Forensics Squad Unleashed (4 page)

Lloyd presses the sticky tape down on an index card, then writes out his name in block letters along the top of the card, last name first.

“Is this how the police do it?” Stacey asks as she tears off a piece of sticky tape from the roll.

“Basically, yes,” Lloyd answers. “Of course, the police also enter their evidence on computers. We won’t be doing that this week. So I’m curious…any of you interested in becoming forensic scientists—or police officers?”

Nathaniel looks up from his index card. “My dad’s a cop.”

“You didn’t answer Lloyd’s question,” I tell Nathaniel.

“I said, ‘My dad’s a cop.’”

“My dad is an accountant,” I say. “So is Mason’s. That doesn’t mean we want to be accountants, does it, Mason?”

“I want to be a pastry chef,” Mason says.

Nathaniel blows some leftover dust off his mug. “Of course I want to be a cop.” As if there could be any doubt.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to be a forensic scientist,” I say.

Mason’s eyes are darting back and forth between Nathaniel and me. “Tabitha knows more about forensic science than any kid I ever met,” he says. Mason’s admiring tone makes me feel slightly guilty. Mason is annoying, there’s no question about it. But I suppose I could try being a
touch
nicer to him.

“Are you two best friends?” Muriel asks us.

That makes us both laugh.

“Kind of,” Mason says.

“Not exact—” I catch myself before correcting him. “It’s complicated,” I say instead—besides, it’s the truth.

“Tabitha’s best friend is this girl named Patti,” Stacey says.

Muriel turns to Nathaniel. “So is that why you came to forensics camp? Because you want to be a cop one day like your dad?”

Nathaniel looks over at the poster of the skulls. Something tells me he would rather be hanging out with them than with us. “To be honest, I didn’t want to go to any kind of camp. My parents needed me out of their way this week.”

“How come?” Muriel asks.

“Are they getting the floors done?” Nico chimes in. “We had to stay with our neighbors when we had our floors redone.”

Nathaniel has not taken his eyes off the poster. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Samantha looks up from collecting the wands and magnetic dust. “Whatever the reason is, we’re glad to have you here, Nathaniel.” I think she is trying to send Muriel and Nico the message that they should quit asking Nathaniel personal questions.

But Muriel does not quit. She may not be tactful, but she has advanced interrogation skills. “Is someone sick? Or did someone die? Is that why you’d rather not talk about it?”

Nathaniel shakes his head. “Not quite, but it’s almost as bad. Look, if you really want to know”—he finally stops looking at the poster—“my grandmother is getting married on Saturday.”

“What’s so bad about that?” I ask. “Weddings are fun.”

“There’s usually cake with buttercream frosting,” Mason adds. He gets a faraway look in his eyes when he mentions frosting.

Nathaniel scowls. “My grandmother is seventy-one. That’s too old to get married. It’s embarrassing. What’s even worse is she’s marrying some guy she met at her bereavement group. She went there to mourn my grandpa—not to meet his replacement!”

Lloyd takes the magnetic powder from Samantha and empties it into a glass container. Samantha puts the wands away in a drawer.

Lloyd blows some magnetic powder off his fingers, then looks up at Nathaniel. “I’m sure no one could ever replace your grandpa,” he says softly.

“You’re right about that. My grandpa is”—Nathaniel sucks in his breath—“
was
really cool.”

“Some stuff just takes getting used to,” Lloyd adds. I cannot tell whether the advice is for Nathaniel or if Lloyd is speaking from experience.

Samantha watches Lloyd. When she clears her throat, I know it’s because she wants to get us back on track. I don’t think Samantha enjoys talking about feelings. She prefers facts. I’m like that too. “Now that we’ve put all the fingerprinting equipment away, it’s time to talk about tomorrow. That’s when Lloyd and I are going to tell you about the case that will be the focus of the rest of forensics camp.”

Nathaniel is back to slouching in his chair. “So are we ever going to find out who hit the cyclist?”

“I’m afraid not,” Samantha says. “That was just a mock crime scene to introduce forensic photography, fingerprinting and note taking.”

When Nathaniel groans, Lloyd does that thing he does with his arm—extending it like he’s a traffic cop at a busy corner. “Think of that bicycle case as the preview before the main attraction,” he says.

Nathaniel’s cell phone vibrates in his pocket. “I hate that noise,” he mutters.

“You can fix it,” Muriel tells him. “If you don’t like the steady pulse, you can adjust it. It’s under
Settings
. Want me to show you?”

“My sister knows everything about cell phones and computers,” Nico says. “Unfortunately, she was not blessed with my sense of humor.”

Muriel rolls her eyes. “You make enough bad jokes for the whole family. Including Stacey’s side.”

Nathaniel’s cell phone vibrates again.

“Don’t you want to see who’s calling?” Muriel asks. “What if it’s about the wedding?”

Nathaniel shrugs. “What if it is?”

My parents are always saying I need to work on developing my emotional intelligence. They should meet Nathaniel. Compared to him, I’m an emotional Einstein.

FIVE

From the outside, our house looks a bit like a prison. An eight-foot fence barricades the property, and there are iron bars over the basement windows. When the house was broken into, the thieves got in through the basement. If the city would allow it, I’m sure Mom would put barbed wire at the top of the fence.

“It’s me,” I call when I unlock the front door and tap in the security code for the alarm. I am so used to announcing myself, I do it even when nobody is home. “Mom? Dad?”

I expect my parents to be waiting, eager to hear about my first day at forensics camp. But nobody answers. I kick off my sandals. There is still no sign of Mom or Dad, and I can’t help feeling a little lonesome.

Dad’s car is in the driveway, so he must be back from work. Maybe they went for a walk. Mom’s boss is so happy with her sales numbers, he agreed to let her work from home three days a week. The only problem with the new
arrangement is that she isn’t getting as much exercise now that she isn’t walking to her office as often. Which is why she’s been badgering Dad to join her for walks on her at-home days.

I leave my backpack on the floor and head for the kitchen, where I open the fridge. How can a fridge be so full and yet have nothing in it that I feel like eating? Cheese? Red grapes? Greek yogurt? Nah. I’m in the mood for chocolate pudding or tortilla chips dunked in salsa. But ever since Dad was diagnosed with high blood pressure, Mom’s been shopping strictly according to the Heart and Stroke Foundation guidelines. There’s a
Canada’s Food Guide
poster on the fridge door. I grab a pen from the counter and write
SALSA
in the vegetable area.

That’s when I hear the music. It’s thin and reedy-sounding, like it’s coming from a snake charmer’s flute. Definitely not the soft rock my parents usually listen to. For a moment, I stand in the kitchen and listen. I am trying to decide whether I like or hate the sound. I think I am closer to hating it.

I follow the music downstairs to the den. The air smells sweet and sort of powdery. What is going on down there?

“Mom? Dad?”

They do not answer.

My parents are sitting across from each other on the rug, an ivory candle in a brass candleholder between them. Their legs are folded under them; their hands rest in their laps.

“Tabitha!” Mom says, popping up from the rug. “You startled me!”

The powdery smell is coming from a cone of incense burning on the mantel.

I could apologize, but I don’t. I haven’t done anything wrong. “What are you guys doing?” I ask.

Mom has gotten back into position. She takes a deep breath in, then exhales loudly. “Your father wanted us to try meditating.”

“It’s harder than it looks,” Dad says, getting up to give me a hug. He is still wearing his work clothes, and his shirt feels stiff against my face. “Tell us all about forensics camp,” he says into my hair.

I stay by the door. I am afraid that if I walk into the den, my parents will try to make me meditate too. “It was cool. We learned how to do forensic photography and dust for fingerprints. Tomorrow we’re getting a case to solve. Hey, Dad, did you know there was something called
forensic accounting
?”

“I’ve heard of it. But they certainly didn’t offer that sort of thing when I was at university. If they did, I’d have signed up,” Dad says.

Mom lets her hands hover by her sides, thumbs and index fingers touching.

“How did Mason like forensics camp?” Dad asks. He sits back down across from Mom and does the same weird thing with his fingers.

“I guess he liked it. If you don’t mind my asking—why are you guys doing that thing with your fingers?”

“It’s called the Gyan Mudra,” Dad says. “Your mother and I just watched a
DVD
about meditation, and we learned how to do it.”

“The Gyan Mudra is supposed to generate wisdom and calmness,” my mom adds.

Calmness? That explains it. Meditating must be Dad’s latest scheme to help Mom chill out. And, knowing Mom, she’s probably hoping that meditation will help reduce Dad’s blood pressure. It is probably not a good time to point out that so far the Gyan Mudra does not seem to be working.

“Maybe you’d like to try meditating sometime too. We could all stand to mellow out a bit,” Dad says. “Meditating could be a family activity.”

I take two steps back. “Going to the beach is a family activity. Skiing is a family activity. Meditating is
not
a family activity. I think I’ll go up to my room and read. That’s my way of
mellowing out
.”

For people who are supposed to be meditating, my mom and dad are talking an awful lot. I hear them as I go upstairs. “I don’t know where Tabitha gets that harshness,” my dad is saying. “Neither of us is harsh.”

“Maybe the forensics camp wasn’t the best idea after all. Maybe it’s dredging stuff up for her from—” Mom drops her voice, which is how I know she must be talking about the break-in. Though the subject comes up a lot when she talks to clients, she avoids it when I’m around. I think she is afraid it might upset me. Which it kind of does, but less and less as time goes on.

“The meditating might help,” my dad says.

“I don’t think I like meditating,” Mom says. “It makes me anxious.”

My dad laughs. Not a happy laugh. A worn-out laugh. “We have to give it a try, Lila. You need to learn to relax—not only for yourself, but for me and Tabitha. We need you—even if we don’t always show it.”

I stop on the stairs and think about what my dad just said. I know I can be harsh—and the part about needing my mom feels true too. But that only makes me mad. I hate feeling needy. Maybe that’s why I try not to show it.

Needy.
Wasn’t that the word Mason used to describe the Chihuahua on the poster? Rexford. The dog who went missing. I remember Rexford’s small sad eyes. Am I really like that?

And then I get a brilliant idea. I take the stairs back down to the basement two at a time and throw open the door to the den. Dad has turned off the flute music and blown out the candle. He is scooping up the ashes from the incense burner.

“You know what might help us all relax—even more than meditation? A dog!”

Dad rubs his eyes the way he does when he is waking up in the morning. “Dogs shed,” he says. “And drool and scratch the floors. You know how fussy I am about the house.”

“What if I’d clean up after it?” I say.

“And who’d walk the dog?” Dad asks.

“Uh, me, I guess. And if you and Mom wanted to, it would be a great way to get some more exercise.”

“Tabitha is right about the exercise,” Mom says. “And a dog would be company for her, but who’d look after the dog if we’re out of town?”

Luckily, I have an answer for that too. “We could ask the Johnsons. I bet Mason would love to look after a dog.”

And then I have a brilliant idea. I borrow Mom’s number-one sales technique—fear. “I wasn’t thinking so much about a companion. I was thinking we could get a
guard dog
. For protection.”

They do not say no. With my parents, that just might mean the answer is yes.

SIX

When Mason and I show up for day two of forensics camp, Samantha and Lloyd are in the lobby, looking at a poster by the elevator. Another dog has gone missing. This one is a white standard poodle named Ringo.

I want to tell Samantha and Lloyd about the missing Chihuahua, and also that we might be getting a dog, but then the other kids turn up and there isn’t time.

“Before we get started today, we thought we’d show you where the university cafeteria is,” Lloyd tells us. “Because it’s summer and there are fewer students in the building, the cafeteria is on summer hours through August. If you want to buy something to eat, it’s only open in the morning from seven to nine and for lunch between twelve and one thirty. It’s just down this hallway.”

“I figured that out already,” Stacey says, sniffing the air as we follow the counselors down the hall. When I look at
her, she explains, “I smell toast. My mom says I must’ve been a dog in my last life.”

That is another opening for me to tell everyone we might be getting a dog, but Samantha is explaining stuff again. I hope I get a chance soon to tell the others my news. “A forensic scientist needs a good nose,” Samantha is saying.

Nathaniel crinkles his nose. “Not if there are corpses around.” He is wearing another skull-and-crossbones T-shirt. I wonder if he has a collection.

Thinking about collections makes me twirl my bracelet. The one I am wearing today has a tiny magnifying glass dangling from it.

“How come you’re so obsessed with corpses?” I ask Nathaniel.

“No reason.” Nathaniel does not make eye contact when he says that. Which is why I decide there must be a reason.