Forensics Squad Unleashed (7 page)

“There’s more,” Lloyd says. “Every shoe has unique wear indentations.” He points to a fan-shaped spot at the bottom of my left impression. “I’d say the heel of Tabatha’s left sandal is coming loose.” I kick off the sandal and turn it over. Lloyd is right. I am going to have to take my sandals to the shoe-repair guy.

Nathaniel leans over to get a closer look at the bottom of my sandal. “Wow!” he says.

Lloyd tugs on the bottom of his earlobe. “I must be hearing things—because I thought I heard Nathaniel use the word
wow
,” he says.

Samantha has been taking photographs of both sets of footwear impressions and uploading the files to a computer, but I know she is listening to Lloyd’s lesson. “Hey, we don’t call him
FIG
for nothing,” she says.

“That’s right,” Lloyd says. “Other things you can look for include materials that can get trapped on the sole of a shoe. For example, nails or wadded-up chewing gum,” he explains.

Nathaniel nods. “I once heard my dad say that one of the first thing cops do when they stop a suspect is make them hand over their shoes. Now I know why.”

“Exactly,” Lloyd says. “You don’t want to give a suspect time to change his or her shoes.”

Samantha has projected the images of our footwear impressions onto the screen. “Let’s zoom in for a closer look,” she tells us.

Samantha clicks past one or two blurry images, stopping when she gets to a sharp photograph of Mason’s footwear impressions. “Look carefully,” she says. “What do you see?”

“The Nike swish. I mean swash. I mean swoosh!” Nico calls out.

Muriel gives him a whack. “That’s not even a little bit funny,” she tells him, and Nico makes a pouty face.

“Nico’s right about the swoosh though,” Lloyd says. “We can match Mason’s footwear impressions with the information in our database—and then we should be able to determine exactly which model of Nikes he was wearing. Footwear impressions can also reveal a person’s shoe size.”

Stacey clicks her Department of Forensic Science pen. “Does that mean we can identify someone from their footwear impressions the way we can from their fingerprints?” she asks.

“No way,” Nathaniel says. “Shoes aren’t one of a kind.”

“That’s right,” Lloyd says. “Think of the thousands of pairs of runners Nike sells every year. Footwear impressions are not what we call individualizing, the way fingerprints are. Hey, have you guys ever heard of Theodore Kaczynski?”

I start to raise my hand, but then I stop myself. I have to remember that this is camp, not school. “You mean the Unabomber?” I say. “The guy who produced sixteen bombs, which injured twenty-three people and killed three others?” The
Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science
has a long entry about Theodore Kaczynski.

“Exactly. Kaczynski attached smaller soles to the bottom of his shoes as a way to confuse investigators,” Lloyd tells us.

Nathaniel nods. That makes twice in one day that Nathaniel has been impressed.

TEN

It is a short walk to the university’s athletic complex. The air is so hot and humid, it’s hard to imagine there could ever be winter in Montreal. Even though we are walking on the shady side of the street, under a canopy of maple trees, I feel the sweat trickling down my back and making my T-shirt sticky. I can’t wait to jump into the swimming pool.

“I don’t need swimming lessons,” I hear Nathaniel tell Mason. “I’ve been swimming since I was six months old, and I’ve already passed Red Cross Level 10. I can do every stroke.”

“Even the butterfly?” Mason asks. “I can’t do the butterfly. To be honest, I’m not the greatest swimmer.”

“The butterfly’s not that hard,” Nathaniel tells him, “once you get the kick.”

We are wearing our bathing suits under our regular clothes, so it doesn’t take long to change. I can smell the chlorine—even from inside the change room.

“I was hoping they’d have a saltwater pool,” Stacey says. “In its artificial form, chlorine depletes the ozone layer and contributes to global warming. I’m going to start a list of things the university could do to green this campus.”

Stacey and I are barefoot. Muriel’s flip-flops slap against the tile deck. The counselors are waiting outside the locker rooms. Lloyd has a whistle hanging from a rope around his neck. Samantha is carrying a clipboard. How did she tuck all that hair into a bathing cap?

Of course, Mason is the last one out. He is humming the way he sometimes does when he gets nervous. His Batman towel is wrapped loosely around his waist.

Lloyd squats down in front of us like he’s a football coach and we’re his team. “I bet you’ve heard that applicants to police academy have to be in top physical form. Well, the same goes for forensic scientists. That’s why exercise is an important part of this camp. Swimming is great for all-around conditioning. I don’t tell this to a lot of people,”—Lloyd lowers his voice like he is letting us in on a state secret—“but I used to be well…chubby. Okay, more than chubby. Swimming helped me slim down and get strong.”

Nathaniel nudges Mason. “Hey dude, maybe a little swimming’ll do the trick for you too.”

Mason blushes. Not just his face, but even his chest gets a little red.

Why does Nathaniel have to be such a jerk? I shoot him a look and mouth the words
Shut up
. I do not want Mason to know I’m standing up for him.

Nathaniel shrugs. Still, I think he got the message. Just in case, I narrow my eyes at him.

Nathaniel gives Mason another nudge. “I was just kidding,” he says.

Lloyd has not intervened. Probably because he wants to let us sort things out ourselves. Work as a team. “All right then,” Lloyd says, clapping his hands. “This afternoon, we’ll review some basics, then you’re going to do some laps so Samantha and I can assess your fitness levels.”

Nathaniel does a perfect racing dive into the deep end. Talk about showing off! The rest of us jump in. The water feels so fresh and cool that Muriel and I scream with pleasure. Mason is the last one in.

Lloyd and Samantha wave us over to the side. “We’ll start with a simple exercise. I want you each to take a deep breath”—Lloyd demonstrates by resting his hands on his belly as he inhales—“and now hold your breath and cross your legs. Watch what happens next.”

Because I’m expecting to sink, I scrunch up my eyes and pinch my nose. Except I don’t sink. I’m not even treading, just holding my breath and keeping my legs crossed the way Lloyd told us to. The others are not sinking either. Only Stacey is struggling. For a moment, all I see is the top of her head. Then even that disappears under the water until she comes up again, sputtering and shaking her head like a wet dog.

Lloyd squats down on the pool ledge. “Ninety-five percent of people are buoyant.” He looks over at Stacey. “Unfortunately,” he tells her, “it looks like you’re in the other five percent.
What this exercise proves—for the rest of you anyhow—is you don’t have to work that hard to stay afloat. Why don’t you try treading now—slow and easy so you conserve energy.”

Nathaniel and Nico are starting to puff. Next to them, Mason is breathing comfortably. He is doing just what Lloyd said—treading water slow and easy.

“Most people don’t realize this,” Lloyd says, “but when you’re in water, a little extra weight can actually be an advantage. It makes you more buoyant. Skinny, muscular kids? They’re the first to sink.”

After we’ve treaded for five minutes, Lloyd asks us each to take a lane and demonstrate our front crawl. Samantha walks the length of the pool, jotting notes on her clipboard. I wonder what they are going to do with all the info, but I still try my best to beat Muriel and Nico.

Afterward, Lloyd and Samantha have comments for everyone, even Nathaniel. Lloyd tells Muriel and me that we should not be scooping water with our hands. “Your hands should be sliding through the water—palms flat and turned sideways.”

“You’re lifting your head every time you breathe,” Samantha tells Mason. “That creates unnecessary drag. Once we get that fixed, you’ll pick up speed.”

We get the last fifteen minutes to practice or just fool around in the water. Lloyd throws a striped beach ball into the pool, and the boys toss it around.

Stacey treads water. Muriel and I go to the shallow end to practice moving our hands through the water without cupping them.

When camp is over at four o’clock and Mason and I are on our way home, we notice that Nathaniel is headed in our direction. It turns out he lives in the same neighborhood we do, and so the three of us walk home together.

“How come we never saw you around before?” I ask Nathaniel.

“We only moved here two years ago. After Grandpa got sick, we needed a bigger place—so my grandparents could move in with us.”

“Does your grandmother still live with you?” Mason asks.

“Yup—and now
he
does too.”
He
must be his grandma’s fiancé.

I’d like to know more, but Mason changes the subject. “What school do you go to?”

“Trudeau Academy,” Nathaniel answers. Trudeau Academy is a private all-boys school with a reputation for being super strict.

“I guess that explains why we never met before,” Mason says. “I’m glad your parents signed you up for forensics camp.”

Nathaniel whacks Mason with his backpack. “I’m glad you’re glad.” To my surprise, there is nothing sarcastic in Nathaniel’s tone.

Unfortunately, the sidewalk is not very wide, and I end up having to walk behind the two of them. They are talking about the Unabomber and the butterfly stroke.

“I’m not bad at the butterfly,” I say, but they don’t hear me over the sound of the rush-hour traffic. When I turn to look into the street, I see a row of cars and two city buses full of passengers. No one is paying any attention to a small gray
hatchback stalled at the side of the road. Right now I feel a little like that hatchback.

That is the moment when I realize that after thirteen years of being stuck with Mason, he is finally making a new friend—just like I told him he should. So why do I feel like an abandoned vehicle? And how come I’m not happy for Mason?

We come to Nathaniel’s house first. It is brick with a copper roof that has turned green. A pink rosebush in full bloom climbs the front railing. An elegant-looking woman with shoulder-length gray hair stands in the front window. She is holding a small dog who is wagging his tail. When the woman waves at us, the dog jumps out of her arms, and I can see the woman laugh. She laughs with her whole face—her eyes, her cheeks, not just her mouth.

“Is that your grandmother?” I ask Nathaniel.

“Yup, that’s her. At least
he
’s not there too.”

“Is that your dog?” Mason asks.

“Actually, it’s my grandpa’s—” Nathaniel stops himself. “I mean, my grandma’s dog. Willy’s a Pomeranian. He used to dance a circle around my grandpa every day when he got back from work. And after Grandpa got sick, Willy hardly ever left his side.” Nathaniel’s voice softens; he doesn’t sound as if he is trying to be a big shot when he remembers his grandpa.

An older man with a bald head and wire glasses comes to join Nathaniel’s grandmother in the window. He looks okay to me.

“That’s
him
.”

There is nothing soft about the way Nathaniel says it.

ELEVEN

That night, as I am putting away the cutlery in the cutlery drawer and Dad is inspecting the floor for crumbs, Mom says, “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to do another hour or so of paperwork.”

Dad strokes her arm. “No problem.”

“Working is good for her,” I say to Dad when Mom leaves the room. It seems like an obvious observation, but somehow I never thought of it before. “It’s the relaxing she has trouble with.”

Dad sighs. “I think it’s when she’s relaxing—or trying to relax—that the anxious thoughts come back. That’s why I’m hoping the meditation will help. Are you sure you don’t want to try it with us, Tab?”

“I’ve already got my own way to relax.”

Dad drops the crumbs he has scooped up into the garbage. He points a finger at me. “Let me guess. It has something to do with reading up about forensics, right?”

I high-five Dad. “You know what? For a numbers guy, you’re pretty smart about people.”

Dad grins. Then he grabs a dishcloth from the counter. He has noticed a smudge on the refrigerator door. “Sometimes I wonder…” Dad leaves the words dangling in midair.

“What do you wonder sometimes?” I prompt him.

“Nah, nothing,” he says, wiping away the smudge.

Now I’m curious. “C’mon, Dad, tell me.”

He folds the dishcloth into two and hangs it over the faucet. “Well, sometimes I wonder how much you remember about the break-and-enter. I know you didn’t see anything. But maybe it had more of an effect on you than we realized.” His voice is quieter than usual. Probably because he does not want Mom to overhear us. Or he’s worried about upsetting me.

“All I remember are bits and pieces,” I tell him. Without planning to, I have lowered my voice too. “How I went upstairs to color. It’s weird, but I even remember the smell of the crayons. When I heard noises from downstairs, I thought Mom had turned on the TV, though I remember thinking she didn’t usually like noisy shows. I covered my ears when the noises got louder. Then nothing else until the policeman came to get me…” Only now, something else is coming back to me. Something I never remembered before. Another smell. Something sour. Pee. Why pee? “Dad…did I pee myself during the break-in?”

“Uh-huh,” Dad says gently. “The police officer found you standing in a puddle of pee—with your hands over your ears.”

“How come we never talk about it?” I ask.

“Your mom and I always thought you’d talk about it if you wanted to. We didn’t want to push you. And to be honest, your mom was such a mess after the whole thing happened, well, the focus was mostly on her. You seemed to be able to move right past it.”

Dad strokes my cheek. I don’t even realize I am crying until he wipes the tears away. “I’m so sorry we didn’t handle it better…”

“It’s okay, Dad.” When I reach to touch his cheek, I realize it’s damp too.

We don’t say anything else as we put away the dishes and shut off the kitchen lights, but it’s a good kind of quiet.