On Monday morning Mason is sitting on the bottom step of our front stairs. His cheeks have a white film on them because he has not rubbed in his sunscreen enough. His faded Batman towel is on the step next to him.
“Listen, Mason,” I say as I shut the door behind me, “my house is on your way, so I know it makes sense for us to walk together. The thing is, and I don’t mean to be harsh, but, well, I think we both need to branch out. I’m looking forward to making some new friends.”
Mason nods in a resigned way. “I see your point.”
I tighten the straps on my backpack. “So I don’t want you sticking to me like rubber cement all day. Okay?” I make a point of looking into Mason’s eyes.
“Okay. Nice bracelet, by the way,” Mason says.
I’m not really that into jewelry, but I do like bracelets. The one I am wearing today was a birthday present from Patti. It has black-and-white mug-shot charms.
“Hey, don’t forget your towel,” I remind Mason. He is always forgetting stuff. If his head wasn’t attached to his neck, he’d forget that on the stairs too.
“Right. Thanks, Tabitha.” Mason slings the towel over his shoulder.
It’s a ten-minute walk from my house to the University of Montreal campus. At first neither of us says anything, which is fine by me. I am the opposite of a morning person.
Mason glances at me, then looks away. I get the feeling he wants to try and start another conversation. I am thinking of a way to discourage him when he clears his throat and says, “I guess you’re pretty psyched about forensics camp.”
“Yup.” A one-word answer should indicate I am not in the mood to talk. It doesn’t.
“I really loved cooking camp,” Mason says.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding. I still have that apron they gave us on the first day. And the chef ’s hat.”
Sarcasm always goes right over Mason’s head.
“Just don’t get confused and wear that get-up to forensics camp,” I say.
“I would never do that.”
I sigh. “I was joking.”
“Right,” Mason says, “I mean, ha-ha.”
We stop at the traffic lights at the corner of Côte-des-Neiges Street and Queen Mary Road. Someone has put up a poster offering a one-hundred-dollar reward for a missing Chihuahua. I know what I’d do with one hundred dollars. I’d buy this DNA kit I saw online. It comes with a centrifuge and an electrophoresis chamber for separating DNA strands.
Mason is studying the poster. The Chihuahua, whose name is Rexford, is looking out over the edge of a purse. He has unusually large ears for such a tiny dog. They stick up like a bat’s. “Rexford looks needy,” Mason says, “and that was before he got lost. Poor little guy.”
I study Rexford’s photo. Mason is right: there is something needy about the look in the dog’s eyes. But I don’t feel sorry for Rexford the way Mason does. To be honest, something about the dog’s needy look annoys me. “Maybe they just misplaced him. In a teacup or a slipper. That dog is microscopic—even by Chihuahua standards.”
It is uphill to the university gates, and Mason is out of breath when we get there. In the distance, I can see a crowd gathered outside the Life Sciences Building, where the forensics camp is being held.
Mason wipes the sweat off his forehead. “What do you think is going on over there?”
“Don’t you see the yellow tape, doofus? It’s a crime scene!” I tug on Mason’s sleeve. I want to go investigate!
A car has been abandoned on the curb. When we get closer, we see bicycle handlebars poking out from underneath the front of the car.
“Yikes,” Mason says.
A guy on a skateboard stops to take a look. “I hate to think about what happened to the dude who was riding that bike,” he says.
“There’s no sign of blood on the pavement,” I tell him.
“Good point.” The skateboarder gives me a thumbs-up before he zips off.
Mason is shaking his head. He looks a little green.
I punch his arm. “Hey, Mase, don’t take it so hard. I bet you anything this whole thing is a setup for forensics camp.”
Mason’s face relaxes. “I hope you’re right,” he says.
A young woman with long, thick red hair and purple cat’s-eye glasses is standing behind us. I suspect she has been listening in on our conversation. Still, I am surprised when she taps my shoulder. “Forensic scientists never make assumptions,” she says. “They analyze evidence.”
Before I can ask her who she is, she walks away.
We have to take an elevator to the fourth floor, where the Department of Forensic Science is. Three other kids are waiting for the elevator. I recognize a girl from school. “I’m Stacey,” she says to us. “You’re Tabitha, right? Patti’s friend? I had a feeling you’d be at forensics camp too. You were in my second-grade class. Whenever we sang ‘Who Stole the Cookies from the Cookie Jar?’ you’d ask Mrs. Smitt for evidence. I didn’t even know what evidence was.”
“That sounds like Tabitha,” Mason says. “By the way, I’m Mason.” I roll my eyes when he shakes Stacey’s hand. What thirteen-year-old shakes other kids’ hands?
Mason must know what I am thinking, because he mouths the words, I’m branching out.
Stacey introduces us to the two other kids. “These are my cousins Muriel and Nico. They’re from Vancouver.”
“We’re twins,” Muriel says. It would not take a DNA test to figure that one out. Muriel and her brother have the same wiry build; they also have the same dark eyes and straight brown hair, though Nico’s is short and Muriel’s hangs in a ponytail down her back.
When we get off the elevator, we see double glass doors with white lettering that says Department of Forensic Science. I stop to savor the moment—I, Tabitha Letour, am about to spend a week studying forensics at a university. It’s a dream come true.
Two counselors are waiting in the reception area. One is a tall broad-shouldered guy with pimples on his cheeks and nose. The other is the redheaded eavesdropper who tapped on my shoulder outside. She must have taken the stairs.
They introduce themselves. The guy’s name is Lloyd Burke. The woman is Samantha Buxbaum. They are third-year forensic-science students.
“Tabitha Letour?” Samantha reads my name off the first of a stack of notebooks she is holding.
“That’s me.”
“Right.” Samantha hands me the notebook. “We’ve met.” I am expecting her to smile when she says that, but she doesn’t. Something tells me Samantha Buxbaum is not a big smiler. “Mason Johnson?”
I lift my chin toward Mason. “That’s him.”
“I can tell her my own name,” Mason mutters.
“Stacey Thompson. Nico Watkins. Muriel Watkins.” Samantha hands them their notebooks. Still no smile.
Stacey sniffs her notebook like an airport dog sniffing for drugs. “This cover is plasticized.”
“Stacey is trying to save the planet,” Muriel explains.
Stacey shakes her head as if to say that saving the planet is a big responsibility for just one person. “Plastic is not biodegradable. Most of it will never disappear. Ever.” She taps her notebook on the word ever.
Samantha has one notebook left. “That’s a good point about the plastic.” She whips out a small spiral notepad from the back pocket of her black pants. “I’m going to write that down so we can look into getting different notebooks next summer.” Once that’s done, she reads the name off the last notebook. “Nathaniel Willet?”
The elevator doors slide open, and a boy in baggy khaki-colored shorts and a T-shirt with a winged skull on it slouches out. “I’m Nathaniel,” he says as he comes through the glass doors.
Lloyd rests his butt against the desk in the reception area. Samantha stands next to him and says, “Pull up some chairs.” We grab chairs and make a semicircle around the two of them. “Do any of you know what the word forensics means?” Samantha asks.
Nathaniel does not raise his hand. “It means we’re going to be examining gravesites and human skulls.” His voice sounds flat—as if he examines gravesites and human skulls on a regular basis.
“Uh, I hate to disappoint you, but not exactly,” Lloyd says. “Anyone else?”
I raise my hand. “Forensic science is the application of science to the law. Forensic scientists help the police, a judge or a jury understand the science used to solve a crime.”
Lloyd whistles.
“Tabitha has memorized the Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science,” Mason says. “She asked for it for her birthday when she was in fifth grade.”
“Actually, it was fourth grade,” I say.
Lloyd leans in closer to us. “One of the things we want to do this week is dispel some of the myths that surround forensic science. I’ll bet most of you have watched TV shows like CSI and Criminal Minds.”
“Nico and I watched all seven seasons of Criminal Minds,” Muriel says. “Twice.”
“I really wish they hadn’t canceled CSI: Miami,” Mason adds.
I don’t say anything. Even the music on crime shows upsets my mom, so I never get to watch that stuff.
“The problem with most of those shows,” Lloyd says, “is that they don’t portray forensic science very accurately. Can you think of any examples of what I’m talking about?”
Lloyd looks around, but none of us can answer his question. “Well, on TV,” Lloyd says, “forensic scientists behave like detectives—meaning they actually solve crimes. In real life, forensic scientists stick to science. They transmit their findings to detectives who try to solve the case.”
“Another difference,” Samantha adds, “is that on TV, you often see one forensic scientist analyzing everything: documents, fingerprints, bones, teeth, blood splatter.” Nathaniel looks up at the mention of blood splatter. “In reality,” Samantha continues, “there are many different branches of forensic science, and forensic scientists work together as a team. Just like you guys will be working together this week.”
Samantha points to a chart on the wall behind her and reads off some of the branches of forensic science. Forensic anthropology studies the human skeleton; forensic biology focuses on bodily fluids and DNA; forensic toxicology uses chemistry to identify substances; and fingerprint analysis looks at visible, invisible and three-dimensional prints and tries to identify whom they belong to. Forensic accounting analyzes data to assess if there has been financial fraud. I have to remember to tell my dad about that one.
Samantha turns back to us. “We want to start by emphasizing that forensic scientists need to pay close attention to details. Sometimes things that seem unimportant turn out to be extremely important. On your way in just now, you passed a simulated crime scene.”
I look at Mason and raise my eyebrows. See, I wish I could say, I was right. They set the whole thing up.
I have a hunch we’re going to investigate that simulation.
My hunch is confirmed when Lloyd says, “Before we can go down there, we’ve got to talk about what to do at a crime scene.”