Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator (16 page)

“Mom,” I say. I am standing at the doorway to the great room, only a few feet away, but she doesn’t hear me. She is lost in
thought, rocking her head, playing the song even slower than normal, tapping out the melody with her right hand and letting long silences sit in between. “Mom!” I shout.

“Yes, Guy?” she finally says without looking up. “What is it? Are you okay?”

What is it?
I think.
Good freaking question. What is it about life that makes it so sad? And why do we pretend that it isn’t?
I don’t say that. And I don’t even think about telling her the answer to the second part of her question. Nor do I tell her that Anoop fancies himself some sort of actual detective or forensics expert or whatever. She, like any sensible person on earth, would have insisted that we turn the wallet over to the police immediately. She would have understood that it was not right for high school students to handle evidence in a murder case.

What I say is, “I guess some people are coming over in a little bit. Anoop invited the Forensics Squad. I guess everyone wants to talk about what happened today, or whatever.”

“That’s good, dear,” she says, finishing the song with a loud, pounding flourish and breaking out of her trance. “It’s good to talk about things like this. We can schedule an extra visit with Dr. Waters if you like.”

“I think
you
should see Dr. Waters,” I say.

“Dr. Waters is an expert in
adolescent
psychology,” she says.

“Well, you should talk to
someone
,” I say.

“I have you, dear.”

“Sure thing, Mom,” I say. What else is there to say?

“Want me to get some snacks together?” she says.

“If you think that will help,” I say.

“I mean, for your friends.”

“Oh yeah. Snacks will be good,” I say.
What kind of snacks are best for solving a murder?
“Do we have any donuts?”

“No,” she says. The quality of junk food in Langman Manor has seriously declined since Dad died. Mom is skinny and youthful-looking, and determined to stay that way.

“Just nothing too weird,” I say. “We eat enough arugula at school.”

“I wasn’t going to bring out arugula,” she says, sighing. “I was your age once. Not that long ago. How about popcorn?”

It’s probably organic and low-fat and no-salt, but at least it’s popcorn. “Popcorn works,” I say.

She gets up from the piano, letting a final minor chord ring in the great room as she heads to the kitchen next door. I sit and listen to the silence until the popping of the kernels makes me think of tiny shotgun blasts. It makes me think of the dead kid in the woods. It makes me think of bullet holes. It makes me think of maggots. I wish I had asked for a less violent food. Something soft, like pudding. Crap, I really am an old man. What am I doing with my life?

While she waits for the corn to finish popping, I sit down at the piano bench. Mom was always trying to get me to take lessons, but I never did. I only know one little thing on the piano, that famous four-note riff from Beethoven’s Fifth.
Da-da-da daaaaaah. Da-da-da daaaaaah
. I just keep playing that over and over again. Ominous. One thing I’m good at is playing loud, so I don’t hear the doorbell ring. I don’t hear anyone walk in. But those things must have happened, for when I look up, there is Maureen.

I jump a little bit.
Sheesh
. Why do I startle so easily?

“Sorry to scare you,” she says.

“You didn’t scare me.”

“Okay, good. You don’t need any more stress today.”

“You got that right,” I say. She is being really nice. Are we going to talk more about the events of the day? The thought doesn’t make me feel better. Just weird. Maureen senses it, I guess, and changes the topic.

“I didn’t know you played the piano,” she says.

“I don’t,” I say. “Just those four notes, really.”

“Good enough for Beethoven,” she says.

“That’s always been my motto,” I say.

There is a pause.

“Beethoven had good fashion. He wore some mighty fine ascots, didn’t he?” she says.

“You know, I think he did.”

Then we just stand there in the great room for a while.

“This is a pretty great room, isn’t it?” I say. She does not laugh. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound funny if you don’t know that it is called “the great room.” And having to explain it doesn’t seem worth it. Why do I always say stupid nonsense?

She shrugs and put her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “It’s okay, I guess.” Cue awkward pause.
Just keep talking, Gisborne
.

“What did you do with the rest of your surprise day off?” I ask.

“Took a walk, mostly,” she says. “I was just walking around when TK texted me about this little meeting or whatever. I was almost here, so I just kept walking.”

“Oh yeah, I was going to ask if your mom dropped you off or whatever.”

At the mention of the words “your mom,” she cringes like the
words hurt her ears. She changes the subject fast. “I also wrote some stuff,” she says. “I have this online thing. It’s no big deal. Totally dumb.”

“Sounds neat,” I say.
Sounds neat?
What kind of idiot am I? She makes a weird face. She isn’t used to compliments, maybe. Or maybe just not from me. She knows it’s a good thing, a compliment, but given its source, she remains skeptical. It’s like getting a candy bar from your weird neighbor on Halloween, and despite the creamy and tasty exterior you can’t help but think that a razor blade is hidden within. Maybe it is. What’s wrong with me?

Before that particular question gets answered—for today, anyway—the rest of the Forensics Squad arrives. Anoop comes in first, clomping about in his old-man shoes. He hasn’t felt the need to knock at Langman Manor in years. Right behind him comes TK, and then Raquel. I see them make their way up the driveway and wave them in. It is pretty weird that they are at my house. Even weirder is the reason they are there. My mom is popping popcorn and pouring sodas in the other room while we examine the physical evidence of a murder. Just another day in the Langman life.

“Hey, guys, I’ll let you be,” Mom says, delivering the tray of snacks and drinks. “Just don’t get any popcorn on the piano.”
Why would we eat popcorn on the piano?

“Thanks, Mrs. Langman,” Raquel says.
Raquel says. To my mom
. So weird!

Mom goes upstairs into a room sadly less great. She is good at making herself disappear—a trait all parents should master. For example, Anoop’s dad is always just hanging around, adjusting
his toupee, stroking his mustache, and bumping into us when we have things to talk about. Girls, mostly. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he thinks I am a bad influence. Maybe he thinks I am distracting Anoop from the good and righteous path with all my blather. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am doing that. Somebody has to.

I have no idea how this is going to work without Zant. But Anoop does. He takes over like he always does. I should have guessed. He’s a leader. Some people are just leaders. Some people are leaders and some people are followers and some people wear ascots and play four notes on the piano. Anoop starts talking in hushed tones.

“Okay, you know why I’ve called you all here,” he says. He pulls the wallet out of a duffel bag. It is still in the plastic evidence Baggie. Totally unmolested. “This was found on the body earlier.”

“Hey, what do you mean, ‘This was found’?” I say back. “I found it.”

“Okay, fine, credit where credit is due. It was Guy who found it. But I found the body.”

“That’s not really important,” Raquel says.

“It’s kind of important. For chain of custody,” TK says.

“That’s exactly right,” Anoop says. “I was going to get to that. Chain of custody is what it’s all about. It’s why we have to do this ourselves. If we turn the wallet in, they won’t be able to use it. Even though I’ve been
extremely
careful, technically it’s been contaminated. The best thing for us to do is process it ourselves and anonymously report our findings. It’s really the best thing.”

“Exactly,” TK says. He has a way of saying things with a heavy
period at the end that makes you know that arguing would be ludicrous.

“First thing to do would be to lift prints, I guess,” Raquel says.
Duh
.

“I think the first thing to do would be to look for any other trace evidence,” Maureen says. “Are we sure there’s nothing hidden inside? No hairs, even? A scrap of paper? Anything like that could be useful.”

“I looked,” Anoop says. “There is nothing. Not a penny. Not a single hair. And I had gloves on the whole time, so you won’t find my prints.”

“I don’t know what good prints will even do us,” Raquel says. “We know the identity of the kid. It’s probably just
his
prints. If he was robbed, the killer wouldn’t have dragged the body, emptied out his wallet, and put it back in his pocket, right? If you want to steal a wallet, you just take the wallet. Take the stuff and dump it later. The killer wouldn’t have touched the wallet. He didn’t want his money. He just wanted him dead.”

“Kinda creepy how good you are at that,” I say.

“If you want to catch a killer, you have to think like a killer,” she says.

“Killer,” I say.

TK jumps in. “There are a lot of inconsistencies in the way this went down,” he says, pacing around the room. Everyone’s still whispering, and it gives the conversation a heated edge. “The body was pretty much in plain view. It was near the electrical tower, but I think too far for it to be suicide.” He takes out his camera and flips through some pictures. “I didn’t have time to upload these and take measurements, but it just looks a bit
too far for a jump. Someone bludgeoned this kid to death, then dragged the body close—but not too close—to the tower,” TK says.

“Or they bludgeoned him,
then
threw him off the tower,” Raquel adds. She knows a lot about killing people. Seriously: it’s kinda creepy.

“Ten yards or so,” Anoop says. “I didn’t get a chance to measure either, but I think TK is right. Too far to jump.”

“I don’t know about that,” Maureen says. “I mean, it’s clear something messed up happened, but I’m not sure we can make any conclusions without—”

Just then Mom sticks her head back in. She is holding a tray with more drinks. Everyone nearly jumps out of their skin. “Mom! Where did you come from?” She says nothing, just gives me the narrow-eyed look. “Uh, that’s cool,” I say.
What?
I try to shield her view of Anoop with my body. How do I explain this? It feels crazy embarrassing, her catching us playing detective. It feels like I had porn on my screen or something. So cool, Langman, having your mom bring drinks and popcorn into the room filled with your friends. It seems like something a mom should do for you when you’re little, not old enough to drive. But no one seems to mind. Cool it, Gisborne, I tell myself. Don’t think about it too much. We all have moms, after all.

“I don’t know what that is,” she says, pointing to Anoop’s box of supplies after setting down the tray. “But don’t get that on my white rug or I’ll kick your ass,” she says. Everyone laughs, and with that she leaves.

“Come on, master,” Anoop says to me. TK doesn’t react, but the girls look pretty surprised. I don’t feel like sharing the fact that
I had already proven myself adept at fingerprinting just this morning, so I act like it’s normal.

“Don’t you know that I’m the fingerprinting master?” I say to the group. “I’m, like, a master. At fingerprinting.” Smooth. I put on
another
rubber glove. The now-standard proctology jokes are made and appreciated. I set the wallet on the piano, using it as a makeshift forensics lab. It’s much easier in here than in the wind on a ledge. It’s feeling familiar, the black fingerprinting powder on the brush. I cover a few spots on the wallet where fingers are likely to touch. The room is silent and airless, like a tomb. “There it is,” I say. I don’t look too closely at it. I don’t want to. I hand it to Anoop. He looks it over. So does TK.

“Um, I think we’re going to have to meet in the other room,” TK says.

“Dude, not cool,” Maureen says to me.

“Don’t call me dude,” I say. We head into the kitchen. TK squeezes next to Anoop. Anoop holds the print up to the light. They stare at it. “Dude,” Anoop says.

“Dude,” TK says.

“Dude,” I say. “Wait—why are we saying ‘dude’?”

“These are some very unusual double-loop whorls,” TK says.

“Yeah?” says Anoop.

“Yeah,” TK says. “Very unusual, yet I feel like maybe I’ve seen them before.”

“Don’t say it,” I say.

“Without a doubt,” TK says. He brings up another picture on his phone and compares it to the print. “We saw this print before.” He shows me the evidence. It’s undeniable.

There are lots of confused looks.

“Can I tell them?” Anoop asks.

“Fine,” I say, sighing. I feel my face flush crimson.

“This print,” he says, almost stuttering. “The same. Here, in Guy’s attic. And there, on the dead kid’s wallet.”

“Wait, what? Is there something you’re not telling us?” Maureen asks from the great room. “We can totally hear you. You suck at whispering!” The sound of her voice makes me jump.
Da-da-da-daaaaaah
. Yes, there is …

We try to catch the rest of the crew up on what we know. Unfortunately, we have more questions than answers. Who? What? When? WTF? Stuff like that. Before long, it’s rather late. Forensics Squad disperses like a bad party. Then it is just me and Anoop. Like most of my life. My sad, short life. It’s really starting to hit me. My life
is
going to be cut short. That is clear. Because here’s what I’m thinking: These aren’t coincidences. Someone—namely Jacques Langman—broke into my house and stole my dad’s treasure. Then he followed me to the golf course and tried to kill me. When he realized it was the wrong kid, he tried to make it look like a suicide. Or maybe a robbery. I’m a little unclear on the details, but I’m clear on the culprit. Who else would know about the treasure? Who else would want Toby (me) dead? I’m sure Jacques is the culprit. And I’m sure I’m the intended target. (Okay, sort of sure.)