Trace Evidence. Carla Cassidy
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His frown turned from irritated to positively daunting. “Look, Ms. Greystone. It really would be best if you’d just leave me to do my job.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” She smiled. “Surely you understand my need to be here. I’m sure if somebody had come into your lab and done something like this, no matter who was processing the scene, you’d want to be there. This is more than just the place where I work, Officer James. This classroom is a part of my heart.”
“Then just stay out of my way,” he said curtly.
“I’ll do that.” She remained standing in the doorway as he got back to work.
The initial horror of what had been done to the room had worn off, but the senseless, extensive damage still sent a small wave of disquiet through her.
Who could have done this? And why? She’d always tried so hard to maintain good relationships with her fellow teachers and students.
She focused her gaze at Clay, watching as he studied the marks on the walls. He seemed completely and totally absorbed in his work. That’s part of what had bothered Rita about her son. According to Rita, her only son had no life beyond work, had turned his back on his Native heritage and had become a bitter, angry man with a chip on his shoulder.
The chip wasn’t visible at the moment, but his total concentration on his work was apparent. She knew he’d forgotten about her as he scraped bits of the material that looked like blood into a vial.
She supposed his total absorption in his work was what made him so good at what he did. Rita had always overworried about all her children, not only Clay, but also his sisters, Breanna and Savannah.
Rita. Thoughts of the missing woman filled her with grief. She missed seeing Rita’s beautiful face at the Cherokee Cultural Center, missed her exuberance and enthusiasm for the work and education that the cultural center afforded their community.
“These look like some sort of animal claws,” he said as he studied the marks that rode high on the walls.
“How would an animal have gotten in here?” she asked.
“No animal has been in this room,” he said in direct counter to his previous statement. “If an animal had been loose in here there’d be additional signs, such as odors and waste material.”
“Then how did the claw marks get there?”
He frowned. “That’s what I need to figure out.”
“If animal claws made the marks, can you tell what kind of animal it might be?”
“Not just by looking at them. I’ll have to take plaster casts and get them back to the lab to do some comparison study. There are bits of fur embedded in the marks, so that will make identification easier.”
Apparently he’d talked himself out, because for the next hour he didn’t say another word. That was fine with Tamara. Silence never bothered her. Her parents had taught her as a child that silence was to be respected and revered. It was a time to observe and learn from what was inside you and what surrounded you.
Clay James was far more interesting to watch than listening to her inner thoughts. He radiated a fierce intensity, a focus that was assuring. She had no doubt that his expertise and tenacity would eventually identify the culprit.
“That’s all I can do here,” he finally said as he packed up his samples and tools. “Have you spoken to Will Nichols and let him know what’s going on?”
Will Nichols was the principal of the high school. “Yes, I called him. He stopped by earlier, saw the damage and told me to keep him posted.”
“You won’t be teaching in this room any time soon. I want it left locked for the next couple of days in case I need to come back and take some more samples.”
“I noticed you didn’t try to get any fingerprints.”
His jaw muscle tightened, as if he thought she was questioning his expertise. “It’s pointless to print a room where so many people pass through on a regular basis. If this had been a murder scene, or the scene of an assault, then I might have considered it. But this room could potentially hold the prints of students that had passed through over the years. It would take us months to find out who they belong to.” His gaze was cold as it met hers. “Is there anything else you think I’ve forgotten?”
Prickly, she thought. Definitely prickly. “Officer James, I wouldn’t begin to tell you how to do your job. Just as I wouldn’t expect you to come into my classroom and take over my job.” She offered him a smile. “I just watch a lot of television and it seems on the crime shows everyone is always taking fingerprints.”
He grabbed his kit and walked toward where she stood in the doorway. “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV.”
He turned off the light in the room and watched as she locked the door. “I have a spare key.” She fumbled with her key chain until she worked a key off the ring. She held it out to him. “This way if you need to get back inside, day or night, you have access as long as somebody can unlock the front school door for you.”
He took the key from her and slid it into the back pocket of his tight jeans. Together they walked down the silent hallway toward the stairs. Ed and Burt had both stuck their heads in the classroom earlier to tell Clay they’d questioned Vernon and they were leaving.
Vernon Colby was waiting for them by the front door. “Damn fool kids…nothing but meanness in them nowadays,” he muttered as he unlocked the door for Clay and Tamara to exit.
Night had fallen outside and overhead the bright, sparkly stars were companions to a three-quarter moon. Parked in the lot were two vehicles, the van that Clay had driven and the rusted-out pickup that belonged to Vernon.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“I don’t drive to school,” she replied. “I always walk to and from work. It’s just a little over a mile walk.”
He raked a hand through his thick hair and stared out into the darkness of the night. “I’ll drive you home.” It was obvious it wasn’t something he particularly looked forward to doing.
“That isn’t necessary,” she demurred. “I’m used to walking home and the darkness doesn’t frighten me.”
“It should,” he snapped. “You should be afraid of what the darkness holds. People can be perfectly safe in their own homes one minute, then dead or missing in the next.”
She knew that he was talking about what happened to his parents and her heart went out to him. But she had a feeling that Clay James was a man who didn’t appreciate empty platitudes.
“Thank you, I’ll accept the offer of a ride home,” she said.
He opened the passenger door for her and she slid inside. The interior of the van smelled like him, a combination of clean-scented cologne and breath mints.
He got in and started the van. “Which way?”
She pointed to the left. “Go down the road about a half a mile. There’s a dirt road. Turn right there and I’m at the end of the road.”
He didn’t speak again until they turned on the dirt road where thick trees crowded in from either side. “I didn’t even know this was here,” he said.
“Most people don’t. I found it two years ago when I returned to Cherokee Corners from New York. I like the woods and the solitude.”
He slowed as they came to the end of the road, and his headlights shone on the little cabin she called home. A faint light shone from behind the living room curtains.
“I know it doesn’t look like much,” she said. “But it’s a perfect artist retreat, an adequate home and holds a sense of spiritual peace that is comforting.”
“You