To Catch a Killer(36)

“Wow. You made that look easy,” Journey says.

“Lifting prints isn’t hard; it just takes a lot of practice to keep the tape from sticking to itself.”

“What’s next?” he asks.

“The inside.”

I open the door and look for any and all smooth surfaces where fingerprints might show up. There’s not much. The dash is old and the paint is chipping off so it’s not a good candidate for maintaining fingerprints. The seats are worn and rough. Still trying to put myself into the mind of the person who took the van, I pretend like I’m getting in for the very first time.

Being mindful of every action I would have taken, late at night, in an unfamiliar van, I decide I would look into the back and make sure there was no one else in the van with me. I carefully tip the driver’s seat forward using only one gloved finger. The back of the seat is smooth black plastic that is not worn like the front. At the very top, I can see four clear fingerprints before I even dust the area with powder. It looks like someone gripped the back of the seat and turned around to peer deep into the van.

Journey and I exchange a look. “I touched the back of the seat earlier,” he says. “Remember?”

“We’ll eliminate your fingerprints if they show up,” I explain. “We’re just hoping to find the prints of someone who never should have been in your van to begin with.”

After we’ve taken care of the fingerprints, I give the whole inside of the van a detailed inspection. Only one other thing stands out: a shred of notebook paper wedged in the driver’s seat-belt clip.

I retrieve tweezers from my kit to remove the crumpled scrap. I smooth it out. It’s about one inch long and half an inch wide. It’s part of a note, written in blue ink. The top line reads: “ur DNA” and below that are the letters “ked” and “Pre”. But I can’t decipher that.

Grasping the corner of the note with tweezers, I hold it up for Journey’s inspection. “Is this yours?”

He shakes his head. “Seriously, chimpanzees have better handwriting than I do.”

“Okay. I think we’ve done all we can do here. I’ll save this anyway. It could be a clue or it could be nothing.”

I get out of the van and carry everything over to the wall where I parked Vespy. I take a seat on the ground and open the cargo area. I have to enter every piece of evidence into my notebook and organize it before I can stow it. The scrap of paper goes into a small Ziploc bag and back into the toolbox. The fingerprint cards slip into an outside pocket of my messenger bag. I jot down everything we found and where we found it.

Behind me, there’s a rusty creak as Journey opens the door to the van. “Cross your fingers that this piece of junk will actually start,” he calls out.

I raise my hand over my head, fingers crossed. I make a conscious choice not to turn and gaze at him because it would be easy to get all distracted. Journey Michaels almost freakin’ kissed me. That’s huge. Huge. My lips tingle a little.

He’ll try it again. Right?

The van engine rumbles to life and I smile. Sure, I could get home on my scooter, but it would mean going it alone.

“We’re good to go.” Journey strides past me and hops the wall on his way to the house. “Want a soda for the ride home?” He walks backward for a couple of steps and nearly trips. I shoo him on and go back to organizing my notes. Damn, he’s adorable.

Behind me the van engine revs high—our chariot is warmed up and ready. Strangely, the engine continues to rev until it becomes a scream. I glance over my shoulder at the exact moment that something snaps and the van rockets forward on a straight path toward me.

Literal deer in headlights.

I’m gripped with fear; nothing moves right. I untangle my legs and struggle to my feet. The van thunders toward me. My brain tries to decide—right or left?

Vespy!

I grab her handlebars and tug. She doesn’t budge.

Her foot peg is snagged on the wall.

I tug harder as the van screams toward me.





19

An investigator’s first step, before collecting any evidence, is to develop a theory regarding the type of offense that occurred.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


A thousand thoughts collide all at once: the missed kiss, moon, Rachel, Mom, peaches, Miss P, oranges.

Nearly on top of me, the van appears monstrous.

I cringe and brace for the impact, frozen where I stand. Journey looms over me from the other side of the wall. He’s right in my face: his eyes huge, his jaw muscles bulging. His fingers gouge the soft flesh of my armpits. He yanks me toward him.

“Erin!” he bellows.

I go limp, and with one massive effort he falls back. My head slams the top edge of stones as he hauls me over the wall. At the last second my right foot tangles in Vespy’s handlebars.

“My foot,” I gasp.

Journey rolls to free me from the scooter, winding up on top of me. He hunkers down, forming a protective shield against everything but the screech of metal compacting metal and the huge cloud of dust. Finally, with a choke and shudder, the van dies, it’s quiet again, and we’re still alive.

“What the—?”

Journey leaps off of me, his expression a twist of horror. “You’re bleeding.”