Sydney bobs her head. “Yeah. More or less. We didn’t find anything, obviously. The timeline is a little faster than normal protocol, but the chief’s insisting on it, so why not?” Sydney motions toward the back of the office. “Anyway, go ahead and hop on the computer, hon, you know the drill.”
“Thanks, Sydney.” I hurry off. But my brain is whirling. Lately nothing is going where I think it’s going to go. Both Miss P and the chief had pens that matched the note. Miss P ran a DNA test before she was killed. The chief screwed up and nearly accidentally got me killed and now he’s insisting they give me back my stuff.
I can’t wait to see if we got anything on the fingerprints.
The new computer, with the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System (IAFIS) software installed, is located in the copy room, an all-purpose area where they keep the fax machine and the copy machine, office supplies, and now a computer that anyone can use. A desk is wedged in beside the copier.
On the desk next to the monitor is a latent print scanner. It looks and works exactly like an ordinary scanner, only it’s connected to IAFIS, which is maintained by the FBI.
Someone’s fingerprints will show up in IAFIS if they’re in the system already. When Sydney did her test, she showed us how Rachel’s prints came up because she works for the police department. Mine were in there, too, because of the investigation into my mother’s murder. In both cases, the search brought up our names and photos from our drivers’ licenses.
Since everyone in this building has access to this area, someone could pop in to make a copy or send a fax at any second, so I have to be on my toes. I waste no time scanning the two full hand prints from Journey’s van into the system and set IAFIS to search for a match. I make sure that I stash the original fingerprint cards back in my bag. A slipup here might lead to some embarrassing questions.
Now I wait. A real IAFIS search takes about twenty minutes to an hour, not the bogus instant results you see on TV cop shows. I’d like to put my headphones on and zone out to some music, but I don’t dare. I keep a file that looks like a book report up on the computer as a cover.
“How’s it going?” Rachel appears behind me in the doorway and I jump about a mile. My knees shake when I realize Chief Culson is with her.
“Oh. You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Rachel hangs by the door but Chief Culson saunters all the way in. I freak as he goes straight to the scanner and straightens it on the desk. “Aha! I have you now.”
Gripped with fear, I glance around. Is there a security camera in here or something? My insides quake, but I struggle to keep my outside looking calm. “M-m-me?” My voice is a ragged squeak.
The chief idly lifts the cover on the scanner, but finds it empty. “That depends, Erin,” he says. “Have you done something I should know about?” I look up as he raises a pair of giant caterpillar eyebrows in my direction.
“Ah … just homework,” I joke, gesturing at the computer screen and the two fake paragraphs of my book report.
“Well, that is a crime on a day like today. Shouldn’t you be out having fun with your friends?” He tosses a laugh over his shoulder to Rachel.
I don’t know how the two of them can avoid hearing my heart hammering from across the room, since the sound is deafening inside my head.
“Don’t encourage her,” Rachel says. “She works hard for her grades.”
I flash her a grateful smile, since I’m still trying to get my breathing under control.
“I’m going to lock up my office,” Rachel says. “Get your stuff ready, Erin, we’re going to leave a little early and give Charles a ride to pick up his car.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Chief Culson says. As Rachel leaves, I poke around on the keyboard, trying to form my face into a neutral mask even though I’m freaking out inside. I have to figure out how to cancel the IAFIS search before it’s finished.
Chief Culson wanders around the copy room, lining up pins on the bulletin board and nudging stains in the carpet with his toe. Rachel returns. “Ready?”
“Um. Yeah. Almost,” I say.
I’m so stressed I can hardly breathe. This is so not good.
I can’t clear the IAFIS search from the screen without them seeing it. And I can’t very well leave it running and walk out of here for someone else to find.
I’m so royally screwed.
28
A profiler studies a crime scene and makes educated guesses about the personality and identity of the perpetrator. This helps to narrow our search.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
My terrified brain is forced to multitask. One: Look normal. Two: Breathe in and out. Three: Pray for a cataclysmic distraction. A volcanic eruption would be nice … or maybe a homicidal maniac alert. At this point I’d be happy with a basic robbery in progress.
“Earth to Erin,” Rachel says.
“Sorry.” I wave over my shoulder, eyes glued to the monitor. “I messed up trying to send this file to myself. I just need a second.” Or a miracle. Yeah. That’s what I need, a freakin’ miracle.