To Catch a Killer(44)

While the TA sets up the equipment for the movie, Mrs. Henderson moves her papers to the back of the room. Just beyond her is the door to the lab. Holding my strap in my hand, I make my way over to stand in front of her. In a low whisper, I explain that my shirt ripped and ask for permission to slip into the next room to fix it.

“Oh dear,” she says sincerely. “Maybe you should go to the nurse instead.”

“Huh? No. I mean, uh, I can’t. Because … um, well I’m not hurt, and what if someone else was really sick and the nurse ignored them because she was fixing my strap? That would be awful, right?” I add a pleading-puppy look to seal the deal.

Mrs. Henderson is grandmotherly and kind, not stupid. She narrows her eyes. “Calm down, dear. What I meant to say is that the nurse can probably hand you a safety pin, which shouldn’t prevent her from providing care to others.”

Great. Since when are subs such devoted problem solvers? I shake my head. “Oh, yeah, but see, a safety pin will show, and look, I have this sewing kit and everything. My friend can help me fix it quickly.” I motion to Spam, who responds with a scowl.

Mrs. Henderson glances from me to Spam and back to me again. I try to look hopeful and trustworthy. Reluctantly, she agrees. I motion for Spam to follow me. But she shakes her head.

What? Like I have time for this.

I grab Spam’s sleeve and tug. She either comes with me or her favorite pink sweater is going to have one arm longer than the other. She frowns, but follows. We slip into the lab and I lock the door behind us.

The lab is a large room, about the same size as the classroom, but designed with tables in the middle and room for activity stations along the counters against each wall. A certain amount of clutter is normal for this space. But today things look particularly disorganized.

Spam slouches. “I was planning to sleep through the movie.”

I guide her straight over to Miss Peters’s desk. “No time for naps. Boot up her computer and copy all of her files to your cloud drive.”

Spam starts clicking keys. “We shouldn’t be in here,” she says.

“Maybe not, but I’m guessing we’ll only get one shot at this, and we owe it to Miss Peters to do our best. Besides, we know what the lab looked like before. The police won’t have a clue if something is missing … or new.”

Next to Miss Peters’s computer is a holder containing pens and pencils, and I remember the scrap of paper we found in Journey’s van. It had the word DNA on it.

I know it’s a long shot but if I could prove that scrap came from a note written by Miss P, it might actually be a real clue. I scoop up all the pens and jam them into my pocket. Next, I open the sewing kit and find a tiny safety pin. I slip my arm out of my top and reattach my strap. Then I take a closer look around.

“Whoa. Somebody trashed this place,” I say.

“It looks the same to me.” Spam glances up from the keyboard and shrugs.

“Not really.” I gaze at the chaotic mess of papers covering the entire top of Miss P’s desk. Along the walls, all of the activity stations have been shoved to one end of the counter. Instead of being spaced out to accommodate two or three students, the microscopes are shoved together and toppled over. The cupboard doors are ajar.

There isn’t stuff thrown all over the floor, but otherwise, the status of the lab isn’t that different from my bedroom after the police executed their search warrant. “Someone’s been in here looking for something.”

“Probably the police,” Spam says.

“Maybe,” I say, but I’m thinking, Not really. The mess they left in my room was methodical. This is haphazard.

I wander toward the back of the room. “This stuff is new.”

Stuck in a big jumble with everything else is a small centrifuge and a plain box made of clear acrylic with a black and red electrical wire coming out of it. There are also bottles of gels and dyes, gel trays, and a small light box.

Bam! “Here it is. A motive for Miss Peters’s murder.”

Spam’s head snaps up. “What?”

“This is everything she needed to run DNA.”

Spam shakes her head. “But she was killed before she could actually do it, right?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I inspect the bottles. “These bottles have been opened.” Neither Journey nor I knew Miss Peters was looking to run DNA for anyone else. And this makes me wonder: What else didn’t we know? “She told me she was keeping her plan under wraps until the right time. But if she ran DNA on the wrong person, it could definitely be a motive for them to kill her.”

“Maybe you should show all of this stuff to the police,” Spam says.

“The equipment doesn’t prove anything, though. We need to know if she actually ran any tests.”

Since I’m standing next to the lab refrigerator, I open the freezer. It’s empty except for a large, white plastic tub with a bold black label that reads: LIVE BACTERIA. I smile. This was my favorite Miss P joke. There’s no live bacteria in here. This is where Miss P used to hide her Popsicles and candy bars.

I take out the tub and pry off the top, expecting to find a couple of fruit pops and a Snickers bar. What’s there instead is a plastic box about the size of an iPhone. Inside are four small vials. I inspect the box and the labels on the side of each vial. It’s a kind of code. I’m in the process of deciding what to do with this discovery when there’s a light tap on the door. The knob turns, but it’s locked.