To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

  I type in “Millie Booker” and press enter. My phone lights up. It’s a Snapchat from Journey with a blurry picture of his hair on a white pillowcase. The caption says MY HAIR MISSES YOU.

  “Aww.” I make a cute, pouty face. “Journey.” I wave my phone.

  “We don’t have time for him right now,” Spam says.

  “I know, I know.” As I scroll through the images of Millie Booker, I wonder how Journey’s going to take the news when he finds out we helped Lyman. Will there be a problem between us because I kept something this big from him? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be happy if the situation were reversed. And depending on how this works out, I’m going to have to tell him. “Nothing that looks promising on Millie Booker.”

  Lysa slides a piece of paper across the table to Spam. “Here’s everything from the article.”

  Spam reads it off and transfers the names to the whiteboard. “Okay. Your parents’ names are Katherine and Andrew Jenkins. Anything about siblings or grandparents?”

  Lysa shakes her head.

  “What about ages?” Spam asks.

  “Katherine, twenty-six, Andrew, twenty-eight, and the baby was nineteen months.”

  Spam looks at Lyman. “What do you think, is your mom the older or younger sister?”

  “My mom is older,” Lyman says. “I think by maybe three years. She said she and her sister stopped talking a long time ago.”

  “Did she say why?” I ask.

  Lyman shakes his head.

  “Without the right last name we’ll never find Lyman’s grandma,” I say.

  “That’s not necessarily true.” Spam taps the marker on the board. “Lyman, can you get that phone number? The one you said was disconnected?”

  “It’s on my mom’s phone. I’d have to go home to get it.” Lyman checks the time. “Actually, I need to go home anyway. She’ll be getting up to go to work soon and she will freak if I’m not there.”

  “Okay. Go home and get the number,” Spam says. “Text it to me when you have it.”

  “Will do.” Lyman gets up and heads for the stairs. He stops, turns back, and goes to Spam, wrapping her in a warm hug. He kisses the top of her head. “This was a crazy night and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He looks at Lysa and me. “I don’t know what I’d do without all of you.”

  He bows and pretends to tip an imaginary hat and then he leaves.

  Spam stands completely still, watching him until he’s gone. She sighs, then turns back to the whiteboard.

  Lysa and I are just staring at her.

  “Are we doing the right thing?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I can’t even get my head around what the right thing is in this situation.”

  “We’re not doing the right thing,” Lysa says. “But we are doing what we always do, which is the thing that feels the most right.”

  39

  While movies and TV glamorize my profession by showing us out in the field … crime scene analysts basically work in laboratories.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Spam hunches over her computer, wildly pecking keys. A couple of tears slide down her cheek and she brushes them aside with her sleeve.

  “Spam, are you okay?” Lysa asks.

  “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” She sits back, letting out a heavy sigh. “I’m pretty sure this is the right thing. I’m just worried I won’t see him again.”

  “I know it sucks,” I say. “But there isn’t a better solution, is there?”

  Spam shakes her head. Her lip quivers.

  “How can you find his grandma’s last name from a disconnected phone number?” Lysa asks.

  “The Criss-Cross Directories.” Spam stands up at the whiteboard and draws a giant triangle. “It’s an online tool that you can use to find people. There are three basic identifiers: name, address, and phone number.” She writes these words at each point on the triangle. “If you know two of the three, finding the third one is easy. But there’s a chance it can still work even if you only know one.”

  Lysa gives her a sketchy look. “Are these directories legal?”

  Spam chuckles. “What? You know me, right?”

  “Which is why I’m asking,” Lysa says. “We could be in enough trouble as it is. I don’t want to compound it and make it worse.”

  Spam nods. “No worries. It’s legal. It’s a tool that private investigators use. My dad has an account.”

  “Why would your dad have an account like that?” I ask.

  Spam tilts her head. “I don’t know if he’s still actively doing it. But he subscribed to it because he was trying to find my mom.”

  Of course. Spam’s mom walked out on the family when Spam was in fourth grade and they’ve not seen or heard from her since. “He never found her?”

  “Nope,” Spam says. “It’s like she left the planet.”

  Lysa and I exchange looks. “Sorry.”

  “Ah, it’s not that bad,” she says. “Thanks to her, I’ve got these cool trust issues that keep me from getting close to people … except for you guys … and now Lyman.”

  Spam’s phone pings with a text message coming through. She reads it. “Aggh. He says he can’t get to his mom’s phone.” She types a message back to him. “I’m telling him to check the computer. She probably has her contacts backed up there.”

  After a few minutes, another message comes in with the phone number. “He got it. Now, let’s see if this is going to work.” Spam accesses the directory. “Okay. I’m typing in Millie and the number. Fingers crossed.”

  We’re all waiting.

  “Okay. No address.” She closes her eyes and crosses her fingers, chanting, “Please, please, please. Just a name. That’s all we need.”

  There’s a ping. She opens her eyes and looks. “Johnson. Lyman’s grandmother’s name is Millicent Johnson.” Elated, Spam jumps up and writes this on the board under the facts we know.

  Lysa and I don’t share her euphoria. “Spam, that’s a pretty common name. There could be a million Millicent Johnsons,” I say.

  “Seven hundred and forty-one thousand hits,” Lysa says. “In just one search.”

  Spam points to the list on the board. “Yes. But how many Millicent Johnsons are there who lost a daughter to drugs and a grandson to a kidnapper, and has a daughter who is a doctor?”

  She has a point.

  “First, we’ll skim through the top photos to narrow our search. Then we’ll start searching for specifics. Trust me. This works.”

  “If it works, then how come your dad didn’t find your mom?” Lysa asks.

  “Clearly, she didn’t want to be found,” Spam says. “There’s a good chance that Millie would really like to get to know her grandson.”

  “Let’s hope.” This is a lot like what I was feeling not knowing who my father was. The main thing I wanted was to know that he was at least happy to find out that I exist. Maybe now is a good time to tell them about Victor. “By the way, I think I found out who my father is.”

  “Wait. What?” Lysa is so shocked she leaps out of her chair and it clatters backward.

  “Holy crap,” Spam says. “When did that happen and why didn’t you tell us?”

  “It was only a couple of days ago, but everything’s been so crazy we haven’t had a chance to talk about just stuff. Anyway, there’s a chance that it’s Victor.”

  “Wait. What?” Spam tilts her head, trying to figure this out.

  “It’s a long story … but he and my mom…” I shrug. They can figure out the rest.

  Spam and Lysa surround me, hugging and squealing.

  We’re making so much noise that Mr. Ramos appears at the bottom of the stairs, bedraggled, in his bathrobe with hair sticking up. “Holy cow,” he says. “What’s going on down here? I thought you were being murdered, and after I let that boy into the house.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” Spam says, trying to look contrite. “We’ll be quiet, I promise.”

  He wags his finger. �
�You better. Any littles who wake up because of your noise, I’m sending them down here for you to deal with.”

  “Fair enough,” Spam says.

  After Mr. Ramos leaves, I tell them about my conversation with Victor. To me, the best part of the story is how happy he was to possibly have a daughter.

  “Hopefully, that’s how Lyman’s grandmother will feel too,” Spam says.

  We narrow the search for Lyman’s grandma down to three Millie Johnsons—two who live on the other side of the country, and one who lives about five hours away in Washington State. The last one is the most logical because it’s near where the articles about Lyman’s parents were written.

  Spam prints out all three profiles. “We’ll show these to Lyman tomorrow. He might be able to eliminate one or two just on the facts.”

  It’s approaching midnight and it has been a pretty long day. Spam goes to the closet and drags out the sleeping bags and pillows. Lysa goes into the bathroom to change into her pajamas and brush her teeth.

  I sink down into a pile of pillows, but I bring the laptop with me. Instead of being tired after today’s drama, I’m ramped up. “Are you guys really ready to go to sleep?”

  “I am,” Spam says with a yawn.

  “Me too,” Lysa agrees.

  “I’m going to surf the net for a little while,” I say. “Okay?”

  Spam crawls into her sleeping bag. She waves. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Lysa gives her a disgusted look. “You know that either one of us would naturally stop way before you would, right?”

  Spam smiles as she snuggles down into her sleeping bag. “Yeah. But I like saying it anyway.”

  I dive into computer search mode. We found some solid answers for Lyman. I should be able to find the same for Journey.

  40

  It’s never a slam dunk, but a defendant can request a new trial if evidence surfaces that might change the outcome of the original verdict.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  “Erin. Erin.” Someone is shaking me.

  I’m majorly annoyed as this rude interruption yanks me out of the fog of a fantastic dream where I’m in a courtroom, on the witness stand, about to deliver the perfect hammer of evidence that will win the case.

  In reality I’m in a sleeping bag, on the floor of Spam’s basement. The laptop stands open on my chest and I’m surrounded by wadded up paper and scribbled on Post-it notes. Spam and Lysa are hovering over me.

  “Did you stay up all night surfing the net?” Lysa asks, accusation dripping from her words.

  I yawn and stretch. “I don’t think it was all night.”

  “Lightweight,” Spam says with a giggle.

  But I suddenly remember what I was doing and what I found. I sit straight up. Spam catches the laptop as it tumbles off my chest. “Oh man.”

  “What?” Lysa asks.

  “I have to see Journey. I think I found something that might help his father’s case.”

  “What,” Lysa asks.

  I hold up my hand. “Wait.” First, I check my phone to see if the links I sent to myself came through. I can’t risk losing what I found last night. Fist pump. They’re there.

  Next I send Journey a text asking about his plans for the day.

  He texts back that he’s already at the lab with Victor and will be there for most of the day. I ask if I can come over. I have some information for him.

  He texts back that Victor says we should all come, there’s plenty of work to be done and only a few days before camp opens. Journey reports Victor is offering pizza as a bribe.

  FOR BREAKFAST? I text back.

  WHENEVER, he writes.

  BRT, I reply.

  And the three of us hit the ground running to get ready.

  “We’re picking up Lyman on the way,” Spam says.

  As we’re heading out the door, I send a text to Rachel letting her know our plans for the day. She writes back that Victor had already mentioned he needed all available hands to get everything ready for the camp.

  In less time than it normally takes for me to pick out an outfit, we have Lyman and we’re at our favorite coffee place. Lysa and I handle the drink orders while Spam and Lyman huddle in the corner over the Millie profiles we found.

  I keep glancing over at them, trying to read their body language. But there appears to be no emotion involved, just the two of them hunched over the documents and their phones.

  When the coffees are ready, they join us and we transition back to the car.

  I can’t believe I’m the most curious of the three of us, but I can’t stand waiting. I have to know. “Well?”

  “We found her,” Spam says.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Lysa asks.

  “Yes.” Lyman laughs. “In the background of one of the Millie photos you can see a portion of a photo on a shelf … and it’s my mom. I’m positive I’ve seen it before.”

  “Which one was she?” Lysa asks.

  “The one in Washington State,” Lyman says. “She’s not that far.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I ask.

  Lysa and I are in the back, Lyman is in the front passenger seat. All eyes are on him. Spam’s literally holding her breath and waiting for him to speak before she starts the car.

  “I have three days to get everything ready and spend some time with my mom. Then I’ll leave and go to my grandmother’s. I just hope she’s been wishing for family.” His voice wavers, but he pauses to clear his throat. Spam places her hand over his. “I’ll plan to leave Friday. My mom works a long shift on Fridays and is usually so tired when she gets home she doesn’t even check on me until Saturday afternoon. I’ll leave a note telling her what I’ve done and why. That will give her the weekend to disappear.”

  “Would you like us to meet with her after you’re gone and tell her how we helped you? So that she’ll know you’re really okay?” Lysa asks.

  “No.” Lyman is adamant. “She needs to think that I’m the only one who knows the truth. Otherwise, she’ll really freak out.”

  “I get it,” I say.

  “Do you want us to take you home now?” Spam asks.

  “If it’s okay, I’d like to hang with you guys the rest of this week. I’m really sorry I’m going to miss the actual camp. It sounds like fun.”

  * * *

  The classroom is abuzz with activity. Coach Wilkins has a bunch of papers spread out on the long counter behind the teacher’s desk. It looks like he’s collating packets for all the campers, including Victor’s.

  “Hi, Coach,” I say.

  “Hi, Erin,“he replies.

  Victor is just heading out. He stops and grabs my head with both of his hands and makes a demonstration of planting a big smooch on my forehead.

  “You kids are lifesavers. See those boxes over in the corner? That’s what we picked up last night.” He wiggles his fingers in the direction of the supply room. “Make it disappear. Then you can start putting together kit boxes—think crime scene kit. One for each camper and maybe a couple of extras. I left a list on the desk. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Victor sweeps out the door, blowing kisses to Lysa and Spam on his way. He even gives Lyman’s shoulder a squeeze. “Good to see you again,” he says.

  As I watch him go, I can tell he’s distracted. This isn’t Victor’s normal MO. I just hope he really is dealing with all of this like he promised.

  Journey and Clay are on the lab side assembling a long white conference table. Together they stand it on its legs. Then Clay begins unpacking leather office-style chairs. He waves.

  I wave back a cup of coffee that I brought for Journey, who bounds over to the door.

  “Where’s mine?” Clay calls out.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here or I would have brought you one.”

  Lyman grabs a couple of boxes and leads the way into the storage room. Lysa and Spam follow him.

  Journey checks his watch. “I ordered the pizza.” He le
ans against one of the desks. “So, what was going on last night? You sounded really weird and you basically hung up on me.”

  I glance at the storage room. Everyone else is in there. I hate lying to Journey. But what choice do I have?

  “Nothing,” I say. “You know how it is with Lysa and Spam. Sometimes they get on each other’s nerves and I’m in the middle. It’s all okay now, though.”

  “Really?” he asks. “Because Lysa said hi, but Spam’s avoiding me. And Lyman’s here again? When did that become a thing?” Journey edges toward the storage room. To keep him away from the door, I move in the opposite direction. I don’t want him overhearing any risky conversations they might have.

  “He and Spam are in that space.” I make fluttery romantic eyes, but Journey only looks more confused. “Victor doesn’t seem to mind.” I grab Journey’s shirt and lead him toward the center of the room. “Anyway, I have something to show you.”

  He glances into the lab. Clay’s now lying on the floor, tightening the screws on wheels on the chairs. “I should be in there helping Clay,” he says.

  Clay waves. “No worries. I’ve got this.”

  I tap some keys on my phone. “So, last night I stayed up surfing the net because I’m still working on the ballistics stuff for the camp.”

  “I thought you were tired,” Journey says.

  I’m a terrible liar. “I was when you called, but then I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, I came across something you need to see.”

  “What’s that?” Journey asks.

  “Remember how your father claimed he didn’t have any shells for the shotgun?”

  “Yeah,” Journey says.

  “Well, I hope you won’t get mad, but I looked up the transcripts from his trial. There’s not much listed in as evidence.”

  “I know,” Journey says.

  “But they found a bunch of shell casings that had been fired from his gun.”

  Journey looks sad. “Yeah. That’s one of the things that kinda stuck with me. Either my father is straight-up lying or someone else was shooting his gun.”

  “Exactly. So, look at this.” I open my phone to an online article. “I’ll send it to you, but basically forensics investigators have discovered something new. The heat produced by firing a bullet can actually etch the fingerprint of the person who loaded that bullet onto the brass casing of the shell, preserving it forever.”