Edgar Allan's Official Crime Investigation Notebook (5 page)

but instead of being filled


with orange juice,


I am filled


with hatred.


Toward a certain someone.


Even though I know that isn't nice.


Ms. Herschel set down her coffee cup. “You've solved the crime already, Patrick?”

“Through interviews and forensic analysis,” Patrick nodded.

Interviews and forensic analysis! All I have to rely on is my own stupid brain, Edgar thought.

“Yesterday I interviewed the principal and Mrs. Peabody at the front desk,” Patrick went on. “They said there were no strangers on school property yesterday during the time of the crime, so I believe that the thief is someone who belongs at this school.”

“Good job, Patrick!” Ms. Herschel said. “Interviewing is a great way to get information.”

“Thank you! There's more!” Patrick held up a photo that he had printed out. “This is a shoe print. Someone
with dirty shoes left this print right here at the scene of the crime.” He pointed to the floor in front of the chalkboard. “As you can see, they don't belong to Ms. Herschel. I checked with Mr. Browning, the custodian. He said he mopped the floor the night before and did not return to the classroom in the morning. So . . . I believe the shoe prints belong to the thief.” He pointed to the picture. “See this distinctive tread pattern with an “O” in the center? During recess, I found matching footprints in the mud. Through careful observation, I discovered who the footprints belong to.”

Everyone was silent, waiting.

Patrick grinned.

“Well, who is it?” Kip blurted out.

“The person who has a shoe print with an ‘O' is . . . Taz Raskel!”

“I knew it!” Maia exclaimed.

Everybody looked at Taz's feet.

“So? My shoe prints were on the floor,” Taz argued. “What does that mean? I was the first person in the room. Of course my shoe prints would be on the floor.”

“According to Ms. Peabody in the office, you were the first student in the
building
,” Patrick said. “You had the time to commit the crime without being seen.”

“Now Patrick,” Ms. Herschel interrupted. “I like that you're observing shoe print impressions. That's what an investigator would look for. But remember, just because you find a shoe print near a crime scene, doesn't mean the shoe print belongs to the criminal. Taz does come in early every day to check on the pets, so it makes sense that his shoe prints would be here.”

“Well,” Patrick said, “I have another piece of evidence!” He held up another photograph.

“What is it?” Kip asked, trying to see.

“It's a photograph I took of a poem written in the boy's bathroom.” Patrick read:

There once was a

great dude named Taz

Who had a lot of

pizazz!

He likes to play jokes

On all kinds of folks

Especially the kids in

his clazz!

Ms. Herschel looked at the picture and sighed. “Taz, that's your handwriting. You know you're not supposed to write on bathroom doors!”

“The poem proves that Taz likes to play jokes on people and likes poetry.” Patrick summed it up. “Those are two things that are true of the thief. And we know that Taz is a pet lover. So my theory is that Taz wanted Slurpy all to himself. He took Slurpy, but then he felt guilty about it, so he called his mom. I was a witness.”

“Wait!” Taz said. “Another crime has been committed. Someone stole the brain right out of Patrick's head.”

The class laughed, but Patrick's theory made Taz look awfully guilty. Edgar couldn't bear the thought that Patrick
had solved the crime, so he looked at the picture of Taz's poem, trying to find a hole in his theory. “Wait!” he cried. “Taz couldn't be the thief! The thief has great handwriting and Taz's is terrible!”

“Hey, he's right,” Taz said.

Ms. Herschel nodded. “Interesting observation, Edgar. Forensic investigators often use handwriting analysis to solve crimes. Patrick . . . we can't accuse unless we have solid evidence. At this point, I believe we all still need to keep our eyes and ears open.”

“Yeah, Patrick,” Taz said.

Patrick glared at Edgar.

Ms. Herschel stepped between them. “Edgar, have you uncovered anything else that might help?”

Edgar looked at his notebook. Sadly, nothing he had done so far was any good. The theory about a professional fish thief, the worry about Mister Furball and the kindergarten fish . . . none of it had led him any closer to solving the crime. He shook his head.

“Well. I suggest we all keep our minds open,” Ms. Herschel said. “Use your powers of observation. Consider all the possibilities. Remember the culprit is sometimes the opposite of who you'd expect.”

I am going to try opening my mind right now. Think…think…think…


It could be anyone….Someone who looks sweet on the outside might be rotten on the inside. Like an Easter bunny with rabies. Or Clarice Stolnup!


The crime happened between 8:25 and 8:55 and no strangers were in the building. If the thief is someone from school, it can't be any of the kids on my bus because we didn't get there until 9:00. So…it must be a walker.


The walkers in my class are:


Kip, Taz, Patrick, Destiny, Maia, and Gabriela.


Kip is fast, and he wrote a really good poem. Could he have done it? Maybe he skateboarded in? No shoe prints then! But…he has even worse handwriting.


Aha! The doors of my mind just banged right open. Who is the opposite of a criminal? Destiny Perkins! She is the best student in the class, and the nicest, happiest girl. She never gets into trouble even when we have a substitute. She also has excellent handwriting and loves poetry.


One problem. She and Maia Gomez have been best friends since the first grade. Why would one best friend steal the goldfish that the other best friend gave to the class?


I am going to observe Destiny. Never fear! I will solve this mystery.


Destiny Perkins could hide a whole school of fish in her hair. Why hadn't Edgar noticed this before? It was shiny and wavy on top of her head where it was gathered together by a ponytail holder, and then it puffed out in a frizz of black curls.

Destiny was sitting two seats up and one row over, and even though Edgar knew she wasn't hiding fish in her hair, he wanted to use his powers of observation to notice everything about her.

He kept an eye on her all through math class, which meant that he didn't complete the sixteen problems that were due by the end of the period and so he had homework. It would have been worth it if he had uncovered a piece of damaging evidence, but all Destiny did the entire time was math. Math! He was beginning to have his doubts about her as a suspect.

On the way to Mr. Crew's room, the situation improved. Destiny walked alone, which was very suspicious. Destiny always walked with Maia.

Something is up between Destiny and Maia. Perhaps Maia knows that her best friend is a criminal and she has decided to no longer walk with her.


In language arts, Edgar finally had his chance to do some professional sleuthing. It all began with another poetry lesson.

Mr. Crew wrote a poem on the board.

What Am I?

Sometimes I am white.

Sometimes I am gray.

Sometimes I steal the sunlight.

Sometimes I float away.

The tall, lanky teacher finished writing, sat on the edge of his desk, and picked up his teacup. “What is the poem about? What am I?” he asked.

Patrick was the first one to raise his hand. “A cloud,” he said.

Edgar knew the right answer. He would have said it, too, if only he could've raised his hand faster.

Note: The shirt I'm wearing is too small, which makes it hard for me to raise my arm. This is a problem because all my shirts are too small and my parents are too cheap to
buy me new ones. What I really need are new parents.


Mr. Crew set down his cup. “A poem is a mystery to solve. As we discovered yesterday, the writer gives you clues and you have to figure out the poem's meaning. I want everybody to try writing a riddle poem like the cloud poem I wrote on the board. It doesn't have to rhyme, but don't reveal exactly what the poem is about . . . we'll try to guess what each poem is about when we read them out loud. Let's have a minute of silence to let our imaginations get to work.”

Edgar picked up his pencil. He liked the idea that a poem is a mystery and he wanted to try writing a very mysterious one, but he had to observe Destiny for suspicious behavior.

Patrick was sitting next to him on the right, so he had to be very careful not to let him see who he was observing.

Destiny was staring at her blank page, which was odd. She usually started on assignments right away.

Why isn't Destiny writing? Is she racked with guilt? Is she trying to come up with a new crime?


I should be writing my own poem, but it is hard to write your own poem if you are spying.


I bet Patrick will be the first person to raise his hand and read his poem.


I think Destiny just had a brainstorm because she is writing fast now and pressing down very hard on her pencil.


Edgar stared closely as Destiny's pencil worked its way across the page. Then, he had a brainstorm of his own. He picked up his pencil and a poem poured out.

What Am I?


by Edgar Allan


I am your thin friend.


Pass your thoughts to me


and I'll scratch them down


for all to see,


giving a bit of myself


unselfishly


for you.


He had never written anything like it. He read it over to make sure it was good. It
was
good. He liked the metaphor of the pencil as a friend. He imagined this pencil, loyal and brave, getting smaller and smaller with each use, in order to serve the writer. He liked the fact that his poem said all this without actually saying the word pencil at all.

He smiled at the pencil in his hand. Thank you, friend, he thought! He put his pencil down and raised his hand. His heart was pounding.

“Yes, Edgar?”

“I'm done!”

“Oh! Well, hold on. When everybody else is finished, you can go first.”

A strange feeling was building inside Edgar, an excitement of a different kind. This was the third poem that he had written since Mr. Crew had started this poetry unit, and writing each one had been surprisingly satisfying. The thought that he might have a special talent for writing poems as well as for investigating mysteries occurred to him for the first time in his life.

He noticed Patrick looking in his direction. Edgar smiled at his nemesis, and then he raised his hand again.

“Yes, Edgar?”

“I'm done.”

“Yes, I know. Just wait a few minutes longer, and you can read your poem for us.”

Finally, the class was ready. But somehow Mr. Crew forgot that he had promised Edgar could go first, and Patrick was the first to raise his hand.

Patrick read:

What Am I?

I am your long skinny friend
.

Give me your ideas
.

When I scribble them down
,

heads will bend to read them
.

Edgar could hardly breathe.

“You're a pencil!” Maia said.

“Yep.” Patrick nodded.

“It's a masterpiece!” Mr. Crew said. “I love the
metaphor of the pencil as a friend! Great job, Patrick! Who would like to go next? Edgar?”

“That was my . . . He . . .” Edgar looked at Patrick, but Patrick wouldn't look back. Patrick had stolen his idea! He had practically stolen the whole poem!

“Edgar, didn't you want to read yours?” Mr. Crew asked.

How could he read it now?

“We'll go!” Maia said.

Maia and Gabriela read another one that they wrote together, and Sammy read one about a soccer ball without enough air, and Taz read a funny one about the inside of a dog's nose, but Edgar couldn't pay attention.

It is a terrible feeling to have something stolen from you. It's like you're about to eat a delicious feast and somebody comes along and pulls all the food away.


Maybe a thief is somebody who has never had anything stolen because once you've had something stolen, then you know how bad it feels, and how could you ever do that to somebody else?


Toward the end of class, Edgar realized that he was neglecting his crime investigation duties. Come to think of it, something very odd
had
happened regarding Destiny during class. Destiny hadn't shared her poem. She always wanted to share. So, why not this time?