To Catch a Killer(78)

The chief is dating Rachel, which means he knows the inside of our house. He might even have a key. In fact, Rachel admitted that he was here that very night.

The tie that brought Journey and me together links the murders of Miss P and my mother. Only the killer or someone with access to my mother’s evidence box would know that. Chief Culson had access to my mother’s evidence box.

The fingerprints in Journey’s van matched Chief Culson and the ink on the scrap of paper matched his special pen. Even the phone calls Miss Peters received in her final days were mostly from his private line.

Only the DNA didn’t match. Or at least that’s what Victor wanted me to believe.

Damn! Where is Journey? I check e-mail again. Are they making him work a double shift on his first day?

My frantic mind-hopping takes me from worrying about Journey to remembering that Chief Culson’s gym clothes are here. I peek into Rachel’s room; the gym bag is on the chair. I bring his shoes out to the kitchen. I’m both surprised and not surprised to see they’re also the Michael Jordan brand. What is it with these guys and Michael Jordan shoes?

I’m also not surprised to see they’re a size eleven. These guys are all about the same height, so I guess that makes sense. The soles are pretty worn on both shoes so it’s hard to tell what a print would look like.

I need to do a test.

I set the shoes on the table while I whip up a batch of fake blood. Miss Peters used fake blood for a class one time on latent evidence. I mix about half a cup of light Karo syrup with a few drops of red food coloring. Yummy.

Where should I do the test? Stamping fake blood on paper won’t look the same as a hard surface like a floor. But it has to be a place where Rachel won’t kill me if the food coloring stains a little. My choices are the garage or the back patio.

Grabbing the kitchen flashlight, I leave the shoes on the table but bring the fake blood and a couple of Popsicle sticks. As I head down the stairs, my movement activates the motion detector on our outdoor lights. They blink on, startling me and bathing the driveway in twin pools of light.

I freeze. What if the killer’s watching me?

No, wait. He’s off with Rachel.

Ugh! That makes me feel worse.

Scurrying to the side door of the garage, I swing it open. The creak is a mocking whine and the musty smell engulfs my head like a helmet.

I nervously bounce the flashlight beam around the garage. Everything looks normal. Rachel’s Honda Accord is parked in her spot. With my finger I dab a little fake blood on the floor, but the cement is too slick to get a good impression.

The patio it is.

At the farthest edge of the patio, behind the table and umbrella, I take a leaf from the yard, dip it in the blood, and stamp it on the cement.

It leaves a perfect outline of the leaf and all its veins.

I can test Chief Culson’s shoe here and, according to Victor, as long as I don’t clean the shoe with oxygen bleach I won’t even destroy any real blood evidence.

Just as I’m about to stand up, headlights from a car lurch into the driveway. It’s moving fast and the brakes make a squealing stop.

I’m relieved because for a second I think it’s Victor. Then I recognize the hulking shape of Journey’s van. Even better. He can help me do the shoe print. The driver jumps out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on. But it’s not Journey. I stare, confused.

Principal Roberts?

Truth be told, I’m relieved to see any adult at this point. And at least he’s one I know I can trust. I’m about to throw myself at him when he staggers to the front of the van. His movements are jerky and frantic. He dabs at a dark stain on his forehead. There’s a stream of something dark seeping from the side of his lip, too. He presses a bright green rag to it.

Is that blood?

Wow. Now I notice that his hair is disheveled and the shoulder of his sleeve is torn. He scrubs at a spot on his hand with the bright green rag, which I slowly realize isn’t a rag at all, but the green delivery-person armband Journey was wearing.

Something’s not right.

I duck back down behind the table. That fear I earlier wrote off as crazy paranoia is back like a runaway freight train with no brakes. Victor should be home any minute and I’m not coming out until he gets here.

Just when I think it can’t get worse, I notice how the headlights cutting through the decorative rail around our back stairs cast a long, skinny, shadowy cross that points directly to my hiding place.

For my entire life, this image has been the one thing capable of sending me into a full-scale panic attack. But I’ve worked on it with my therapist. It’s just a shadow, nothing more. Just a shadow. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head and try to loosen my chest so I can breathe.

Once Principal Roberts finishes cleaning his hand, he tosses the armband into a bush. Taking out his phone, he punches in a number, then waits, agitated, pacing back and forth in front of the van.

“Pick up the phone, Erin,” he says out loud, frustrated.

There’s a vibration in my pocket, I slip my phone out just enough to view the screen. It’s Journey. First, there’s an excited flutter. Then I remember—Journey lost his phone. I study Principal Roberts, pacing angrily, phone in his hand, and my stomach sours.





38

Footprints and tire tracks can be left on—and also found and lifted from—nearly any surface.