After Zack and I had a conversation while placing the objects saved from the fire in the small closet, Dad, Zack, and I went for a few minutes to check on the shop. We wanted to see if we could find more stuff that could be saved.
Luckily, we found that one of the racing flags that worked as decor for the garage had been kept safe, hidden behind some furniture. At the same time, some of the Hot Rods were still salvageable, but it would take days to repair them.
As Zack and I looked among the ash and the burnt wood and metal, Dad called my mother and asked if she could ask Grandma to keep the Hot Rods in her garage until they had the time to fix them. Dad told Mom that they would try to sell them to a collector.
Zack and I just looked around the garage. As I looked up into the sky, I noticed the roof looked like a giant carcass. The ribs protruded while the meat was missing. Then I turned to Zack and saw the boy staring at the mess with sad puppy dog eyes.
"We still have a chance to do something," I thought.
I mostly spent the rest of that day thinking about what path to take. The Thunderbird was hiding somewhere. If found, my dad and Mr. Vinton could get some money. And authorities were looking for the car, which was good. But could we trust the police to find the vehicle and keep it? Even if they found it, a ghost was still attached to it.
The supernatural factor was the part that was still unsolved, even if we, Mr. Lewis and the police, made an effort. And that was the dilemma. I felt that Zack and I had to do something else, but what?
The seed of an idea was beginning to form inside my head. Still, I knew it would require risk and a lot of practice, so no matter how interesting, I knew I needed more time to be ready for that alternative.
So I thought, "An exorcism, perhaps?"
But how could one do that? Would there be a priest brave enough to try?
The last time someone tried to keep the car still for just a few days, they ended up with their whole lives ruined, and it was a stroke of luck that they didn't end up dead. So I thought it was best to start with the simplest thing and tell the police about Zack's theory and see what they thought. Maybe they wouldn't be so against it.
So I discussed it with Zack and my friends, who were very helpful, and we all decided it was the best first option. Just telling them as the best option. What could they do if they disagreed? Arrest me?
So I waited until Dad called on Sunday morning to talk to them about the investigation, hoping they would still be interested in solving the mystery. They did, and we soon found out why.
As the conversation on the phone went on, my father found out that the man who had been run over by the car had sadly passed away. After days in the hospital, his body had finally given up. With the number of bodies above three, our guy had become a serial killer. And because one of the victims was a cop, they wanted revenge.
So we waited for the moment of their arrival.
At lunch, Dad and Mom talked about the Hot Rods, and Dad said that Mr. Vinton had taken enough precautions to ensure that people wouldn't get inside what was left of the shop and try to steal things.
"Well, that's good," said Mom. "By the way, Mom told me she had no problem letting you occupy her garage, so you guys should be all set for Monday, right?"
"Yeah, right after Tammy's school," Dad said.
"So, you are coming around when I'm at grandma's?" I asked him, and he nodded.
Dad said that he thought it was for the best. He said he would come with Mr. Vinton on the truck they rented for the Thunderbird. Then, they would lower the Hot Rods and place them inside the garage. Afterward, they would make a list of repairs, maybe get some food, and then we would all leave together.
"So you don't need to ride the bus back, baby. Does that bother you?" Dad asked me.
I just shook my head and smiled.
"No," I said. "I think it's a great idea."
Later, Mom and Dad began discussing the police visit. Mom asked Dad if he wanted her to make sandwiches and coffee for the detectives, and he said it was an excellent idea. I offered to help with the food, the drinks, and the cleaning, knowing that if I did, I could spy on them and maybe have a chance to discuss Zack's theory.
After lunch, Dad walked out to the garage, took his beloved Mustang and the pickup out, and began cleaning them inside and out. In the meantime, Mom lay on the sofa and read some home decor magazines she had picked up at the supermarket. With a soft drink on the table next to her, she prepared for her tiny weekend nap.
I left for my room and texted Zack about the police visit, emphasizing the death of the policeman.
Zack posted an appalled emoji.
"Do you think this death is a good thing or a bad thing?" He asked. "Do you think it will help or hinder the investigation?"
"I don't really know," I said. "I hope it helps us. It might give the investigation a greater sense of urgency. But it might make them act irrationally."
I could see it going both ways.
"So, what if they don't do anything of substance? Then what?" The boy asked, and I choked up for a minute trying to respond.
I looked at the cell phone screen, then outside, and closed my eyes for a few seconds. The idea now permanently circulating in my head was pretty clever, but I didn't know that texting it to Zack was the best thing to do. As I said, the idea was complicated and full of risks.
It was a card I wasn't ready to pull out, so I just texted him that it was better to wait and see.
"Oh, okay," He texted back. I could feel the disappointment in his words.
Finally, around five in the afternoon, the detectives arrived as Dad finished putting on a new shirt. Meanwhile, Mom and I warmed the coffee and set up snacks for the guests. Besides some tuna sandwiches, we placed Oreo cookies, glasses, and some juice.
Then my mother opened the door, walking out to receive the Detectives outside of our home. She opened the gate for them and let them in, greeting them with a handshake.
My father and I waited for them inside, me still placing some sandwiches as they walked through the door. With his elegant demeanor, Detective Hudson said hello to my father with a handshake and thanked us for the lovely display.
As they sat, Detective Hudson explained the situation. Officer Reilly, the man who had been run over by the Thunderbird, had just perished from his wounds after a long battle. His death and the fire at the shop had increased the danger level of the perpetrator. He had officially become an all-around pernicious criminal.
"Thanks to the footage that you gave us, although strange, we finally have the killer's identity," Detective Diaz said, then thanked my mother as she was served some coffee.
Detective Hudson picked up a sandwich and bit into it. After chewing and swallowing the fishy bite, he said that the police were planning to release an official statement on Monday, hoping it could help with the search for the man.
"Although we are still pretty confident he is hiding somewhere close," he added.
"The guy hasn't dared to go outside the perimeter of Vernon, Huntington Park, Boyle Heights, and Central Alameda," said Díaz. "We are sure he has to work or live in one of those places."
I giggled a bit as she said that.
They were thinking like Zack, and I did days ago. But the guy didn't work at any of those places. He was dead, and the reason he only moved around certain limits was probably because he didn't know where he was. He was a boy lost in space and time, and probably moved as much as he felt safe.
"So, after the statement is released by the police, what will happen?" My father asked, sipping from a glass of juice. "Do you think it will take a lot of time to find him?"
"We don't think so, but who knows?" said Hudson, putting some sugar in his coffee. "We still don't know how smart this man is and to what extremes he can go."
"Murder seems pretty extreme," said Mom, and Detective Díaz nodded.
"We know you are hoping to get the car soon," stated Detective Hudson. "Mr. Andrew Lewis talked to us about how important it was for him. But you'll have to wait. No matter how expensive, we cannot hurry up our investigation just because of a vehicle."
"I know," Dad sighed, taking a cigarette from his shirt pocket. "It's just that Cam and I are nervous that the guy will do something to the car. It's our only chance to recuperate some of the money he lost."
"We understand. And we will try to be as careful as possible," Detective Díaz said.
"So what steps are you going to take besides the statement?" Mom asked.
"Well, we will search for the man in the next few days, visiting stores and places of work in the respective areas."
I smirked again, knowing it wouldn't work. It would be a massive waste of time. That was an even bigger reason to try to talk to them.
"We will also deploy extra squad cars to drive around the surrounding residential neighborhoods all day and night. Meanwhile, Vernon police will focus on the city's surveillance, with the help of their chopper unit." Hudson said. "We hope that will hurry up the search; as you know, every minute that psycho is on the streets, he can kill."
The three of us nodded, agreeing with the detective, but I still knew they were doing things wrong. Of course, why wouldn't they? They had no idea what they were dealing with. And that's where I had to come in.
"How is Mr. Vinton?" Detective Hudson then asked. "We were hoping he would give us a more detailed description of the killer. We have learned from witnesses that he saw the man before the car was taken away."
"He doesn't want to be involved in this," Dad said, and he took a big puff of his cigarette.
The two detectives looked at each other as they sipped on their coffee.
As she placed the cup down, Detective Díaz asked why Mr. Vinton wouldn't want to become involved in an operation that could save his business.
"He's going through a lot, and his mind is not in the right place," Dad said, tapping the end of his cigarette.
"What do you mean?" Detective Hudson asked.
"It's complicated."
"No, it's not," I suddenly blurted out.
I was not going to let Dad go over that point so easily. Mr. Vinton had seen the true face of the killer, and just because Dad couldn't accept it, I was not just going to let him lie to the police. Detective Díaz sneaked a look at Hudson and asked me what I meant.
"Mr. Vinton knows the killer's identity but doesn't want to deal with the truth," I said. "It's too much for him, and who could blame him?"
"Tammy, baby," Dad waved me to stop, upset. "Come on, don't."
"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes and crossing my arms. If Dad wanted to lie, he could lie to them, but I would still tell them later.
"What are you saying?" Detective Hudson asked. "He doesn't want to tell us who the killer is, even if that means catching the guy?"
I shrugged, and my father laughed nervously.
"She means nothing," He said. "It's just some silly stuff these kids imagined."
Both detectives looked at each other again and hesitantly continued their conversation with my father. They asked if someone else could describe the man, and I could see they were thinking of Zack, as they knew he was with his father when the fire happened.
"What about the boy?" Detective Hudson said.
"That boy is not a reliable source," Dad said, shaking his head. "It seems my daughter and the boy have concocted this weird theory. That the man involved in all this is not human."
I looked at my father bitterly as he then laughed.
"We never said the person stealing the Thunderbird was not human. He is very much human. He's just not alive."
Mom laughed, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Oh, Honey, a dead person cannot drive a car," she told me, patting me on the shoulder.
"This one can. I mean, it was his car," I told them.
"Tammy, please stop!" Dad exclaimed abruptly. You could tell he felt embarrassed about me continuing to talk about my "crazy theory" with his shaking head and tight jaw. "It's not funny, you're talking all this nonsense to the cops."
Detective Díaz looked at Hudson and then at me. She smiled and told everybody to calm down. She then stood up and approached me while I was leaning against the kitchen sink, looking at my father with daggers in my eyes.
"Tammy, is it?" She said, smiling.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"You seem to know quite a lot about this case," She told me, and I nodded. "Well, what if you and I go out into the garden and talk about it while your father and Detective Hudson discuss the rest of the case?"
I looked at her and narrowed my eyes in distrust. I knew this was a tactic the police used to keep talking to people with less interruption from rowdy spectators; I had seen it on TV, but I thought, "How else was I going to get the truth out there?" So I conceded.
"Sure," I said, shrugging.
After walking out into the garden, I lent the young female detective a patio chair so she could sit.
After she got comfortable, I began explaining everything Zack and I knew. The car's backstory, the events surrounding it, the footage we had captured, and even our encounter at the garage.
"You cannot tell me that everything I've told you doesn't sound unusual," I said.
"It is, I admit. But that doesn't mean the killer is a ghost," she responded, smiling at me with an expression I found difficult to decipher.
I pouted, disappointed, but I realized she didn't have the same frame of mind as Zack and me.
I then referred to what Zack and I had done a few days before, searching in the stores that sold car parts for a guy with that description. I told her they could continue searching, but I was sure it would be a no-show. The young woman just nodded at me but said nothing.
The more and more I stood there in the garden, the more I felt I was being taken for a fool.
I crossed my arms and looked at her, upset.
"We are not stupid kids making things up. We have spent weeks looking at this," I said. "We have put in more effort than anyone else in that shop."
"I'm not saying you are lying. You both have clearly gone through a lot," she said.
"We have," I said. "Well, at least now you know the truth. If you decide to do something, please be aware of what I've said. If it's Corky, he's not going to stop, even if that means killing all the cops that cross his way."
The detective nodded at the statement. She knew that was a fact, even if she didn't believe me.
After I finished my little exposition and Dad finished talking with Detective Hudson, both cops walked out of the house and into their car, waving goodbye. I looked at Detective Diaz and waved at her, staring at her face one last time. She smiled at me with one of those closed, tight smiles, which didn't give me any confidence.
"She doesn't believe me," I said to myself. "Goddammit."
One reason my friends told me to tell our truth was not just for the detectives to be aware, but for them to keep themselves safe. But the truth had not reached their ears, and I knew then that they would be in grave danger if they tried something.
I could say that we at least had "tried" again. But hadn't we "tried" before? And then what happened? The ghost still came for all of us.
As I walked into my room, I could sense my frustration growing and the little bug of the peculiar idea I had inside my head becoming larger and larger.
It was a wild card, but what if it was the necessary card? The only card?
I sat on my bed and thought about it. If I went with it, I would totally end up getting super grounded and might even end up in jail. There was a part of me that was terrified of executing it. Still, another one, the adrenaline junkie that had become fascinated with danger and risk, was screaming for me to do it, using compelling arguments.
"You'll save a lot of people," that part of me said. "You'll just be risking yourself instead of letting others go after that boy. People who could die."
"You'll get arrested," the other part of me said. "Or worse, you might get killed. Zack might also get killed if he wants to join your little crusade."
I knew Zack would want to join if I decided on that idea. He also wanted this to be over, and I knew he was brave enough to risk his life doing it.
I had to think about it more, I told myself, but even if I didn't end up doing it, I still needed practice in case I did. The worst thing that could happen would be to wait until it was too late and then do it without any training.
That would ensure our deaths.
So I picked up my cell phone and called Zack's number. He picked me up, and I could hear shooting in the background.
"Sorry, I'm playing Call of Duty," he told me. "What's up?"
"The cops just came," I said. "And I told them the truth, but I'm sure they don't believe us."
A small pause.
"Bummer," Zack then said. "Well, what now?"
I took a deep breath and bit my lip for a moment.
"Well, here we go," I thought.
"I have an idea," I said. "But I'm going to need you to talk to Mike."