What Janie Saw. Pamela Tracy
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information about another case we’re working on. On the phone, you said you’d let us go through Derek’s room?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Chaney said. “We will do all we can to help the police so some other kid doesn’t become a victim like Derek.”
Mr. Chaney ushered them up the stairs and opened the door into a room almost the size of the living room. “My wife can’t bear to see all this,” he said. “It’s exactly the way Derek left it.”
A mess, typical teenager. The bed was unmade, the floor littered with clothes and books and video games. A flat-screen television was against one wall. Shelves of books were on two others. A whole row was designated for textbooks. Rafe noticed math, sociology and lots of English. Well, that made sense. According to Janie, Derek also had a gift for writing. Posters, of bands Rafe didn’t recognize, graced the wall.
“He used to be a reader,” Mr. Chaney said. “Up until about eighth grade.”
“What happened?” Janie asked softly.
“First sports, then girls,” Mr. Chaney said. “They wouldn’t leave him alone. Once he got to high school, it was a strange herd of friends.”
There were no photographs in the room, but lots and lots of drawings. Derek seemed to be enthralled by dark castles, fire-breathing dragons and fierce warriors.
“I’d better go check on my wife,” Mr. Chaney said.
Janie walked into the room, not a bit put off by the mess. She rubbed her shoulders as if cold, but it wasn’t a chill in the air that made her uncomfortable. It was more likely a chill in her heart. He felt it, too.
“I should have tried harder with that boy,” she murmured.
“You did make an effort,” Rafe reminded her.
“Not enough of one. Sometimes a teacher is the only one who can make a difference, see beneath the grime.”
Rafe wondered if a teacher had been there for her, back in her muddled childhood. She’d made it clear that cops hadn’t been. Somehow knowing that made him want to change her mind. Not only about cops in general, but about him specifically.
But they were losing precious time, so he asked, “Do you see the art book?”
“Not yet.” Janie walked to the middle of the room, sidestepping a pair of jeans and a skateboard. She turned in a circle, first with her eyes open and then with them closed. After a moment, she headed for a desk.
“The desk is too neat,” she explained. “Nothing else in this room is neat.” She briefly touched the computer’s mouse and lifted the pad. Then, she opened the only drawer.
Nothing.
Watching her, Rafe was again struck by her attention to detail. She was doing what he usually did, had been trained to do, and she was doing it by instinct.
Janie next checked under the bed. He’d already done that and found nothing unusual.
But she pulled out one tennis shoe. “This isn’t his.”
Rafe looked at it: dull brown and somewhat new. “How can you be sure?”
“Derek would never wear this color.”
“What color is it, exactly?”
Janie gaped at him in disbelief. “It’s green.”
Rafe wasn’t one for sharing what he didn’t consider a disability. But, in this case, it might make a difference in what she could see and what he couldn’t.
“I’m color-blind, which means I have poor discrimination with certain colors. Green being one of them.”
Her expression went from disbelief to pity. Well, an artist would feel sorry for someone who couldn’t appreciate every color’s beauty.
“That must make your job harder.”
“There was some concern that I wouldn’t pass the vision test. I did, and luckily, my condition is considered mild. The fact that I work for a small rural county makes a difference. I also wear corrective lenses.”
“Derek wore black, gray and white. It’s almost as if he was making a statement about his personality. Green is the color of safety.”
Rafe dumped the shoe in a baggie he pulled from his pocket and ran out the door to ask the Chaneys what size shoe Derek had worn—Mrs. Chaney said her son was an eleven.
Rafe reentered the room as Janie was bending to check an unzipped backpack that was stuffed to the side, books and papers spilling out. Janie riffled through it for a moment, then she pulled an art book from a side pocket and flipped it open. Derek’s inked name was on the cover. She thumbed through the pages.
He touched her arm and angled her so he could read over her shoulder.
“This is his, this is the right one. He’s done most of these thumbnails or scrapped them. No writing yet, but maybe there’s something at the end, some reason he didn’t want to turn this one in to me.”
He noticed how carefully Janie held the book—for a witness, she was getting too involved.
It only took her a moment to make it to the final pages, but it felt much longer to Rafe. Then her face turned white. He took a step toward her. She didn’t notice; she was focused on the art book, not on him.
Derek’s final drawing told Rafe exactly how much danger Janie was in.
Two dark trees, lots of dirt, and an open grave with a body in it. Derek had penned a few words underneath:
I have to tell somebody. I can’t live with this. But if I confess, whomever I tell will be in as much danger as me.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE OLD ART BOOK went into another baggie, which, to Janie, looked like an oversize sandwich Ziploc.
“I’m toast,” she whispered.
“No, there’s a chance they haven’t a clue Derek’s even—”
“They! I’ve got to worry about a they? As in, more than one?” This was going from bad to worse. She’d been thinking of who might be responsible. What kind of person would have access to the school’s safe? But it might be a who all was responsible, a what kind of people.
“You don’t know that for sure. All this could just be foolish fabrication.”
“Oh, right,” Janie said snidely. Since this morning, he’d been a man on a mission. No way could he shift his beliefs now. “Even if the art book hadn’t been taken from the school’s safe, I’d have a hard time believing you,” she finished.
Rafe’s hand went to his chin and he rubbed his thumb on stubble she’d not noticed before. It was dark, the same color as the circles under his eyes.
“So, what are we going to do?” she insisted. “Last night I was nervous about what I read. Today I’m nervous about who knows what I read. This is getting crazy.”
He didn’t disagree, and he kept rubbing for a moment. Finally, he said, “Everything points to the college. It’s where Brittney was last seen. It’s where Derek turned in the art book and where the art book went missing. We need to find a friend of Derek’s who’s willing to talk. And we also need to find out whose shoe is under his bed, and why it’s there.”
He finally stopped rubbing his chin and lifted the mattress, looking at the mess underneath: old food, socks, a girlie magazine.
Scattered there, too, were a few pieces of Lego bricks—red, blue and yellow. Finally some real color. Nearby was a well-worn baseball glove. Derek Chaney had been a boy, just like the ones who came to BAA and put their fingers in their mouths and made faces at Candy the spider monkey, and who fed pellets to the giraffes while being grossed out by the giraffes’ long tongues, and who dreamed about jumping