“Pixie’s a fear biter,” Larry explains. “She bites when she’s anxious. A lot of dogs who bite are fear biters. There are people like that too—the kind who snap because they’re scared.”
I’m just glad the muzzled dog isn’t Roxie. “Nice to meet you,” I say, reaching out to shake Larry’s hand firmly. I want to impress him with my good manners. “Is that one Roxie?” I ask about the dog with the funny ears.
“That’s Roxie, all right. I got her when she was a pup and trained her to be a guard dog. She was a natural—curious and alert. I rent my guard dogs out. Roxie worked at a car dealership. The people over there would have kept her longer, but I have a policy of retiring my dogs after they’ve worked six years.” Roxie has come to sit down on her hind legs next to Larry. He leans down to scratch her forehead. “This girl deserves some downtime.”
Roxie’s funny ears are pricked in a way that makes me think she knows we are talking about her.
Larry turns to us. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves?”
My dad goes first. “Tabitha here came up with the idea of getting a guard dog. We had a break-in a few years back.” Dad looks over at me as if he is asking my permission to go on with the story. I nod to tell him it is okay. “Tabitha and my wife were both home at the time,” he adds. “Luckily, Tabitha was in her room upstairs, so she didn’t see the thieves. Which may be why she bounced back afterward. But my wife, well, she witnessed the crime and she’s been a bit”—Dad is trying to come up with the right word—“uneasy ever since. We’ve tried everything—alarm system, meditation, yoga, therapy—so when Tabitha suggested getting a dog, I thought it was a good idea.”
I can see Larry watching my dad, noticing how he cracks his knuckles when he talks about my mom. “It sounds like what you’re looking for is more a working dog than a family dog,” Larry says.
If I don’t say something, he may not let us have Roxie. “We’re looking for a working dog who can be part of our family.” I can’t help smiling when I say that. The sentence came out even better than I planned. “Roxie’s a beautiful dog. I promise that if you let us have her, we’ll take really good care of her.”
I know it’s a good sign when Larry and Dad start discussing money. Larry does not want much for Roxie. “But I’ve got some conditions I’d like you to agree to before I consider letting you have her,” he tells us. Roxie is used to a lot of physical activity, so she will need to be taken for walks at least twice a day. He is adamant about that, and I promise to take Roxie out every day, rain or shine.
“We have a big backyard where she can run around too,” I tell Larry. Then I look at Roxie. “Wait till you see the yard. You’ll love it.”
Larry also says Roxie needs to be fed a special raw-food diet, and he’d like her to continue to see her regular veterinarian for checkups.
“None of that’s a problem,” Dad says. “I’d like to bring my wi—”
Larry talks over my dad. “Before I decide anything, I want to meet your wi—”
For a second their faces freeze, and then Dad and Larry both start laughing.
“Can we go and get her right now?” I ask Dad.
We text Mom first to tell her to be ready. She is standing by the door when we pull up in front of the house. I hop out and get into the backseat. “Wait till you see Roxie,” I tell her. “You’re gonna love her.”
“Is it my imagination,” Mom says, “or does all this seem to be happening very quickly?”
“It feels like kismet,” Dad tells her.
“What’s kismet?” I ask. If Nico were here, he’d make some crack about kissing.
“Kismet is fate,” Dad says. “Like all of this was meant to be.”
Mom catches his eye. “All of it?” she asks. Why do I get the feeling they are talking about something I cannot understand?
“Yup,” he says, reaching over to pat the back of her hand. “All of it.”
I hate to interrupt a tender moment, but I have to. “Mom, don’t act too weird around the trainer.”
Mom turns around to look at me. “Me? Act weird?”
I am relieved when we get back to Larry’s place and Mom does not bring up the robbery. “Her coat looks shiny,” Mom says, petting Roxie. “Do you suppose that’s because of her diet, Larry?”
“Absolutely.” Then Larry looks hard at my mom. “I heard there was a break-in at your place a while back. That you were pretty traumatized afterward.”
“Oh, that was years ago.” Mom’s voice is lighter and more casual than usual, so I know she’s putting on an act.
“Roxie’s a fine guard dog,” Larry says, “but if you don’t mind my saying, I’ve had some experience with people like you—people whose homes have been broken into. People who’ve been victimized.”
“What are you trying to say exactly?” Mom asks.
“I’m saying no one else—not even a guard dog—can make it better. That’s got to come from in here.” He taps the side of his head.
I’m starting to worry. Mom hates when people offer advice about her anxiety. What if she snaps at Larry?
Mom asks Roxie to sit down and give her a paw. She laughs when Roxie responds immediately. Then Mom looks up at Larry. “Thanks,” she says to him.
That’s when Larry agrees to let us have Roxie. Mom writes him a check. Before we go, Larry demonstrates how Roxie responds to simple commands like “heel,” “down” and “stay.” He watches while I try out the commands. “Make sure to use a firm voice. Like I just did,” Larry says. He smiles a little wistfully when Roxie heels, lies down and stays. It turns out I was right about the words Everything’s good. They are Roxie’s cue to relax.
“What’s the cue to get Roxie to attack?” I ask Larry.
At first Larry does not answer. He just looks at me and shakes his head. “You don’t need to know stuff like that, Tabitha. When a dog like Roxie goes on the attack, things get ugly.”
“But what if we need Roxie to protect us?”
I can tell Larry is thinking about my question. “There’s one cue I’ll let you use—but don’t play around with it.” Larry gestures for me to follow him a few steps away, so Roxie won’t hear what he is about to say. “Knee him,” he whispers.
“Knee him?” I whisper back.
“Yup. That Roxie’s cue to knock someone over. Not make him bleed, just knock him—or her—over. There’s a hand signal too.”
“A hand signal?”
“Absolutely,” Larry says. “That’s in case someone is trying to prevent you from speaking.” Larry puts his hands over his mouth to demonstrate.
“Yikes.” Even thinking about that makes me nervous.
After Larry shows me the hand signal, we walk back to join my parents and Roxie. “You’ll need to work with Roxie. Practice the commands I taught Tabitha. You’ll find Roxie enjoys it,” Larry tells us, but I notice he is mostly talking to me. He must understand that Roxie is going to be my dog.
At 7:15 PM—or 19:15 hours in forensic-science-speak—we prepare to leave with the newest member of our family, Roxie.
Larry goes back into the house for Roxie’s dog bed and her favorite toy, a rubber stick. Then he walks us to our car. Pixie, the fear biter, is supervising from the porch.
“If you don’t mind,” Larry says, “I’d like a minute alone with Roxie. To say goodbye.”
I cannot hear what Larry is saying, but I can tell it is not easy for him to let Roxie go.
“There’s one more thing,” he tells us before we pile into the car. “I don’t know whether or not you’ve heard, but a number of dogs in the Montreal area—all purebreds—have gone missing in the last couple of weeks. And I also heard on the grapevine that a box of bark breakers were stolen from a pet store downtown.”
; “Bark breakers?” Mom asks.
“They’re collars that release citronella spray every time a dog barks. One stolen collar wouldn’t concern me, but when I heard a whole box went missing, well, I got to wondering…”
I suddenly remember the posters I have seen—the missing Chihuahua and then the standard poodle. Both purebreds. I assumed the dogs had run away, but maybe it’s something more sinister.
“Are you suggesting they might have been dognapped?” I ask Larry.
“All I’m suggesting is it’s suspicious,” he answers.
On the drive home, Roxie sits next to me in the backseat. She turns to look at Larry, who is standing in his driveway, waving. She barks when we turn the corner and Larry is out of view. “We’re gonna take good care of you, girl,” I promise her. I don’t have a lot of experience looking after someone else—but I feel ready for the responsibility.
Roxie spreads out on the backseat and lays her head in my lap. Mom reaches from the front seat to pat Roxie’s head.
TWELVE
This morning when I reached into the top drawer of my nightstand, I happened to grab my ransom-note bracelet. It’s a leather cord with wooden alphabet beads, each a different color and printed in a different font. It spells out LEAVE THE CASH IN AN UNMARKED ENVELOPE.
“That’s the perfect bracelet for today, Tabitha,” Lloyd says when he notices it. “Day three at forensics camp starts with a lesson in document analysis.”
Samantha does not do chitchat the way Lloyd does. Once she’s through taking attendance, she tells us to take out our notebooks. “Forensic scientists use document analysis to examine evidence such as ransom notes, forgeries and threatening letters,” she says.
“Yeah, but how’s any of that going to help us figure out who trashed the cafeteria?” Nathaniel calls out.
“I’ll get to that, Nathaniel,” Samantha tells him.
“What about the mustard message?” I wonder out loud. “Couldn’t that be considered a document—sort of?”
“Possibly,” is all Samantha will say.
Except for her purple glasses, Samantha looks even more businesslike than usual today. She is wearing a white shirt and a plain gray skirt. I wonder if she even owns a pair of jeans. “We’re going to begin by looking at something called imprints,” she tells us. “Do any of you know what an imprint is?”
The others look at me. Ever since I answered the question about Theodore Kaczynski, they expect me to know everything. On the one hand, I’m honored. On the other hand, it makes me feel pressured. Especially when I don’t know the answer, like now. So I shrug and try to look like I don’t care, even though I do.
“Instead of boring you with the definition, I’m going to show you what an imprint looks like. Stacey, if you could pass me your notebook, please.” Samantha opens the notebook to the last page Stacey wrote on. “I don’t know if the rest of you have noticed, but Stacey presses down really hard when she writes. Which is why I asked for her notebook. Now have a look at this.” Samantha turns the page. “Do you see anything?”
We pass the notebook around. When Nathaniel holds it up to the fluorescent light, we can see pale scratches from where Stacey pressed down, but we cannot make out any letters or words.
Lloyd brings a small square box from the supply cupboard. Inside are two flashlights. One looks like a regular flashlight, except it has three settings: normal, white light and infrared. The other is a small rectangular ultraviolet light. We start with the regular flashlight, holding it so the light is shining directly on Stacey’s notebook, but we still can’t make out the letters. Not until we move the flashlight so the light is coming from the side. Now there’s a shadow, which lets us see the imprint of Stacey’s handwriting: ransom notes, forgeries and threatening letters.
Wow! So if a kidnapper wrote a ransom note on a pad of paper and tore the note off the pad, the police might be able to find the imprint!
Stacey is thinking about something else. “Too bad mustard doesn’t leave an imprint,” she says.
“You’re right about mustard,” Lloyd says, “but forensic graphologists—the term for forensic scientists who specialize in document analysis—can do other things with handwriting. Even mustard handwriting. You guys ready to learn a little more?”
We all nod. Forensics camp keeps getting more and more interesting. If only we learned stuff like this at school!
“Forensic graphologists look at similarities and differences in handwriting. They study characteristics such as spacing between letters or lines, slants, patterns in letters and loops on certain letters. Did you guys write all that down?”
“Almost,” Muriel says without looking up from her notebook.
“Perfect! Because we’re going to study samples of your handwriting. Nico, let’s start by having a look at yours.” Lloyd gestures for us to come over so we can all examine Nico’s handwriting. “Do you see any identifying characteristics? Think about some of the things I just asked you to write down.”
“It’s messy,” Muriel says. “Does that count as an identifying characteristic?”
“Not really,” Lloyd says. “Can you try to be a little more specific?”
“Well, his letters are really crowded together,” Muriel says.
“That’s better. Now you’re talking about spacing.”
“He didn’t dot his i’s,” I say, pointing to the words forensic and similarities.
“That’s only because I was rushing,” Nico says.
Stacey shakes her head. “You’re always rushing.”
“And making bad jokes,” Muriel adds.
We look at all of our handwriting. Of the six of us, Muriel leaves the most space between her letters. Stacey’s handwriting is the smallest. Mason’s is the straightest, and the lines across Nathaniel’s small t’s are lower down than the rest of ours. I don’t always bother dotting my i’s. “Those are all excellent observations,” Lloyd says. “I think you’re ready to learn a new trick.”
He reaches back into the square box and takes out a pad of tracing paper and a bundle of pencils. Then he borrows Nico’s notebook again to demonstrate what he wants us to do next. Lloyd puts a piece of tracing paper over the longest line Nico has written, and then he makes a dot at the highest point that every letter reaches. “Now I connect the dots horizontally,” he says. The line Lloyd gets by connecting the dots reminds me of a mountain range in the Himalayas. “This line shows us the top slope of Nico’s handwriting. Even if a person is in a rush and doesn’t have time to dot his i’s, handwriting slope tends to be consistent. We’re going to do the same thing with the bottom slope.”
“That means we should be able to examine the slope of the mustard handwriting!” Nathaniel says.
“We should,” Samantha says, “if the photos you and Mason took are sharp enough.”
“We’ve got one more exercise to do first though,” Lloyd says. Samantha hands him an envelope from the square box. Inside are three bundles of bank checks. “You’ll be working with your partners for this activity,” Lloyd continues. He gives each group a check from each of the bundles. “You will notice that all of these checks are in the amount of one thousand dollars. Each check is signed by someone named Edgar Rich. Two of the checks in your bundle were actually signed by Mr. Rich. Your task is to uncover the forgery.”
“Rich is the right name for this dude,” Nico says. “Imagine writing nine thousand bucks’ worth of checks!”
Muriel sighs. “Did you look at the date, Nico? The year says 1952. I’m pretty sure they’re expired by now.”
At first glance, all three Edgar Rich signatures look identical. “Wouldn’t a professional forger be able to copy someone’s slope and get the little details right—like how a person dots his letters and crosses his t’s?” Stacey asks.
; “That’s true,” Lloyd says. “Professional forgers know about all the things we’ve covered this morning. But it’s virtually impossible to get someone else’s signature exactly right. That’s because a signature doesn’t just come from someone’s hand—it comes from their brain.”
We are all thinking about that when Muriel says, “I knew how to forge my fifth-grade teacher’s signature.” Then she adds as an afterthought, “Don’t worry—I never did it. I just knew how.”
Maybe it’s because Muriel has a background in forging teachers’ signatures that she notices the tiny extra squiggle at the bottom of one of the g’s in the Edgar. We decide that check is probably the forgery, but we want to confirm our hunch. Muriel traces the top slope on all three signatures; I trace the bottom. When it turns out the top slope is less jagged on the check with the squiggly g, we raise our hands so that we can show the counselors what we have found. Lloyd says we have done such a good job that we should go and help the others.
“Can we please, please start analyzing the mustard message?” Muriel asks.
Samantha claps to get everyone’s attention. “I know you’re all anxious to apply your new graphology skills to the mustard message. And you will be doing that today. But first”—she pauses, and I can tell it’s because she thinks we are going to get excited about what she is about to say—“there’s the obstacle course.”
“You mean the sort of obstacle course you have to do before you can get accepted into police academy?” Nico asks. For once, he is not trying to make a joke.
“You got it,” Lloyd says.
Someone in the room makes a gagging sound.
“Mason?” Samantha says. “Is something wrong?”
“Uh, I’m just feeling a little queasy. Maybe there was something wrong with the milk in my cereal this morning.” He does not say he feels too queasy to do the obstacle course. But I have known Mason Johnson long enough to know that is exactly what he is thinking.
THIRTEEN
Forensics Squad Unleashed Page 7
