To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

  “He said you told him that I’d let him stay in Mom and Dad’s house and that we’d give you a choice about where you wanted to live.”

  “Was I not supposed to say that?”

  “No. It’s absolutely fine.” She pats my hand on the table. “Erin, he raved about you for the longest time. He loves you so much. You know that things haven’t always been civil between me and Victor. But this family connection is something my brother has needed for years.” Rachel smiles. “You’ve become a healing force in our family.”

  “No. Rachel. You’re the one who held us together this whole time.”

  “I love this family,” Rachel says.

  “I love this family too,” I whisper.

  I’m a little nervous and edgy through the rest of dinner, but by the time we’re done and Rachel’s paying the check, it appears she’s unaware of the probabilities of our family makeup.

  31

  Violent crime not only defines a neighborhood, it defines the whole community.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I catch a ride to work with Journey and while he’s over on the lab side, watching Clay install the locks, I stroll around the space that will be our new classroom.

  I take Miss P’s liquor globe from the counter and bring it to one of the desks. Today, Lysa and Spam and I are going to say a few words in her honor and put things inside the globe as a tribute to her. Mentally, I’m also putting the last image I have of her in here too.

  It’s time for that horrific vision to be retired.

  I hear soft footsteps as Lysa and Spam slip through the door. Lysa has a tiny purse over her shoulder and a glossy black leather document pouch under her arm. The tip of the silky teal scarf that trails out of the pouch makes me smile. I remember the day that Miss P took that scarf from around her neck and wrapped it under Lysa’s collar because it was the perfect match to what she was wearing.

  A few steps behind is Spam. She’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans and carrying a cardboard tray of coffee. That’s it. No purse or backpack.

  I scowl at Spam. “Dude, you didn’t bring anything?”

  “Don’t trip.” Spam pats her back pocket.

  We take up places around the globe and I tip open the top. Lysa pulls the scarf out of her bag and presses it to her nose.

  “I kind of hoped it would still smell like her,” she says. “But it doesn’t.” She passes the scarf to Spam, who sniffs it and passes it to me.

  I bunch the scarf into the shape of a nest and bury my nose in it. I can’t smell her either. But to be honest, the only smell I associate with Miss P is oranges. “You were generous with everything, Miss P.” I stuff the scarf into the globe.

  Lysa retrieves the rest of the offerings from the document folder. There’s a photo of her posing with us. “You were beautiful … inside and out.” She drops the photo into one of the slots in the globe. “I also wrote out one of her sayings in calligraphy.” She displays it to us, then reads it aloud. “Just because you don’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  “That’s perfect,” Spam says. “Just because we don’t see her doesn’t mean she’s not here.”

  I open my shoebox. “I made copies of her class notes. The ones I saved, anyway.” I hold them up. “Look, her handwriting is all over them.”

  “Nobody in the whole world writes like that,” Spam says.

  “I also brought all the photos from her bulletin board and put them in there … and I know it’s a little weird, but I saved these orange peels. They’re from an orange that she gave me right before…” My voice trails off. “Anyway.” I shove the photos into a compartment and let the orange peels trickle into the globe.

  “We’ll call the orange peels potpourri,” Lysa says.

  Finally, Lysa and I turn to Spam.

  “What?” she says.

  I gesture to the globe. “You were supposed to bring something too.”

  “Right.” Spam retrieves a flash drive from her pocket. She drops it into the globe. It hits the bottom with a thunk.

  I frown. “We don’t even know what’s on it.”

  “It’s everything,” Spam says.

  “What do you mean everything?”

  “I scraped everything we had that has anything to do with Miss P. I got the data from both of your cloud files, which included all the notes … assignments … science projects … photos of her old classroom … the contents of her computer and her phone records. There’s even some random internet searches I did when we were trying to figure out who killed her. Anyway, everything that had anything to do with Miss P is on there.”

  “Wait, what?” Lysa says. “How did you get our cloud files?”

  “Have you met me?” Spam tilts her head, adopting a look of moral innocense.

  “You’re saying that everything I brought and everything Lysa brought is all contained on this jump drive.”

  “Well, not everything,” Spam says. “Obviously, the photos from the bulletin board aren’t on here. Or the teal scarf. But it’s likely that everything else is there.”

  Lysa and I shake our heads. Spam’s nothing if not amazing.

  “Okay. One last time.” I close the globe and press my fingers to it. Lysa and Spam add theirs. “To Miss P,” I say.

  “Miss P,” repeat Spam and Lysa.

  I carry the globe to its place on the shelf behind Victor’s desk. I set it just so, and give it a good polish so that the burnished, Old World finish shines.

  When I turn around, Lyman is peeking in the doorway. “Hey, Erin,” he says. “There’s a guy up here looking for you. Says he has a shipment.”

  Spam dances toward the door, arms wide. “You made it.”

  * * *

  When Victor said he ordered some stuff, he wasn’t kidding. I sign for five giant boxes.

  Fortunately, Journey’s still here and Lyman just arrived, so we have extra help muscling the boxes down the stairs and into the supply room.

  Once everything has been moved, Journey heads back over to his side to work on the evidence locker, which shares a wall with our storage room. Journey demonstrates this by pressing his face to the floor and making ghostly sounds into a vent between the rooms.

  I notice another small vent in the wall between the storage room and the classroom.

  “Why are there are so many vents in here?” I wonder.

  “This probably used to be a locker room,” Lyman says.

  “How would you guess that?” I ask. “You don’t even go to actual school.”

  Lyman points at the drain cover in the middle of the floor.

  I nod. “Not bad, Sherlock.”

  While we were goofing around, Lyman unpacked all five boxes and sorted the supplies. “How do you want this stuff arranged?” he asks. “Alphabetically? In order by size? Or maybe they should be arranged by things used together? You tell me.”

  I draw a blank, and apparently so does everyone else.

  “Miss P had one small cupboard. So things were organized by where they fit,” I say.

  “We can do better than that,” Lyman says. “There’s plenty of room in here. You just need to tell me how you want it.”

  While we’re deciding how to set up the storage area, Clay pokes his head in the door. “Hey, kids. Just so you know, I’m installing the lock on this door right now, so two things: Be careful coming out, and after I’m done, don’t close the door. It has to be programmed.”

  Most of us just kind of grunt and nod in response to Clay. But Lysa responds with words. “Thank you, sir. We will be careful,” she says.

  “Have you ever noticed that Lysa has amazing manners?” Spam says.

  This is Spam’s version of Lysa’s mom-mode and even though I know it threatens to get them into a fight, I can’t help but agree. “She’s our official ambassador.”

  Lysa puts her hands on her hips. “Yeah. Cut the crap. Let’s get this done. It’s almost time for lunch.”

  Lyman holds up a couple of the ite
ms we brought down yesterday from Miss P’s supply cabinet. “What about this stuff: flour, wax, Play-Doh? Those aren’t science class materials, right?”

  Spam pats him on the head. “Ahh, the joys of homeschooling. You missed all the fun, like dripping iodine solution onto little piles of baking flour to test for carbohydrates.”

  “Because if it’s carbs, it turns what color?” I say.

  “Black,” she answers, and then sticks out her tongue at me. “I paid attention … most of the time.”

  “Play-Doh?” Lyman asks.

  “For molding your own test tube holders,” Lysa says.

  “Don’t get me started on the wax,” I say. “It’s great for capturing impressions of something. Like did you know there’s a spray wax that they use for saving tire treads or shoe impressions in snow?”

  “That’s kind of cool,” Lyman says.

  “Yeah, and if you could get someone to touch it, you could probably steal their fingerprint with wax too.”

  The room goes quiet and I suddenly realize everyone’s staring at me. “Okay. I know that sounded bad and I’m not saying I would do that. I’m just saying wax is amazing, moldable stuff.”

  “Don’t even joke about that,” Lysa says. “We got in enough trouble over the skateboarder video.”

  “You did?” Lyman’s head snaps up.

  Spam kneels next to him. “We did … a little bit. And it was kind of dicey for a day. But we got through it and it’s completely over. No worries.” She gives him a hug and wanders out of the storage room.

  “That reminds me.” I grab my bag, dragging out my makeup kit. Inside is the hinged lifter with Lyman’s fingerprint. I hand it over to Lyman. “This belongs to you.”

  Lyman inspects the square in his palm and gives me a quizzical look.

  “Yeah. That’s your fingerprint,” I say.

  His look changes to skeptical and maybe even a little angry.

  “It was on the car that almost hit you. We lifted it because…” I look to Lysa.

  “We did it because we could and we thought we might need it to help you,” she explains.

  Lyman holds the card between his fingertips. “But where did you get the card?”

  I relax. He’s not angry, just curious … like all of us.

  “Oh, Victor gave it to me.” I step up on the stepladder and find a box. I hold it up. “He just ordered a whole box of them in all different sizes. They’re really cool and easy to work with. I’m sure we’ll be playing with them during camp.”

  Lyman opens his wallet and carefully sticks the fingerprint inside. He wanders out of the storage room after Spam.

  While they’re gone, Lysa and I make an executive decision on an organizational approach that combines putting the heavier things on the bottom and grouping things together by how they’ll be used. Example, flour and salt stay together because they are both used for investigative experiments.

  When Lyman and Spam come back in, Spam has a label maker. Lysa hands the things to me and I hand them off to Lyman. Before too long he has everything on the shelves and lined up completely straight.

  Lysa admires Lyman’s skill. “That’s amazing. How’d you do that?”

  Lyman blushes a little. “I worked at this little grocery store last summer. The guy used to check my shelves with a ruler, so I learned how to eyeball it and make it straight.”

  Spam is using the label maker. “Which store was that?” she wonders.

  Lyman blushes again. “It wasn’t around here,” he says. “It was near where we used to live.”

  “I can’t keep track of everywhere you’ve lived,” Spam says, giving us a look. She mouths the word “sketchy” to us.

  I give her a shrug. Judging from my own life, I figure everyone has a secret or two.

  Lysa applies the last of the shelf labels. “Okay, done,” she says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now lunch.”

  Victor sweeps in and calls for all of us to join him in the classroom.

  “Or maybe not,” I say.

  32

  Biometric tech is a whole umbrella of new tricks and procedures which include palm prints, irises, facial recognition, voice patterns, and even mannerisms. If there’s something unique about you, biometrics can track it.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  As we file into the classroom, Journey moves some chairs into position at one of the tables. Victor lays out some electronic-type gadgets. Then he begins pacing and rubbing his hands together in that excited way he gets when he’s getting ready to show something off.

  Journey takes a seat in one of the chairs. I head over to take a seat in the chair next to him and he quietly shakes his head.

  Whoops. Okay.

  I move back to stand near Spam, Lyman, and Lysa.

  Victor keys in on Lyman. “Who’s this?”

  “Oh, this is my boyfriend,” Spam says. “He came to help us out today. But don’t worry, you don’t have to pay him or anything.”

  Lysa and I exchange smirks. Spam admitting to a boyfriend. What’s next?

  Lyman offers his hand. “My name’s Lyman, sir. Nice to meet you.”

  Victor shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lyman. Thanks for helping out.”

  “Lyman’s an amazing organizer. Wait until you see the storage room,” I say.

  “Great.” Victor continues pacing. “Okay. So, we’re just five days away from launching the first CSI camp in this city.”

  We all cheer.

  Immediately, the classroom door opens and Principal Blankenship enters the room. My stomach drops because I’m sure she’s here to chastise us for making too much noise … or breathing too much air … or being in her space.

  I check my Bella bracelet and there’s no light. I glance at Spam. She places her hands in front of her, imitating how Blankenship walks around with her notebook. She’s not carrying the notebook, which means she doesn’t have the tattletale bookmark.

  Victor acknowledges her with a nod, but she hangs toward the back of the room.

  Maybe I’m worrying for nothing. I remind myself this isn’t school, it’s a job. But my stomach tends to squeeze itself into the size of a coin purse whenever she’s around.

  “The lab and evidence room are done. Most of the basic equipment is in. We moved the AFIS fingerprint scanner over here because PD is upgrading to mobile units anyway.” Victor points to Clay, who is hanging off to the side. “Where are we with the safety equipment?”

  “Everything’s ordered, just waiting on delivery,” he says.

  “We can open without the ventilation system because I can hold off doing any tests in the lab until we have that,” Victor says. “But we have to have the alarms and fire extinguishers in or we won’t pass the permit stage. You were also supposed to get a price for the automated fire suppression system? We don’t have to have it, but it would be nice.”

  Clay nods. “Yes, sorry. I’ll install the alarms tomorrow. The extinguishers are on their way and I’ll call again about the automated system.”

  “Good. Journey and I are driving to Salem tonight to pick up some donated supplies,” Victor says. “We can circle back on this in the morning.”

  I give Journey a grouchy look. He failed to mention a trip with Victor. His response is a helpless gesture. I know it’s not his fault and I also understand that Victor’s got the time pressure of opening day to worry about. It’s just every day there’s something new keeping Journey and me apart.

  Miss Blankenship checks her watch and raises a slender finger. “Do you need me here for this?”

  “Yes, just a few minutes more,” Victor says. “I was just giving an update. We now have locks on all the doors.”

  We all glance around at the various doors. They are each standing open and all of them have gleaming new doorknobs with small keypads and screens above the knobs.

  “These are the biometric locks. They’ll be keyed to your fingerprints. This will provide us the security we need for the lab, as only certain fingerprin
ts will open certain doors. We’ll also be implementing a fingerprint attendance system for the kids in the camp.”

  Lyman looks surprised. “How will that work?”

  “Easy,” Victor says. “A biometric system takes a fingerprint and converts it to a code that can be used to open a door or add a name to an attendance file. The actual fingerprint isn’t stored or viewed. It’s just the unique identifier, like your name.”

  “Interesting,” Lysa says.

  “Camp attendance will be a test, but if it works the way I know it’s going to, the whole school will go in this direction in the fall.” Victor nods at Blankenship. “Right?”

  Blankenship offers a slight nod in response. “I’m detail oriented and your biometric system offers a lot of detail. So it’s possible I could be persuaded.”

  I’m kind of amazed. Victor’s charm has made her almost tolerable.

  “I can explain all of this in even more detail,” Victor says. “But then your heads would explode.” He pauses for laughter, but doesn’t get any.

  My stomach grumbles and Blankenship checks her watch again.

  The rest of the room stays silent.

  “I get it,” he says. “Let’s set up those files.”

  Victor takes a seat at the table, next to Journey, and begins arranging the electronic equipment. “I want you to use the thumb on your dominant hand. You don’t need to press down hard, just fit your thumb against the screen and hold it there until the system beeps.” He opens a stamp pad and drags a small slip of paper in front of him. “To get a good scan you’ll place your thumb straight down. Don’t press, just touch.” He demonstrates using the stamp pad, producing a nice, light, oval thumbprint. He holds it up for us to see. “This is perfect. It’s not smeared, stretched, or distorted.”

  He repeats the process several times, rolling his thumb one way or the other, each time producing a misshapen version of his print.

  “If you roll or tip your thumb in any direction it will make your scan difficult to read. You can practice a few times with the stamp pad if you want.”