Sketchy Behavior

  “A case that baffled law enforcement and terrorized the public is now officially at an end,” the cheerful blonde reporter said on the TV.

  All of us looked over.

  “John X, the notorious killer who claimed four lives in four counties surrounding St. Louis, was apprehended today in what authorities say was a ‘miraculous link.’ The one and only witness to John X’s third murder, who wishes to remain anonymous, was able to correctly describe John X for the police.”

  “Wow,” Mom said. “That’s great!”

  “It’s about time.” Dad nodded.

  I slurped up a few more Crispix. They were just starting to get soggy, so I needed to eat fast.

  “However,” the reporter continued, “a criminal artist who works for a Missouri police department was not the one credited with John X’s arrest.”

  A picture flashed up on the screen and a half-chewed, soggy Crispix fell out of my open mouth and back into my bowl with a tiny splash.

  “As we showed you last night on our six-o’clock show, here is the depiction of John X. This is the sketch created by a local South Woodhaven Falls teen, our brightest new criminal sketch artist.”

  There, very plainly visible in the corner under John X’s perfect square chin, was the scrawl that had been perfected over the years.

  Kate Carter.

  There was dead silence in my kitchen for all of about ten seconds. Then Mom started screaming, “What? What?”

  Dad just looked at me. “Kate Carter. You Kate Carter or a different Kate Carter?”

  It was hard to hear him over Mom’s screaming. I kept watching the TV, where the drawing I did yesterday in art class was still plastered.

  “Authorities say that this drawing of John X is a near photo-quality match of the killer of four. We’re hoping to go live to South Woodhaven Falls’ very own Kate Carter’s house and get a statement from her soon. I’m Candace Olstrom, and this is KCL.”

  Mom and Dad both stared at me now. The silence was back — this time it lasted a full two minutes.

  “How did you know what he looked like?” Dad asked first. Logical question.

  “It was a drawing assignment,” I said.

  “You were assigned to draw a criminal?” Mom gasped.

  “Apparently.” Detective Masterson’s appearance yesterday in art class was more than just to see Miss Yeager’s blush, I guessed.

  Again, silence.

  The quiet was shattered by a knock on the door and Mom whirled to look at Dad. “What if it’s John X?”

  “He was caught,” I said.

  “Not now, Kate.” Dad said, standing. “Claire, take Kate to the back bedroom and stay there.” He was in his protective state. Which, on most dads, was very sweet.

  On my dad, it usually involves a gun.

  “Dad,” I said.

  He ignored me and looked at Mom. “Claire, now.”

  Mom grabbed my elbow and apparently the Crispix were going to win the battle of sogginess this morning. Mom hustled me to the back bedroom, aka the Guest Room. Lolly followed us happily.

  “But Dad,” I started again as we passed in the hallway.

  “Hush,” Mom told me as I opened my mouth to protest further. She pushed me down into a sitting position on the bed. “You cannot be too safe. Not mentally, not emotionally, not physically.”

  I opened my mouth again.

  “I mean it. Not a word.”

  So I sat there on the guest bed. Mom paced the floor, wringing her hands and muttering things like art teachers and lawsuits under her breath.

  A couple of minutes later, Dad walked into the room, a 9mm gun holstered to his hip, escorting a pale and open-mouth-stricken Maddy. “She came to give Kate a ride,” Dad said, lightly pushing her toward the bed.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I said.

  Maddy’s eyes were the size of snow cones. “What. Is. Going. On.”

  “Sit,” Mom commanded, standing from her spot on the bed. “Neither of you are going to school today.”

  Maddy gaped at her and then at me. “But what about —?”

  “No excuses,” Mom said, staring Maddy down. “Your personal safety is of more concern than a couple of grades.”

  Maddy just stared at her. “Wait. What happened? Personal safety? Did Mr. Hannigan threaten to put you on the track team again?” She turned to me.

  I opened my mouth.

  Dad beat me to it. “No, Madison. Kate drew a picture of John X.”

  Maddy’s eyes became snow cone sized again and turned to me. “You what?”

  “And it got put on the news,” Mom said.

  “It’s on the news?” Maddy’s mouth was still open.

  “He got caught, there is no danger,” I said.

  Dad glared at me, one hand on his 9mm. “I’ve never trusted that Candace reporter girl. Nobody’s voice is really that squeaky. Who knows if he really got arrested?”

  “Dad.”

  He held up a hand. “And I’m going to have more than a word with Miss Yeager or whatever her name is who made you draw a known criminal. What kind of art teacher is she? This isn’t CSI, these are high school juniors!”

  Mom was nodding through Dad’s whole sermon. “I am going to talk to her as well. She obviously was not thinking clearly about the damaging effects to the kids’ psyches.”

  “Claire, write a note. We need to contact Pete What’s-His-Face and see how we need to go about correcting the school on this.”

  I sighed. I assumed Dad was talking about Peter Colligher, the attorney they met at the last Parent’s Night Out at school. Mr.

  Colligher said he specialized in copyright law, so I’m not sure how he was going to help them.

  The doorbell rang right as the home phone started ringing. I reached for the handset and my elbow about came out of socket when Mom whacked my hand out of the way and grabbed it herself.

  “Dale?” she said, nodding to the entryway and stepping into the hallway with the phone.

  “I got the door.” Dad nodded and left.

  Maddy and I stayed on the bed.

  She stared at me. “You drew John X?”

  “Well. I didn’t mean to.”

  “How did you know what he looked like?” she asked.

  “Detective Masterson told us when he was making Miss Yeager blush,” I said.

  Maddy’s eyes popped even more. “Miss Yeager blushed?”

  I nodded.

  Mom came back into the room, gripping the phone. “Channel Six wants an interview,” she said to me. “I told them by all means, absolutely not.”

  Dad walked in right then too, carrying a huge bouquet of red roses, followed by a wagging Lolly. “This is from the sheriff’s office and Channel Eight has a news crew out there.”

  Maddy and I were off the couch before he finished talking. We ran to the living room and peered through the cracks in the now-closed drapes.

  A news van was parallel parked on the curb in front of our house. About ten people were gathered on the front lawn. Maddy’s jet-black Tahoe was in the driveway next to Dad’s pickup and my Volvo.

  Another news van, with “Channel Two — The News You Can TRUST!” emblazoned on the side drove down the street.

  I stepped back and stared at Mom and Dad.

  Then at Maddy.

  Then at Lolly.

  I looked at the TV as the doorbell rang again.

  On the screen, there was Candace Olstrom standing on my front porch. “I’m here at the heroic Kate Carter’s house, the girl who saved who knows how many lives and brought four victim’s souls to justice.”

  And all I could do was sit down and stare at the TV as Candace continued on about how John X had been terrorizing the four surrounding counties for two months.

  I drew John X.

  I drew John X.

  On the one hand, I felt kind of proud that I helped the SWF police in one of the biggest crimes this year, but on the other hand …

  I just knew it. Li
fe was never going to be the same again.

  Chapter Four

  THE REST OF THE MORNING PASSED IN A BLUR OF THE phone ringing, the doorbell chiming, Maddy’s endless questions, and Lolly’s head sogging my lap. Dad and Mom both took the day off and Dad was pacing around the house, 9mm still strapped to his waist. He’d allowed us to move to the couch in the living room, but only so he could watch the news and us at the same time.

  “So, it was an assignment?” Dad asked again, for the fourth time that hour.

  I was still watching the front of our house, now being broadcast on Fox News. “Yeah,” I said, for the fourth time.

  “For drawing class,” Dad said.

  “Miss Yeager wanted us to see how art as a career could work in everyday life,” I said. “I think it was the start of a series.”

  “A series of criminals?”

  “A series of careers.” I shook my head.

  Dad grumbled something under his breath and continued to pace. Mom was now clicking around on her laptop.

  “Kate, listen to this. Criminal sketch artists, or forensic sketch artists, are usually one of the top careers to have mental breakdowns and panic attacks, and of all of the careers available to an artist, they are foremost in needing psychiatric help.” She looked up at me, eyes wide. “I do not like this.”

  Maddy elbowed me in my ribs. “At least you might get a discount,” she whispered.

  I grinned.

  Mom frowned.

  Dad noticed my grin, then frowned and launched into lecture-mode. “There is nothing funny about this situation, Kate Carter,” he said sternly, one hand on his gun. “This was a dangerous, stupid move for a teacher to have a student make, and you can bet that I’m going to have a very long talk with Miss Yeager or whatever her name is.”

  I opened my mouth to stick up for Miss Yeager, but the doorbell cut me off.

  “Now who is it?” Dad grumbled, sneaking over to the door and peering through the peephole.

  We had been instructed that under no circumstances were Maddy or I allowed to look through the curtains, answer the door, look through the peephole, or basically move off the couch unless we were otherwise ordered by Dad.

  Dad squinted through the peephole and then growled. “Police guy.” He unlocked the door, opened it three inches, reached his arm through, and yanked a uniformed man through the crack before slamming the door shut and locking all the deadbolts again.

  “You,” Dad barked to the poor guy, who was now trying to smooth his wrinkled and squished uniform. “Start talking.”

  I still had yet to see the man’s face, but then he turned toward me and Maddy sitting on the couch and I waved. “Hi, Detective.”

  Detective Masterson squinched a half-smile at me and then looked at Dad. “Do you have a permit for that weapon?” he asked.

  I was pretty sure this was not the time or the place to ask that question.

  Dad seemed to agree with me. He started sputtering so badly that Detective Masterson had to wipe off his cheek.

  “My … my daughter is on Fox News … and you have the audacity to come here and …” Dad couldn’t even finish his sentence, he was so mad. Anytime my very logical, thoughtful father used words like “audacity” and slobbered, I knew it was bad.

  “Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down,” Detective Masterson said quietly, holding his hands up surrender-style.

  Mom was glaring at the detective from the couch. “How do you know my daughter?” she asked icily.

  Even Mom was royally ticked. By this point I was starting to realize that the parental units were not going to be cheering me on toward a career in forensic sketching.

  If anything, they might be wrapping my hands in a permanent plastic wrap so I’d never be able to draw again.

  Detective Masterson turned very slowly away from my dad and faced my mom. “I was present on the day that Kate drew John X.”

  This did not endear him to my weaponed, spittle-encrusted father. “You encouraged this?” he demanded.

  “Sir, ma’am,” the detective said, looking at both my parents. “Your daughter has supreme talent in this field and I believe that it was no accident that she was instrumental in helping us apprehend John X.”

  Maddy elbowed me again when Detective Masterson said “supreme talent.”

  I was suddenly very hungry for pizza.

  Very hungry and very flattered. I peeked over at my dad to see how he was taking this, considering the Master Plan was for me to follow in his mathematical, engineering footsteps.

  He was still sputtering.

  “Now, all that being said, I do need to formally apologize for both having Kate draw John X and for the way the sketch was leaked to the press. When Kate’s art teacher came to us to have us discuss the career of criminal sketching, she and I both thought it could be beneficial for the students to attempt a sketch of a known criminal.” Detective Masterson winced. “I didn’t, however, anticipate your daughter having such a natural talent. Nor did I anticipate that the sketches would be taken off my desk and shown to the witness who saw John X.” He nodded at me. “But it was no accident.”

  Mom was still glaring at the detective. “You believe in fate,” she said.

  “No, ma’am. I believe that God orchestrated this.”

  Oh, now this was just getting better all the time. I felt my eyes widen. Dad tolerated Mom’s attempts to get this family to be more spiritual, but I was imagining that mixing religiosity with his daughter’s safety was not a smart move for the detective.

  Even though we were faithfully in the church pew every year at Christmas thanks to my mother, who wanted us to experience a “spiritual” side of life, Dad did not go willingly. If anything, he was dragged there purely from the desire to sleep in his bed that night instead of on the couch. And Mom, who pretended to listen intently, was not that interested in Christianity.

  “It’s just good to keep our names on the list,” she would tell me. “Plus, goodness knows you and your father need something to balance your logical bones.”

  I doubt she’d still call me logical at this moment.

  “God?” Dad gasped out the word. I was waiting for “oh, kill me now” to follow his exclamation, but the doorbell rang yet again, saving the detective from a nice verbal lashing.

  Dad peered again through the peephole. “More of you,” he announced to Detective Masterson.

  The detective nodded. “We are going to take Kate to the police station.”

  Dad started sputtering again, and this time Mom joined him.

  Detective Masterson quickly hurried up and finished his thought. “We need to question her, and we also want to be mindful of her safety right now. As well as all of your safety.” He looked at Maddy.

  Maddy leaned back against the couch. “I wonder if I’ll still have to take that geography exam,” she said quietly.

  “We will be certain to arrange things with the school,” the detective said, obviously overhearing Maddy.

  “Absolutely not,” Dad finally got out.

  “But Mr. Carter, my geography exam counts for a third of my final grade,” Maddy protested.

  Dad didn’t even spare her a glance. “We are not going down to the police station.”

  “Sir,” Detective Masterson said.

  “Dad,” I said.

  “Dale,” Mom said.

  “You already had my daughter draw a murderer. What could you possibly need her to do now? Draw a gang leader? A drug lord? The guy who piloted the plane in Con Air?” Dad was ranting now.

  And Dad didn’t even like that movie. He said that no guy with Nicolas Cage’s hairstyle would have ever ended up with a woman who looked like his wife.

  I have to admit, I had to agree. And Mom just told us to hush because she had a thing for Nicolas Cage — scraggly, long hair or not.

  Maddy elbowed me yet again. “What is Con Air?” she whispered.

  “Sir, this really is the best option,” the detective said calmly. Th
e doorbell rang again. “Actually, it’s the only option. Our primary responsibility now is to keep you and your family safe. And we only want to question Kate, not hire her.” When Dad didn’t budge, Detective Masterson nodded. “You really have no other choice, sir.”

  “Dale,” Mom said. “We need to go.”

  Dad shook his head and walked down the hallway. We all just looked at each other for the next thirty seconds. Was he on his way to get the rest of his arsenal? Was he calling Pete What’s-His-Name?

  Dad came back with a coat a minute later. “Kate, what are you doing?” he barked. “Get your coat and shoes. We’re going with Detective Masterson or whatever he calls himself.”

  I ran down the hall to my room and found my Chuck Taylors. I glanced in the mirror as I was about to leave. I never thought I’d be on TV, and I especially never thought I’d be on TV while wearing my least attractive pair of jeans. They were ripped on the right knee and shredded around the hemlines because I’m short and most of my pants aren’t.

  I shrugged and grabbed my favorite red hoodie jacket.

  Maddy was waiting with my parents and Detective Masterson by the front door. She was still wearing her backpack and a wide-eyed expression.

  “We are going to be on TV!” she hissed in my ear when I joined them.

  “I know,” I whispered back.

  “I didn’t curl my hair very well today,” she moaned.

  “Okay,” the detective said. “Here’s what will happen. We will surround you and try to get you into the police vehicles with minimum amount of camera exposure. So stay together, and stay close to us.”

  He opened the door and nodded to a bunch of uniformed guys on my front porch.

  Immediately, we were all surrounded and shoved en masse toward a couple of police cars parked right smack in the middle of my father’s front lawn. Yet another occurrence that had him bristling.

  Mom and Dad were stuck in the back of one police car, and Maddy and I were put into the other one. Meanwhile, there were cameras and flashes and microphones and people screaming, “Kate! Kate! How did you know what John X looked like? What is it like being the town heroine? Kate!”

  I didn’t get a chance to even answer them because the door was slammed the second my feet were out of the way.