I’m not the kind of girl to ever have a problem choosing evidence over white teeth and eyes that pop.
I’ve since moved on to the real thing. My setup is ritual. Black fingerprint cards go in my back right pocket. Small packet of lifting strips, front left. The jar of red fluorescent fingerprint powder—which glows a neon red under ultraviolet light—gets tucked into my back left pocket. I usually slip the pen-sized ultraviolet flashlight into the front of my bra, but that feels too flirty to do in front of Journey. I stick it in my back pocket with the fingerprint powder. I’m just unpacking my fingerprint brush from its plastic sleeve when Journey slides up next to me.
“I had no idea searching for evidence required makeup,” he says.
“This?” I ask, offering a smug smile. “This is an original Zephyr fingerprint brush. It’s what the pro crime-scene guys use.”
“The pros? Really?” Journey’s skeptical. “Because I have a paintbrush that looks just like that and it only cost five bucks.”
“Wow. A whole five bucks?” I expertly roll the slender handle between my fingers. The shimmery bristles fan out until it looks like a supermodel dandelion on steroids. “Well, my brush is made up of a whole bunch of little fiber bundles.”
Journey’s eyes widen with mock interest. “A whole bunch? Really? Is that a scientific term? Exactly how many is in a whole bunch?”
“Yes. It’s a scientific term.” I hold my arms out wide. “A whole bunch is thousands of bundles. Each bundle is hundreds of individual treated-glass filaments.” Now I’m reciting the description off the Zephyr package from memory. As I walk slowly toward him I continue to twirl the brush at eye level.
Journey chuckles and backs away, inching closer to the van.
“And each one of these filaments is a fraction of the thickness of a hair.”
“Okay. You got me,” he says, throwing his hands up.
“Not yet,” I caution. “I scored my brush online for the low price of eleven dollars and four cents, plus shipping.” I shake the brush at him like a pom-pom. “Now I got you.”
Journey leans back against the van and looks down on me with a crooked smile that adds tiny crinkles to the outsides of his eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve got you,” he whispers. “But I think I get you.”
“You do?” I sound stunned but I’m not really. There is an overall easiness when I’m with Journey that I’ve never felt before. I don’t know what it means but it’s like nothing in my whole life has ever felt this right. I look off in the direction of the lighthouse, silently praying it will protect me from a disaster. “The light’s not going to last long,” I say.
“You’re right. I should let you get to work,” he says.
I know they’re just words, but that thick, wistful tone is back and it seems to say so much more.
From the traces of black powder the police left behind, I can tell they only dusted the driver’s door and the steering wheel. No doubt these are the best spots where someone might leave their prints, but I’m hoping some creative thinking will find some the police missed. As I make a tour around the van, I try to recall everything about that night. It was late and the air was frigid. I remember how it burned as I sucked it into my lungs.
Journey says he parked on the side of Miss Peters’s house and left the engine running while he stepped across the grass to the porch. Someone—he didn’t see who—jumped in and took off.
I walk around the van and try to imagine how I would approach it if I wanted to steal it and not be seen. I’d stay low and come up from the back, hugging the shadows near the bumpers. I would first peer around and locate Journey before trying to take his van. With my right hand I would steady myself against the bumper, at about the spot where it curves toward the front of the vehicle.
So this is where I start.
Kneeling next to the bumper, I load the superfine, florescent powder onto the brush and let it lightly sprinkle onto the paint. I work the brush over the area by twirling it right and left between my fingers. I work several inches in each direction, but no prints emerge. I get up and slowly move around the back of the car, toward the driver’s side. I scan close. Any spot that looks even a little smudgy to my eye gets the powder treatment from my brush. Sometimes I check myself by using the ultraviolet penlight to reveal telltale finger marks.
I continue to work my way around the outside of the vehicle, keeping my face only an inch or two away from the surface. I check low and then high. Journey shadows me, looking over my shoulder, trying to see what I see.
I don’t see any prints … until I reach the side view mirror. There I discover the mother lode: all four fingertips plus the thumb of a left hand.
“When was the last time you adjusted this mirror?” I ask.
Journey shrugs. “I have no idea.”
Fortunately, I brought the large size lifting tape that’s designed to capture a whole handprint. I powder the mirror, apply the tape, and peel off the prints. Journey holds the index card flat while I tape the prints onto the card.