"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."