Fractured, page 33
part #2 of Will Trent Series
“Warren steals them, too?”
“We both do, man. The Steakery only gives you those cheap-ass plastic knives.” He sat up, holding a book in his lap. “I’ll take ’em back, dude. I know it’s stealing.”
Will motioned toward the book. “Let me have that.”
Petty handed it over. “Pathetic, man. He’s always acting like he’s perfect, right, that he’s some kind of mental genius, and then he sneaks in with this? Classic Warren. What a loser.”
Will stared at the front cover. He couldn’t read the title, but he instantly recognized the multicolored triangles and squares. Evan Bernard had shown him a similar book this morning. It was the same kind that Emma Campano used.
“Open it up,” Petty said. “ ‘See spot run.’ ‘See Jill wet her pants.’ I mean, it’s, like, a book for retarded one-year-olds. Cracks me up, man.”
Will didn’t open the book. “Where did he get this?”
Petty shrugged, leaning back in the chair. “I go through his stuff sometimes when I get bored. I found it shoved in the back of the drawer about a week, two weeks ago.” He didn’t seem ashamed of the habit, but he offered another piece of information to redeem himself. “Warren’s got these weekly reports that he’s supposed to send to corporate. I go through his computer and make it look less like a moron did it.”
“He doesn’t use spell-check?”
“Dude, spell-check is not Warren’s friend.”
There was no computer on his desk. “Where’s his computer?”
“He used to keep it here, but lately he’s been carrying it with him in his briefcase.” He pumped his fist up and down suggestively. “Probably trolling porn on the wireless we pick up from the coffee shop.”
“What kind of computer is it?”
“Mac. Pretty sweet.”
“Does he have a car?”
“He hoofs it.”
“He lives close by?”
“Not far. He takes MARTA.” Petty finally got suspicious. “Why are you asking all these questions about Warren, man?”
Will thumbed through the book. The pages fell open to the center where someone had used a plastic laminated card to mark the page. Will looked at the card, saw Adam Humphrey’s picture.
There was a buzzing sound. Petty turned around in the chair to squint up at the security cameras. He pressed a button on the desk, saying, “Speak of the devil.”
Will watched the monitor as Warren Grier opened the glass door out in the parking deck.
“Stay here,” he told Petty. “Lock the door and call 9-1-1. Tell them that an officer needs immediate assistance.” Petty sat frozen in his chair, and Will told him, “I’m not fooling around, Lionel. Do it.”
Will pulled the door closed behind him. The jackhammer had stopped, but the copiers were still running, the clack of papers humming in his ears. Will was at the counter by the time Warren made his way to the front. The man was wearing his blue Copy Right shirt and carrying a beat-up brown briefcase in his hand.
He was understandably alarmed to see Will standing behind the counter. Warren asked, “Where’s Petty?”
“Bathroom,” Will told him. Warren was on the other side of the counter, just a few feet away. Will could have reached out and grabbed him by the collar, yanked him over the counter without missing a beat. “I told him I’d catch the phones for him.”
Warren glanced down at Petty’s lunch, the knife. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m here to show you guys some photos.” Will reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the yearbook pages, hoping the fact that his heart was about to beat out of his chest was not as evident as it felt. He fanned out the photos so that Kayla was in front, half of Evan Bernard’s face obscured behind her. “Do you mind taking a look at these for me?”
Slowly, Warren put his briefcase on the floor. He stared at the pictures a good while before he took them. “I’ve seen this girl on the news,” he said, his tone of voice a few octaves higher than normal. “She’s the one who was stabbed, right?”
“Beaten,” Will corrected, leaning down on the counter so he could get closer to Warren. “Someone beat her to death with his fists.”
There was a slight tremble to the young man’s hand, a nervousness that Will shared. The photo of Bernard was still visible, and Warren moved his fingers to cover it with Kayla’s image. “I thought she was stabbed.”
“No,” Will said. “The boy was stabbed—just once in the chest. His lung collapsed.”
“The mother didn’t kill him?”
“No,” Will lied. “He died from the knife wound. We got the coroner’s report this morning.” He added, “It’s sad, really. I think he just got in the way. I think whoever killed him was just trying to keep him away from Emma.”
Warren kept staring at the photo of Kayla Alexander.
“Kayla wasn’t raped,” Will told him, trying to imagine Warren Grier in a fury, straddling Kayla Alexander, plunging the knife into her chest over and over again. Adam Humphrey would have been next, a single stab wound to the chest. And then Emma . . . what had he done to Emma?
Will said, “We don’t think the killer is that kind of person.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” Will said. “We think whoever killed Kayla just got angry. Maybe she said something to him, goaded him into it. She wasn’t a very nice person.”
“I . . . uh . . .” He still stared at the photo. “I could guess that from looking at her.”
“She could be very cruel.”
He nodded.
“The other man,” Will began, fanning out the pictures so that Evan Bernard was fully visible. “We’ve arrested him for raping Kayla.”
Warren did not respond.
“His sperm was inside her. He must have had sex with her right before she went to see Emma Campano.”
Warren kept his eyes on the photos.
“We just want her back, Warren. We just want to return Emma to her family.”
He licked his lips, but said nothing.
“Her mother looks just like her. Have you seen her picture on the news?”
Warren nodded again.
“Abigail,” Will provided. “In the pictures they’re showing, she’s beautiful, don’t you think? Just like Emma.”
His shoulders went up slowly in a shrug.
“She doesn’t look like that now, though.” Will felt the tension between them almost as if another person was standing there. “She can’t sleep. She can’t eat. She cries all the time. When she realized that Emma was missing, she had to be sedated. We had to call in a doctor to help her.”
Warren spoke so quietly that Will had to strain to hear. “What about Kayla? Is her mom upset?”
“Yeah,” Will said. “Not as much, though. She understood that her daughter was not a very nice person. I think she’s relieved.”
“What about the guy’s parents?”
“They’re from Oregon. They flew down last night to collect his body.”
“Did they take it back?”
“Yes,” Will lied. “They took him back home to bury him.”
Warren surprised him. “I didn’t have parents.”
Will forced a smile, conscious that there was a twitch to his lip. “Everybody has parents.”
“Mine left me,” Warren said. “I don’t have anybody.”
“Everybody has somebody,” Will said.
Without warning, Warren dropped to the floor. Will leaned over the counter, trying to stop him, but he wasn’t fast enough. Warren was on his back, flat to the ground. He held a short-nosed revolver in his hands. The muzzle was a few inches from Will’s face.
“Don’t do this,” Will said.
“Hands where I can see them,” Warren ordered, wriggling to stand. “I’ve never used a gun before, but I don’t think it matters when you’re this close.”
Slowly, Will straightened up, keeping his hands in the air. “Tell me what happened, Warren.”
“You’re never going to find her.”
“Did you kill her?”
“I love her,” Warren said, taking a step back, keeping the gun trained on Will’s chest. “That’s what you don’t understand. I took her because I love her.”
“Evan just wanted the money, didn’t he? He pushed you to take Emma so he could cash in. You never wanted to do it. It was all his idea.”
Warren did not answer. He took another step toward the hall that led to the parking garage.
“Emma wasn’t his type, right? He likes girls like Kayla, the ones who fight back.”
Warren kept inching toward the exit.
Will’s words came out in a rush. “I grew up in care, too, Warren. I know what it’s like on visiting days. Sitting there, waiting for someone to pick you. It’s not about having a place to live, it’s about having someone there who looks at you and really sees you and wants you to belong to them. I know you felt like that when you saw Emma, that you wanted to—”
Warren put his finger to his lips, the way you would quiet a child. He took another step, then another, and he was gone.
Will vaulted the counter. As he reached the hallway, he saw Warren shouldering open the back door. He pursued the man, bursting through the exit, rounding into the parking lot in time to see Warren slam into a bright red Mini.
Will jogged toward the car as Faith got out. Warren was obviously dazed, but adrenaline kicked in as he realized Will was closing in. He stepped on the bumper and jumped clear of the car, making a break for the street.
“It’s him!” Will screamed at Faith, bolting over the Mini. He ran out into the street, furiously searching for any sign of Warren. He spotted the man almost a block down the road and gave chase, his arms pumping, his legs screaming.
The afternoon heat was intense, nearly suffocating him as he ran after the younger man. Will gulped hot air and exhaust into his lungs. Sweat poured into his eyes. Will saw a red blur in his periphery and realized that Faith was in her car, driving against traffic. The Mini bumped furiously up and down as it careened over metal plates in the road.
Warren saw Faith, too. He veered off the main road, going down one of the side streets that led into Ansley Park. The younger man was fast, but Will’s stride was twice his. He managed to close the gap between them as he took the turn down the side road. Even when Warren ran into the woods, Will was able to make up time. He had always been a marathoner, not a sprinter. Long distances were his passion, endurance the only thing he could offer to any competition.
Warren was obviously the opposite. As he maneuvered through the thick woods, he started to lag, and the space between the two men got shorter and shorter. The man kept looking over his shoulder, his mouth gaping open as he gasped for breath. Will was inches from him, close enough to reach out and grab the collar of his shirt. Warren knew this, could obviously feel the heat on the back of his neck. He did the only thing he could. He stopped short and Will was going so fast that he practically flipped over Warren’s head as they both slammed into the ground.
Dirt and leaves kicked up as each man scrambled to stand. Will tried to roll over, but his foot was caught in something. He jerked his leg, furiously trying to free himself. Warren seized the advantage, straddling him, pointing the gun at Will’s face and pulling the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He pulled the trigger again.
“Hold it!” Faith screamed. She had somehow gotten in front of them. Her body blocked out the sunlight, her hands casting a shadow across Will’s face. Her gun was trained squarely between Warren’s eyes. “Drop it, motherfucker, or I will blow your brains back to Peachtree.”
Warren stared up at her. Will could not see the man’s eyes, but he knew what Warren was looking at. Faith was tall and blond and pretty. She could be Emma or Kayla or even Abigail Campano. The sun was behind her. Maybe it gave Warren the impression that an angel was standing over him. Maybe you did what you were told when there was a gun in your face.
Warren dropped his weapon. It hit Will’s chest, then fell onto the ground.
Will put his hand on the revolver as he rolled out from under the man. His leg came free from the vines with a gentle pull. He realized he had stopped breathing. He felt light-headed and slightly ill.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Faith said, her handcuffs clicking around Warren’s wrist. “You have the right to an attorney.”
Will sat up, the dizziness taking over for a few seconds. He held the gun in his hands. Smith & Wesson classic model 36, 17/8" with a blue case. The serial number was gone. Duct tape covered the grip to keep fingerprints from transferring. The weapon had been professionally prepped.
He guessed that Adam had bought a gun, after all.
Will opened the cylinder and turned it upside down. The revolver was designed to hold five rounds. Three bullets fell into the palm of his hand. Will stared at the shiny brass, smelling the scent of powder mixed with oil.
If Warren had pulled the trigger one more time, Will would be dead right now.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FAITH WAS STRUCK by how normal she found Warren Grier. He was average looking, the sort of young man you wouldn’t think twice about letting into your house to fix your toilet or check for a gas leak. Considering what had happened to Kayla Alexander and Adam Humphrey, what had most likely been done to Emma Campano, Faith had expected a monster, or at the very least an arrogant sociopath like Evan Bernard.
Instead, she found Warren Grier almost pitiable. His body was thin and wiry. He couldn’t make eye contact with her. Sitting in the chair across from her in the interrogation room, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped low between his knees, he reminded her more of Jeremy that time he’d gotten caught stealing candy from the store than a cold-blooded killer.
She cleared her throat and he glanced up at her, shy, as if they were in high school and she was the cheerleader who was nice to him when her friends were not looking. He seemed almost grateful to be sitting across from her. Had she not seen him with her own eyes less than an hour ago pointing a gun in Will Trent’s face, Faith would have laughed at the prospect of this introspective, awkward man being capable of such a thing.
Faith had only drawn her gun twice in her career. It was not a thing a police officer did lightly. You did not pull your weapon unless you were ready to use it, and there were a finite number of circumstances that justified that happening. Standing there in the woods, looking down at Warren Grier, watching his finger pull back on the trigger, she had been fully prepared to pull back her own finger.
But it would have been too late. Faith had been following procedure. She could have safely told any review panel that she was doing the job as she had been trained to do: you give a warning first, then you shoot. Faith knew now that she would never again give that warning. Warren had already pulled the trigger twice by the time she got there. The only thing that had kept him from pulling it a third time, sending the firing pin into the back of a bullet, the bullet through the back of Will’s brain, was . . . what?
She felt a rush of heat just thinking about the close call. Faith had to remind herself that the irrational side of Warren Grier was the one that they needed to keep in mind at all times. Evan Bernard was the cool and collected one. Warren was the reactionary, the person who was capable of a frenzied murder. He had abducted Emma Campano. He had stabbed Adam Humphrey. He had beaten Kayla Alexander to death.
Faith realized that over the last twelve hours, she had allowed herself to think that Emma Campano was probably dead. Now she found herself coming to terms with the possibility that Emma was still alive, and that the only way to find her was through the killer sitting on the other side of the table.
She hoped to God that Will was up to the challenge.
Warren said, “The construction guys say that the water main should be fixed soon. That’ll be nice to have the street clear, finally.”
Faith turned slightly in her chair, facing away from him. There was a camera on a tripod at the head of the table, their every movement being recorded. She thought about Evan Bernard’s little-girl room and wondered if Warren Grier had sat in front of the computer next door, watching him. They hadn’t found a hard drive in the man’s apartment. They hadn’t found a laptop computer or anything remotely incriminating.
“They sure were busy this afternoon,” he said. “It was very noisy.”
She felt her pity seep away, her disgust take hold.
According to Lionel Petty, Warren spent a lot of time in his office with the door closed. Had he watched Emma and Adam in the parking lot on the security monitor? Is that when he’d first spotted Emma? How did Kayla fit into all of this? Where did Evan Bernard come in?
Faith had been processing Warren through the system, watching him get photographed and fingerprinted and searched. Will had told her about Warren’s dingy apartment on Ashby Street downtown. It was a one-room affair with a toilet down the hall, the sort of place you moved into when you just got out of jail. Warren’s landlady was shocked to hear that her quiet tenant of ten years had been arrested. He never went out except for work, she had told Will. He never had friends around.
So where was he keeping Emma Campano?
As if he could read her mind, Warren said, “You won’t find her.”
Faith did not respond, did not try to read any sense of hope in his words. Warren had tried several times to engage her in conversation. She had taken the bait the first few times, but quickly learned that he was playing her. He wanted to talk about the weather, the news story about the drought—anything to engage her in meaningless conversation. Faith had learned a long time ago that you never gave suspects what they wanted. It put the relationship on the wrong foot if they thought that they were the ones in control.
There was a knock at the door, then Will came into the room. He had several neon-colored file folders in his hand. He nodded at Faith as he checked the camera, making sure everything was working properly.
Warren said, “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”
Will smiled at him. “I’m glad you didn’t succeed.”
It showed remarkable restraint, and Faith was again struck by how very little Will Trent acted like a cop. He straightened his vest, making sure his tie was tightly tucked in, as he sat down beside Faith. The man looked more like an accountant who was about to start an audit than a cop.
