The baseball team practices just about every day after school, but with the team fighting for a playoff spot, weekends were added as well. Which means we know where Greg Matthes will be this Saturday morning.
It’s 9:00 a.m., and baseball practice has just started. When he walked out of his house a half hour ago, I followed to make sure he went straight to practice while Charlie stayed behind to keep watch on any comings or goings.
My uncle is earning time and a half working all day Saturday, so he left before I did. Charlie’s dad had already left for his workshop, and she told her mom she was leaving early to go to the gym, then she’d be spending the day with me. Maybe we’d hit the mall or see a movie. If, later, she asked what movie we saw, Charlie would name one we’d already gone to and just tell her we’d wanted to see it again.
I’m sitting on a hill that overlooks the school baseball field, watching the practice and hoping for a call from Charlie to tell me Greg’s parents and sister decided to go somewhere, leaving the house empty. Then I’ll head back, and we can figure out how to get in. If they don’t leave before Greg is finished with practice, I’ll continue to keep an eye on him and we’ll have to figure something else out.
I’m not so far away that I can’t see the players being put through their motions, though I’m far enough away they can’t tell who I am, other than some kid with nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. My binoculars are next to me in my backpack, but using them, even at this distance, would look suspicious. Or at least weird.
Even with the distance, I recognize Greg and can tell he’s off his game. I haven’t been to too many school events, but I have been to a couple of baseball games. He’s one of the team’s best players, known for his sometimes dazzling play at third base, scooping up tough grounders and firing strong, accurate throws to first base. He also owns the second-best batting average on the team, and a reputation for good sportsmanship. He’s the ideal athlete and teammate. Like I’ve said before: perfect.
But he’s sure not perfect today. The team starts with batting practice, and all Greg is able to muster are some weak grounders and a few easy fly balls. He even whiffs several times, even though the assistant coach isn’t throwing the ball that hard. After he’s finished batting, the coach pulls Greg to the side to talk to him. He probably wants to make sure his star third baseman isn’t sick, with the playoffs coming up. I make note of Greg’s behavior in my notebook.
After their conversation ends, the coach pats Greg on the shoulder and sends him out to field grounders at third.
He’s not much better there. He starts by missing three easy ground balls in a row. Easy for him, that is; I doubt I’d be able to catch even one. When he finally fields one, he bounces the throw in the dirt well in front of the first baseman. His next is way wide, ending up far down the right-field line.
Greg definitely looks like he has something on his mind.
Something like murder.
He does better for a couple of plays, then the bad throws start up again. After one the first baseman would have to be eight feet tall to catch, the coach replaces him. He sits on the bench with his head down.
Noted.
My phone buzzes.
“We’re in luck. They just left,” Charlie says.
“His parents and sister?”
“No, the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. Of course, his parents and sister. And judging from what they’ve taken with them, they’re going to be gone for a while. Looks like a picnic or something. How’s practice?”
“Greg’s doing terrible.”
“Product of a guilty conscience.”
I glance at my phone. It’s 9:32. Baseball practice usually goes two and a half hours, so we should have plenty of time. “I’ll be right over,” I say.
Normally, it would take only ten minutes to walk to the Matthes house. I’m there in five.
I’d left Charlie on the same bench we sat last night, reading a book while keeping an eye on the Matthes house across the street. But she’s not here when I jog up. Looking around, I see no sign of her. Kids are playing on the jungle gym at the far edge of the playground while parents chat, but otherwise, the playground is surprisingly empty for a Saturday morning. Where did she go?
My phone buzzes. The text from Charlie reads: Cross the street. I’m in the backyard. Fence door is unlatched.
I cross the street as nonchalantly as possible. I’m starting to think this is a bad idea. I feel eyes on me, like there are people watching from their windows who might find it strange I was walking into the Matthes family’s backyard, but I’m in too deep to back out now.
The door to the wooden fence is unlatched, as Charlie said it would be. Checking one more time for any sign of someone watching me or dialing 911, I open the door. Charlie stands in the backyard with hands on hips, looking up. I follow her gaze to an open window on the second floor. “I checked all the other doors and windows,” she says. “This is the only one open. So that’s how we’re getting in.”
“How are we going to get up there?” I ask.
She points. “We’ll use that ladder.”
The ladder is leaning on its side against a shed in the far corner of the yard. “Did you break into their shed to get it?”
“Nah. It was already like that.”
“Was the fence door unlocked?”
“It’s just a latch.”
I’ve had a lot of practice sneaking around. Charlie hasn’t. “Did you make sure no one saw you?”
She glances over her shoulder. “We’re fine.” Then she looks at me. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
Before I can answer, Charlie continues. “Because listen, you’re right. More evidence wouldn’t hurt. Greg probably doesn’t even have the backpack anymore. But we’ve got to be sure.”
She eyes the ladder, then the window. “We should have plenty of time, but we can’t be a hundred percent sure his family won’t suddenly show up. So you stay outside and keep watch while I go in and search.”
Who is this girl, and what did she do with Charlie? “Why should you go in?”
The look she gives me is almost funny. “You know I’m better suited for this.” She emphasizes her point by flexing a muscle.
“But I’m the one who knows what the backpack looks like.”
“I’ve seen Greg with the backpack at school many times. I know what it looks like. Besides,” she adds, giving me a wink and a nudge, “how many backpacks can he have with blood on them?”
I can’t believe how excited she is. Yesterday, I had to convince her. Now she’s already cased the house and can’t wait to break in.
“Hey, don’t worry, it’s going to go fine.” She smiles. “You big goof.”
“You’re bigger than I am,” I respond.
“Bigger and stronger. But not goofier.”
I can’t help but smile, too.
“If we’re doing this, we should get started,” Charlie says.
A good investigator understands that sometimes boundaries have to be pushed to get to the truth.
“Okay.” We grab the ladder, hoist it up, and lean it against the house.
Charlie sees me pull out my cell and says, “No talking on the phone while I’m in there. I’ll need to concentrate.”
“All right,” I agree. “But if I see them coming back, I’ll text ‘get out.’ Then, no matter what, you get out.”
“Got it. But we’re fine. Plenty of time.” She pats me on the shoulder and steps on the first rung of the ladder. Then she stops and steps off. “You’re not staying here in the backyard, right? You have to be able to see the front door.”
“Right,” I say. In my head, I’m thinking, Duh.
“After I’m in, go out front,” Charlie directs. “Watch from the playground. You’ll be able to see the house and all of the street. I’ll text you if I’ve found the backpack or when I’m finished, and you meet me at the ladder. Once I’m down, we’ll put it back against the shed and get out of here, no harm, no foul. No one will know we were here.”
She pats me on the shoulder again as I hold the ladder for her and starts to climb. She moves quickly. Not only is Charlie strong, she’s fast. If she wanted to, she could probably be on the track team. Proving the point, she reaches the window in no time and pushes up the window to give her more room. Then, just like that, she slips inside. A few seconds later she reappears. “We’re in luck. This is Greg’s room,” she calls down to me.
“Not so loud,” I call back in a half whisper.
“I’m going to make a quick check through the house.”
“Why?”
“I’m just being thorough. I won’t be long. If I don’t find it, I’ll be back to search his room. You need to get out front.” She commands me with a sweep of her arm. “Go.”
She disappears from the window, and I hurry to the fence and open it while taking a deep breath. Then I stroll around to the front of the house, where, like before, I cross the street nonchalantly. Nothing to see here. I end up at the same bench where I’d left Charlie earlier this morning.
Some of the house’s front windows have curtains, a few closed, others open, partially or completely. Hopefully Charlie is smart enough to stay where she can’t be seen.
The playground has filled up. A lot more kids now run and chase each other, screaming and laughing. They throw balls and swing on swings and climb on the jungle gym while their parents chat and keep an eye on them.
Time slows to a crawl as I wait for Charlie’s text telling me she’s found the backpack. Not being able to see her, wondering how the search is going, makes me more nervous than I already am.
I check my phone, surprised to see only five minutes have passed since she went inside. It feels longer.
Did I just see the curtains rustling in the front window? Without thinking, I reach into my backpack for the binoculars. Before I can whip them out, a figure pops up next to me, startling me so much I practically jump out of my shoes. But it’s just a boy trying to get a ball that has rolled under the bench. I reach down to pick it up and hand it to him. The boy doesn’t move; he just stares at me. I’m about to ask what he wants when he grabs the ball, turns, and calls out, “I’ve got it!” Then he hurries off.
Strange little dude.
I glance at my phone again. Only two more minutes have gone by.
What was up with that kid? Do I look odd sitting here? Suspicious? The way I keep shaking my leg and checking my phone every few minutes, of course I look suspicious.
Take a breath, Alden. Act casual.
I need something to do. I pull out a pen and my notebook from my backpack. Taking a moment to formulate my thoughts, I begin taking notes.
Evidence so far:
Witnessed Greg arguing with Amy.
Witnessed Amy lying on the ground, dead or unconscious.
Witnessed Greg standing over her with blood on his backpack.
Amy’s body wasn’t there when the police arrived. Greg must have moved it.
Amy is supposed to be at church camp. But found Amy’s cross, which she is never without, lying at the spot where she was struck.
Seeing it all written down like this causes a sharp, icy chill to course through me. Time is ticking. Could Amy’s life hang in the balance?
I check the time again. Charlie has now been in the house for over ten minutes. How much longer does she need? The longer this takes, the more chances a neighbor might notice something funny. Like a ladder leaning against an open upstairs window in the back of the house.
“Are you all right?” I hear behind me. I turn, expecting a cop wondering what I’m doing here, acting so nervous and writing notes. But what I heard was a father, about ten feet away, helping his teary-eyed son to his feet, brushing off grass and dirt. “You’re all right,” he says to the boy, giving him a hug before sending him off to play some more. Turning, he sees me looking at him and smiles. “It’s okay, he’s fine.”
I smile back. Then I turn around and let out another long breath. Of course I check my phone again. Time seems to have sped up now. It’s been almost fifteen minutes. How much longer does she need? I hope she’s back in Greg’s room by now.
A horrible thought comes to me: What if Charlie had an accident in there? Fell and broke her leg? Lost her phone in the fall and can’t reach it, or worse, she’s knocked unconscious? If she’s unable to text me, how would I know anything was wrong?
A good investigator always has a plan B in case something goes wrong.
So what is my plan B? I’d have to go in and rescue her. But how long should I wait until I do something? Five more minutes? Ten? I’d have to use the ladder to get inside. But if she’s hurt or unconscious, how do I get her down?
I’m getting ahead of myself. Calm down. I’ll give her a few more minutes. If I haven’t heard from her by then, I’ll text and ask how much longer she thinks she’ll need.
I put away my notebook and start to do the same with my pen when a sudden noise startles me, and I drop it. I pick it up as I look up and down the street. Was that a police siren? Did a neighbor see something and call the police? I hear it again. Another short, quick burst. Then a car appears, slowing down and pulling over across the street. Followed by a police car, lights flashing. It stops behind the first car.
Right in front of the Matthes house.
Stay calm, I tell myself, resisting the urge to run. For about a minute there’s no movement, except for the cop talking into her handset inside her cruiser. I look over at the other car and recognize the teenager behind the wheel as a Milton High School senior, Tommy Zimmerman. And then it dawns on me. The police officer isn’t here to check a report of a break-in. She pulled Tommy over, for speeding or whatever. She’s probably checking his license plate with the dispatcher at the station. If I get a text from Charlie that she’s ready to come out, I’ll just tell her to wait.
The cop is still in her car. Tommy keeps glancing back over his shoulder at the police car and fuming, clearly unhappy. The cop finally gets out, ticket book in hand. She takes her sweet time walking to the driver’s side, while Tommy rolls down his window and puts on his best innocent look.
The officer, looking very stern, begins talking. Tommy works to keep the innocent look on his face, though I can see it starting to slip. After what seems like forever, he fishes his driver’s license out of his wallet and opens the glove compartment to get the car registration, handing both to the officer. The two talk some more. What do they have to talk about? Give him the ticket and let him go on his way, jeez.
Some of the people in the playground have stopped what they were doing to watch the show playing out in front of them. I check my phone. No message. Charlie must be almost finished by now.
The cop takes Tommy’s license and registration and sits in the cruiser again, writing the ticket.
I stare at her, willing her to write faster. Maybe a minute later, the officer gets out, and gives the ticket to Tommy. Then she talks to him—Oh, for crying out loud, finish up already!—probably giving him a lecture. Tommy’s head moves like a bobblehead in agreement.
Finally, the police officer returns to her car and gets in. Tommy drives away slowly. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and let the air out in one long whoosh. I lean back against the bench, watching the police cruiser pull away from the curb.
And there’s Greg Matthes walking down the street, just one house away from his own home.
What the hell is he doing here already? Practice shouldn’t be over by now. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is he’s here. Now.
And Charlie’s still inside.
My fingers feel like fat sausages as I text GET OUT.
He approaches his front door. I want to disappear into the bench, but he doesn’t seem to notice me. Greg fishes for his keys while my foot taps frantically on the ground. He inserts a key into the doorknob, then goes inside, shutting the door.
I bolt across the street, not caring about being nonchalant. Pushing through the fence door, I hurry to where the ladder is still leaning against the house. I look up at the window of Greg’s room. Come on, Charlie, where are you?
And then I see her. She has nothing with her; I guess she didn’t find the backpack. She sees me, waves, then begins to step out of the window and onto the highest step of the ladder. I hold it steady for her.
But with one foot out, she stops and puts her hand up. Then she hisses “Hide!” and abruptly disappears back into the room. I call out her name in my own harsh whisper, but she doesn’t respond. I run to the shed, my backpack in hand, before looking back. I don’t see Charlie. Then Greg enters his room. He turns toward the open window, and I duck behind the shed.
I take a moment to control my runaway heartbeat before I peer out from my hiding place. It doesn’t seem like Greg saw me, but has he found Charlie? Is she hiding? He’s standing near the window, doing nothing for the moment. If he glances down, he’ll see the ladder leaning against the house. Thankfully, he moves away, out of sight.
I reach into my backpack, pulling out my notebook first, then the binoculars. I creep out from behind the shed; I can always duck back if I have to. Using the binoculars, I focus in on Greg talking to someone on his phone. He doesn’t seem angry like he did the last time I saw him like this, though it does look like something’s bothering him.
I can see most of the room now. It’s big. There are posters of sports stars I don’t recognize on a brown-paneled wall, a bed, and a worn recliner pushed against one corner. A shelf next to his bed is full of gaudy trophies, and more cover the entire top of an end table on the other side. There’s a closet, and a desk with a laptop on it. His room is nice. And clean, of course. Much nicer and cleaner than mine.
Where is Charlie?
The call seems go on forever. Greg paces from one side of the room to the other, before he finally finishes and tosses his phone on his bed. He slips off his practice shirt and, shirtless, he crosses to the closet. My stomach tightens as he opens the door. Could Charlie have gone in there? But all he does is pull a button-down shirt from a hangar and put it on. Through the binoculars, I try peering inside the closet, but I can’t see much.
Leaving the closet door open, he walks to the center of the room. He seems to be thinking again. I had no idea he was such a big thinker. He needs to get out so Charlie can escape. What if he decides to take a nap or read a book or who knows what?
A plan begins to formulate as I watch Greg head back to the closet. This time he pushes aside hanging clothes, walking in deeper until I can’t see him. If Charlie is hiding in there, he’s sure to find her now. I wait, tense, expecting to see Greg yanking Charlie out of the closet any second. What do I do if that happens? I keep the binoculars trained on the closet, my fingers hurting from holding them so tight.
My muscles relax as he reappears without Charlie. If I’m going to do something to get him out of his room, I need to do it now. I stand up and take a deep breath. My legs won’t move. Do it! Now!
I run across the backyard, reach the fence, and push open the door, racing toward the front porch. There are fewer people at the playground, and thankfully, none of them are looking my way.
My plan in place, I ring the doorbell.
When Greg doesn’t come to the door, I ring again and peer through the front window. There’s movement on a second-floor landing, then feet on the stairs.
I hurry back around the house. Charlie is at the window. She waves at me, but instead of climbing out of the window, she gives me a wait-a-minute sign and turns from view. I wait nervously, hopping from one leg to the other. Greg has definitely seen no one was at the front door by now. Hurry up, hurry up!
Again, I run around to the front of the house, where I ring the bell twice, then hurry back to the rear of the house, praying for the best.
Framed in the window, Charlie gives me a big smile as she lifts up what she’s holding in her hand. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.
Greg’s backpack.
Greg’s bloody backpack.
Oh God, she’s touching it. Why didn’t we think of this? It’s going to get contaminated with her DNA. Too late to do anything about it now. I motion for her to hurry. First, she throws out the backpack, and it lands at my feet. Then she’s out of the window and climbing down the ladder so fast she’s a third of the way down by the time I’m steadying it. Without warning, she jumps, bringing the ladder with her. I manage to grab it before it hits me, then together we lean it haphazardly against the shed. Charlie hoists the backpack onto her shoulder and says, “Let’s go.”
My backpack! As Charlie runs toward the fence door, I head behind the shed, where I grab it and my binoculars. There’s no sign of Greg at the windows, and Charlie is waiting for me with the fence door open, so I take off toward her, and, together, we burst out of the backyard. Keeping up with Charlie isn’t easy, but I run like I’ve never run before, praying that Greg isn’t watching.