Sketchy (19 page)

Reaching the end of the tunnel, I feel for the door and turn the knob. It squeaks. I freeze. I wait but hear nothing, so I turn it again and push the door open—daylight rushes in at me. I fall to my knees and crawl across the floor, tearing the hem of my maxidress on my pointy boots. I part the gingham curtain, crouch underneath the counter, pull the curtain closed, and lean up against the safe, slowing my breath.

Stay calm, Bea. Stay calm.

I close my eyes, inhale through my nose, and exhale through my mouth, counting to four.

Something furry runs across my right hand.
A fucking rat! Ewww!

The long tail slips away under the curtain, the rat probably as freaked out as I am. I’m totally grossed out, searching for hand sanitizer in my purse, when my phone rings—now set to Bowie’s song “Changes.”
Shit!
I shut it off just as he starts singing the fourth stuttering
ch.

It’s my mom—of course she’d be the one to blow my cover. I turn it to vibrate and freeze, waiting for the curtain to be yanked open.

But it doesn’t happen. I hear a jumble of voices on the field—concerned, serious voices, and I crawl out from underneath the counter, peek around the corner, and see a cluster of cops, including Daniels, looking down at something on the fifty-yard line.

An officer holding a notepad talks to the sergeant. “A Beth Meyers. Sixteen. From Dearborn. Parents report she went shopping at the mall last night. Never came home.”

Oh no. A sixteen-year-old.

“Wonder why she was dumped here?” the officer asks.

“He’s playing a mind game with Willa Pressman,” Sergeant Daniels answers. “The sick bastard. Okay, make some room. CSI’s coming in.”

A couple of men walk toward the crime scene, both
carrying camera equipment. The officers back away from the body, and I see her.

She is covered from her neck down to her feet with a dark blanket. Her hair is wrapped in something—looks like duct tape—flattening it. Her head is the only part of her that’s exposed, turned, facing me. Her eyes are frozen, wide open like two solid marbles set into her skull—a blank stare out at nothing. Or something—the last thing she saw, maybe.

I clench my fists and scream a silent scream.
God dammit! I could have stopped this! I know I could have!

And I hear it again. That noise.

Click, whir.

Click, whir.

Click, whir.

I peer out again around the counter and see an investigator taking photographs of her face, along with a videographer. The photographer’s using a Polaroid camera and focusing, closing in on her face.

Click, whir.

That’s it! That noise… the noise Willa heard before she was raped… it was a Polaroid camera! He was taking pictures of her!

I pull the photo out of my purse—the Polaroid that Chris took of me framed with plastic legs, feet, hands, breasts, and heads in front of the dollhouse.

Thoughts fly around and around in my head like rabid bats, and I sink back under the counter, open my sketchbook, and write:

Veronica at the Arb:

Torso

Willa:

Legs

This girl, Beth:

Head, her face

Legs, a torso, a head… and a camera!

Body parts. I shudder. He’s taking pictures of their body parts! Like a sick photographic collage.

I peer at the scene again. The photographer has his back to me—wearing a baseball cap, dark hair hangs out from underneath.

No one would ever suspect him. He works for the cops… oh my god… that creepy police officer at homecoming, lighting my cigarette.

My teeth begin to chatter, and it’s not just because of the dipping temperature. My legs cramp up. I stand. I don’t care if they see me anymore. I watch the photographer walk away from the girl and lean on the hood of a police car as the ambulance rolls down the hill.

The girl’s body—Beth—is placed on a stretcher and carried into the ambulance. It pulls away, around the track, and out the gate on the far side of the field. Silent—the siren not needed.

The cops disperse, walking toward their cars. I keep my eye on the forensic photographer. He climbs the bleachers, lugging his equipment. I run out of the concession stand and scramble up the ramp, fast.

The school doors open as I reach the top of the tunnel. Silent, shocked students walk out—their eyes pointing down toward the field. School busses idle. I fall into step with my fellow peers, and no one pays attention to me, the shivering girl with the hanging hem. And if they did, they’d probably assume it was a style choice.

I look around the parking lot and spot him. He’s behind a gray van, placing his equipment in the back. I run to my car, start the engine, and wait for him to pull up in front of me. And I follow—follow him out of the lot and onto the road.

My phone vibrates. It’s my mom again. “Hi, Mom.” I talk on speakerphone.

“Oh, Bea, are you okay? I’ve been listening to the news all day… said your school was in lockdown, wouldn’t allow phone calls…”

Thank goodness I didn’t answer her call.

“Right, Mom, it’s been horrible.”

“They found another body, a girl?”

Her dead eyes flash in my mind. “Yes, that’s what I heard.”

“Bea, come home now! I need you home.”

“You know, Mom, I’m pretty flipped out. I feel like I need to drop in on a meeting. I think there’s one at four at St. Anne’s.”

“Bea…”

“Mom, it’s okay. I need to go. I won’t be long, I promise.”

The van pulls into the left lane. I hang up on my mom and follow him.

He turns left. I turn left. He drives a mile down the road and pulls into a parking lot. Ann Ar-Bar, the neon sign blinks. I stop on side of the road and watch him, his head hanging low, walking into the bar.

I cross the street and follow him in. It’s dark and smoky, a stark contrast to the sunny afternoon outside. But it’s always nighttime in a bar—always time to drink, darkness lessening the guilt. I fall into a booth near the entrance and watch him sit on a stool at the bar, take off his coat, order a drink, and slug it back, fast.

I can’t make out his face. His back is to me, and even if it weren’t, it would be too dark to see if he had a cleft in his chin.

The front door opens, and a few cops walk in. I slouch and block my face with my sketchbook. I hear them order drinks at the bar—one of the voices is Sergeant Daniels’s. “Give me a Stroh’s.”

A waitress starts walking toward my booth. Shit! I slip into the ladies’ room before she gets to me.

I sit in a stall, on top of a cigarette-singed toilet seat, and think,
Okay, what’s my plan? I can’t let him get away. What if it’s him?

I dial Sergeant Daniels’s number.

“Daniels,” he answers on the first ring.

“Hi. This is Bea. I know you’re gonna think I’m nuts, but hear me out, please,” I whisper. “The photographer taking the Polaroids of the dead girl on the football field today… I think he’s the murderer!”

“What? What are you talking about? Where are you?”

“I know it’s him! You have to believe me,” I whisper again. “And he’s sitting at the bar with you, the guy in the baseball cap. Don’t let him know you know!”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me? Did you? Sergeant…”

I hear footsteps and the door of the bathroom opening. A face, the waitress’s face, peeks at me below the stall. “Yeah, she’s in here,” she calls out, snapping her gum.

Damn!

I jump off the toilet, open the stall, and the sergeant stands at the door of the john, his face set in a hard, angry stare.

I cradle my bag close to my chest as if it’s a shield. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but I had to follow him. I had to. I figured it out. He’s been taking photographs of the girls. Willa’s legs, Veronica’s torso, and now this girl’s face!”

His eyes grow wide. “What? Where were you today? What did you do?”

“I saw him! I saw him taking pictures of the dead girl, Polaroids, and it was the same noise that Willa heard—the noise from the camera.”

“Get out of here!” the sergeant yells. “Now!” He backs away from the door. I hurry past him, flinching at his anger, and walk into the bar.

“Holy Christ! What’s she doing here?” Detective Cole sneers.

I pause, looking back at the photographer, still sitting at the bar.

“Leave, Miss Washington, now! Unless you’d like a police escort… to the station,” Sergeant Daniels orders.

“But that’s him,” I exclaim, pointing. “He’s the murderer!”

The guy turns, takes off his baseball cap, wipes the top of his balding head, and rubs his cleftless chin. “What did she say?”

My knees go weak and start to buckle. “Oh, no… I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The sergeant takes me by the arm and pulls me outside to the parking lot.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I just wanted to help…”

“Well, you can’t. Don’t you get it? You can’t help.”

“Yes, I can!”

“Willa was the one raped, not you!” he snaps.

I take a step back, holding in tears. “You could have said
that same thing to Beth at the mall yesterday afternoon—and look what happened to her.”

I sit in my car and hit the steering wheel over and over. I am so stupid! I’m idiotic! I wish I’d never gotten sober… this wouldn’t have happened if I were still using. I can’t take this anymore!!!

I dial his number. He answers. “Marcus.”

I hang up—fast—and race to the meeting at St. Anne’s, get my fix—the good kind—and end up crawling onto my parents’ bed after dinner, in between them. They make room for me as they watch an antiques auction show on television.

My mom pets my hair. “This has been a rough couple of weeks for you, Bea. And now this girl at your school…”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just watch TV.”

My dad puts his arm around me.

I settle in and listen to my parents bicker about what they think something is worth on the show. I allow the comforting banter to fill my confused, pounding head.

“Why would anyone bring that vase to the show? It’s hideous,” Mom scoffs.

“I bet it’s worth a fortune, Bella.”

“No. You’re wrong. It’s a fake.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I just do.”

I text Chris.

The picture pops up.

Another photo. This time the professor looks right at
the camera, at Chris. I turn my phone sideways, making the photo bigger.

His dark hair falls into his eyes as he looks straight at the camera… a square jaw, sculpted face, and a slight beard hiding what looks like a cleft embedded in his chin.

I stop breathing.

Dad peers over my shoulder. “Hey, look at that. Professor Woolf from my department. That’s the photography teacher I wanted you to meet, Bea. Chris sent you that?”

I stare at the face on my phone and nod. Professor Woolf.

“Hah!” Mom exclaims. “I was right. You were wrong. The vase is a fake!”

“Guess you were right, as always, Bella.” Dad sighs.

Ping.

Woolf… Professor Woolf… James Woolf.

I scroll through the messages on my phone—the messages from the frat boys that night.