This time, D.D. nodded. I could tell that statement didn’t surprise her. But then maybe that was the life of a homicide detective, trying to help people who didn’t trust the police to save them. People like me.
“There’s been two more shootings since the murder of your family,” D.D. said now. “Both times, a female matching your description was seen in the area. It’s in your own best interest if we can eliminate you as a suspect. To that end, I’d like you to come over to the table, where I’m going to test your hands for GSR.”
“But I told Flora”—Sarah spoke up—“Roxy was with me during this morning’s incident. It couldn’t have been her.”
D.D. ignored Sarah completely, staring at Roxy instead. The girl climbed reluctantly to her feet, went on over.
Roxy was wearing a long-sleeve thin red T-shirt with a pair of faded jeans. There was a stain on the left arm of her shirt, more dirt along her torso, as if she’d recently been crawling. Maybe scuttling around the vacant office space, or shimmying along the catwalks above the theater. Or pulling herself through a tight window to hide her comings and goings.
Her face was pale and too square, like her cheeks and chin were still sorting themselves out. Instead of jet-black hair, she’d inherited flat, dull brown locks. I remember what Anya had said—that Roxy was ugly. I thought that was harsh. But compared to her mother’s and sister’s exotic beauty, Roxy looked plain. You wouldn’t notice her in a crowded room, which, for the past twenty-four hours, had probably come in handy.
She did have pretty eyes. Hazel with deep green flecks. I wondered if she appreciated this feature, or if every time she looked in the mirror, she just saw what wasn’t there. Personally, I didn’t look in mirrors anymore. I was too intimated by the harsh gaze I found staring back at me.
D.D. opened up a plastic container that seemed to contain large plastic envelopes. She had Roxy take a seat at the table.
“When was the last time you washed your hands?” she asked the girl.
“I don’t know. This morning.”
“Shower? Plenty of soap and water?”
Roxy glanced down at her dirty clothes and smudged skin self-consciously. “I haven’t had a chance for much of anything these past twenty-four hours.”
D.D. nodded her head. “Good. The key principle behind evidence collection,” she said, unwrapping the first plastic envelope, which I could now see contained some kind of cloth, “is transference. For example, fire a gun, transfer gunshot powder onto your skin.”
“Does it matter what kind of gun?” Roxy asked curiously.
“No. The test will detect traces of nitrites common in most GSRs.”
“But time should matter, right? Hector, he was shot yesterday afternoon.”
“You know when Hector was shot?” D.D. asked evenly. She slid her left hand into the plastic envelope. When she pulled it back out, her hand was encased in some kind of plain white mitt. A sterile mitt, I realized. That’s what the plastic was all about, to protect the cloth from cross contamination prior to use.
“I saw Hector get shot. I was across the street. I wanted to make sure he got the dogs, that Blaze and Rosie were okay.”
On the floor next to Sarah’s couch, both dogs glanced up at the sound of their names, thumped their tails.
“You didn’t use them for bait?”
“My dogs?” Roxy sounded genuinely horrified.
“Did you see who shot Hector?” D.D. picked up the first of three spray bottles. She took two steps toward the kitchen sink, then, holding her gloved hand above the stainless steel, started to methodically spray down the cotton mitt with whatever substance was in the first spray bottle. She kept misting.
Roxy, Sarah, and I stared in rapt fascination.
“Hector?” D.D. prompted, saturating the glove.
“Umm . . . I didn’t see. Couldn’t see. From my window, I looked over and down at the coffee shop tables. I could see the dogs a little bit. Hector, as well. Then . . . I heard the gunshot. It startled me. I fell back from the window. By the time I regained my view, people were running and Hector was down on the ground. I didn’t know what to do. So I grabbed my pack and I ran, too.”
D.D. looked up from the sink. Her blue eyes were nearly crystalline. “Where?”
“Umm . . . I could hear sirens coming from my left. So I headed right, down the street. I found another café, ducked into the bathroom. I had a black sweatshirt in my pack. I put it on. Then I twisted my hair into a knot on the back of neck so it would look shorter, you know, from the front.”
“Good thinking,” D.D. said wryly. She glanced in my direction. “How very prepared of you.”
“I’d, um . . . I’d recently been doing some reading on the subject,” Roxy mumbled. Then, stiffening her spine: “I was still worried, though. So many police cars were pouring into the area, and of course, there was the Amber Alert, my picture flashing on every screen. So I bought a scarf from a vendor across the street. Big red flowers. The scarf reminded me of my mom. I thought she’d like it.”
Roxy’s voice caught. “Patterns distract. People see them, not you. So I, um, I wrapped the scarf around my neck. Then I started working my way toward the community theater. But it was slow going. So many cops. I kept having to duck into stores, that sort of thing. But once I made it to the theater, I collapsed. Holed up for the night.”
D.D. didn’t say anything. She returned to the table with her single mitted hand. She stared hard at Roxy, and belatedly, the girl lifted both her hands off the table.
“Ideally, this test should’ve been performed right after the alleged incident,” D.D. explained. “But nitrite residue is tougher to get off than most people think, especially under the fingernails. It’s also easy to smear onto other surfaces, such as your backpack, which you most likely grabbed right after the shooting but never thought to wash. Or other items of clothing.”
Roxy’s eyes widened. Clearly, she’d not thought to clean her backpack. She also glanced down self-consciously at her smudged shirt.
“We’re going to test your hands first.”
D.D. started with Roxy’s dominant hand. She methodically swiped the girl’s right hand with the saturated cotton mitt, first wiping the inside of Roxy’s palm, then around her thumb and along the top of her index finger before returning to the outside of the palm. The detective was basically wiping down any surface that would have come into contact with the firearm, I realized. Finally, D.D. doubled back, paying special attention to the area around Roxy’s fingernails, scraping under the tips.
She repeated the pattern on Roxy’s left hand. Then D.D. returned to the sink, holding out her gloved hand while she picked up the second spray bottle. None of us spoke.
She spritzed the cotton mitt. She didn’t say anything, but again, working methodically, covered the entire surface. I leaned forward, staring harder, waiting for something, anything to happen. At the table, Roxy was doing the same.
Nothing happened. The plain white mitt remained plain white.
D.D. caught us staring, smiled slightly. “This is the magic moment,” she said, and picked up the third spray bottle.
More misting. The entire glove. Sarah moved off the sofa into the tiny kitchen area, where she could stare directly over D.D.’s shoulder.
D.D. held up the mitt for dramatic effect. Ten seconds. Twenty, thirty . . .
“Nothing’s happened,” Roxy said from the table. “Those sprays, they’re some kind of reagent, right? Which should react with the nitrite residues, if any are present. No change in color means no reaction, no nitrites. No GSR.”
D.D. glanced at the girl. “We’d heard you were a star student. You are correct. Any nitrite residue should be turning hot pink by now. It’s not a subtle color. Even a trace of hot pink would warrant further testing. But in this case . . .” She held up the plain white mitt.