While movies and TV glamorize my profession by showing us out in the field … crime scene analysts basically work in laboratories.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
Spam hunches over her computer, wildly pecking keys. A couple of tears slide down her cheek and she brushes them aside with her sleeve.
“Spam, are you okay?” Lysa asks.
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” She sits back, letting out a heavy sigh. “I’m pretty sure this is the right thing. I’m just worried I won’t see him again.”
“I know it sucks,” I say. “But there isn’t a better solution, is there?”
Spam shakes her head. Her lip quivers.
“How can you find his grandma’s last name from a disconnected phone number?” Lysa asks.
“The Criss-Cross Directories.” Spam stands up at the whiteboard and draws a giant triangle. “It’s an online tool that you can use to find people. There are three basic identifiers: name, address, and phone number.” She writes these words at each point on the triangle. “If you know two of the three, finding the third one is easy. But there’s a chance it can still work even if you only know one.”
Lysa gives her a sketchy look. “Are these directories legal?”
Spam chuckles. “What? You know me, right?”
“Which is why I’m asking,” Lysa says. “We could be in enough trouble as it is. I don’t want to compound it and make it worse.”
Spam nods. “No worries. It’s legal. It’s a tool that private investigators use. My dad has an account.”
“Why would your dad have an account like that?” I ask.
Spam tilts her head. “I don’t know if he’s still actively doing it. But he subscribed to it because he was trying to find my mom.”
Of course. Spam’s mom walked out on the family when Spam was in fourth grade and they’ve not seen or heard from her since. “He never found her?”
“Nope,” Spam says. “It’s like she left the planet.”
Lysa and I exchange looks. “Sorry.”
“Ah, it’s not that bad,” she says. “Thanks to her, I’ve got these cool trust issues that keep me from getting close to people … except for you guys … and now Lyman.”
Spam’s phone pings with a text message coming through. She reads it. “Aggh. He says he can’t get to his mom’s phone.” She types a message back to him. “I’m telling him to check the computer. She probably has her contacts backed up there.”
After a few minutes, another message comes in with the phone number. “He got it. Now, let’s see if this is going to work.” Spam accesses the directory. “Okay. I’m typing in Millie and the number. Fingers crossed.”
We’re all waiting.
“Okay. No address.” She closes her eyes and crosses her fingers, chanting, “Please, please, please. Just a name. That’s all we need.”
There’s a ping. She opens her eyes and looks. “Johnson. Lyman’s grandmother’s name is Millicent Johnson.” Elated, Spam jumps up and writes this on the board under the facts we know.
Lysa and I don’t share her euphoria. “Spam, that’s a pretty common name. There could be a million Millicent Johnsons,” I say.
“Seven hundred and forty-one thousand hits,” Lysa says. “In just one search.”
Spam points to the list on the board. “Yes. But how many Millicent Johnsons are there who lost a daughter to drugs and a grandson to a kidnapper, and has a daughter who is a doctor?”
She has a point.
“First, we’ll skim through the top photos to narrow our search. Then we’ll start searching for specifics. Trust me. This works.”
“If it works, then how come your dad didn’t find your mom?” Lysa asks.
“Clearly, she didn’t want to be found,” Spam says. “There’s a good chance that Millie would really like to get to know her grandson.”
“Let’s hope.” This is a lot like what I was feeling not knowing who my father was. The main thing I wanted was to know that he was at least happy to find out that I exist. Maybe now is a good time to tell them about Victor. “By the way, I think I found out who my father is.”
“Wait. What?” Lysa is so shocked she leaps out of her chair and it clatters backward.
“Holy crap,” Spam says. “When did that happen and why didn’t you tell us?”
“It was only a couple of days ago, but everything’s been so crazy we haven’t had a chance to talk about just stuff. Anyway, there’s a chance that it’s Victor.”
“Wait. What?” Spam tilts her head, trying to figure this out.
“It’s a long story … but he and my mom…” I shrug. They can figure out the rest.
Spam and Lysa surround me, hugging and squealing.
We’re making so much noise that Mr. Ramos appears at the bottom of the stairs, bedraggled, in his bathrobe with hair sticking up. “Holy cow,” he says. “What’s going on down here? I thought you were being murdered, and after I let that boy into the house.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Spam says, trying to look contrite. “We’ll be quiet, I promise.”
He wags his finger. “You better. Any littles who wake up because of your noise, I’m sending them down here for you to deal with.”
“Fair enough,” Spam says.
After Mr. Ramos leaves, I tell them about my conversation with Victor. To me, the best part of the story is how happy he was to possibly have a daughter.
“Hopefully, that’s how Lyman’s grandmother will feel too,” Spam says.
We narrow the search for Lyman’s grandma down to three Millie Johnsons—two who live on the other side of the country, and one who lives about five hours away in Washington State. The last one is the most logical because it’s near where the articles about Lyman’s parents were written.
Spam prints out all three profiles. “We’ll show these to Lyman tomorrow. He might be able to eliminate one or two just on the facts.”
It’s approaching midnight and it has been a pretty long day. Spam goes to the closet and drags out the sleeping bags and pillows. Lysa goes into the bathroom to change into her pajamas and brush her teeth.
I sink down into a pile of pillows, but I bring the laptop with me. Instead of being tired after today’s drama, I’m ramped up. “Are you guys really ready to go to sleep?”
“I am,” Spam says with a yawn.
“Me too,” Lysa agrees.
“I’m going to surf the net for a little while,” I say. “Okay?”
Spam crawls into her sleeping bag. She waves. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Lysa gives her a disgusted look. “You know that either one of us would naturally stop way before you would, right?”
Spam smiles as she snuggles down into her sleeping bag. “Yeah. But I like saying it anyway.”
I dive into computer search mode. We found some solid answers for Lyman. I should be able to find the same for Journey.