Hunt a Killer Page 2
I’m late for AP Calc.
I frowned as the thought crossed my mind. School. We were both supposed to be at school. Why was he here?
My phone buzzed.
Frankie:
???
Sabrina:
Earth to Jo!
Sabrina:
I bet she’s wrapped up in another podcast.
Frankie and Sabrina still waited for an answer.
Officers walked past, muttering to one another. “Another jumper?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. The hunch of Mr. Medina’s body, his brown eyes wide. The O of his mouth in a soundless scream. He wasn’t arched back like a slip or fall. Wasn’t facing forward like a jump. Hunched, like he was hit with force. And the arguing voices …
He was pushed!
But the words wouldn’t leave my mouth.
“Jo!” Reya ran up the platform, flashing her ID to be let through the barricade meant to close off the station. It took no time for her to cross the space between us, swoop down, and pull me to her. “There were so many patrol cars when I drove past. And you weren’t answering your phone.”
The old woman squeezed my hand. “I’ll leave you with your friend. Promise you won’t look, baby.”
I nodded over Reya’s shoulder as the old woman stood to leave.
Reya turned to offer a grateful smile before facing me again, tucking the wild strands of my hair behind my ears. “I thought something happened to you.”
I unlocked my phone screen. Three missed calls. How long has it been?
A few papers flitted by with the school crest.
Someone needs to get the papers. Mr. Medina will need them—
Reya pressed her hands to my cheeks. “Are you okay?”
I tried again to turn my head to see the front of the train.
“You don’t want to do that. It’s … It’s not the same as looking at a photograph.”
“It’s Mr. Medina,” I whispered.
“From school?”
I nodded.
A small gasp escaped her lips as she covered her mouth. She knew him from all my stories about his club at Kershaw. Remembered all the books I dragged her to the library to help me find. They had even met briefly at the last parents’ night at North Shore, my own parents too busy with work to attend themselves.
More papers blew about the ground, student records from the looks of it. I caught the name of one student as the cover sheet of his file found itself wedged under our bench: Julius James. He had a smile in his school photo where one side of his mouth quirked up higher than the other. A gloved hand snatched up the paper. I didn’t look up to see who it belonged to.
A metallic stench wafted through the air, and the Chicago wind whipped again. Blood. My stomach lurched. Reya was right; this wasn’t the same as my cold cases.
“I’m going to call your parents to take you home.” Reya waved an officer over, a middle-aged man handing out blankets to those who remained on the platform. He wrapped the scratchy thing around my shoulders. I’d seen him before, in the lobby this morning. My gaze flitted to his badge. Lieutenant Charles.
“Do you think you’ll be able to give a statement?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to speak, and again, nothing came out.
Reya held up a hand. “Give her a minute.”
For the next thirty minutes, I sat still as the scene moved around me. Officers and EMTs passed through the station as trains single-tracked on the northbound side, not stopping to receive or unload passengers. This was a crime scene, after all.
“I can’t reach your dad, but your mom can meet us at the house.”
Right. Dad was in court today. I could have told Reya, but I wanted him to be the one to answer the phone, not my mom.
“Let’s take you home.” Reya pulled me to my feet.
“I—I haven’t given my statement. About what I saw.”
“Do you want to wait? I’m sure we can work it out for you to go down to the station later. You’re a minor, and your parents aren’t here, so it should be okay.”
My eyes flicked up to the platform overhang. Security cameras in fixed positions.
Rolling my shoulders back, I straightened up. “I can do it. I want to.”
I didn’t see who Mr. Medina was arguing with, but it had to be on the station’s security cameras.
Reya left to find the lieutenant while I tightened the blanket around me. The old woman was gone, along with the tourist couple and most everyone else. All had given their statements. Someone had to have had a better view of the argument. I glanced around one more time. Only one other kid was waiting for his parents to pick him up.
Did they already have the suspect tucked away?
Reya made her way back. “They have all the statements they need. Did you see him fall?”
“Fall?”
Reya frowned, searching my eyes. “Lieutenant Charles said the statements they’ve taken so far indicate this was just an unfortunate accident.”
“Taken so far”? Shouldn’t they get all the statements before making a call on what just happened?
“No.” I shook my head. “No, he was pushed. He flew through the air. His face—” My voice cracked, my breath caught in my throat.
“Are you sure? Did you see someone push him?”
“No. But he didn’t fall. I saw his body in the air …” Brows furrowed, I forced myself to picture it again. He was too high off the ground to have fallen.
Reya looked back at the police officers before wrapping an arm around me. “Let’s get you home, Jo.”
I stumbled at first, not wanting to leave but unable to do much else. It was like I had forgotten how to move without someone nudging me in the right direction.
My mind drifted back to the sound of screeching train brakes, metal on metal. I shook my head as though that action alone would quiet the memory. It didn’t.
To get to the stairs, we had to walk past the portion of tracks now taped off. I snuck a peek, only to see a bloodied white sheet covering Mr. Medina’s form. It still felt so unreal. I wanted to see a finger move, someone to yell out he was okay. But nothing happened.
Turning away, I locked my eyes on the security camera pointed directly at me.
The police will see who did this on the footage. They have to.
At home, Mom made lemon and lavender tea and threw on a pot of chicken stock. We had rotisserie last night, which meant chicken and wild rice soup for dinner tonight. She and Reya spoke in hushed voices at the stove, Mom sneaking a glance at me here and there. After the third look of pity, I slipped away and went upstairs to my room.
My hands shook as I placed the now-folded scarf on my desk. The desk was old and wooden, covered with a mix of schoolwork and printouts from the last cold case I worked with Frankie and Sabrina. Photos dotted my wall. We took selfies every time we went somewhere new to investigate a case. My favorite photo was from eighth grade—the three of us with Mr. Medina celebrating the third anniversary of our inaugural book club session. He’d taken us to the movies, and we all wore cream cable-knit sweaters to channel Chris Evans’s character from Knives Out. It was one of our many investigations, Mr. Medina challenging us to figure out who the killer was. None of us got it right, but it was all we needed to spark our love for mysteries outside of just books. We started researching cold cases soon after that. All because of Mr. Medina.
Looking down at the scarf, my thoughts wandered. Would this go in an evidence box? Will the police forget about Mr. Medina like all the others in the records room? Will his case go cold?
But this wasn’t another case. This is—was—Mr. Medina. And it wasn’t an accident.
My phone vibrated again.
Crap. I never answered my friends.
Sabrina:
We heard what happened.
Sabrina:
Frankie:
I just … Damn, are you okay? Want us to come over?
I started to respond, but nothing I tried to say came out right.
“Argh!” I threw the phone across the room and flopped onto my bed, screaming into my pillow. My cheeks hot and wet with tears.
Finally. It had taken long enough for me to cry. This was real. It was happening.
It happened.
Mr. Medina was dead.
Thursday, February 24, 7:49 a.m.
MR. MEDINA’S DEATH hit me differently compared to others who had come and gone from my life. It wasn’t as if this was the first time I’d lost someone. My great-grandmother Nana Josette was the sweetest old lady, made the best potato salad (the only potato salad I would ever eat), and had been, on most days, my best friend. When she passed two years ago, I put on my white dress for her going-home service, shed a few tears, and spent the week after making all her recipes with my mom while she told stories from her summers with Nana. We didn’t let ourselves mope. She had lived a full life and left behind a legacy that would be forever unmatched.
Mr. Medina was different.
He didn’t get to live a full life. Someone took that from him.
In the past three days, I’d barely gotten out of bed, argued twice with my mom about missing class, and binged more episodes of Criminal Minds than I cared to admit. I didn’t want to move past Mr. Medina’s death with the swiftness everyone seemed to think I should. How could I? This was murder. But it felt as if no one else believed that.
A knock came at my door in the tune of the Dolly Parton classic my dad named me for. I paused the TV, framing Dr. Reid in mid–aha moment as he started to unravel the unsub’s book cipher.
My dad inched open the door. “Hey, kiddo.”
He was already dressed for another day in court—a pressed gray suit and his signature skinny silver tie. His superhero costu
me he called it. He always wore it for closing arguments. I scooted over in my bed, brushing a few candy wrappers to the floor to clear a space for him.
Plopping down next to me, he grabbed one of my Red Vines. “Which episode is this?”
“Beginning of season two: ‘The Fisher King: Part Two.’ ”
“And these are one-hour episodes? Have you done anything else?” He raised a brow.
“Technically, they’re only forty-five-minute episodes. No commercials on stream.”
“Fair enough.” He pulled another Red Vine from the bag and watched the TV screen as I unpaused the show, allowing Dr. Reid to continue being the investigative genius I hoped to one day become.
We managed a few minutes of silence before Dad finally spoke up. “You know, Mr. Medina meant a lot to me, too.”
I tensed. I suspected he was here to talk but had hoped he just wanted to steal from my candy stash. “Dad—”
“Ah—let me finish. Now, I didn’t grow up running with the best crowds, and I got tangled up in a few things. I was lucky to snag your grandfather as my arresting officer. But the city out there has changed so much since then. I remember a few years back having friends from out east call and ask me, ‘What’s going on in Chicago?’ Multiple homicides every day. The city had become this murder capital as the world just sat and watched.” He shook his head at his words. “Your mom and I even thought about leaving a few times.”
I paused the TV again.
Leaving Chicago was something Mom always joked about. Dad was content with only living in cities where they dyed the river green during his favorite holiday. He never mentioned wanting to go anywhere else.
“Then Frankie’s little brother got clipped with that stray bullet while playing in his own yard, two doors down from us,” he continued. “There was a PTA meeting at Kershaw, and all the parents asked for the school to do more, provide after-school care to keep the young ones off the streets. Most of our cries were met with empty words. Mr. Medina, though, he did something. He started that book club for you and Frankie and Sabrina, and he got a few other teachers to start their own programs. He knew ending at five wasn’t enough time for most families to make it home from work, so he took you all to the library, or to one of the neighborhood aunties, just to make sure you were somewhere safe. I owe a lot to that man. A lot of parents do.”
His voice wavered as he wrung his hands together. “Are you sure this wasn’t an accident? Someone pushed him?”
I lifted my head to meet his eyes. I’d shared my version of the incident with my parents that first night at dinner, only for Mom to brush it off as me grieving in my own way, a coping mechanism. The two of us had barely spoken in three days. (Not that that was anything new.)
Dad stared back at me now, caring eyes and an open expression. He actually wanted to hear my answer.
“He wouldn’t jump. And the wind might have been a beast that day, but he wasn’t at the edge of the platform when it happened. I’m sure of it.”
Dad ran his fingers through his fading red hair, his mind working on something as he let out a sigh. “There are two things I’ve tried to pass on to you.”
“Be a voice to the voiceless,” I recited.
“And always speak your truth.” He nodded. “We’re listening now.”
My door creaked, and there was my mom, her briefcase in hand. She wore her own pressed suit, her coily hair pinned up in a tight bun. “I put in a call. Reya’s picking you up in a few minutes to take you down to headquarters. You have an appointment with the lead on Mr. Medina’s case, Lieutenant Charles. But—you have to go back to class tomorrow,” she said pointedly.
I faltered. That was not what I expected. Not from her. “I thought the officer didn’t need any more statements?”
“He’s willing to take one more. I’m still not sure about what may have happened on the platform or if your account will change his report”—she looked over to Dad, a skeptical look on her face—“but we know you need to do this. So you can move on.”
I took in her words. She still didn’t believe me. She was wrong, though. My statement would change things. The police just needed to be pointed in the right direction.
My throat tightened, and I swallowed the emotions trying to escape. I didn’t have time for that right now.
“Thank you,” I murmured. I pulled Dad into a hug before hopping out of bed. Glancing down, I remembered my pajama onesie. “Dang. I gotta get dressed.”
“No, you need to shower first,” Mom corrected.
I scrunched up my nose at her before shooting down the hall to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I was outside, shimmying my way into, as Reya referred to it, her vintage merlot Toyota Corolla. Taylor Swift blared in the speakers, going on about another heartbreak.
“1989?”
“Nope, Reputation.” Reya turned the radio down to a legal volume as I buckled myself in. Her album choice combined with her siren-red wrap dress could only mean one thing.
“Trouble with Damon?”
“Damon is no more. Couldn’t handle it,” she said, waggling her brows.
“At least he was better than Stefan.”
“Mmm. Well, I’ve moved on to Elena.” She passed me her phone to see her newest squeeze, with long dark hair and doe-like eyes.
“Ooooo. I approve of this upgrade.”
Reya smiled—the kind of smile that reeked of pity because you remembered the person you’re smiling at locked themselves in their room for three days. “You all right?”
“I will be.” I broke my eyes away from her gaze. I was fine as long as I didn’t have to talk about my emotions. Talking about them would just mean more tears. I cried once—that was enough.
Reya leaned over and sniffed. “Your mom wasn’t lying; your hair does smell like red licorice and corn chips.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not that—” I took a whiff of my ponytail only to pull out some body spray from her purse. I gave my hair a spritz. “I was rushing, and my mom only gave me ten minutes. You know my hair takes an hour on its own. I’ll wash it when I get home. Sabrina owes me a braiding session anyway.”
She laughed. “Hey”—she looked over to me—“I’m proud of you.”
The corners of my mouth lifted just a smidge. “You think Mr. Medina would be?” I asked her. “Proud, I mean. Would he be proud?”
“Now that you are out of bed? Yes.”
I stuck out my tongue and settled back in my seat. Reya turned up the volume, singing “End Game” at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t carry a tune if she tried, but I found it oddly comforting.
I’m giving my statement. And it will change things. My truth will matter.
It had to, for Mr. Medina’s sake.
Wrapping Mr. Medina’s scarf around my neck, I stepped onto the curb outside police headquarters while Reya circled for parking along the street. Snow melted from the last few days of flurries, leaving puddles on the sidewalk. I wiped my feet at the entry before walking through the lobby to the elevator bank. It was hard not to feel like all eyes were on me. Add that to the wait outside the lieutenant’s office, and my right leg wouldn’t stop shaking.
What if he turns me away, again?
What if he doesn’t believe me and no one answers for Mr. Medina’s death?
Somewhere in the car ride over, my confidence had dropped and the weight of my statement fell on my shoulders. No one else at the platform had claimed to see anything. I was alone in this.
Reya sat beside me in the waiting area, giving my knee a squeeze to bring me out of my negative thoughts. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Dad:
Proud of you, kiddo.
I locked my screen and shut my eyes.
“This isn’t a big deal,” I mumbled. I’d helped close plenty of cold cases. I knew exactly what the police needed to hear. Mr. Medina wasn’t going to become another forgotten banker box in the basement of police headquarters. My statement would see to it.
A few minutes later, the office door creaked open, and Lieutenant Charles walked out. Black freckles splayed across the officer’s light brown cheeks alongside a look of determination. “We’ll have it squared away in the next day or so,” Lieutenant Charles noted as he shook hands with the man who exited behind him. The stranger wore a sleek suit, tailored to a tee, the navy-blue fabric popping against his stark-white shirt and olive complexion. His dark hair stood up high in a pompadour, defying all laws of gravity.