Hunt a Killer, page 8
“Mrs. Lawson,” I answered. “All the reference letters are from her, but she has an alibi for the murder. She was with Mrs. Medina that morning. So, no means or opportunity.”
“Guys, look at all the students.” Sabrina scrolled back through the files. “Sheetal Khara. Is she the deputy mayor’s kid?”
I nodded. “And Natalia Mitchell. I’m guessing her parents are the divorce lawyers from that card I found in Mr. Medina’s library. And Maddie’s dad is Chief Ryan at CPD.”
Frankie scribbled down all the names. “Tight circles. Half these parents were at the memorial service.”
“I remember seeing Mr. and Mrs. Russell there. They run Chicago’s chapter of Jack and Jill and sit on the school’s board of directors. Their kids are Jhamal and Whitney.” I pulled up the school photos of two kids with perfectly maintained dreadlock twists. “And I think Kehlani’s family works in real estate, Pekelo Construction? I feel like I’ve overheard him mentioning it during AP Calc. They hold a lot of contracts in the city, and the Garcias are wrapped up in the state government. Antonio makes sure everyone knows that.”
“These are all parents who would have a lot to lose if they were caught up in a scandal like this. And the kids definitely couldn’t have done this alone.” Sabrina swiped her phone screen, quickly typing in a Google search. “In a similar scandal a few years back, those tests went for ten thousand dollars apiece. Everyone here has motive.”
“Wait, are we writing down the students and the parents for the suspect pool?” I asked.
“Yep.” Sabrina went over to the board to add more names. “You said he was pushed during an argument. Heat of the moment. There’s our means. Everyone is capable.”
“But they knew to stay out of sight. That’s planned, premeditated,” I countered. “And there was the threatening voice mail.”
“We have to consider both possibilities,” Frankie settled.
“Got it.” Sabrina capped the marker. “Most of the adults on this board are public figures. We can rule them out quickly with alibis, call and sweet-talk assistants for their schedules that day. And the students—think you can check attendance records, Jo? Classic spill and snoop?”
“I’ll go by the administrative office first thing.”
“Good,” she said, sitting back down. “So, what do we think is in the locked file?”
Frankie scratched his chin. “Maybe it’s something to do with the hacker or details on however they managed to pull this off? Or a money trail? Something Mr. Medina wanted to make sure no one would be able to erase.”
I frowned. “Can you unlock it?”
“I can run a key on it, but it’ll take a few days. I’ll pitch a few hypotheticals to my dad in the meantime to see what he thinks would be the best approach. His job is basically him trying to hack government systems all day to test their security, so he should have some good tips. And if you two have other password ideas, text me. I can research the hacking theory while the key runs in the background. See if I can replicate it. If they found a way to hack the College Board …”
Sabrina and I nodded in agreement. I looked over our suspect pool. It was larger than any of the cold cases we’d worked in the past. Everything about this was different. But now we were one step closer. The motive was clear. Next up, opportunity.
Tuesday, March 1, 8:31 a.m.
WALKING INTO THE school’s front office the next morning, I carried the most expensive coffee drink I’d ever purchased. Behind the first desk sat a pale man with a thin nose and high cheekbones. He dressed way too chic to be an administrative assistant and he knew it; he looked more like a collegiate professor in his fitted, light gray knit cardigan with brown leather patches on the elbows.
“Hey, Emile.”
He didn’t look up.
I cleared my throat. “Hey, Emile,” I repeated a little louder.
He stopped typing. “Can I help you, Miss … ?”
I clenched my jaw. As many times as I’ve had to come into the front office, he knew my name. “Jolene Kelley. You’ve helped me a few times. You know, when I come in late, and you switch my absence over to tardy.” I placed the coffee in front of him. “This is for you. I noticed your push thingy broke.”
He turned up his nose. “This is French press?”
“It’s Starbucks.”
He moved the drink to the far corner of his desk. “I guess it’s the thought.”
I swallowed my retort.
All I need is for him to sign in; then I spill the drink, and he runs off for towels.
The office was set up with Emile’s desk out front and a frosted glass wall behind him to give privacy to the other admins sharing the space. No one would even notice me at his computer. Most of the other assistants were consumed in their own tasks, clacking away on their obnoxiously loud keyboards.
“I was hoping you could pull up my attendance record? My parents have been getting on me about—”
“Form B221.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a form for all administrative office requests. Attendance—B221.”
“I was hoping you could—”
“No.”
“But maybe—”
“No.” He glowered.
This bi—
I walked around and snatched the drink back. “I thought we were friends, Emile.” I eyed his Vogue Paris magazine as I walked back to the student side of the desk, taking note of his screensaver showing his partner and their Maltipoo. “Obviously, I was wrong.” I stomped back into the main hall.
You give someone a little bit of power and they just—
“Bad morning?” Julius stood leaning against one of the marble busts that lined the hall.
I took him in for a moment before turning to leave the administrative wing. “Is that what you do? Lurk in corners and elevators waiting to bump into me?”
“So you did recognize me at the memorial service?” He fell in step beside me.
I rolled my eyes. “Here.” I thrusted the drink into his hands.
He blew on the steam before taking a sip. It took less than a second for him to choke and for spittle to fly. “This is the most disgusting coffee I’ve ever tasted.”
“Well, it was expensive, and it didn’t work,” I snipped.
“You seem upset, Kelley Green Eyes.”
I stopped walking. “Who’s Kelley Green Eyes?”
“You.” He pushed his hair back, out of his face. “Green eyes are very rare, and you, while you try to move around unnoticed, have always stood out. Works in my favor, though. Mr. Medina asked me to look out for you, before …”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to decide what to make of what he said.
Is this flirting? Is this what guys do to flirt? Annoy their victim?
I opted for ignoring him. I continued a little ways before passing through the glass corridor to the science and mathematics wing. I might actually be on time to AP Calc this morning.
After walking in silence—Julius following, not taking the hint—curiosity got the best of me. “When did he ask you that? To look out for me.”
He smiled in my peripheral. “When you first started. It was a bit hard—seniors don’t have that many classes with sophomores—but you take a lot of AP classes, so that means you have to be pretty smart. I know you watch for the little things and only speak on topics when you have all the facts.”
“Your point?”
“I’m sure you can do anything you put your mind to. You just need to take a breath.”
I frowned. He wasn’t wrong. My run-in with Emile would’ve gone better if I’d put effort into it, did some recon beforehand. But I didn’t have time for that. I can’t let this case go cold. I won’t.
I came to a stop a few doors away from my class, wringing my hands on the straps of my backpack. I didn’t like Julius getting into my head. “What makes you think I need to take a breath?”
He smirked. Looking up at the hallway clock, he took a few steps back toward the classroom across the hall. “Follow whatever has your attention until it runs cold. Then you can free your mind up and not do dumb things like trying to bribe Emile with an overpriced Americano.” He dropped the drink in the nearest trash can as the late bell rang for first period, then slipped into his classroom. “See you later, Kelley Green Eyes.”
I kicked the locker next to me.
Deep breaths, I told myself. I’m rushing, not focused.
I never lost my cool during investigations. I’d also never struck out so badly trying to get information. I didn’t even think to ask Julius any questions about the case, even though he’s one of the names in our suspect pool. Stupid mistake. “Pull it together, Jo.”
I’d been stuck on a single thought since I found the flash drive last night—Did Mr. Medina leave those files for me to find? He went to the police station, knowing there were threats on his life, and left a copy of his evidence in his favorite Sherlock book. Did he know I wouldn’t be able to let it go if something happened to him? That I’d snoop through his office? Did he know that I’d be able to figure out his password?
The thoughts weighed heavy on me, the pressure to solve his murder.
I can’t mess up anymore.
I sighed and dug around in the outer pocket of my backpack where I kept my on-the-go candy stash. Sweets were the one way I knew to calm my nerves. I groaned. No Red Vines. The pocket was full of empty wrappers and two stale pieces of gum.
“Joining us today, Miss Kelley?” Ms. Taylor poked her head out of her classroom.
Ah, yes. Consistently late for AP Calc.
I flashed an apologetic smile and made my way to my seat. I knew what I needed to do to get my priorities straight: Treat this case the same as all the others.
It’s just a puzzle to solve.
At home, I sat on my bed, staring at the list of suspects Frankie, Sabrina, and I had put together last night. I had wasted a whole day, not a single student’s name crossed off. My eyes flitted to Julius’s. He said Mr. Medina asked him months ago to look out for me, so why insert himself into my life now? Guilt? I thought back to the candle he left in front of the guidance offices last week. The same candle I saw at the train platform when I was with Reya. How had he known the exact spot where Mr. Medina was hit? There was the dark stain on the concrete that could’ve given it away—I shooed the memory away before it had a chance to fully form.
Taking a red marker from my desk, I uncapped it, blaming its aroma of rubbing alcohol and artificial raspberries on why my eyes started to water. Pushing down whatever was bubbling inside me, I took out my phone to find the list Frankie had sent over.
After telling my friends about the press conference the morning Mr. Medina died, Frankie—in all his Google-search geniusness—was able to find the recorded live feed on CPD’s YouTube channel. It was a possible misuse of CPD’s resources on the chief’s end, but it helped us clock alibis for a few other parents we spotted in the audience—Kehlani’s dad along with both of the Garcias. Frankie recorded the time stamp as each suspect appeared on camera. Chief Ryan was also in attendance (obviously), but he was definitely late enough to have been able to make a detour on the way. Deputy Mayor Khara had skipped the event all together. That left Sabrina to make some calls and track down the Russells and the Mitchells this afternoon. I scanned the whiteboard one more time.
“We never added Julius’s parents,” I muttered. I added “Mr. and Mrs. James” with a question mark. Julius had become an anomaly. His file was bare, he didn’t seem to have come from wealth, and I had no idea if he even lived with his parents, or who they were. And his behavior in the last week—constantly popping up and dodging questions about Mr. Medina—was questionable to say the least. Stumped, I settled for slumping into my chair and drumming my fingers across my desk.
The vibrations shifted my computer mouse, and my MacBook screen lit up. The cursor still hovered over the blue-and-white mail icon from the last time I used my laptop. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open the police report yet. I drummed my fingers some more.
Treat it like a cold case.
Taking a breath, I counted to five and clicked.
Reya’s forwarded email sat unopened in my inbox. At this point, I’m not sure what I expected to gain from the report. The cameras were useless, and Lieutenant Charles, in his rush toward a cushy promotion, hadn’t put in any effort to actually investigate. But I had to go about the case right. No skipping evidence or brushing off leads.
I opened the attachment.
Inside was a zip file with one PDF and three folders: Witness Statements, Photographic Evidence, and Security Footage.
I sighed, relieved. The photos were in a separate folder. Opening up the PDF report, I skimmed the police report.
I glanced over the gathered testimonies and took a moment before watching the security camera footage. Then, after a few minutes of steeling myself and staring at the file, I pressed play.
The person who stood blocked by the platform column did well to stay out of sight. The grainy footage made it hard to even make out their height and build. I was quick to pause as soon as I saw the familiar arch of Mr. Medina’s body folding over. My chest tightened. Holding my breath, I switched to the footage from the train’s front camera—corrupted, nothing but static. Sabrina’s voice echoed in my mind.
Convenient.
In the folder for collected testimony, mine was missing. Another big surprise. There was a pull in my stomach as I wondered if my mom knew the case was already closed when she arranged for me to give a statement. I didn’t know if I wanted to find out the answer.
I scrolled through the various witness statements, stopping when I found the one I was looking for: the conductor. And it was as vague as ever: “Victim fell backward onto tracks.”
I noted the date next to the signature. The statement was taken two days after the incident, not at the scene. His statement should’ve been taken immediately.
I did one last scan of the police report, my eyes catching on the name of the first officer on the scene. Reporting officer: Ryan, John.
I sat up and read it again.
He couldn’t have been the first officer on the scene.
And arriving only two minutes after Mr. Medina was hit?
I saw him leave police headquarters. He should’ve been well on his way to the press conference by then. Though the alderman’s assistant did say Chief Ryan was over an hour late …
I dug into my memory. I would’ve recognized Chief Ryan if he was at the platform that morning. It was a ten-minute drive from CPD headquarters to where the press conference was staged at the McCormick Place Convention Center. There was nothing else in the report about his presence at the scene. Lieutenant Charles’s own write-up noted he, himself, was called to the scene by Ryan. But how did two officers, neither on the beat, end up at the platform?
My mind raced as new theories formed. What if Chief Ryan wasn’t rushing out to make it to his press conference? What if he was trying to catch someone at Thirty-Fifth and Bronzeville before they could ruin his bid for office with a scandal that would rock the city?
“How’s everything going with school?”
My mom’s voice broke my train of thought. She stood at my door, already changed out of her work attire, and had let her hair down out of its usual tight bun, her curls and coils surrounding her face like a halo. Crossing my room, she offered me a steaming hot mug of lemon and lavender tea. Growing up, it was how she always calmed me down after nightmares. I wanted to be calmed by her presence now. Shouldn’t tea from a mom make her daughter feel at peace? I couldn’t shake it, though. My statement was missing from the report.
My truth was missing.
“Can I ask you about the call you made to Lieutenant Charles—so I could give my statement about Mr. Medina?” I closed my MacBook and took the mug with both hands. The smell of lavender hit my face, its aroma trying and failing to relax my nerves.
“Sure.” She redid her robe’s tie at her waist, fidgeting with the worn threads.
“Did you know the case was already closed?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking. A lie would come next. I steeled myself, waiting.
“Of course not,” Dad answered from the hallway. He had just passed my open door on the way down the hall. His eyes fell to his wife, whose own eyes stared at the floor. “Millie?”
“I’m not going to lie to you. You’ve known my tells since you were fourteen.” There was a light smile in her voice. She took a step forward as I pushed myself back farther in my seat. “You needed closure. I wasn’t going to keep watching you mope—”
“Mope? I witnessed a murder.” My grip on the mug tightened, my nails trying to dig into the porcelain. Chest pounding, I attempted to focus on the floral and citrus scent as heat crawled up my neck to my cheeks. But I couldn’t. Memories flooded to the surface. Me screaming at her as she ripped down the first murder board I created for a cold case. The words we said to each other. Her daughter wasn’t going to waste her life playing Little Miss Detective. She had worked too hard for that. She wanted me to have something better—wanted me to choose a path different from the paths that had consumed my grandfather and uncle. Killed them.
But that didn’t mean the same would happen to me. How could I choose any other path when being a “voice to the voiceless” was ingrained in my DNA?
That night, I had called her a few choice names a daughter should never call her mother, and she had slapped me across my face. She apologized after, but everything between us had already changed in that moment.
Two years later and the slap still stung.
“I’m trying to help you, Jolene. Losing Mr. Medina, it was like it broke you. When I look at you now—you remind me so much of my dad, my brother.” She chuckled softly to herself. “They were always so ready to uncover the truth. If you didn’t get out of bed that day, you probably would’ve tried to do something—start one of your investigations …”
My eyes flicked to the closed laptop.
She stopped. The light in her eyes faded. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” One quick stride across the room and she was at the whiteboard reading off the names. “Politicians? Police officials?” Her face twisted in anger as she went to pick up the whiteboard right as I yanked it from her grasp. No. She wasn’t going to destroy this. Mr. Medina needed me—
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