Forensics Squad Unleashed

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

“Look, let’s be honest with each other. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. And I really wish you’d quit touching my
Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science.
”

Mason backs away from my bookshelf. “I didn’t touch your encyclopedia. I was just looking at it.”

I pick up a strand of perfectly straight, white-blond hair from the shelf and wave it at Mason. “Well, then, what do you call this?”

“Hair,” Mason says, looking away. “I call it hair.”

I make a snorting sound. “I call it evidence. The color, the length—approximately two and a half inches—and the lack of curl indicate that this strand of hair came from your head, Mason Johnson. Of course, we’d need to confirm with a
DNA
test, which is only possible if the follicle is attached. Unfortunately”—I inspect the strand—“that does not appear to be the case.”

My bedroom window is open, and the warm June breeze makes the curtains rustle. Even on the third floor, where my bedroom is, the air smells of freshly mown grass—and barbecue.

I did not invite Mason over. My parents did. Dad and Mr. Johnson are partners in an accounting firm. Mom and Mrs. Johnson have known each other since high school.

“Hey, you guys, burgers are ready!” my dad bellows from the backyard. He loves barbecuing. Not just because he enjoys well-done burgers with grill marks, but because he’s a neat freak. When he entertains outside, Dad doesn’t have to deal with crumbs or spills.

“Honey,” I hear my mom say to my dad, “you didn’t leave the side door open, did you?”

“No, Lila, I didn’t.” I can tell from Dad’s voice that he is trying not to get irritated in front of the Johnsons.

We’ve all got our obsessions. Dad’s is cleanliness. Mom’s is home security. She even uses the alarm system when we are home.

Me, I’m obsessed with forensic science.

There’s a definite upside to Mom’s obsession: she sells more home-security systems than anyone else in her company. When Mom meets with customers, she always mentions the time our house was broken into when the two of us were home. Apparently there is nothing like fear to generate sales.

Of course, there’s a downside too. Mom is incapable of relaxing unless she is sure our house is completely secure. Even our state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line alarm system has
not done the trick. It’s just turned into another thing for her to stress about. Of course, Mom never mentions that part to potential customers.

Because I was only seven at the time of the break-and-enter, all I have are flashes of memory about what happened.

Mom in the kitchen making cookie batter. She offered to let me stir, but I told her I wanted to go color in my room upstairs. Trying to decide whether to color some bricks red or brown. The waxy smell of the crayons. Then hearing loud voices and strange bumping sounds. Thinking Mom had turned on the
TV
for company, but that she didn’t usually like noisy shows. Then no more memories until a police officer with a bushy moustache came upstairs to get me.

The thieves threatened Mom with a knife and tied her to a chair. They got away with electronics and some cash. They also trashed the place, emptying drawers on the floor and smashing two porcelain lamps. They weren’t in the house long. Luckily, a neighbor noticed the thieves going into our house, and she called the police. But by the time they arrived, the thieves were gone. Because they were wearing masks, Mom could not identify them. All they left were two sets of muddy footprints on our carpet. Unfortunately, they were never caught and brought to justice. That’s probably why I got obsessed with forensics. After a crime happens, forensic science helps provide closure—something we never had. They say once you understand what happened, you can start putting it behind you. That’s never happened for Mom.

The way Dad tells it, Mom was always a bit anxious, but the break-and-enter put her over the edge. It also inspired
Mom to give up her job as a translator and go into the home-security biz.

The picnic table creaks when Mason sits down. I take the only empty spot, which happens to be across from him. Looking at Mason makes me extra-lonesome for my
BFF
, Patti, who spends every summer in Cape Cod with her grandparents.

Mrs. Johnson beams at Mason and me. When she smiles, you can see almost all her teeth, including a few molars. “Have I ever told you how the two of you used to play together in our playpen? And how I always used to say you were like—”

“Salt and pepper,” Mason and I say at the same time.

I don’t know why Mrs. Johnson looks surprised when we finish her sentence. She has been telling the same dumb story for all of our lives—which is a little over thirteen years. “That’s right, salt and pepper. Mason with that pale angel hair of his, you with those dark curls, Tabitha. We always knew you’d be close.”

“We’re not close,” Mason says.

“That’s right.” I try never to agree with Mason, but sometimes I have to. “We just keep getting stuck together. Because you guys like hanging out.”

“Here’s to friendship!” Dad clinks his glass against Mr. Johnson’s.

“To friendship!” Mr. Johnson says.

“Yes, let’s toast!” Mrs. Johnson smiles and nods at Mom, as if she is a child who needs encouragement. “Let’s tell the kids now!” Mrs. Johnson says.

Now Mom nods. “Tabitha, you are going to be
so
thrilled.”

“We’ve found the
perfect
day camp for the two of you,” Mrs. Johnson gushes.

“But I don’t want to go to day camp.” I stop myself from adding
with him
.

“Day camp is for babies.”

Every summer, our parents send Mason and me to one specialty day camp or another. Last year was cooking camp (Mason’s idea of heaven), the year before that was planetarium camp, the year before that was improv camp. Whatever our parents have got planned for this summer, I am not doing it. Not with Mason. Enough is enough.

Mom tries to block Dad from reaching for the saltshaker, but he reaches past her. Then she turns to me. “We’ve signed the two of you up for”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“forensics camp.”

Mason is on his second burger. There is a ketchup smear at the corner of his mouth and burger juice dribbling down his chin. If we were inside, Dad would be coming around with paper napkins. “Are there sports?” Mason asks, without wiping away the ketchup or the burger juice. Mason detests sports.

“No team sports,” Mrs. Johnson says in a sugary voice. “Just some swimming and a little fitness training. Nothing too strenuous, sweetheart. It’ll be good for you.”

“Swimming and fitness training?” Mason does not sound impressed.

Mrs. Johnson talks right over Mason. For once, I am interested in what she has to say. “The camp is run by the University of Montreal’s Department of Forensic Science.”

“What do you think, honey?” My mom is grinning at me.

“It’s not fair.”

Sometimes I get the feeling that Mrs. Johnson does not like me any more than I like her. When she raises her thin, arched eyebrows, they nearly disappear into the creases of her forehead. “We thought that you, of all people, Tabitha Letour, would be pleased. You’ve been obsessed with crime-scene investigation, well, practically forever.”

“I mean it’s not fair because you guys knew I didn’t want to go to camp this summer, but you must’ve known there’s no way I could resist a forensics camp. How soon does it start?”

TWO

On Monday morning Mason is sitting on the bottom step of our front stairs. His cheeks have a white film on them because he has not rubbed in his sunscreen enough. His faded Batman towel is on the step next to him.

“Listen, Mason,” I say as I shut the door behind me, “my house is on your way, so I know it makes sense for us to walk together. The thing is, and I don’t mean to be harsh, but, well, I think we both need to branch out. I’m looking forward to making some new friends.”

Mason nods in a resigned way. “I see your point.”

I tighten the straps on my backpack. “So I don’t want you sticking to me like rubber cement all day. Okay?” I make a point of looking into Mason’s eyes.

“Okay. Nice bracelet, by the way,” Mason says.

I’m not really that into jewelry, but I do like bracelets. The one I am wearing today was a birthday present from Patti. It has black-and-white mug-shot charms.

“Hey, don’t forget your towel,” I remind Mason. He is always forgetting stuff. If his head wasn’t attached to his neck, he’d forget that on the stairs too.

“Right. Thanks, Tabitha.” Mason slings the towel over his shoulder.

It’s a ten-minute walk from my house to the University of Montreal campus. At first neither of us says anything, which is fine by me. I am the opposite of a morning person.

Mason glances at me, then looks away. I get the feeling he wants to try and start another conversation. I am thinking of a way to discourage him when he clears his throat and says, “I guess you’re pretty psyched about forensics camp.”

“Yup.” A one-word answer should indicate I am not in the mood to talk. It doesn’t.

“I really loved cooking camp,” Mason says.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. I still have that apron they gave us on the first day. And the chef ’s hat.”

Sarcasm always goes right over Mason’s head.

“Just don’t get confused and wear that get-up to forensics camp,” I say.

“I would never do that.”

I sigh. “I was joking.”

“Right,” Mason says, “I mean,
ha-ha
.”

We stop at the traffic lights at the corner of Côte-des-Neiges Street and Queen Mary Road. Someone has put up a poster offering a one-hundred-dollar reward for a missing Chihuahua. I know what I’d do with one hundred dollars. I’d buy this
DNA
kit I saw online. It comes with a
centrifuge and an electrophoresis chamber for separating
DNA
strands.

Mason is studying the poster. The Chihuahua, whose name is Rexford, is looking out over the edge of a purse. He has unusually large ears for such a tiny dog. They stick up like a bat’s. “Rexford looks needy,” Mason says, “and that was before he got lost. Poor little guy.”

I study Rexford’s photo. Mason is right: there
is
something needy about the look in the dog’s eyes. But I don’t feel sorry for Rexford the way Mason does. To be honest, something about the dog’s needy look annoys me. “Maybe they just misplaced him. In a teacup or a slipper. That dog is microscopic—even by Chihuahua standards.”