Facebook has a larger database and a better facial recognition algorithm than the FBI. True story.
—SPAM RAMOS
Spam practically drags me down the stairs by my sleeve.
“What’s up?”
“We have to show you something.”
“We?”
“Lysa’s in the car.”
“You can’t show me here?”
“No.”
“Not even in my room?
“No.”
“My attic?”
We round the corner. Lysa is parked behind Victor’s car. As we approach she shifts her car into gear.
“Is this a getaway or something?” I’m joking, but Spam and Lysa don’t even crack a hint of a smile.
“Back or front?” Spam never asks. She always takes the front and will knock you out of the way to get there. When I hesitate, she whips open the door and slips into the back.
“Who are you and what have you done with my friends?” I joke.
“Just get in,” Lysa says.
I climb into the passenger seat. “I have to be home in thirty minutes.”
“Me too,” Lysa says. “We thought you’d handle this better in person.”
“Handle what?” All this intrigue is lighting me up. And, I’ll admit, scaring me, too.
Lysa drives around the block and parks. She turns in her seat toward us. “Me first. So, you know our Cheater Check email account still exists, right?” She pulls out her phone and reviews. “So far, I’ve received three videos, five stills, and six witness statements about the accident. And that’s just since we left school.”
“What are they saying?”
“They’re all defending the skateboarder, of course. Everyone says the accident wasn’t his fault. But no one wants to talk to the new principal or the police about it. They want us to do it.”
Spam flashes a wide-eyed grin. “Because we’re amazing.”
“What do you guys think we should do?” I ask.
“I think we should gather everything, get all the statements and evidence, and then hand it over to Victor,” Lysa says. “He’ll know how to present it to the chief.”
Victor … dang. I drift a little as the image of the FedEx envelope looms.
“Earth to Erin?” Lysa says. She and Spam are both staring at me.
“Sorry. Yeah. Victor would probably be cool with that. Are you taking me home now?”
“There’s more.” Spam leans over the front seat with her laptop open. She clicks some keys. “I was just messing around and thought I’d run the photos through a couple of databases to see if I could ID the skateboarder.…”
“Wait.” I look from Spam to Lysa and back to Spam. “You’re plotting his defense. And you’re stalking him.”
“He was so cuuute,” Spam says.
“How could you tell? Everything happened so fast I barely saw him.”
Spam gives me a serious head-tilt. “Oh, trust me, he’s cute. And yeah, a facial recognition search might sound a little stalker-y—”
I twitch. “Facial recognition … like the NSA does?” I drop my voice to a hush. “Spam, that’s not stalker-y, that’s invasion of privacy.”
“Not really.” She scoffs. “FYI, Facebook has better facial recognition algorithms and a larger database than the FBI.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“True story,” Spam insists.
Lysa waves her hand. “Just show her.”
“Does this mean you know who he is?” I ask.
“No,” Spam says. “But the woman driving the car was in the background of the photo. And I matched to her.”
“So? Everybody knows who she is,” I say.
“Right,” Spam says. “But not everybody knows her picture is on Victor’s murder board.” Spam clicks some keys and brings up a photo of the woman behind the wheel of the car, compared to a photo of the woman on the whiteboard. There is a green border around each photo and the word MATCH.
“She’s a suspect,” Lysa says. “Or a witness. I wasn’t sure.”
“Wait. You took a photo of the murder board?”
“Of course,” Spam says. “So did Lysa. You didn’t?”
“Hmmm. I was going to…”
“Her name’s Arletta Stone,” Lysa says. “She’s head of the Iron Rain Historical Society. She tried to block the sale of the cannery to Journey’s parents. She also testified that the cannery is haunted.” Lysa starts the car. “I’ll research more about her tonight.”
Lysa puts the car in gear and heads back to my house.
A familiar chill envelops me. “Wait, does it mean anything that someone related to Jameson’s case crashed her car at our school, nearly killing us?” I ask.
“You know what you always say about evidence—if it’s there it means something.” Spam shrugs. “Anyway, it creeped us out.”
“What if she saw us and thought the skateboarder was Journey? She could’ve been aiming for him,” Lysa says. “The newspaper article had all of our photos and mentioned how, with Victor back in town, certain cases might be reexamined. If there are any guilty people out there, hovering below the radar, that statement has got to make them nervous.”
“Interesting theory,” I say. “But running over kids with a car in front of a bunch of witnesses at their school doesn’t sound like the best plan of a criminal mastermind.”
“Sometimes criminal masterminds just freak out and panic.” Spam shuts her laptop. “Case in point, Principal Roberts.”
True.