The Beetle in Her Pencil Case

"Mom, look! A longhorn beetle!" My daughter came pounding toward me, drenched in sweat, and flipped open the pencil case she'd been guarding the whole way.

A black beetle sat at the bottom of it, antennae twitching. She thought she'd brought back the prettiest treasure in the whole summer program.

And the moment I got a clear look at that bug, I called 911. Chapter 1 Inside the open pencil case was an insect.

Two dark red markings ran along the edges of its wing covers, as if someone had dipped a fine brush in rustcolored paint and traced a line down the seam of each wing.

It looked like a longhorn beetle.

It wasn't a longhorn beetle. "I caught it in the back lot!" Clemmie's eyes were shining. "My teacher said we can turn in a bug for the nature observation project!

Eli and everybody are catching them, and I got the biggest one!" I stared at the beetle and didn't say anything.

Somewhere in my head, a wire started winding tighter, one creaking notch at a time. I write suspense novels.

Lately I'd been working on one set at an elementary school, working title The Ninth Body Under the Playground.

There was one key sequence I had to get right: "who the first visitors are, once a body has been left exposed to open air." For that I'd spent the better part of a month chewing through forensic entomology textbooks.

This beetle, if I was remembering correctly, belonged to the order Coleoptera, family Silphidae. A redmarked sexton beetle.

I crouched down, took the pencil case out of her hands, and brought it up close to my face. The beetle moved one antenna. It didn't fly away.

A redmarked sexton beetle doesn't go after people. It doesn't bite, and it doesn't spread disease. Its larvae don't need anything living either.

It needs exactly one thing: a body, left out in open air, already well into decomposition. A beetle like that has no business on the grounds of a city elementary school.

Unless there was a body somewhere close by.

When I stood up, my knees felt loose. "Clemmie, did you wash your hands?" "Nope…" I caught her by the wrist and hauled her into the restroom off the school's front hall.

I cranked the faucet wide open, clamped down on her fingers, and scrubbed under her nails once, twice, three times. "Mommy, you're hurting me!" Clemmie yelled.

I ignored her. "Mommy, it hurts!" I let go of my daughter's hand. Her fingers were scrubbed red. So were her eyes.

I dried her hands with a paper towel and put the pencil case away in my own bag. "Mommy, give my longhorn beetle back!" Clemmie wasn't having it.

I crouched down and explained it to her patiently. "This one isn't a longhorn beetle.

Mommy has to give it to the police." Then I dug a lollipop out of my bag, and once she had the candy in her mouth she let herself be talked down a little.

I took the opening. "Clemmie, tell Mommy — where in the back lot did you catch it?" "The back lot.

Right by the door of that old equipment shed." "Did somebody tell you to go over there?" "No.

Eli said there were a ton of bugs back there, so we broke in—" "Broke in?" That caught me off guard. She dropped her head. "The lock was hanging on there, but it wasn't latched.

It pushed right open." I let out a breath. Not exactly breaking in — but definitely a safety problem. I rubbed my temples. "Clemmie, listen to me.

Who else did you tell about this bug today at the summer program?" "Just Eli… and Ms. Farrow…" Ms. Farrow. The teacher running the summer program.

Early thirties, just back from maternity leave, seemed conscientious enough. I called her. Chapter 2 "Ms. Farrow, this is Clemmie's mom.

Did anyone go into the back lot today?" "The back lot?" She was clearly thrown. "No. The summer program stays in the main building and the front playground.

The back lot's been locked since the school year ended." "My daughter says the lock is hanging there. It isn't latched." There was a silence on her end.

Then she said, "I'll go check right now." "Ms. Farrow." My voice came out calmer than I'd expected. "Go check.

But don't let a single student anywhere near the back lot or the old equipment shed." "Why?" she asked. "Something bad has most likely happened at your school." Her tone turned a little frantic, and a little put out. "What's happened?

What are you talking about?" "I think there's a body in the back lot." "…Excuse me?" "I write suspense novels.

I make a living inventing murders." "So I'm telling you seriously, using the skill I make my living with, that there may be a body somewhere near your old equipment shed, and it has been out in open air." "The bug Clemmie caught came from that exact spot." Ms.

Farrow's patience ran out. "Clementine's mother, you cannot go around saying things like this.

A child caught a bug, that's all—" "That is not an ordinary bug." "If I'm wrong, I'll apologize publicly, and I'll never write another suspense novel as long as I live." "But if I'm right, if there really is a body at that school and nobody did anything about it, then tomorrow every parent in that summer program is going to be standing in your office." "Isn't that a little dramatic?

It's a bug. There's no need to work everyone up—" "It is not an ordinary bug. It's a redmarked sexton beetle—" I tried to explain. She hung up on me. So I made a second call.

Lieutenant Frank Doyle, city police, homicide.

I'd interviewed him once, and I'd put a fair amount of work into straightening out the narrative throughline on a series of his cases. He owed me a favor.

He also knew I had a professional tic — I liked to dig at a thing until I hit the bottom of it. "Frank, it's Dana." "Well, if it isn't our famous author," he said, needling me. "You finish another one?" I let out a long breath. "My daughter caught a redmarked sexton beetle in the back lot at Westside Elementary, at the summer program." He paused. "A what kind of beetle?" "A redmarked sexton beetle.

You've probably heard of them. It's an obligate carrion feeder.

It only turns up on bodies that have been exposed to open air and are well into decomposition." "Dana, are you sure about this?" "Get people over here now, Frank.

Stop asking questions. I'll explain when you're here." "Are you really sure?" "I'm sure. Whether you believe me is up to you." He didn't say anything for a moment.

Then he said, "I'll lead it myself. Twenty minutes." At five forty I was standing at the front of Westside Elementary, holding Clemmie's hand.

Two cruisers came in with their sirens going, swinging onto the side street that ran along the school, and the lights on their roofs went over the leaves of the old oak by the entrance, bright, dark, bright.

Frank got out with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

The first thing he said when he saw me was, "Where's your daughter?" "Right here." He crouched down and took a look at Clemmie, then stood back up and looked at me. "Dana, be straight with me.

Does this have anything to do with that new book of yours?" Me??

Chapter 3 "Are you trying to pull some kind of stunt?" Frank said. "I know a little about how publishing is these days.

I hear books are hard to sell right now—" I lost my temper, even though what he'd said was true. "Frank, there's a human life at stake.

Am I really that bored?" "Filing a false report? Am I really that reckless?" Frank's face went red. I could see he was under enormous pressure himself.

Another car braked hard at the front of the school. The door banged open and a heavyset man came out at a run, red in the face, visibly unhappy.

He got to Frank and stood there breathing hard. "I'm the principal of this school. Prentiss." "On what grounds are you closing my school? It's the summer program!

There are more than sixty children in there! Do you know the district superintendent's office was here for an inspection today?" Frank didn't answer him.

He turned to me instead. "Go home. I don't want you at the scene." "I'm not leaving." "Dana. Why do you have to be like this—" "My daughter caught that bug in there.

I'm going to watch them open that door." Clemmie hadn't said a word this whole time.

But right then, she tugged at my sleeve. "Mommy." "What is it?" "I remembered something." "What?" "There's a sign by the door of that equipment shed. Red letters.

It says 'Danger.'" "You saw it?" "It wasn't there last time.

This time it was just there all of a sudden." "I said to Eli, 'When did they put a sign here?' and Eli said, 'I don't know, it wasn't there before.'" Frank looked back toward the back lot, then turned around and looked at me. "When exactly is 'last time'?" I asked Clemmie, "When was the last time you went over by the equipment shed?" Clemmie thought about it. "Last Monday.

Ms. Farrow had us on the front playground and Eli and I snuck over." "Last Monday.

What else did you see?" "I don't think anything." Clemmie shook her head. "I can't remember." Frank didn't say anything else. He turned and headed for the back lot, walking fast.

I crouched down and put my arms around Clemmie. She had no idea what that sign meant. To her it was just strange — a sign that had appeared somewhere she hadn't seen one before.

But sometimes the strangeness itself might be the most important clue of all.

In the distance, the siren of a third cruiser came around the corner, and the crowd of parents at the entrance kept growing. Six fifteen.

The front doors were locked from the inside, and two cruisers were parked across the entrance as a barricade.

Two lines of tape went up, and the yellow plastic snapped in the evening wind.

The sixtysome kids in the summer program were moved into the multipurpose room on the first floor, and four teachers split up to cover the front and back doors, scrambling to hand out crackers, fruit, bottles of water.

Not that the kids would sit still. Their heads were mashed up against the window glass, looking out, like a row of little fish stuck to the side of a tank.

I stood outside the front doors with a ring of parents around me.

They'd all come for pickup and gotten stopped out here, and every one of them was more frantic than the last. "Why can't we go in? My kid is in there!" "What is going on?

The police won't tell us anything!" "Is it an outbreak of something? Or food poisoning? My kid was fine when I dropped her off this morning—" Somebody recognized me.

A woman in a floral dress pointed at me and said, "You're the parent who called it in, aren't you?" "Why would you call the police?

Stirring up trouble for nothing?" Chapter 4 "You got your daughter out. Mine is still in there.

Do you have any idea how worried I am?" Before I could answer, the woman next to her already had her phone out and the parents' group chat open.

The screen got shoved in my face, messages scrolling up it. [That novelist mom is stirring things up again.] [I heard she called the police and told them there's a body buried under the school playground.] [Can't even get through the summer without a circus.

Is she that desperate to go viral?] [Why doesn't her husband rein her in?] The woman in the floral dress pulled her phone back and gave me a cold look. "You're Clemmie's mom, right?

I know who you are. Every book you write is about killing people and burning things down." "You look at anything and see a case.

Our kids still have to go to school here!" I didn't say anything. Clemmie gripped my hand tighter and moved behind me.

That was when Principal Prentiss came charging out of the building with the vice principal, two teachers trailing after them.

He meant to go straight to Frank, but he stopped as he passed me. He was not happy. "Ma'am.

Do you know the district superintendent's office was here for an inspection today?" "Do you know what you've done?

Never mind that you've destroyed this school's reputation — what are dozens of parents supposed to say to their children when they get home?

What exactly do you get out of this?" The vice principal twisted the knife from behind him. "Principal Prentiss, I looked into it.

The book she's writing this year is about a body hidden at a school.

She's already serializing it online." "If you ask me, she's using our school to promote her new book." Prentiss's expression darkened.

He didn't say anything else, just turned and walked toward Frank. I looked down at Clemmie.

Her eyes were redrimmed, her lips pressed into a line, and the small fist wrapped around my finger was clenched tight. "Clemmie, are you scared?" She shook her head. "Eli and them are still in there.

I can't be scared." I pulled her behind me.

The parents' eyes kept jabbing at me, one after another — the woman in the floral dress, a few grandfathers standing nearby, two more mothers who'd shown up late.

I lost count of how many pairs of eyes there were, but not one of them was friendly. My phone buzzed again. Clemmie's dad's name jumped up on the screen.

I answered, and before I could say a word Brett's voice came rolling out of the earpiece. "Dana, what the hell are you doing? You called the cops over a bug?

Is this a joke to you?" "I'm serious. It isn't an ordinary bug—" "Serious my ass! You've written yourself out of your damn mind!

Go apologize to Clemmie's teacher and get the police called off, right now." "And if my read on this turns out to be right?" "There's no way you're right! You write novels.

This is real life!" "Novels come from real life." "Dana!" He shouted it, then dropped his voice all at once, like he was afraid of being overheard. "You listen to me.

If this ends up on the news tonight, how am I supposed to show my face at work? How is Clemmie supposed to show hers at school?

You—" He took a breath. "Write whatever you want to write, but don't drag this family into it!" Brett hung up on me, furious. I stared at the screen with my ears ringing.

Clemmie looked up at me. "Mommy, did you and Daddy have a fight?" "No. Daddy's just worried." "Can we go home now?" "Not yet.

We have to wait for the police to finish looking at the bug." "Is that bug… really important?" "It's important. Very important." Footsteps came from the direction of the back lot.

Chapter 5 Frank was heading my way, and behind him came a middleaged woman in glasses — early forties, navy shortsleeved shirt, an ID badge clipped at her chest, a silver case in one hand.

So the forensic entomology consultant had arrived. "This is Dr. Ramsey," Frank said. "Consultant the state crime lab brought in. Watch what you say." Dr.

Ramsey walked up to me and led with one question. "Where's the bug?" I took the pencil case out of my bag and handed it over. She took the box.

First she looked at it through the plastic shell. Her eyes moved from the beetle's head to the edge of the wing covers, then back to the antennae.

Then she opened the lid, lifted the beetle by the back of its neck with a pair of very fine forceps, turned it over, and looked at the underside.

Out of the silver case she took a glass petri dish and set the beetle inside it.

With a second pair of forceps she picked up some very fine granular material from the bottom of the pencil case and sealed that into an evidence bag along with it.

She didn't say a word the whole time. I stood next to her with my palms sweating. The truth was I wasn't certain either. What if I'd gotten it wrong?

The parents watching had gone quiet. Frank's eyes were on Dr. Ramsey's hands, his eyebrows drawing tighter and tighter. Finally Dr. Ramsey straightened up.

She took off her glasses, wiped them, put them back on, and looked at me. "Adult redmarked sexton beetle. Female, two point three centimeters.

The markings on the wing covers match the type." "Working back from the larval instars — if there's a body source nearby, that body has been exposed for somewhere between three and four weeks." Frank leaned in. "You're certain?" She considered it. "Not a hundred percent.

But the distribution profile on this species is very specific." "It's an obligate carrion feeder. It only lays eggs on bodies in the middle to late stages of decomposition.

If an adult can be caught barehanded by a child, that means large numbers of adults are gathering nearby to lay.

Which means the odor coming off that exposed body is strong enough, concentrated enough, to pull them in from a distance." She turned to me. "What is it you do?

How do you know any of this?" "I write suspense novels. I did the research for a book.

Before I called Lieutenant Doyle I went back to the field guide and doublechecked." She nodded. "Your read was right.

My recommendation is that you lock down and process the old equipment shed and everything within thirty feet of it, immediately." She picked up her case and started toward the shed.

Frank followed her a couple of steps, then doubled back. "Dana, you can't be at the scene." "Then I'll stay right here." "You—" "Frank, my daughter caught that bug in there.

This whole thing started with her." He nodded, out of arguments.

As he turned to go, he stopped and asked, "Sweetheart, was it right by the door of the equipment shed that you caught the bug?" Clemmie nodded. "Are there steps at that door?" "No, it's just one square paver.

That paver wobbles when you step on it. I almost fell over." "And then?" "And then?" Clemmie's eyes were wide and uncomprehending. "There wasn't any and then.

Then I caught bugs next to it." Frank left.

Clemmie gave the hem of my shirt a small tug. "Why was that policeman asking me all those questions?" I smoothed it over. "He's just finding out what happened.

Tell him whatever you know, and if you don't know something, say you don't know." Clemmie nodded like she half understood.

She held her right hand out to me, rubbing her thumb and forefinger back and forth. "Mommy, my fingers keep itching. They started itching right after I caught that bug." Chapter 6