Fractured, page 16
part #2 of Will Trent Series
That seemed to mollify them. Most of the hands went down. Faith called on a boy sitting with his mother.
He spoke timidly. “Is there anything we can do for Emma?”
The room went completely silent. The fear started to creep back in. “As I said . . .” She had to stop to clear her throat. “As I said before, any information you can think of that might help us would be appreciated. Suspicious characters around school. Unusual things Emma or Kayla might have said—or even usual things, something that maybe you are now thinking might be connected to what happened to them. All of that, no matter how trivial it may seem, is very valuable to us.” She cleared her throat, wishing she had some water. “As for anything you can personally do, I would ask again that you remember safety. Make sure that your parents know where you are at all times. Make sure that you take basic precautions. The fact is, we have no idea how this connects to your school, or even if it connects at all. I think vigilance is the key word here.” She felt slightly idiotic saying the words, thinking she sounded like a bad rip-off of Olivia McFaden, but the nods from both parents and students in the audience made Faith think that she had actually done some good here.
She scanned the crowd. No more hands were up that she could see. With a nod toward the principal, Faith walked back across the stage and took her place in the wings.
“Thank you, Detective Mitchell.” McFaden was back at the podium. She told the students, “In a few minutes, Coach Bob is going to do a ten-minute presentation, followed by an instructional film on personal safety.”
Faith suppressed a groan, only to hear it echo around the auditorium.
McFaden continued, “After Coach Bob, Dr. Madison, who is, as you know, our school counselor, will have some remarks to make about dealing with tragedy. He will also be taking questions, so please remember, any questions you have should be saved up until Dr. Madison is finished speaking. Now, if we could all just take a moment to quietly reflect on our fellow students—those among us and those who are gone.” She waited a few seconds, then, when no one reacted, she said, “Bow your heads, please.”
Faith had never been a fan of the moment of silence, especially when it required head bowing. She liked it almost as much as public speaking, which took a close second to eating live cockroaches.
Faith scanned the crowd, looking past the bowed heads to Mary Clark, who was staring blankly at the stage. As quietly as possible, Faith made her way down the stage stairs. She could almost feel Olivia McFaden’s disapproval as she sneaked down the side aisle, but Faith wasn’t one of the woman’s students and, frankly, she had more important things to do than stand in the wings listening to Coach Bob drill students about their safety for the next ten minutes.
Mary Clark stood straighter as she realized Faith was heading her way. If the teacher was surprised to find herself singled out, she didn’t show it. As a matter of fact, she seemed relieved when Faith nodded toward the door.
Mary didn’t stop in the hallway, but pushed on through the exit before Faith could stop her. She went outside and stood on the concrete pad, hands on her hips as she took deep breaths of fresh air.
She told Faith, “I saw McFaden pointing me out before you started and I was sure she was telling you that she was going to fire me.”
Faith thought this was a strange way to open up a conversation, but it seemed like the sort of inappropriate remark she was capable of making herself. “Why would she fire you?”
“My class is too noisy. I’m not strict enough. I don’t adhere to the curriculum.” Mary Clark gave a forced laugh. “We have very different educational philosophies.”
“I need to talk to you about Kayla Alexander.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Not Emma?” Her face fell. “Oh, no. Is she—”
“No,” Faith assured her. “We haven’t found her yet.”
Her hands covered her mouth. “I thought . . .” She wiped away her tears. They both knew what she had thought, and Faith felt like an ass for not being more clear to begin with.
She said, “I’m sorry.”
Mary pulled a tissue out of her jacket pocket and blew her nose. “God, I thought I was finished crying.”
“Did you know Emma?”
“Not really, but she’s a student here. They all feel like they’re your responsibility.” She blew her nose. “You were terrified up there, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Faith admitted, because lying about something so simple would make it harder to lie about bigger things later on. “I hate public speaking.”
“I do, too.” Mary amended, “Well, not in front of kids—they don’t really matter—but in faculty meetings, parent-teacher conferences . . .” She shook her head. “God, what does any of that matter to you, right? Why don’t I say something about the weather?”
Faith leaned against the steel door but thought better of it when her flesh started to blister. “Why weren’t you in the meeting this morning?”
She tucked the tissue back into her pocket. “My opinion isn’t exactly valued around here.”
Teaching was a profession famous for producing burnout. Faith could well imagine the old guard did not appreciate an idealistic young kid coming in to change the world.
Mary Clark said as much. “They all think it’s just a matter of time before I run screaming out the door.”
“You had Kayla Alexander in your class last year.”
The younger woman turned around, arms crossed over her chest, and studied Faith. There was something hostile about the stance.
Faith asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”
Mary was dubious. “They didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
She gave another laugh. “Typical.”
Faith was silent, giving the other woman space.
Mary asked, “Did they tell you that last year, Kayla was so mean to one of the other girls that she ended up leaving school?”
“No.”
“Ruth Donner. She transferred to Marist in the middle of last year.”
“Daniella Park said that Kayla split the school in two.”
“That’s a fair statement. There was the Kayla camp and the Ruth camp. It took a while, but pretty soon more and more people went over to Ruth’s side. Transferring out was the smartest thing she did, really. It put Kayla center stage, and suddenly, the cracks started to show. I think it’s fair to say that by the beginning of the school year, Kayla was universally reviled.”
“Except for Emma.”
“Except for Emma.”
“I’m hardly an expert, but don’t girls usually outgrow that kind of behavior in middle school?”
“Usually,” the teacher confirmed. “But some of them hang on to it. The really mean ones can’t stop circling once they smell blood in the water.”
Faith thought the shark analogy was a good one. “Where is Ruth Donner now?”
“College, I suppose. She was a senior.”
Finding her would certainly be a priority. “Kayla would have been a junior last year. What was she doing going after a senior?”
“Ruth was the most popular girl in school.” She shrugged, as if that explained everything. “Of course, there weren’t any ramifications for Kayla. She gets away with everything.”
Faith tried to tread carefully. There was something else to this story. Mary Clark was giving off the distinct impression that she felt as if she was being asked questions that Faith already knew the answers to. “I understand that what happened with the other girl was horrible, but this feels very personal for you.”
Mary’s hostility seemed to ratchet up a notch. “I tried to fail Kayla Alexander last year.”
Faith could guess what she meant by “tried.” Parents paid a lot of money for their kids to go to Westfield. They expected them to excel in their classes, even if their work did not warrant good grades. “What happened?”
“We don’t fail children here at Westfield Academy. I had to tutor the little bitch after school.”
The characterization was startling considering the circumstances. “I have to admit, Mrs. Clark, that I find it strange you would talk that way about a seventeen-year-old girl who’s been raped and murdered.”
“Please, call me Mary.”
Faith was at a loss for words.
Mary seemed just as nonplussed. “They really didn’t tell you what happened?”
Faith shook her head.
“I almost lost my job over her. I have student loans, two babies at home, my husband’s trying to start his own business. I’m twenty-eight years old and the only thing I’m qualified to do is teach.”
“Hold up,” Faith stopped her. “Tell me what happened.”
“Kayla showed up for tutoring, but short of me physically taking her hand and writing her papers for her, there was no way she was going to do the work she needed to do to pass the class.” Mary’s neck showed a slight blush. “We had an argument. I let my anger get the better part of me.” She paused, and Faith was expecting the woman to admit to some sort of physical altercation, but what she said was far more shocking. “The next day, Olivia called me into her office. Kayla was there with her parents. She accused me of making a sexual pass at her.”
Faith’s surprise must have registered on her face.
“Oh, don’t be fooled by the schoolmarm before you,” Mary said. “I used to dress a lot better than this—like a human being, almost. I dressed too sexy, according to our illustrious principal. I suppose that’s her way of saying I asked for it.”
“Back up,” Faith said. “I don’t understand.”
“Kayla Alexander said that I told her she would pass my class if she had sex with me.” She was smiling, but there was nothing funny about what was coming out of her mouth. “I suppose I should have been flattered. I was three months out from giving birth to twins. I barely fit into any of my clothes and I couldn’t afford new ones because teaching is supposed to be its own reward. I started lactating during the meeting. The parents were screaming at me. Olivia just sat there, letting it all play out like her own personal movie.” Angry tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ve wanted to be a teacher since I was a little girl. I wanted to help people. Nobody does this for the money and it’s certainly not for the respect. I tried to get through to her. I thought I was getting through to her. And all she did was turn around and stab me in the back.”
“Is this what Daniella Park really meant when she said Kayla had split the school?”
“Danni was one of the few teachers on staff who believed me.”
“Why wouldn’t they believe you?”
“Kayla is extremely good at manipulating people. Men especially.”
Faith remembered Evan Bernard, the easy way he had dismissed Mary Clark. “What happened?”
“There was an investigation. Thank God those stupid cameras are everywhere. She had no proof because it didn’t happen, and she’s not the brightest bulb to begin with. First she said I propositioned her in my room, then she said it was in the parking lot, then it was behind the school. Her story kept changing every day. In the end, it was my word against hers.” She gave a tight grin. “I ran into her in the hallway a few days later. Do you know what she said? ‘Can’t blame a girl for trying.’ ”
“Why was she allowed to stay in school?”
Mary did a perfect imitation of Olivia McFaden. “Here at Westfield, we pride ourselves on nurturing the special needs of what society labels more difficult children—at fourteen thousand a year, plus athletic fees, student activity fees and uniforms.”
Except for the ending, these were the exact same words the principal had used less than an hour ago. “The parents didn’t have a problem with that?”
“Kayla’s been kicked out of every other school in town. It was Westfield or the Atlanta Public School System. Trust me, I’ve met the parents. The Alexanders were much more horrified by the prospect of their precious daughter mixing with the great unwashed than they were about sending her to school with a woman who allegedly tried to molest her.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah.” Her tone had a bitter clip. “Me, too.”
“I have to ask you, Mary, do you know of anyone who would want to kill Kayla?”
“Other than me?” she asked, no humor at the question. “My planning period is at the end of the day,” she said, referring to her time off to grade papers and prepare lesson plans. “I had a classroom full of kids from eight o’clock on.”
“Anyone else?”
She chewed her lip, really thinking about it. “No,” she finally said. “I can’t think of anyone who would do something so horrible, even to a monster like Kayla Alexander.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WILL SAT OUTSIDE the Campano house, listening to Evan Bernard’s tinny voice coming out of the digital recorder. The sound quality was horrible, and Will had to hold the machine against his ear, the volume at the highest level, to make out the man’s words.
It’s not a disease, Mr. Trent. It’s a wiring problem in the brain.
Will wondered if Paul Campano had been told this information. Had he believed it? Or had he done the same thing to his child as he had to Will?
He put the recorder in his pocket as he got out of the car, knowing this line of thinking contributed nothing toward finding Emma Campano. A cop from the day before was standing in the driveway, hands on his hips. He had obviously been doing a good job, because the scrum of reporters waiting for news from the Campano home were cordoned well across the street. They still shouted questions as Will walked past the cop. The man didn’t acknowledge Will, and Will returned the courtesy as he went up the drive.
Charlie Reed’s van was parked in front of the carriage house. The back doors were open, showing a mini-lab that had been fitted into the shell of the van. Boxes of plastic evidence bags and examine gloves, various tools, medical-grade vacuums and specimen vials were neatly stacked on the ground by the bumper. Charlie was inside, cataloguing each piece of evidence into a laptop before locking it into a cage that was welded to the floor. If this case ever made it to court, the chain of evidence had to be clearly defined or the forensic part of the prosecution would fall to the wayside.
“Hey,” Will said, leaning on the open door. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got to ask the father for a DNA sample. Can you do the swab?”
“Are you kidding me?” Charlie asked. “He’s going to go apeshit.”
“Yeah,” Will agreed. “Amanda wants it, though.”
“It’s funny how she has no qualms about putting our necks on the line.”
Will shrugged. You couldn’t argue with the truth. “You find anything in the house?”
“Actually, yes.” Charlie sounded mildly surprised. “I found a fine powder on the floor in the foyer.”
“What kind of powder?”
Charlie traced his finger along a set of plastic vials and plucked one out. “Dirt, I’d guess, but it’s not our famous red Georgia clay.”
Will took the vial and held it between his thumb and forefinger, thinking he could be holding an ounce of cocaine, except that the grainy powder in this case was a dark gray rather than white. “Where did you find it?”
“Some was embedded in the entrance rug, some at the corner of the stairs.”
“That’s the only two places?”
“Yep.”
“Did you check Adam’s shoes and the flip-flops upstairs?”
Charlie picked at his mustache, twirling the end. “If you’re asking me whether or not I found the powder in an area that wasn’t trampled on by you, Amanda and the Atlanta Police Department—no. It was only in those two spots: on the rug and by the stairs.”
Will was afraid that was going to be his answer. Even if the powder led them to a suspect, then the defense could always argue that the evidence should be excluded because the police had contaminated the scene. If Charlie or Will were on the witness stand, both men would have to admit to the likelihood that they could have just as easily brought in the evidence on the soles of their own shoes. Juries liked to be told a story. They wanted to know all the steps the police took between finding the evidence and finding a suspect. Being told that a certain man carried into the crime scene a certain substance on his shoes painted a very pretty picture. The prosecution would be hamstrung if they couldn’t mention a key piece of evidence pointed them toward the killer.
Of course, none of that would really matter if Emma Campano was found alive. They were coming up on twenty-four hours since the girl had been taken. Each minute that passed made it less likely she would be found.
Will shook the vial, seeing darker specs in the gray powder. “What do you think it is?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.” He added, “Literally,” not needing to remind Will that analyzing the powder would be a costly test. Unlike Hollywood dream labs, it was very rare for a state laboratory to be equipped with all the cutting-edge computers and microscopes that made it so easy for the heroes to solve crimes in under an hour. They had two choices: send the sample to the FBI and pray they could get to it or shell out the money for a private lab to do the analysis.
Will felt the heat catch up with him, sweat rolling down the back of his neck. “How important do you think this is?”
Charlie shrugged. “I just collects ’em, boss.”
Will asked, “Do you have another one of these?”
