by Eoin Colfer
If I planned to proceed with this case, I needed information, and the only way to get that information was to access the police Web site and download the Sharkey file. Did I want to break the case that much? Or was I just doing it for my badge?
A thought struck me. Maybe there was a way to get a new badge. I logged on to the Bernstein Web site and typed replacement badge into their search engine. The paragraph that popped up was not encouraging. Any requests for a replacement badge must be accompanied by two hundred dollars and a police report. Maybe I could scrape together the money after a year or so, but forging a police document was a serious crime.
I had only two choices: give up now, or hack the site. No need to choose just yet, I told myself. Maybe you won’t be able to access the site, and the choice will be taken out of your hands.
I opened the police site’s welcome page. I needed a name, rank, number, and password to proceed. I had three out of four. Name, rank, and number were easy. Password was a different matter, but I had a hunch.
Murt Hourihan had two passions. One was law enforcement, which he was much better at than he pretended. The second was greyhound racing. He loved the sport so much that he had joined a police syndicate to buy a dog. The dog’s name was Blue Flew. I typed in the words.
The iBook clicked and whirred for a moment, then welcomed Sergeant Hourihan to the site. I was in.
The site was based on a common law-enforcement template used by police forces worldwide, and had several sections, including resources, keyword search, county by county, recent arrests, and incident reports.
I felt a slight thrill of guilt. What I was doing was not illegal as such—citizens were entitled to access to these files under the freedom of information act. But a minor certainly should not be trawling through active files without supervision.
I selected our county, then chose Lock from the drop-down menu. I narrowed the search further by typing the surname Sharkey in a flashing box. A colored circle whirled on the screen while the site compiled a list of Sharkey-related incidents. Eventually, a relevant list opened on a fresh page. There were over a hundred open cases with a Sharkey tag attached to them. This was incredible. Sergeant Hourihan had shown me closed case files before, and nobody had come near to a hundred tags. Even Dublin’s notorious General was only associated with fifty unsolved cases.
I scanned the file headings briefly. Nearly all of the offenses were grand or petty larceny. It looked as though the Sharkeys were responsible for an ongoing crime wave in Lock that had lasted over ten years. Well, if I had anything to say about it, their crime wave was about to break.
My fingers hovered over apple+p. If I printed these three hundred–plus pages, I was setting off on a road that might be difficult to exit. Was my badge really worth that much to me?
Yes, I decided. It was.
I pressed the keys.
MAKING AN IMPRESSION—
ON MY FOREHEAD
I REMEMBER MY FIRST CASE. I was three years old, closed in a playpen in downtown Lock. One of the day care workers, Monique, took off her engagement ring while she was sterilizing bottles. She put the bottles in the microwave, and when she went back to the countertop, the ring was gone. It wasn’t the kind of ring you could mislay, a big hunk of zircon. Someone had taken it. Monique was hysterical, tearing the place apart. It took three women to stop her from ripping out the plumbing.
I remember sitting on a beanbag, chewing on an animal cracker, thinking it over. I knew who had taken the ring. A toddler called Mary Ann who loved shiny things. I hadn’t actually seen her take it, and I knew enough about playground law to know that you didn’t shoot your mouth off without proof. I decided to get proof because Mary Ann had swiped one of my chocolate fingers the week before. She was a repeat offender and she had to be stopped.
I waddled over to the crime scene and had a good poke around. When I had everything I needed, I brought my case to the sobbing caregiver.
“Mary Ann took the ring,” I told them.
Monique tried to be professional through her hysteria. “Now, Fletcher, we’ve talked about this. No making up stories.”
“Mary Ann took the ring,” I insisted, scowling through the cracker crumbs around my lips.
Mary Ann picked up a building block and hefted it at my head. It made solid contact, felling me like a tree trunk. Once the bleeding had stopped, I made a second attempt to break the case.
“Mary Ann took the ring,” I said again. “Come see.”
I dragged Monique over to the sink.
“Look,” I said, pointing to a red smear on the stainless steel, near where the ring had been. “Jam. Mary Ann had jam.”
Monique’s expression changed from patient to interested.
“That’s true, I suppose, but other people had jam.”
I had more evidence. “Look. On the floor. Marks.”
Monique checked the floor. Wet tracks led across the tiles and onto the Disney rug. Four tracks. A walker.
“Mary Ann has wheels,” I said.
It was the clincher. Only Mary Ann had jam and a walker. She was quickly stripped and searched. They found the ring stuffed down her diaper along with three marbles, a plastic dinosaur, and two sets of car keys. I know now that Mary Ann was suffering from what detectives called Magpie Syndrome.
I thought that my cleverness would make me popular. I was wrong. No one wants a friend who can find out their secrets. Somehow I realized even at three years old that if I wanted friends, I would have to stop finding things out. I didn’t stop, and Mary Ann has hated me now for almost a decade. If she wants to do anything about it after all this time, she’ll just have to join the club.
I was up half the night sifting through the police incident reports. After a while I began to see a pattern. Basically the Sharkeys were on the police’s hot list, and were automatic suspects for any unsolved cases. Just because they were tagged, did not necessarily mean that the Sharkeys were guilty, or even the prime suspects. But even if they’d committed a quarter of the crimes that they were in the frame for, then they were major players in the criminal underworld.
The crimes were mostly routine stuff, but several reports struck me as unusual because they were not typical crimes. Over the past few weeks it seemed as though someone was targeting Lock’s youth for petty, seemingly motiveless crimes. And according to Bernstein’s manual, there was always a motive. When you found that, you generally found the criminal. Was Red Sharkey avenging himself on others, just as he had on April and myself?
One of these quirky files was dated September seventh and included a statement from the victim, a Mr. Adrian McCoy. I knew him as a local aspiring DJ. I reread it carefully, taking notes as I went.
I got the decks for my seventeenth birthday. Record decks. Got them sent from Germany, special. You should see the amount of bubble wrap that came out of those boxes. You could wallpaper your house with it. Nothing like them in the country. The arms are balanced down to the last ounce. I don’t put vinyl on those decks unless it’s been brushed. I make the kids wear surgical gloves when they’re mixing on ’em. You never know what those fellas have been scratching, if you know what I mean.
I generally unleash the decks on the public every Friday in the community center. I can mix so smooth you’d barely know you were listening to a different song. The girls love me, or they will when I get my braces off. But last Thursday I did the school junior disco, as a favor to the guys who idolize me. It was a good night, too, I did a bit of rappin’ myself. I call myself MC Coy, ’cause of my name. It’s clever, isn’t it? Well, I think it is.
I was a big hit that night. The kids were all questions about my rig. The dads were impressed, too.
After the show I went out to the van with a box of vinyl. When I came back someone had stripped down the decks. They were lying on the tables like jigsaws. Laid out real neat. Not smashed or anything. They were fine, except for one thing. Well, two things. The needles were missing. Someone took the needles. It’s g
onna take me a month to get another set from Germany. That’s at least four gigs, you know. Popular culture in Lock could collapse.
Someone wanted me off the circuit for a month. That’s what happens when you have talent. But MC Coy will be back better than ever. I’m using the time to grow my hair a little so I can have braids put in. In a month’s time MC Coy is gonna tear the community center up like a hurricane. Not really, you know. Because I could get in trouble for that and my mom would ground me.
I closed the file. Were the youth being targeted for some reason? Was Red the link between MC Coy and April Devereux? Or was someone else behind this mini-spree? I needed more subjects. I opened the next file and began to read.
By the time I called it quits, the birds were whistling outside my window. After half an hour of trying to sleep, I was beginning to take the whistling personally. By the time I dozed off, my curtains were backlit by a dawn glow. I slept on top of the sheets, the bed strewn with sheaves of paper.
I awoke at noon to the sound of metallic pounding. Hazel was starting the weekend at the typewriter, as usual. We would all be subjected to several sonnets on the subject of Stevie before the day was over. I dressed quickly in black, stuffing the Hawaiian shirt deep into the wardrobe.
Mom and Dad were waiting for me at the kitchen table. I could tell by the sudden silence that they had been talking about me.
“How was your little date, honey?”
I selected some fruit from the basket. “It wasn’t a date, Mom. It was a business meeting. I’m helping April out with a little puzzle.”
Dad put down his paper. “Really? What is it?”
“Sorry, Dad. Client confidentiality.”
Dad smiled. “Nice try. Client confidentiality only applies if you’re licensed by the state. I want details.”
I smiled back, then covered it with a growl.
Sometimes it was a pain having a smart Dad. But I enjoyed our verbal battles.
“April has lost a keepsake that’s very important to her. She wants me to find it.”
“So what’s your strategy?” asked Dad.
I hesitated. If my parents knew the extent of my investigation I would be grounded for all eternity and banned from any activity that contained the letters D-E-T-E-C-T-I-O-N.
“I’m going to conduct a few interviews. See if any of April’s friends know anything.”
Dad nodded. “Good idea. Did you check behind her couch?”
“Not personally, Dad, but April did.”
Mom smoothed my hair. “Did April like the shirt, honey?”
I sighed. “No, Mom. She didn’t. There are people in space who didn’t like that shirt.”
I arranged to meet April and her pink posse by the sports field. This case was getting clogged up with females, and that worried me. In my experience, boys are predictable. As soon as they think of something, they do it. Girls are smarter—they plan ahead. They think about not getting caught.
When I arrived, April and co. were running an unlicensed soft drinks stand.
“You’re selling this cola for ten cents a can?” I asked.
“That’s right, Half Moon. Do you want one?”
“I suppose. But where do you get the cola?”
April rolled her eyes. “From the supermarket fridge, duh.”
I was trying to get this straight. “So you buy the cola for fifty cents a can in the supermarket, and you’re selling it for ten.”
April spoke clearly, seeing as I was obviously a moron. “Yes, Fletcher, but we don’t use our own money to buy it.” She handed me a can of cola. “That’s ten cents, please.”
All I had on me was my ten euro wages.
“I only have a ten.”
April plucked it from my fingers. “That’s okay. I can break it.”
And break it she did, into the largest amount of coins possible.
I took out my notebook and deposited enough change in my pockets to put a strain on my belt.
“So, are you girls in some kind of gang?”
April, May, and their half dozen friends were all wearing T-shirts bearing the slogan Les Jeunes Etudiantes. The shirts were pink and had unicorns frolicking around the script.
April seemed delighted to be asked about the group.
“We certainly are. Ready, girls?”
The others nodded enthusiastically then skipped into a ragged straight line. They pointed their toes, placing hands on their hips. All they needed was pom-poms, and I could be at a football game.
“Call us Les Jeunes Etudiantes,” said April, as though introducing a Shakespearean play. “We find certain things très intérressantes.”
I winced. Dodgy French rhymes.
“Pop stars and fashion,
Movie premieres.
Who’s on the red carpet.
Makeup and hair.”
The other girls acted out every subject. Pop stars was singing into an imaginary microphone. Fashion was a model’s pose. You get the picture.
I tried to say something nice. “Hey, that’s great. You’re really . . . organized.”
April made no effort to be nice back. “I wouldn’t expect someone from Continentia Nerdia to understand, Half Moon. We’re not the kind of people you would normally be allowed to hang around with. Why don’t you just ask your little questions and get on with your job?”
I was only too glad to get down to business.
“Firstly, are you absolutely sure the hair sample was stolen?”
April poured cola in a paper cup and stirred it with her finger. “As sure as I can be, Half Moon. I mean, I had it locked in the strongbox in our Wendy house, and next thing I know it’s missing. Maybe the dog ate it.”
There was a little long-haired terrier skipping around April’s shoes. It was obvious from his little pink sweater that he was indeed April’s dog. The only non-cute thing about him was the way he bared his teeth at me. I hadn’t been having much luck with dogs.
“Do you think he might have?”
“No.”
This was going to be a tough interview.
“Did you notice anything else missing?”
May spoke for the first time. She didn’t seem as enthusiastic about this investigation as April. “Listen, Fletcher, I know April has a bee in her bonnet about the Shona hair thing, and I know you have an entire swarm of bees in your bonnet about the detective thing. But it’s a kids’ game, okay?”
I was used to resistance. People don’t like to share with detectives.
“So there was nothing else missing?”
“No. Nothing.”
I turned to her friends. “So, none of you had something stolen? Or maybe something broken? Something so ridiculous that you thought it must be some kind of accident.”
The third girl in line, Mercedes Sharp, raised her hand as though I was her headmaster.
“Well, I lost something last night. I thought I lost it. You know, but maybe . . .”
April glared at her friend. “Come on, Mercedes. You’ve been moaning on about this mini-disk all morning. This is my investigation. I’ve already paid Fletcher.”
Mercedes returned April’s glare, then continued with her story. “I have, I had, a karaoke mini-disk that I used to practice my routines for the school talent show. It had everything on it. I had to order it from Japan.”
“And you think the mini-disk was stolen?”
Mercedes shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, who would steal a mini-disk out of a player and leave the player?”
“Who can fathom the workings of the criminal mind?” I said, trying to sound intelligent.
“Well, you, I hope,” said April. “That is what I’m paying you for. You do have a badge, or so you keep saying.”
“Was there any sign of a break-in?” I asked Mercedes hurriedly.
“No,” she replied. “But I left my bedroom window open last night. So whoever it was, if there was someone, could have just reached in. Maybe you could swab everyone in the town for DNA.”
> “Like on CSI?” I said wearily.
“Yes. Just like that.”
“I’ll see if the police lab will loan me their equipment.”
Mercedes stepped out of line and reached up to punch me on the shoulder. “Hey, I know sarcasm when I hear it. Watch it, Half Moon, or when I get a boyfriend I’ll send him around to your house.”
I ignored the ache in my shoulder, checking the list of questions in my notebook. “One more thing, ladies. This is for all of you. Can you think of anyone who might have a reason to dislike you?”
“No,” said April immediately. “Who could dislike us? We’re popular. You should try it some time, Half Moon.”
I let her insults slide off me. I was a professional.
“Well?” I said to Mercedes.
She bit her lip. “Herod asked me to a dance once and April told me to say no. We wrote a little note saying how we would never be caught dead hanging out with a Sharkey. Herod had to get Red to read the note for him. Red got all upset about it. Maybe he took the disk as revenge, like in that story about that prince. . . .
“Hamlet?” I suggested.
“No,” said Mercedes, thinking. “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. One time Will took Carlton’s jacket, and Carlton decided to . . .”
April screamed, waving her little fists. “Attention, please! It’s Red. We all know it’s Red. Why are you wasting time with these stupid questions, Half Moon? Red took the hair, and he probably took Mercedes’s stupid mini-disk, which by the way she was not supposed to mention. Stop hanging around here, and go find some proof.”
I was beginning to wonder if ten euros was a high enough fee considering all the abuse I was getting, but as Bernstein said: You don’t have to like your employers, you just have to like their money.
“Red is my prime suspect,” I admitted. “But then, everyone is a suspect until my investigation eliminates them.”
“That’s great,” said Mercedes, clapping her hands. “Suspects. It’s almost as if someone was murdered.”
May had wandered away from the group. She returned now, pocketing her cell phone.
