basically done, we just need to finish out the storage room and paint.”

  He leads us back into the unfinished room and his table piled with papers. “But here’s the exciting part.” Victor begins moving papers around on the table. “Chuck and I spent all morning hammering out the details.”

  I curtail a snort. More bro-mance.

  Victor gestures to the large set of drawings covering the table. “These are plans for a fully functional crime scene lab and evidence storage facility. They are for the most part on point. With a few modifications, we can have this all up and running in a few weeks.”

  He moves that page to the side and produces two more. “The school paid for the classroom, and the PD is forking over the cash for the lab.” He adds a third page. “I can scrounge the NIJ and probably get most of the necessary equipment donated.”

  My eyebrows creep higher.

  Victor glances up. “The National Institute of Justice. They’re extremely generous with grants and donations to small communities for exactly things like this and I don’t mind working with last year’s model.”

  “This is an amazing opportunity.” I’m very nearly breathless imagining all the things I can do in here.

  “Hold your horses. I’m not even to the part about you yet.” The way Victor reads my mind is uncanny. He continues to flop pages this way and that, apparently digging for one more page. He finds it and slaps it on top of the stack, pinning me with a steely gaze.

  “Now, here’s where you girls come in.” He adds a wink. “It’s going to be kind of last minute, since summer is basically upon us. But if we can pull off a six-week, forensics-style summer camp and get a minimum of twenty kids to sign up, we will qualify for a government grant that will cover the cost of all of our educational materials for an entire year and pay for two full-time camp counselors.”

  He gestures, arms out wide, big Victor grin plastered across his face. “What do you say, Erin? Do you and one of your friends want a job for about six weeks this summer?”

  “As camp counselors?”

  Victor holds up a finger. “Not just camp counselors … CSI camp counselors.”

  A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. It does sound fun.

  “Admit it. You love the idea,” Victor teases. “This is like me saying, Come here, little fox, I have a job for you in the hen house.”

  I break into a full smile.

  He looks to Lysa and Spam. “How about it, girls? Is one of you up for a summer job? You could both do it and job-share if you wanted.”

  Spam raises her hand. “Lysa should take it. I work at my dad’s computer store in the summer.”

  He swivels his gaze to Lysa. “What do you say?”

  She’s all smiles. “I’d be honored. I needed a summer job, too. No job, no car.”

  Spam and I smirk and side-eye. Honored. Lysa is so PC—parentally correct.

  Victor shuffles all the papers back into a stack and rolls the plans up into a tube. “Okay, Chuck, it’s settled. Let’s do this.” He glances at Journey. “You can start right away helping me get the lab built out and acquire all the equipment.”

  “Stoked,” Journey says. “But I’ll have to give notice at my job first.”

  Suddenly, the sour cloud that had been hanging over me all day is back.

  “Wait, what’s Journey doing?” I know I sound like a petulant child, but I can’t help it. Ever since we solved the murders—actually, to be 100 percent accurate, I solved the murders—okay, Spam and I, but by the time I dragged her into it I already knew Principal Roberts had Journey and Victor. Anyway, ever since all that, Journey and Victor have practically been joined at the hip.

  No one answers me.

  “What’s Journey going to be doing … at the camp?”

  Journey’s gaze shifts from me to Victor and back to me. There’s a distinct “deer in headlights” look. He says nothing, which actually says a whole lot of something.

  Victor stands and slides a fatherly arm around Journey’s shoulders. “Your boyfriend won’t be working at the camp, per se. Instead, he has accepted the offer to be my intern and right-hand butt monkey.”

  Journey laughs.

  I frown.

  “Wait. He gets to be your intern?” I can’t help it. The words just blurt out. Shock and disappointment have flattened me. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. My face flames in blotchy patches. I leap to my feet, itching to bolt. It’s humiliating to suddenly have to struggle to control my emotions. I was always the girl who could bury her pain and trauma behind a cool, no-caring exterior, but these last few months …

  I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t like it. The only thing that holds me back is Victor. His praise and respect is all-important to me and I know that charging out of here like a baby won’t get me that. But I’m panicking. Right this second, I sense a confrontation and I don’t know how to handle that.

  “Journey’s a college boy now. Or, he’s going to be. And he’s majoring in criminal science,” Victor says, slapping Journey on the back.

  “Wait, what?” My mouth literally drops open. Devastation is all over my face. “You got accepted?”

  He waves his phone. “Oh yeah. Sorry. With the accident and everything, I forgot to tell you. OSU.” He raises his arms in a mini-cheer. “My mom texted me an hour ago. Cool, huh?” Judging by the way he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs, he knows how badly all this is landing on me.

  I nod stiffly. It’s as if my jaw has been wired shut. “That’s great. Really great. I’m happy for you.” And I am. It’s just weird to find out about my boyfriend’s important news in such an offhand way. Spam is closest to me so I grab her sleeve and pull her to her feet.

  “Well, everything is super great.” My voice is freakishly shrill and I try to lower it. “But we need to go. Right, Spam?”

  She nods. “Yeah. My … uh, dad is probably wondering where I am.”

  “I have to go too,” Lysa says, grabbing my other arm and following us as we edge toward the door. I feel like the walls are closing in on me. I need out of here before I completely come apart.

  I head for the stairs.

  “Wait,” Journey calls after me. I stop and look back. “I have to be at work in twenty minutes, but I can still drop you off.”

  I wave my hand over my head. “No need. I’ll ride with Spam, but you have a good night.” My voice is set to cherry-candy sweet.

  Victor, abnormally clueless, waves happily. “See you at dinner.”

  If Journey wanted to say anything back, I drowned him out with the machine-gun-style sound of my rapid steps up the stairs.

  Screw him … screw all of them.

  6

  Step one, collect all the evidence and let it give you the road map to step two.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  We climb the dark basement steps in a crush and spill out into the daylight. The fabric of Spam’s sweater is still balled in my grip and Lysa is clinging to my arm as if we’re about to board a roller coaster.

  “Ugggh.” I groan.

  Lysa swivels around to face me even though that means she’s now walking backward. We stroll slowly, in this position, toward the parking lot. Lysa’s finger is in my face. “Okay. This isn’t Journey’s fault,” she says.

  My shoulders sag. “I know. I’m not mad at him. And I get why Victor would hire him as his intern. I trul
y do. It makes sense, right?”

  “It’s the same reason he’s hiring us to work at the camp,” Lysa says. “He trusts us.”

  I nod. But making sense has nothing to do with how completely stabbed in the back I feel. After my biology teacher was murdered and I found her body, Rachel asked her FBI criminalist brother, Victor, to come home and make sure I was safe. She had no idea he was my idol.

  “It’s just I got to watch him work. We worked together. We bonded. It was amazing. I know I can’t be his intern … I’m still in high school. But why Journey? I just feel swept aside.”

  “But hey, CSI camp. Focus on that.” Spam pries my fingers off her sleeve. “You guys will probably be doing crime scene s’mores and roasted weenie body parts or something super cool like that.” She turns her attention to her phone.

  “She’s right,” Lysa agrees. “CSI camp sounds like a lot more fun than being Victor’s intern.”

  “Don’t forget butt monkey.” Spam grins, wrinkling her nose.

  We come around the side of the Administration building and pause at the sight of the wrecked car crushed by the flagpole. A reminder of how close we came to disaster.

  “At least no one was hurt,” Lysa says.

  A young police officer stands out near the parking lot, keeping an eye on things. He notices us and smiles.

  We smile back.

  Our shoes crunch over the broken glass. Spam stops at the spot where we were nearly killed less than an hour ago. She stoops to pick something up off the ground.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “A token,” she says. “From Family Fun Arcade.”

  “You and your gamer crew,” I say.

  “Yeah, but this isn’t mine. It is from my favorite game, though.” She tucks the token into her pocket and steps in front of me, lowering her voice. “Do you have your kit?”

  I pat my messenger bag. “Always. Why?”

  “The skateboarder pushed off the front of that lady’s car.”

  “Yeah…” I’m not sure where she’s going with this.

  “Look.” She nods at the shiny hood of the car. “His fingerprints are like right there.”

  Lysa and I exchange confused looks. “And…?” I say.