I didn’t know. But something didn’t sit right.
On top of that, what was up with Chief Taylor’s weird hospital visit? I assumed that he must know Rachel via his son, Troy-I was trying not to grit my teeth as I thought about this-but what was up with him not wanting Rachel to talk to Homicide Investigator Dunleavy until she talked to him first? Was he afraid of what she’d say-or, more likely, was Chief Taylor just being a tool who wanted to know everything first?
I climbed into bed, thinking about the fact that both Rachel and I had lost a parent. It made you feel like you were always standing on shaky ground, like the earth could give way at any time and that you could fall and no one would be able to grab you.
I thought about Ema and the rumors. I wondered where she was right this very second, whether she was okay. I picked up my phone and texted her: Just wanted to say good night.
Two minutes later, Ema replied: u can be such a big girl sometimes.
I smiled and texted back: OK. Good night.
Ema: I got some info on your Nazi paramedic.
Me: What?
Ema: let’s meet before school bell Monday. I can show u then.
CHAPTER 17
Ema was waiting in the back corner of the student parking lot when I arrived. These spaces were coveted, and I guess there was a time when students started throwing punches over them. Now the school wisely raised money by selling them. If you wanted a prime space for the school year, it cost a grand. What was most amazing to me was not only did the spots sell out in record time, but there was a waiting list.
I was carrying a gym bag with my basketball stuff in it. Today was the first day of tryouts. Despite all the other things that were going on in my life, I still had butterflies in my stomach over that.
I walked to school. So, I guessed, did Ema. I mean, I had never seen a parent drop her off. She usually just came out of the woods behind the field. As I approached, I couldn’t help but notice that Ema looked somehow… different. I couldn’t put my finger on it. She was still dressed in all black without a hint of color. The skin was still pallid, her lipstick choice today a slightly more venomous shade of red.
“What?” Ema said.
I shrugged. “You look different.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Different how?”
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was definitely something-something maybe about the tattoo on her arm… Whatever. Now was not the time. “Doesn’t matter. You said you learned something about the Butcher of Lodz?”
Ema suddenly looked wary.
“What?” I said.
“You have to promise you won’t ask about my sources.”
I frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah, right, because what joke could be funnier than that?” She bit down on her lower lip. “You have to promise me. You won’t ask.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Just promise, okay?”
“I don’t even understand what I’m promising,” I said, “but okay, I won’t ask about your sources or whatever.”
Ema hesitated, studying my face to make sure that my promise was legit. Then she said, “I did some Photoshopping with your picture of the Butcher. If I sent someone a picture of a guy in a Nazi uniform and asked if he worked as a paramedic, they’d think I was nuts.”
I nodded. That made sense.
“So I used Photoshop to change his clothes into something more current. I also sent one photograph that was in the original black and white, and one that I colorized.”
“Who did you send them to?”
Ema gave me a hard look.
“Oh, wait,” I said. “Is that the source you’re talking about? The one I’m not supposed to ask about?”
“Not really,” Ema said. Again she hesitated. All around us, cliques were gathering. They were chatting or laughing or, like us, having serious talks. I wondered how many of them were talking about old Nazis from World War II. I doubted many were.
I sent the pictures to the director of Emergency Medical Services for San Diego,” Ema said. “My source is the one who got me in touch with him. But that’s not important.”
“Okay,” I said. “And what did the director tell you?”
“Hello, colleagues!”
I turned. It was Spoon. Ema did not look pleased.
Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. “Am I late?”
“We just got started,” I said.
We both turned back toward Ema. She looked even less pleased. “Wait.”
“What?”
She pointed at Spoon. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s part of this, Ema.”
She looked at Spoon. Spoon wiggled his eyebrows and spread his arms.
“Like what you see?” Spoon asked.
Ema frowned. “Are you really wearing a pocket protector?”
“What, you want the pen to ruin my shirt?”
“That shirt? Yes.”
“But green plaid is back.”
“Okay,” I said, stepping between them. “Can we get back to this?”
Ema’s eyes locked on to mine.
“He’s part of this,” I said again.
She dropped her gaze. “Fine, whatever, it’s your Nazi.”
“Please continue,” Spoon said.
Ema ignored him. “Anyway, I sent the pictures to the EMS office in San Diego. They would have been the ones to respond to any car accident in that area. I also gave them the date of your accident.”
“One question,” Spoon began, rubbing his chin. “Who’s your source?”
Ema shot daggers at him with her eyes.
“Spoon,” I said.
He looked at me. I shook my head for him to keep silent.
“So the photographs were sent down to human resources. They checked through their files. They showed the photograph to every employee they could find. Then, just to make sure, they sent me a link to a website with headshots of every licensed paramedic who has worked for the county for the past three years.”
She swallowed, but I knew what she was about to say next.
“There is no record of him. No one recognizes him. According to the San Diego EMS office, this guy never worked for them.”
Silence.
Then I said, “There are private ambulance companies, right? Maybe one of them…”
“It’s possible,” Ema said, “but they wouldn’t be called to an accident scene on an interstate. That’s the county’s jurisdiction.”
I tried to sort through what she was telling me… But what had I expected her to find? That a ninety-year-old Nazi who looked about thirty had been working for the San Diego Emergency Medical Services? Still, at the very least, the sandy-blond paramedic looked like the Butcher of Lodz. Someone should have been able to find the guy, right? If they showed the picture around or looked through their records, wouldn’t someone have come back and said, “Hey, this guy looks like…” well, whatever his name was?
I looked toward Ema. “So it’s a dead end?”
She looked at me with those caring eyes of hers.
“I mean, who was the sandy-blond guy with the green eyes I saw that day? Who took my dad from the scene?”
Spoon stayed silent. Ema took a step toward me. She put her hand on my arm. “We just started investigating. This is just the first step.”
Spoon nodded in agreement.
“There has to be an accident report,” Spoon added. “The names of everyone involved would be on it. We should get a copy.”
“Good idea, Spoon,” Ema said.
He puffed out his chest. “I’m not just eye candy, you know.”
We. They kept saying we. It felt ridiculous-we were just a bunch of dumb kids-and yet it also felt ridiculously comforting to have these two on my side.
Ema turned back to me. “I’ll get my source on it.”
“The source I shouldn’t ask about?” I said.
“Right.”
The bell rang. Students started to stream into the school. We said our good-byes and headed inside. My first three periods went by slowly and uneventfully. No boredom compares to school boredom. You stare at that clock and try to use any kind of mind-meld trick just to make the hands move faster. They never do.