To Catch a Killer by Sheryl Scarborough
1
High school’s supposed to be fun.
—MISS P
I soothe my forehead against the icy car window and breathe out a path of fog. If I squint one eye, the neon splashed across the rain-slicked street forms a wide, cruel mouth.
It’s after 2:00 a.m. and we’re just now pulling up to the police station. They took me to the hospital first, even though I swore that not a single drop of the blood all over me was mine.
A hospital would be lost trying to treat my wounds.
The trip wasn’t a complete waste, though. They let me clean up and swap my bloody sweats for scrubs. Now come the questions, hard and fast. They’ll expect me to have answers. But all I have are more questions.
Beginning with, who killed Miss P?
As soon as the car stops, I grab for the handle but swipe an oddly smooth panel instead. It’s like trying to locate a missing limb. You know it should be there, but …
The young officer bends low, checking me out through the window. He opens the door and offers his hand. “Let me help you.” His voice is low and horror-movie shaky.
I wish he could help me. I really wish he could.
Lurching out of the backseat, I bend over the gutter and gulp the cool morning mist until my stomach calms.
The older cop takes his time groaning his way out of the driver’s seat. “Looks like rain again.” He scowls at the sky as if his grumpy attitude could make it stop.
Dude, Iron Rain, Oregon is like ninety miles from Portland. It rains here constantly. Deal with it.
At least by now I’m completely cried out. All that’s left are some sniffs and huffs and they seem to control me more than I control them. My escorts are so relaxed we could be dropping in for a late-night donut and cup of coffee. From the way the old one hikes his belt up over his belly, I’m sure he’d prefer that to dealing with me and my dead teacher.
Same here, buddy. And she’s not just some corpse to me, either. But I doubt he cares. With a sweep of his arm he waves me through the door. A desk sergeant leans heavily on the high counter and quietly tracks us with his eyes as we pass him and enter through a plain, unmarked door.
These guys probably don’t realize that I practically grew up in this building. Once Rachel gets here, they’ll connect the dots. Still, it’s a shock to see the squad room so alive.
Two or three officers are clustered around every desk with telephones and cell phones pressed to their ears. Tears spring to my eyes when I spot my principal, Mr. Roberts, helping out by delivering steaming cups of coffee.
I hope he knows I tried to help her. I really did. But there was nothing I could do.
Once Mr. Roberts sees me, everyone turns to stare. Their gaze is awkward, like a face full of acupuncture needles. Not painful exactly, but not entirely comfortable, either. He threads his way over to me through the maze of desks.
“Oh, Erin. Are you okay?”
My voice sticks in my throat. “Miss P,” I croak and press my hands over my mouth, fighting to keep back another round of tears.
“I heard … over the police scanner,” he says. “Is she—?”
Unable to speak, I nod.
He steps forward as though maybe he wants to hug me, but he doesn’t.
“Excuse us.” The older officer guides me around Mr. Roberts, pointing toward a hallway at the end of the room. I hesitate for a second because I really wish Mr. Roberts could come with us. He’s been in my life for so many years I hardly remember a time without him. I’m sure he would come, too. He’s always been helpful like that. But neither of us knows what to say, so I wave good-bye to my only friend in this whole mess and move off toward the hallway. The officer leads me to the door of an interrogation room. “For privacy,” he says.
The room is small—one table and four chairs. I turn away from the mirror. Everyone knows there’s a secret room on the other side of that glass. Why do they even try to hide it?
The young officer pulls out my chair and offers water or soda. I shake my head. He slips out quietly.
Old Guy transfers his hat to the table and runs his hand over his threadlike hair before dropping into the seat across from me. He flips open a notebook. “Just so you know, they put in a call to your mother and she’s on her way.” He keeps his eyes down on his notes instead of up on me.
“You mean guardian.” This is not meant to disrespect Rachel; it’s just a habit. “She’s not my mother,” I add.
“Yeah. Whatever number you gave us, that’s who we called.” He pats and digs around in his various pockets for a pen. “If it’s okay, I’m going to get started here. Understand that you’re not in any trouble. I just want to take your statement while it’s fresh in your mind. Can I get your full name for the report?”
I stiffen. This is the moment when things always change. My eyes drop to his badge: Baldwin. His name isn’t familiar, but he’s definitely old enough.