“They could have checked for fingerprints,” I say.
Journey gives me a sideways glance and ruffles my hair. “It’s adorable that you think they might have thought like you. But no. They weren’t going to do that.”
“To be honest, the police didn’t do all that much when my mom was murdered either,” I say. “So I get what you mean.”
“Anyway, after finding me outside the house, my dad just flipped out and quietly rigged the trap with a paintball gun. He believed the paint would be a great way to prove that someone was there. Even if they didn’t catch him, there would be an outline of paint on the wall indicating that an actual human had been there and not a ghost.”
“What about the DNA test that Miss P was trying to do for you? What would that have proven?”
Journey sighs. “Miss P knew it was a Hail Mary try. There isn’t a lot of actual evidence in my father’s case. There’s the shotgun and the motion-activated harness and some spent shells. My father never disputed that those things belonged to him. And, because there was no crime lab, his DNA isn’t on file anywhere. Miss P wanted to try to get a baseline on him. Then we could ask them to test the shotgun.”
“But didn’t they already test the shotgun?”
“They verified that the gun was his and that it fired the fatal shot but that was all they did,” Journey says. “But you know how you load a shotgun, right?”
I nod. “Sorta.”
He demonstrates. “You crack open the barrel and push the shells into the barrel with your thumb. Miss P explained that DNA tests are much more sensitive now than they were back then so it’s possible that simply scraping a thumb across the metal edge of a shotgun barrel could leave enough epithelial cells behind for a test.”
“And, if that DNA belonged to anyone but your father…” I chime in, following the logic.
“Exactly,” Journey says. “It could prove his story that someone rigged the gun and that would be enough to get him a new trial. That was our goal, to get him a new trial.”
“What does Victor say?” I ask.
Journey reclines his seat a little and pulls me closer. “Victor thinks the DNA theory is risky. It’s likely if they found any DNA at all that my father’s DNA would be there too. And that could be confusing and could make his situation worse. Victor wants to do more than just get a new trial. He wants us to find something they missed or find someone new to blame.” Journey cuddles me up in a warm hug.
“If anyone can do it you know it’s Victor,” I say.
“I know.” Journey buries his face in my hair. “So, I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts. The last two days were surreal. But I especially loved the Snap of your hair.”
I feel my cheeks getting warm. “It’s okay. I just felt bad for you, is all.”
“I made it through. So, how was your day?”
I pause to give him a kiss. And then another. And okay, one more.
I sit up a little on his lap and lean back against the door. “My day was pretty surreal, too. Rachel and the chief are getting married…”
“What?” Journey studies my face. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not kidding.”
“Whoa. A murderer’s son dating the police chief’s daughter sounds like a movie of the week.”
“It’s stepdaughter, and your father is innocent. Wrongfully accused.”
Journey sighs. “I always believed that. But after meeting him, I believe it even more.”
“Then we have to do everything—leave no stone unturned—we have to get this right.” In my mind, there are banners and flags waving and music blasting as I say this.
Journey raises his eyebrows. “We?” he says.
Dang! “I mean the collective we. Like you, Victor, Mr. Martin, the chief.” I chuckle self-consciously. “You thought I meant we as in you … and me…”
“I thought you meant we as in you and me and the girls,” he says.
“Yeah. No. The girls and I, we’re busy setting up the camp.” I’m nervous stammering, so it’s time to change the subject. “In related news. I might have actually met my father today too.”
“What?” Journey squeezes me excitedly. “That’s amazing. Who? Tell me.”
“Well, it might be Victor,” I say.
“Wait. I thought he’s your uncle.” Journey frowns. “How does that work?”
“You know the deal. Rachel was my mom’s best friend and Victor is Rachel’s brother, so we’re not related … or, maybe we are. I’m not sure, there’s a chance, possibly. A big one. Victor could be my actual biological dad.”
Journey is a little hesitant. “Are you okay with that?”
“Sure. I’m great with that. Aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t really affect me,” Journey says.
“You’re his ‘intern.’” I put air quotes around the word as I say it.
“Ah yeah, well, Victor’s cool. I’m not worried about that. But wow for you. That’s a pretty big day. When will you know for sure?”
“Yeah, that question doesn’t have an exact answer,” I say.
“Because?” Journey asks.
“Because we decided not to find out for sure.” Journey reacts with an expression that’s half confused, half silly. “It’s a long story,” I say.
My phone pings and I slide it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Spam. Her timing is hilarious. A straight emoji line of kissing lips. I flash my phone toward Journey. “Spam.”
He chuckles.
I text back: WHERE ARE YOU?
LYS AND I JUST DROVE PAST YOU.
WHERE ARE YOU GOING NOW? I ask.
BACK TO MY HOUSE, she replies. YOU SHOULD COME. WE CAN KICK THE LITTLES OUT OF THE BASEMENT AND ASSEMBLE SOME BELLAS.
I glance up at Journey. “She wants to know if we want to go to her house.”
He gives me a soft look. I know what he’s thinking.
“I’ll tell her no. We haven’t been alone in days.” I start to key in a text response, and after a few seconds Journey lays his hand over mine.
“I have a better idea,” he says. “How about I drop you off at Spam’s and I go home. Today has just kind of been—I don’t know. I’m still in shock and overwhelmed and—” He swipes the hair off the side of my face and tucks it behind my ear. “Would it be okay with you if we call it a night? I really needed to see you, but now I’m kinda wiped out.”
I nod. “I completely understand. I’m exactly the opposite. I’m wound up.”
When I don’t move out of his lap right away we go ahead and make out a little. It’s soft and sweet. Tentative. No pressure. Just like things have always been with Journey.
But at least we’ve made it past The Point. That’s a relationship milestone.
24
The FBI created AFIS, a fingerprint database. Then they added CODIS to preserve DNA evidence. And now, their newest toy is NGI (next generation I.D.), which employs biometric response and can provide IDs in ten seconds.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
I climb the stairs to Spam’s back door. Mr. Ramos waves through the window. He’s wearing a bathrobe and doing dishes.
It works the same at her house as it does at mine.
“Hey, Erin.” Mr. Ramos opens the door and launches right into his favorite joke. “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” I reply.
“You,” he says.
“You who?” I roll my eyes. Mr. Ramos has been telling this joke for as long as I can remember. It used to make me giggle out loud and even now, having heard it a zillion times, it still brings a smile to my face.
“You hooligans are causing trouble again, I see,” he ad-libs and waves his fist.
“What?” I’m used to him saying: You don’t have to yell, I’m right here. “Mr. Ramos, you changed the punch line.”
“I didn’t change it, Benji changed it,” he says.
“What does Benji know about hooligans?” I ask.
“Good question. You have to ask him.
” Mr. Ramos nods toward the stairs. “They’re downstairs.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ramos.”
His eyes twinkle. “I thought Spam said you were bringing the infamous Journey. I was looking forward to meeting him.”
“He had to go home,” I say. “But you’ll get to meet him soon.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Have fun.” He waves and heads off down the hall.
Down the stairs and around the corner, I find Spam and Lysa at a long game table littered with the Bella makings.
“Why are you smiling?” Spam asks.
I wave my hand. “Your dad called Journey infamous. It was adorable.”
Spam rolls her eyes. “He’s so annoying. Where is Journey?”
“He was pretty stressed and overwhelmed after his day meeting his dad so he went home.” I survey the stuff scattered on the table. “So, what’s all this?”
Spam gestures. “These are the pieces for all the Bella orders we’ve received so far. If we work together, we can have them done in less than an hour.” She walks over to the closet. “But, since Journey isn’t here, we can also update the murder board.” She rolls the whiteboard out into the room. Down in the corner, there’s a sketch of cartoon eyes, a mustache, and something that vaguely resembles a penis. “Ugh. Little brothers. Updates?” she asks, erasing the scribble.
“Yes,” I say. “Journey showed me a small carved, wooden ring with dolphins and stuff that his parents think the victim secretly made for him.”
“Hmm.” Spam contemplates the board. “Not sure where that goes.”
“Put it under evidence,” Lysa says.
Spam writes it on the board. I call up a photo on my phone. “Here it is. I took a photo of it.”
They look at it and nod.
“Also, you can put a red tape line from Arletta Stone to Coach Wilkins, since we know they’re cousins.”
Lysa consults her laptop. “I found out some stuff about her. Arletta Stone and her family are fourth generation in Iron Rain. She runs the historical society, which is a little hole-in-the-wall office in town that hands out sightseeing maps to tourists. The historical society is who put up the one-thousand-dollar reward for the identity of the skateboarder. Apparently, Arletta Stone’s real dream is to own a full-blown museum about the fishing and sailing industry in this area, which dates back over a hundred years.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “She wanted to buy the cannery?”
“Exactly,” Lysa says. “Before Journey’s parents moved here, the cannery had been vacant and up for sale for years. Arletta was working on gathering investors and then…” Lysa claps her hands together.
“Journey’s parents,” Spam says.
“Exactly. Uppity young family from New York City swooped in and snatched it up.” Lysa clicks a few keys on her keyboard and adjusts the screen. “They paid cash. And Arletta, who had already been accumulating items for the museum, lost everything. She filed bankruptcy the same year Jameson went to prison.”
“That could be a motive,” I say. “But Ms. Stone would also need means and opportunity.”
Spam puts a dollar sign with a red circle and slash through it next to Arletta Stone’s name. “I’ve got something too,” Spam says.
She turns her laptop around, revealing Coach Wilkins posing next to a large trophy with a rifle in his hand. “That is our very own Coach Wilkins … cousin to Arletta Stone … accepting a Civilian Marksman trophy for Distinguished Rifleman.”
We register looks of surprise.
“A cousin who is a distinguished marksman and who was also on the witness list at Jameson’s trial.” I walk over to the whiteboard. I tear off a piece of red tape, connecting Coach Wilkins under the suspect column now too.
“One might assume that sending Journey’s dad to prison would cause the cannery to come up for sale again,” Lysa says.
“But they were wrong,” I say.
We stare at the board in quiet contemplation.
“Why does this always happen to us?” Lysa says. “We figure things out, but then we can’t tell anyone.”
Spam lays her head on the table. “We’ve got the ‘you’re on probation’ blues.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s not like one of these people is going to suddenly go crazy. It will take some time for me to feed these thoughts to Journey, but I will. What about the skateboarder?” I ask. “Any more news on him?”
Spam sags. “Sadly no. Not a peep.”
She takes her place at the table and slides the little piles of discs, twine, and tiny plastic bags in front of each of us. “Okay. Now we should finish the Bellas.” She holds up a silver disc by the edges. “This is a wearable electronic platform. I’ve already installed the LEDs.” She glances up at our blank faces. “LEDs are the lights.” She lays the plastic volcano design over the top of the silver disc and snaps the two together. “You snap the cover over the platform and twist it so it locks in place. Then you tie on the single slipknot bracelet.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“Then pass them to me. I’ll pair and program them with whatever tracking device was ordered,” Spam says. “Most people are combining the bracelets with pride pins, though the hair clips are popular too.”
“How many do we have to do?” I ask.
Spam checks her phone. “Thirty.”
I groan. “Sounds like work.”
“What if I told you they’re worth six hundred dollars?” Spam asks.
“Dude, what are we waiting for?” I reply.
25
Computers are so sophisticated at recognizing faces that facial recognition is already replacing fingerprints as the ID of choice.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
The Iron Rain Memorial Day festival is the official kickoff to summer. After this there are only two weeks of school left—one for cramming for finals and one for the finals themselves. Then finally a big celebration for Journey’s graduation.
The fairgrounds have been transformed. There are games, rides, and rows upon rows of booths. You can find food, crafts, and even a farmers’ market. And today, you can sign your kid up for CSI summer camp, right here in Iron Rain.
The flyers we passed out last week said sign-ups would begin today, at the festival. Victor and Coach Wilkins are sharing a booth for camp sign-ups. Cheerleaders and athletes work on one side of the booth, talking about sports camp; while Journey, Lysa, Spam, and I work the other and talk about CSI camp.
It’s weird studying Coach Wilkins today after what we learned last night. He’s beyond competitive, practically dragging kids into the booth and trying to strong-arm them into signing up for sports camp. He’s sweaty, loud, and obnoxious. And he keeps coming over to our side to see how many sign-ups we have.
He claims he’s going to beat Victor, or else.
Since we were recently in the news and in the newspaper, we’re sort of minor celebrities in town. Lysa made the four of us matching T-shirts to promote the camp. She used a bleach pen to draw the chalk outline of a body onto black T-shirts. They look smudgy and amazing.
We sign up fifteen kids in ten minutes. Most of our brochures are gone, along with my voice. And yet the crowd around our booth continues to grow.
What I keep hearing over and over is: Hey, you’re those girls from the news.
As uncomfortable as this makes me, I try to smile through it. Rachel says my healing needs to begin with my acceptance that this is what life has dealt me. I’m not there yet, but I’m working on being able to say my name out loud without cringing and to claim my identity with a smile. People might still react with waves of pity. But I no longer view myself as a victim. I have to remember that bringing down Principal Roberts was a way to erase that stigma for me. It’s hard to suddenly stop looking over your shoulder after a lifetime of doing it. But realistically, there should be no reason for someone to be stalking me anymore. My life shouldn’t be any more dangerous than the average high school student’s.
I step back f
or a second just to take it all in and reflect.
Maybe I’m not some freaky weirdo crime geek after all. I hear it over and over: Lots of people are interested in learning more about forensics. The fact that I get to be a part of that is something special.
Spam suddenly grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my flesh.
“Ouch. What?”
She tilts her face up to me, frozen, eyes wild. A look that could signal an imminent meteor disaster. She continues killing my arm with full fingernails and enough pressure to empty a tube of toothpaste.
“He’s here.” She says this with an appropriate amount of horror.
“The skateboarder?” I ask.
She nods, her eyes wide enough that I can see white all the way around them.
“Tell him we want to talk to him!”
“I can’t,” she squeaks.
I stifle a laugh. Spam’s been stalking this guy for a solid week. Now she’s too shy? This must be serious, though. I’ve only known Spam to fall in love with exactly three things: ice cream, video games, and homemade lemonade.
I start to turn around.
She slaps me. “Don’t look.”
I quickly look down. “Okay. But is anyone else eyeballing him?”
Spam peeks around me. “I don’t think so.”
“And you’re sure it’s him?” I ask.
“Positive,” Spam says.
“I don’t want someone to recognize him and call him out while he’s hanging out at our booth,” I say.
“I don’t want that either,” Spam asks. “What should we do?”
“We need to know who he is and how we can contact him,” I say. “Where is he now?”
Spam glances up. “He’s talking to Journey.”
I sneak a peek over my shoulder. “You’re right. He is cute.”
“I told you,” she says. “Tell me what to do.”
“Just casually go over there, don’t make a big deal or attract any attention. Ask if you can answer any questions. Or at least find out his name. We deserve to know since we got in trouble over this whole thing.”
To Right the Wrongs Page 13