Fractured, p.14
Fractured, page 14
part #2 of Will Trent Series
“And APD gave him plenty of time to do it,” Faith added ruefully.
Will felt a sense of urgency building up at the thought. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the girl had been taken. If her abductor had removed her from the scene so that he could take his time with her, then maybe Emma Campano was still alive. The question was, how much longer did she have?
He checked his cell phone, noting the time. “I’ve got to be at the Campanos at nine.”
“Do you think they know something?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’m going to have to ask Paul for a DNA sample.”
Faith’s uneasy expression probably mimicked his own, but Amanda had told him to do it and Will really didn’t have a choice.
He said, “Let’s talk to the teachers, get a general sense of the girls. If they think there’s anyone else in particular we need to talk to—a student or janitor—I’ll leave you to do that. If nothing turns up, then I want you to go sit in on the autopsies. Adam Humphrey’s parents will be in later this evening. We need to have some answers for them.”
Her expression changed, and Will thought he was getting to know her well enough to see when Faith Mitchell was upset about something. He knew that her son was the same age as Adam Humphrey. Watching the eighteen-year-old being dissected would be horrible for anyone, but a parent would bring a special kind of pain to the experience.
He tried to be gentle, asking, “Do you think you can handle it?”
She riled, taking his question the wrong way. “You know, I got up this morning and I told myself that I was going to work with you and keep up a good attitude, and then you have the nerve to question me—a detective on the God damn homicide squad who steps over dead bodies almost every day of her life—about whether or not I can handle one of the basic requirements of my job.” She put her hand on the door latch. “And while we’re at it, asshole, where the hell do you get off driving a Porsche and investigating my mother for stealing?”
“I just—”
“Let’s just do our jobs, okay?” She threw open the door. “You think you can do me that professional courtesy?”
“Yes, of course, but—” She turned to face him, and Will felt his mouth moving but there were no words coming out. “I apologize,” he finally said, not knowing exactly what he was apologizing for, but knowing it couldn’t possibly make things worse.
She exhaled slowly, staring at the coffee cup in her hand, obviously trying to decide how to respond.
Will said, “Please don’t throw hot coffee at me.”
She looked up at him, incredulous, but his request had worked to break the tension. Will took the time to give himself some credit. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to extricate himself from a tenuous situation with an angry woman.
Faith shook her head. “You are the strangest man I have ever met in my life.”
She got out before he could respond. Will took it as a positive sign that she didn’t slam the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE HEAT OUTSIDE was so intense that Faith couldn’t finish her coffee. She dropped the cup in the waste can before heading toward the administration building. She had spent more time in schools over the past two days than she had her entire junior year.
“Ma’am,” one of the hired security men said, tipping his hat to her.
Faith nodded, feeling sorry for the man. She could still remember what it felt like to wear her full uniform in the Atlanta heat. It was like rolling yourself in honey and then walking into a kiln. Because this was a school zone, no weapons were allowed on campus unless they had a police badge accompanying them. Despite the baton on one side of the man’s belt and a can of Mace on the other, he looked about as harmless as a flea. Fortunately, only a cop would notice these things. The rentals were here to give the parents and kids a feeling of safety. In a crazy, mixed-up world where rich white girls could be killed or kidnapped, the show of force was pretty much expected.
At the very least, they were giving something for the press to focus on. Across the street, Faith spotted three photographers adjusting their lenses, going in for the kill. The news had gotten hold of the name of the school sometime last night. Faith hoped the rental cops were capable of forcefully reminding the reporters that the school was on private property.
Faith pressed the buzzer beside the door, looking up at the camera mounted on the wall. The speaker sputtered to life, and an irritated woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“I’m Faith Mitchell with the—”
“First left, down the hallway.”
The door buzzed and Faith opened it. There was an awkward shuffling where Will made it clear he wasn’t going to let her hold the door for him. Faith finally went in. They stood at the top of a long hallway with branches off to the left and right. Closed doors were probably schoolrooms. She looked up, counting six more security cameras. The place certainly had its bases covered, but the principal had told Leo yesterday there was a gap in coverage behind one of the main classroom buildings. Yesterday morning, Kayla and Emma had apparently taken advantage of it to their own cost.
Will cleared his throat, looking around nervously. Except for the fact that he was wearing yet another three-piece suit in the middle of summer, he had the worried look of an errant student hoping to avoid a trip to the principal’s office.
He asked, “Which way did she say?” Even without the woman telling them where to go two seconds ago, he was standing beside a large sign that directed visitors to go to the front office down the hallway.
Faith crossed her arms, recognizing this as a very lame attempt to make her feel useful. “It’s all right,” she said. “You’re a good cop, Will, but you have the social skills of a feral monkey.”
He frowned over the description. “Well, I suppose that’s fair.”
Faith really wasn’t the type of person who rolled her eyes, but she felt a pulling at her optic nerve that she hadn’t experienced since puberty. “This way,” she said, heading down a side hallway. She found the front office behind several stacked cardboard boxes. As a parent, Faith instantly recognized the chocolate bars that schools pawned off onto helpless children and their parents every year. Taking advantage of forced child labor, the administration would send out the kids to sell candy in hopes of raising money for various school improvements. Faith had eaten so many of the bars when Jeremy was growing up that her stomach trembled at the sight of them.
A bank of video monitors showing various scenes around the school was behind the woman at the front desk, but her attention was on the phone system, which was ringing off the hook. She took in Faith and Will with a practiced glance, asking three different callers to please hold before finally directing her words toward Faith. “Mr. Bernard is running late, but everyone else is in the conference room. Back out the door to your left.”
Will opened the door and Faith led him down the hallway to the appropriately marked door. She knocked twice, and someone called, “Enter.”
Faith had been to her share of parent-teacher conferences, so she shouldn’t have been surprised to find all ten of them seated in a half-circle with two empty chairs at the center waiting to be filled. As was befitting a progressive school specializing in the communicative arts, the teachers were a multicultural bunch representing just about every part of the rainbow: Chinese-American, African-American, Muslim-American, and—just to mix things up—Native American. There was one lone Caucasian in the bunch. With her hemp sandals, batik dress and the long, gray ponytail hanging down her back, she radiated white guilt like a cheap space heater.
She held out her hand, offering, “I’m Dr. Olivia McFaden, principal of Westfield.”
“Detective Faith Mitchell, Special Agent Will Trent,” Faith provided, taking a seat. Will hesitated, and for a moment she thought he looked nervous. Maybe he was having a bad student flashback, or perhaps the tension in the room was getting to him. The security guards outside were meant to make people feel safe, but Faith got the distinct impression that they were doing the exact opposite. Everyone seemed to be on edge, especially the principal.
Still, McFaden went around the room, introducing the teachers, the subjects they taught and which girl was in their classes. As Westfield was a small school, there was a considerable overlap; most teachers were familiar with both girls. Faith carefully recorded their names in her notebook, easily recognizing the cast of characters: the hip one, the nerdy one, the gay one, the one hanging on by her fingernails as she prayed for retirement.
“Understandably, we’re all extremely upset about this tragedy,” McFaden said. Faith didn’t know why she took such an instant dislike to the woman. Maybe she was having some bad school flashbacks herself. Or maybe it was because of all the faculty in the room, McFaden was the only one who hadn’t obviously been crying. Some of the women and one of the men actually had tissues in their hands.
Faith told the teachers, “I’ll convey your sympathies to the parents.”
Will answered the obvious question. “We can’t entirely rule out a connection between what happened yesterday and the school. There’s no need to be overly alarmed, but it’s a good idea for you all to take precautions. Be alert to your surroundings, make sure you know where students are at all times, report any unexplained absences.”
Faith wondered if he could have phrased that any differently to freak them out even more. Glancing around the room, she thought not. Faith stopped, going through the teachers’ faces again. She remembered what the front-office secretary had said. “Is someone missing?”
McFaden supplied, “That would be Mr. Bernard. He had a previously scheduled meeting with a parent that couldn’t be moved on such short notice. He’ll be here shortly.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid we’re a bit tight for time before the assembly starts.”
“Assembly?” Faith gave Will a sharp glance.
He had the sense to look ashamed. “Amanda wants one of us to attend the assembly.”
Faith guessed she knew which one was going to draw that short straw. She shot him a look of utter hatred.
McFaden seemed oblivious. “We thought it would be best to call all of the students together and assure them that their safety is our number one priority.” Her smile was of the megawatt variety, the kind meant to encourage a reluctant student to accept a foregone conclusion. “We really appreciate your help in this matter.”
“I’m happy to help out,” Faith told the woman, forcing her own smile. She didn’t think an assembly was a bad idea, but she was furious that the task fell to her, not least of all because Faith was terrified of public speaking. She could very well imagine what the assembly would be like: myriad teenage girls in various stages of hysteria demanding that their hands be held, their fears be assuaged, and all the while Faith would be trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. This was something more suited to a school counselor than a homicide detective who had thrown up before her oral comps on her detective’s exam.
The principal leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “Now, tell me, how can we be of help to you?”
Faith waited for Will to speak, but he just sat ramrod straight in the chair beside her. She took over, asking, “Could you give us an impression of Emma and Kayla—socially, academically?”
Matthew Levy, the math teacher, took the lead. “I spoke to your colleague about this yesterday, but I suppose I need to say it again. The girls didn’t really fit into any one social group. I had both Kayla and Emma in my classroom. They tended to keep to themselves.”
Faith asked, “Did they have enemies?”
There was a series of exchanged looks. Levy replied, “They were picked on. I know the first question that comes to mind is how we could be aware of that and still let it continue, but you have to understand the dynamics of the school situation.”
Faith let them know that she did. “Kids don’t tend to report bullies for fear of reprisal. Teachers can’t punish activity they don’t see.”
Levy shook his head. “It’s more than that.” He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “I taught Emma for two years. Her aptitude wasn’t math, but she was a good student—really, a lovely girl. She worked hard, she didn’t make trouble. She was on the fringe of one of our popular groups. She seemed to get along well with other kids.”
One of the Asian women, Daniella Park, added, “Until Kayla showed up.”
Faith was startled by the teacher’s sharp tone of voice. Park seemed unfazed by the fact that the girl had been savagely murdered. “Why is that?”
Park explained, “We see it all the time. Kayla was a bad influence.” Confirming nods rippled around the room. “For a long time, Emma was friends with a girl named Sheila Gill. They were very close, but Sheila’s father was transferred to Saudi Arabia at the beginning of term last year. He works for one of those soulless multinational oil companies.” She dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, Emma didn’t have anyone else in her group to turn to. There are some girls who gravitate toward one particular person rather than a group, and without Sheila, she didn’t have a group. Emma became more introverted, less likely to participate in class. Her grades didn’t slip, they actually improved slightly, but you could tell that she was lonely.”
“Enter Kayla Alexander,” Levy interjected with the same rueful tone of voice as Park. “Smack in the middle of the school year. She’s the type who needs an audience, and she knew precisely who to pick.”
“Emma Campano,” Faith supplied. “Why did Kayla transfer in during the middle of term?”
McFaden chimed in, “She came to us through another school. Kayla was a challenge, but at Westfield, we meet challenges head-on.”
Faith deciphered the code. She directed her next question toward Levy, who seemed to have no problem criticizing the dead girl. “Kayla was kicked out of her last school?”
McFaden tried to keep spinning. “I believe she was asked to leave. Her old school was not equipped to meet her special needs.” She straightened her shoulders. “Here at Westfield, we pride ourselves on nurturing the special needs of what society labels more difficult children.”
For the second time that day, Faith fought the urge to roll her eyes. Jeremy had been on the cusp of the disorder movement: ADD, ADHD, social disorder, personality disorder. It was getting to be so ridiculous, she was surprised there weren’t special schools for the boring, average children. “Can you tell us what she was being treated for?”
“ADHD,” McFaden supplied. “Kayla has—had, I’m sorry—a very hard time concentrating on her schoolwork. She was more focused on socializing than studying.”
That must have made her stick out like a sore thumb from the rest of the teenagers. “What about Emma?”
Park spoke again, none of the earlier sharpness in her tone. “Emma is a wonderful girl.”
More nods came, and she could feel the sadness sweeping through the room. Faith wondered what exactly Kayla Alexander had done that made these teachers choose sides against her.
The door opened, and a man wearing a wrinkled sports jacket and holding an armful of papers came into the room. He looked up at the crowd, seemingly surprised they were all there.
“Mr. Bernard,” McFaden began, “let me introduce you to Detectives Mitchell and Trent.” She turned to Faith and Will. “This is Evan Bernard, English department.”
He nodded, blinking behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Bernard was a nice-looking man, probably in his mid-forties. Faith supposed he could easily fit a stereotype with his scruffy beard and generally disheveled appearance, but something about the wariness in his eyes made her think that there was more to him than that.
Bernard said, “I’m sorry I’m late. I had a parent meeting.” He pulled a chair up beside McFaden and sat down, a stack of papers in his lap. “Do you have any news?”
Faith realized that he was the first person to ask the question. “No,” she said. “We’re following all investigative leads. Anything you could tell us about the two girls will help.”
Underneath his beard, he bit his bottom lip, and she could tell that he had seen right through her bullshit as easily as Faith had seen through McFaden’s.
Will picked this moment to speak up. He directed his words toward Bernard. “We’re doing everything we can to find out who killed Kayla and to bring Emma home safely. I know that doesn’t sound like much of a comfort, but please know that this case has the full focus of every member of the Atlanta Police Department and every agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”
Bernard nodded, gripping the papers in his lap. “What can I do to help?”
Will didn’t answer. Faith gathered she was to take the lead again. “We were just talking about Kayla Alexander’s influence over Emma.”
“I can’t tell you anything about Kayla. I only had Emma, but not for class. I’m the reading tutor at Westfield.”
McFaden provided, “Mr. Bernard does one-on-one sessions with our reading-challenged students. Emma is mildly dyslexic.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me—”
“How so?” Will interrupted. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to look at Bernard.
Bernard sounded puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“I mean . . .” Will seemed at a loss for words. “I don’t quite understand what you mean by mild dyslexia.”
“ ‘Mild’ isn’t really a term that I would use,” Bernard countered. “Generally speaking, it’s a reading disorder. As with autism, dyslexia has a full spectrum of symptoms. To classify someone as mild would be to put them at the top level, which is more commonly called high functioning. Most of the kids I see tend to be at either one end or the other. There are various symptomatical iterations, but the key identifier is an inability to read, write or spell at grade level.”
Will nodded, and Faith saw him put his hand in his jacket pocket. She heard a click, and had to struggle to keep her expression neutral. She’d seen him transfer the digital recorder to that same pocket in the car. While it was perfectly legal in the state of Georgia for a person to secretly record a conversation, it was highly illegal for a cop to do so.
