To Catch a Killer(54)

I squint and flatten the scrap of paper I pulled from the seat-belt clasp in Journey’s van to see if I recognize the handwriting. But there’s not enough handwriting to tell. All I know is I need pens with blue ink. I check the ones I brought from Miss Peters’s desk in the biology lab. Three are black ink and the fourth one kind of looks like the special pen Chief Culson gave me.

I paw through my purse until my fingers wrap around the chief’s special pen. Now I inspect it more closely. The outside is black with a brass band and a brass lever and clip. I pull off the cap and test it. It’s a fountain pen and the ink is blue. There’s a decorative CS crest stamped into the top of the clip.

I compare it with Miss P’s pen. They are identical, except instead of being black, the outside of hers is a green marble color. Both of them have blue ink, though.

I decide to test them both.

The FBI has sophisticated machines that do all the work breaking down ink. But instructions for do-it-yourself versions are all over the Internet. I’ve done it several times in our lab at school, and even demonstrated it live once for a science fair project.

The scientific part is that ink—or lipstick, or any other product with color—isn’t just one color; it’s made up of different dyes and compounds all mixed together. Each pen company has their own unique recipe. Who knew, right? Blue ink might look the same on the page, but a chroma test breaks the ingredients down so that they show up as bands of different colors. These bands of color are so specific they’re like a serial number or fingerprint of the exact brand of ink. The colors can be pretty wild, too, like violet and rust.

In about twenty minutes, I’ll know if any of these pens match the note.

The supplies for a chromatography test can be found in almost anyone’s home. The important items are pure acetone (basically nail polish remover) and a coffee filter cut into strips about the same length and width as the scrap of paper.

I work quickly to prepare the strips. I label the back of each one with the type of pen and place a dot of ink exactly one-half inch from the bottom edge. I prepare the fourth strip by lifting some ink off of the note with a drop of acetone on a Q-tip and then transferring it to the bottom edge of a fresh filter strip.

When all four strips are lined up in a row, the location of the ink on the bottom is identical. When the strips are ready, I attach them to paper clips and thread them onto a chopstick, which will hold all four strips in a straight row. I lower the whole row of strips into a measuring cup containing a small amount of the acetone. The chopstick rests across the top of the cup, allowing the strips to hang side by side—without touching each other—while only the ends soak in the liquid.

I kick my feet up on the desk and set the timer on my phone for twenty minutes, an amount of time which I plan to spend doing some deep wondering about what Journey is doing right now.

Almost immediately my phone vibrates. I drop it into my lap like a hot rock.

Holy crap! It’s a Snapchat friend request from B-Baller386.

My heart vaults straight out of my chest. It has to be Journey. Right?

I quickly accept.

A moment later, a stunning photo of the lighthouse at Cape Disappointment appears on my phone. The caption reads: YOU = THE OPPOSITE OF DISAPPOINTMENT.

I leap up and pogo dance around the attic, waving my arms like a crazy person before racing back to my phone to read his message again … and again.

But, sigh, Snapchat. It’s already gone.

I want to send him a message back.

My hair’s a mess. No makeup. I look around the attic. There must be something I can photograph to remind him of us. Ah. I snap a photo of the spot on the rug where we were sitting Friday night.

Then add a caption: WE NEED TO STICK TOGETHER.

I pause before hitting send and read it back. Stick together? What am I thinking? Could I be more boring? This is like saying you gave me a cookie, let me reply by giving you oatmeal.

I change my response to read: THANKS, YOU TOO. My finger hovers over send. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m saying thank you for the compliment and you aren’t a disappointment, either. No, wait. That’s not what I want to say. I change it again: YOU’RE WELCOME.

I read it back. You’re welcome—over the photo of a dark spot of worn rug. Are you kidding me? Who am I, his grandma?

Agggh. I tap my head with frustrated fists, actually accidentally snapping a photo of the tips of my hair sticking up from my messy clip. Arrgh!

What’s wrong with me? Why is this so hard?

The timer goes off, signaling that the test is complete. I lift the chopstick off the measuring cup, carefully slide the strips off, and lay them on a paper towel to dry. I make sure that the strips don’t touch each other, but I don’t take the time to inspect them. I’m still panicking over creating the perfect response to Journey.

I’m trying to think of something witty to say and a new photo to take when I remember how the last time we were together he was playing with the tips of my hair. That memory sends some dreamy goodness through me and gives me a strange confidence. Over the weirdly angled photo of my hair I type: “My hair misses you.” Yep. I’m going with that. I’m just going to hit send and not look back.

But then I do look back. My hair misses you? Really? How many layers of lame is that? Thinking … thinking … thinking … I glance over at my ink tests and realize—holy crap—I’ve got a match.