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The phone rang. Ann jerked awake. It rang again. She jumped up and ran to the kitchen. The clock on the microwave read 4:08. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Detective Logan? It’s Whitney? I’m the night receptionist at the station?”
“Oh... hi... What’s going on?”
“I got a call from the Bergs? I guess something’s happened to their daughter?”
“Marcie,” Ann whispered.
* * *
Ann pulled on a clean pair of nitrile gloves and carried her kit to Marcie’s room.
Flight for life had arrived shortly after she finished taking statements from Betty and Roger Berg. Ann was able to convince Roger that Marcie’s state couldn’t have possibly been drug induced, but he still heard a bump in the night that he swore was that damn Riley kid sneaking in. Betty rode in the chopper with Marcie, and Roger took the car to meet them in Aspen.
Ann surveyed Marcie’s room. A desk sat against the wall with stacks of celebrity gossip rags and teen fashion magazines towering over a laptop.
She grabbed the camera out of her bag and set about following protocol for taking pictures.
By Marcie’s bed, Ann dropped to her knees. The crispy substance lay in a line, shattered to pieces. She took several pictures of the stuff, then collected as much of the substance as she could in a little envelope. She pulled out the fingerprinting kit and got to work.
The inside of the window only came up with prints on the latch and the two areas where one might pull the window open or push it closed. Probably Marcie’s. Outside, she dusted the exterior of the glass.
One full flat hand print revealed itself in the powder. Ann held her hand up to it for comparison and found it to be about the same size. Not George’s then. His hands were like a bunch of bratwursts. Maybe Marcie? If she’d sneaked out, this was probably how she got back in. Ann collected the print on the tape and hoped the station had the equipment needed to analyze it. Otherwise, she’d be calling in a favor to an old friend.
She collected Marcie’s laptop from the desk. If nothing else, she could compare any prints pulled from the machine with the ones from the window.
A piece of paper stuck out from under a stack of textbooks. Ann pulled it out and unfolded it. She gave a short laugh through her nose.
The Local Inquirer.
Photographed, Written, Compiled, and Printed by Brent Winter. How the community paper allowed him to use their equipment, Ann would never know. Someone scrawled a hand-written note across the top.
Meet me behind the library at noon tomorrow. Love, Pinky’s Pal.
A secret note. Not so secret name, though. Ann shook her head. Good job, Brent. Now you’re a suspect.
Ann flipped through the pages and found four pictures amongst the articles with ridiculous headlines: Ann herself, Louise in the middle of the diner with her arms spread wide, and Teresa Hart coming out of the old funeral home. Ann collected the newspaper as evidence.
A visit to Brent’s house was definitely in order. Not just to question him, but to see if Pinky, in fact, was a victim in Yaldabaoth’s grand scheme.
She also wanted to see Derrick, find out why he had been unavailable. Teresa, too. Maybe they were preoccupied with mending their relationship. She could only hope.
She finished collecting anything she felt was evidence and packed it out.
Next stop, the sheriff’s department to drop everything off. Tomorrow she would search the storage cell. She hoped if they had a microscope they had other equipment, too.