The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  “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?”

  “Yep, one for each location.” He pointed to another vial in the tray. “You’ve got the sample from the rug, so it’s more likely to have cross-contamination.” Charlie gave
him a curious look. “What are you going to do?”

  If he hadn’t been to Georgia Tech the day before, Will probably wouldn’t have even considered it. “Beg somebody to test it for free.”

  Charlie advised, “This is a hell of a lot more complicated than letting you have that key yesterday. A key either fits a certain lock or doesn’t. With the powder, it’s all down to one person’s interpretation. We have to document everything. I’ve got a form you can take with you.” He rummaged around in the van and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. “This is a sign-in sheet. You’re going to need a witness every step of the way. First, I need you to sign a release saying you’ve taken the sample.” He found another form, attached it to a clipboard, and offered it to Will. “I’ve got the other sample if you hit on something. We can always run it through a lab to confirm whatever you find.”

  Will stared at the form, finding the X and the straight line. His signature was the one thing he could manage without having to think about it, but that wasn’t the problem. If there was a geological characteristic to the sample that pointed to a specific location, then that might give them an area to search for Emma Campano.

  Will tried to keep his tone even, but he felt a tingling at the base of his spine, like he was walking perilously close to the edge of a steep cliff. “The defense could argue that anybody brought in the powder. If we make an arrest off a lab analysis, and the judge says the analysis can’t be used, the killer could walk away free.”

  Charlie lowered the clipboard. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “But, if we just happen to find the girl …”

  He returned to his computer, tapping the keys to wake it up.

  Will turned around, checking on the cop at the end of the driveway. The man still had his back turned to them, and he was at least twenty feet away, but still, Will lowered his voice when he asked Charlie, “Have you catalogued this yet?”

  “Nope.” He scanned the bar code on an evidence bag and tapped some more keys.

  Will tightened his hand around the vial, which fit neatly into the palm of his hand. He had never been the kind of cop to bend the rules, but if there was a way to find the girl, how could it be right for him to stand idly by?

  Charlie said, “Did you see the Toxic Shocks are battling it out with the Dixie Derby Girls this weekend?”

  Will had to repeat the words in his head before he understood their meaning. Charlie was a big fan of women’s competitive roller derby. “No, I didn’t see that.”

  “It’s going to be a real knockout.”

  Will hesitated. He checked the cop at the end of the driveway again before putting the sample in his pants pocket. “Thanks, Charlie.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He turned to face Will. “Okay?”

  Will gave a quick nod. “I’ll let you know when you can swab the dad.”

  Charlie gave a sarcastic, “Great. Thanks.”

  Will tucked his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the vial as he walked to the carriage house. He was really sweating now, though the temperature wasn’t in the unbearable range yet. There had been times in Will’s career when he had walked the tightrope between right and wrong, but he had never done something so blatantly illegal—and desperate. Not that it made a bit of difference, but nothing was breaking on this case. They were a day into it, and there were no witnesses, no suspects and nothing to go on but the gray powder that may or may not lead to anything but Will getting fired from his job.

  He had actually stolen evidence from a crime scene. Not only that, but he had implicated Charlie in the process. What gave Will the most trouble was the hypocrisy involved. The disapproving cop standing guard in the Campano driveway suddenly had the moral high ground.

  “Will.” Hamish Patel was sitting at the top of the steps that led to the apartment over the garage. He held a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

  Will took his hand out of his pocket as he climbed the stairs. “How’s it going?”

  “All right, I guess. I’ve got the computer hooked up to the phone line, but nothing’s come in. Mostly, they’ve been getting calls from family and neighbors. The father’s been pretty abrupt with them and no one’s called this morning.”

  “And the family?”

  “The mother’s been in the bedroom pretty much from the get-go. A doctor came in this morning to check on her, but she refused sedation. Hoyt Bentley was here most of the night, but he left around an hour ago. The father left a few times, too, but mostly he just sat at the bottom of the stairs. He got the morning paper from the end of the driveway before I could stop him.”

  “What about his parents?”

  “I think they’re dead.”

  Will rubbed his jaw. He felt an odd sort of loss at the news. At the home, the older a child got, the less likely he was to be adopted. Paul had been twelve when his foster parents had petitioned the court to make it official. They had all waited for him to be returned like an ugly tie or a broken toaster. When Will himself left at eighteen, they were still waiting.

  From nowhere, Hamish said, “I have to say, man, that Abigail Campano is one good-looking woman.”

  The inappropriate observation wasn’t altogether a surprise. Hamish was one of those cops who liked to put on a front, as if the job was just a job.

  Still, Will said, “I thought it was against your religion to covet other men’s wives.”

  He flicked ash off his cigarette. “Southern Baptist, baby. Jesus already forgave me.” Hamish indicated the pool area, which looked like an oasis in the backyard. “You mind if I take a break while you’re in with them? I’ve been here all night. I could use a change of scenery.”

  “Go ahead.” Will knocked lightly on the door, then let himself in. The main room of the apartment was large, with a full kitchen on one side and the living room on the other. He guessed the bedroom and bathroom were behind the closed doors at the rear of the room. Hamish Patel’s laptop was set up on the kitchen table, waiting for the phone to ring. Two sets of headphones were hooked into an old-fashioned tape machine that was the size of a cement block.

  Paul was sitting on the couch, his hand on the remote control. The television was muted but the closed-captioning scrolled across the screen. Will recognized the CNN logo in the corner. The reporter was standing in front of a weather map, her arms waving as she described a storm system moving across the Midwest. The coffee table was littered with newspapers—USA Today, the Atlanta Journal, printouts of other papers that Paul must have gotten off the Internet. Will could not read the headlines, but all of them showed the same school photographs of Emma, Adam and Kayla.

  “Trash,” Paul said.

  Will didn’t know whether or not to correct him. The man’s daughter was missing. Was now really the time to dig up old grudges?

  “They’re fucking idiots,” Paul said, waving the remote at the TV. “Two days now, and they’re still saying the same damn thing with different graphics.”

  “You shouldn’t watch that,” Will told him.

  “Why haven’t you put us on TV?” he demanded. “That’s what they always do on the cop shows. They show the parents so the kidnapper knows that she has a family.”

  Will was more concerned with getting Emma back than worrying about what cop shows dictated as standard procedure. Besides, the press was there to ravage the Campanos, not to help them. Will was under enough stress from the media without setting up the parents for an on-camera meltdown. The last time Will had seen Abigail Campano, she had been sedated into a fog and could barely open her mouth without sobbing. Paul was a ticking time bomb, waiting for the smallest provocation to set him off. Putting either of them on television would be a disaster, and would invariably cause the press, absent any real information, to start pointing the finger right back at the parents.

  Will told him, “We’re not talking to the press right now. Anytime you want information, you should come to us.”

  He snorted a laugh, throwing the remote onto the
coffee table. “Yeah, y’all have been real forthcoming.”

  “What do you think you haven’t been told?”

  Paul barked a laugh. “Where the fuck my daughter is. Why nobody noticed they had the wrong fucking body. How the fuck you wasted a whole fucking hour sitting with your thumbs up your asses while my fucking baby was being …” He lost his steam, his eyes filling with tears. His jaw clenched as he stared at the television set.

  “I just came from Emma’s school,” Will said, wishing he had more information. “We’ve been talking to her teachers, her friends. We spent most of the day yesterday at Georgia Tech, tracking down Adam Humphrey.”

  “And what did you find out? Jack shit.”

  “I know you’ve hired your own people to work on this, Paul.”

  “That’s none of your fucking business.”

  “It is, because they could get in my way.”

  “Your way? You think I give a shit about getting in your way?” He pointed to the newspapers on the coffee table. “You know what they’re saying? Of course you don’t fucking know what they’re saying—do you?” He stood up. “They’re saying you’re incompetent. Your own people are saying that you fucked up the crime scene, that any evidence was lost because you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing.”

  Will couldn’t think of a way to explain to him the difference between the Atlanta Police Department and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation without sounding like a condescending twat. He settled on saying, “Paul, I’m in charge of this investigation now. You should know—”

  “Know what?” In seconds, he closed the space between the two of them. “You think I’m gonna trust you to find my little girl? I know you, Trashcan. Did you forget that?”

  Will had flinched when he’d charged, like he was ten years old again, like he wasn’t six inches taller and ten times stronger than the asshole in front of him.

  Paul shook his head, a look of open disgust on his face. “Just get the fuck out of here and let the grown-ups do their job.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”