Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator (14 page)

“You did not know why Guy needed help,” he says. “But I did.” He reaches into his bag and takes out a small box. “Fingerprinting kit,” he says. “Top-notch.”

“When did you get this?” I ask. It’s a really impressive kit.

“I asked for it for my birthday back when we first started talking about fingerprinting.”

“You had a birthday?” I say.

“I have one most every year, Guy.”

“I had no idea.”

“This is why you are a bad friend,” he says.

He opens up the small white kit and extracts a small white brush and a clear jar with black powder. “Ack!” he says. “I feel nervous. This is so exciting.”

“Are you really nervous?” TK asks. “I guess I could—”

“No,” I say. “I’ll do it.” They both turn their heads at the same exact surprised angle. “What?” I say. “I’ve done this before. With Zant. An old photo I wanted some information on. I’m a pro.”
Anoop hands me the kit. Of course I talk a good game. Can I really lift a fingerprint in this situation? Life is much messier than lab. It’s a little windy out there on the roof, and the early-morning sun is making me squint. Part of me wants to let TK do it, or talk Anoop into not being nervous. What if I mess it up? I know you can ruin a scene by messing up a print. There are no second chances.

“Don’t forget to glove up,” Anoop says. So yet again I am finding myself putting on a rubber glove. My life has gotten weird. I take out the brush and dip it into the powder, just like Mr. Zant showed me back in class. Just the tiniest amount. Delicate movements. Total concentration. A gust of wind rattles the leaves. I wait for it to die down and gently but quickly brush the dust onto the spot where TK estimated the thief would have put his hand. My first attempt brings up nothing but smudges. But my second try shows a clear print. “Quick!” I say. “Hand me the fingerprinting tape!” Anoop rushes to give me a piece of tape and I press it onto the print. I’m so excited that I almost do it too hard, but I calm down and lift the print with the required finesse. I hold it up to the sky and admire my work. Perfect.

“Fantastic!” TK says.

“Really great work,” Anoop says.

“Now just one small problem,” I say. “What the hell do we do with this?” I climb back into the attic and hand Anoop the print for safekeeping.

“It’s true that we can’t do too much with it without an exemplar,” TK says. I feel happy that I know what “exemplar” means. But bummed because I know he’s right. We can’t prove anything with just a fingerprint. It’s so messed up.

“I’m going to take some pictures anyway,” TK says. “It is a
pretty unique pattern. Some double-loop whorls you don’t see every day.”

“Oh, I see double-loop whorls every day,” I say. He takes his phone out of his pocket and takes some close-ups of the print.

“I was looking forward to the Forensics Squad final project,” Anoop says. “Kinda disappointing to go from doing it for real back to just pretending.”

“Yeah,” TK says to me. “That’s just what I was telling Anoop’s mother.”

The day of the Forensics Squad final is here. The Berry Ridge Police have made no progress finding our missing coins, or the thief who took them. Mom has given up, resigned to never seeing them again.

“One of you has to hide in the back,” Anoop says. “I’m not getting arrested on the way to a fake crime scene. Too early in the morning for irony.”

Anoop and I are almost always alone, so sometimes I forget about the annoying New Jersey law that says you can only have one friend in your car until you turn eighteen.

“Isn’t there a religious exception?” I say. “If we get pulled over, just say we’re going to church.”

“You’re Jewish, I’m Hindi, and TK believes in whatever the hell TK believes in,” Anoop says. “I doubt the cops will buy it.”

“I believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster,” TK says. “I’m a Pastafarian.”

“Of course you are,” I say.

“Plus, it’s Saturday,” Anoop says. “The church argument is not gonna work.”

“Synagogue?”

“Shut the hell up and get on the floor, Langman,” TK says. “I call shotgun.”

I crawl in the back and slump down low. It’s really
uncomfortable, even with the pillows. Stupid New Jersey. Thankfully, it’s a short ride to the golf course.

Anoop parks and we walk toward the clubhouse to find the rest of our crew. The weather is warm, and there are lots of early-morning old guys out, smacking balls around. There are some weird outfits, and I am reminded how Dad always said that he hated golf. “If I want to go smack balls around with a bunch of dudes, I’ll go to a boxing match at a nudist gay bar,” he’d say. The ball jokes are really easy with golf; it is almost like they are asking for it.

“Hey, look,” I say to Anoop, pointing to a sign nearby. “Ball-washing machine.”

“My balls are clean,” he says. “Seeing as how I visited your mother last night.”

“And hey, look at this one,” I say. “One-stroke penalty for improper decorum.”

“Like having dirty balls?” he says.

“Yeah. Dirty balls. Hey, TK,” I say. “Your new nickname is One-Stroke Penalty.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” he says.

I’m a little punchy from lack of sleep. A little confused (in a good way) that TK is part of the gang. And yes, a little hungry from having missed breakfast. It’s sort of combining to make me a little, or maybe a lot, crazy.

“Dirty balls,” TK laughs. It’s fun to have him on board. We see Mr. Zant and the rest of the group milling about.

“I bet Mr. Zant has dirty balls,” I whisper to Anoop. Unfortunately, I’ve never been terribly proficient at whispering, so Raquel hears me.

“I do not even want to know what
that
means,” she says, sliding up to Anoop. I try to explain by pointing to the ball-washing machine, but she rolls her eyes and puts her hand up in my direction and continues ignoring me. Maureen, standing off to the side, smiles just a bit.

Mr. Zant shakes his head with a smile, then clears his throat in a wet, disgusting way. He jumps up on a bench and makes an announcement. “Okay, okay, let’s listen up here,” he says. It’s a bright, sunny morning, and he shields his eyes from the sun while addressing us. I make a show of folding my hands onto my lap and give him an over-the-top wide-eyed smile. He looks pissed, but I know deep down he is amused. Right?

“I have a surprise for you,” he says with a sly grin. “I hope you brought your A game.”

“Crap,” I mutter. “I brought my B through E games, sure, but the A is still at home, on the shelf next to the toilet!”

Zant hears me. “Please don’t embarrass me today, Guy,” he says.

“
Moi
?” I ask. Speaking French is almost always sarcastic. It makes me wonder how they get anything done in France. People are always just like “
Moi
?” and “
Excusez-moi
,” and no one ever means what they say. How full of it can you get, honestly? But maybe it’s different in France. Maybe they say “Excuse me” in pretentious American accents when they feel like being obnoxious?

“Yes, you,” he says. “This is not just our final project for the year. This is a contest. Surprise!”

“Ooo-la-la,” I say, continuing with the fake French.

“We compete against each other?” TK asks.

“Oh, it’s on like Donkey Kong,” I say.

“Not quite,” Mr. Zant says. “This is a competition, but you will not be competing against each other.”

“
Excusez-moi
?” I say.

“Please, Guy, shut up.”

“
Le pamplemousse
?” I say.

“Grapefruit?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. That’s the only other French I know.”

“Why are you speaking French, exactly?”

“It’s a long story,” I say. “But trust me, it makes perfect sense in here.” I point to my skull.

“Glad to know it makes sense somewhere,” he says. “Because out here?” He draws a circle in the air, with his finger encapsulating basically the entire world. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

A shrill voice breaks through the morning air. “Ahhh! What is the competition?” Apparently TK isn’t the only one excited about competing. I had forgotten how competitive Anoop can be. He is the one yelling, unable to contain himself at the possibility of the game that seems to be afoot.

“Thank you, Anoop,” Mr. Zant says, “for getting me back on track. Here’s how it is going to work. You five will be a team. An old friend of mine has been running a Forensics Squad from another high school. You will be competing against the Forensics Squad from North Berry Ridge.”

“North Berry Ridge?” is the collective shocked cry from our crew.

Mr. Zant waves to a group of students standing across the parking lot. They jog over in unison—yes, actually
jog
, like army recruits in boot camp. They are all wearing the official North Berry Ridge school color—an obnoxious bright orange that permanently damages your eyes just to look at it.

“Stupid North Berry Ridge,” I say.

“We got this,” TK says to me in a whisper. “Did any of these North Berry Ridge jerkholes actually lift a print from a real crime scene? I think not.”

“Plus, just look at them,” I say. “They look like a bunch of A-holes with very, very dirty balls.” TK laughs. Mr. Zant gives me his “if looks could kill” look. But really, they do look like a bunch of A-holes. Dirty balls being a distinct possibility.

There are five students: a tall Chinese kid, a ragged white kid who has white-boy dreadlocks, a nerdy little dude, and two girls. One of them is a tanned and perfect North Berry Ridge girl and the other is wearing the weirdest outfit I’ve ever seen. It is a dress made out of crime scene tape. Literally. Like she took a bunch of that yellow
DO NOT ENTER
tape and sewed it or whatever into a dress. As they approach, they are all whispering to each other and we are all whispering to each other. We all are pretending that we aren’t talking about them, but it is clearly what we are doing. Sometimes you have to love the blatant hypocrisy of the human animal. And no, that’s not a Dad line—I made that up myself!

“Looks like she doesn’t want anyone to enter,” Anoop whispers to me. “And I’m guessing a multitude of applicants trying to enter is not a problem she suffers from.” Zing!

“She’s pretty cute,” I say. What? She is. “Good line, though, Anoop,” I add.

“Dressed like that? How can you even tell if she’s cute? I like that one.”

He points to the stunningly beautiful North Berry Ridge Forensics Squad member. Looking at the pretty girl, in addition to the one in the crazy outfit, the Asian kid, the weird one, and the curly-haired kid, I have a strange thought.

“Does anything about their group remind you of anything?” I whisper to Anoop.

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“They look just like us!”

“That kid’s Chinese! I’m Indian.”

“Dude, I know, settle down, I’m just saying—”

“That little Jew does look a lot like you, though.”

“He does not!” The little North Berry Ridge kid? With that schnozz? And that goofy fro? The guy looks nothing like me! Okay, fine.

“Yeah, he does,” Anoop says. “You people all look the same.”

“Who even said he’s Jewish?”

Smug chin.

“Listen up, everyone!” Mr. Zant says loudly, clearing his throat again to get everyone’s attention. “This is my old friend Laura. I’m sorry—Miss Fowler.”

Laura, I’m sorry, Miss Fowler, is really pretty. She has caramel-colored skin, a huge smile, and something like a radiant glow. Also pretty impressive cans.

“Thank you, Eric; I mean, Mr. Zant,” she says. “I have been training the North Berry Ridge Forensics Squad all year, just as Mr. Zant has been training you. You will find on this golf course evidence of a crime. You must process it, piece together the clues, and solve the case. Please take some rubber gloves and bags to collect materials from the field. After you have gathered evidence, meet back here. We will have the materials you need to process it.”

“What do we get if we win?” the pretty girl from North Berry Ridge asks.

“Oh yes!” Mr. Zant says. “I’m glad you asked! It is Sherlock’s Glass!”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a really dorky trophy topped with a gold magnifying glass that looks homemade. I think the fact that it is homemade is supposed to be part of the charm: the teachers are trying to foster ironic competitive lust after this object, like the two schools would compete over it and scheme about it for years to come. “Damn it! North Berry Ridge got Sherlock’s Glass.” We’d say it slightly tongue-in-cheek, but eventually develop a sincere love for this ironically awesome prize. It would be a great memory and a tradition that would live on.

“When does the contest start?” Maureen asks.

Mr. Zant looks at his wrist. “I just realized that I’m not wearing a watch,” he says. Miss Fowler laughs, even though it isn’t funny. I say legitimately funny stuff all the time and pretty girls don’t laugh. I’m throwing out gold and getting nothing. He forgets that he’s not wearing a watch—and no one even
wears
watches anymore—and everyone laughs. What’s up with that? Oh yeah. Mr. Zant is handsome. Shut up. Mr. Zant continues: “It doesn’t matter that I’m not wearing a watch, however. Because the contest has already started.”