Trace Evidence. Carla Cassidy
two-story brick building, with wide front steps that led up to the front door.
Clay had gone to high school here seventeen years ago. His high school days hadn’t been awful, but they hadn’t been terrific, either.
At the top of the stairs, Burt Creighton stood next to the door, looking bored and out of place in his khaki police uniform. He greeted Clay with a wry grin. “I joined the police department looking for danger and excitement. What do I get? An assignment to stand on the high school steps in the dying heat of the day.”
“Why are you stationed here? Summer school has been over for several hours.”
Burt shrugged. “Apparently Ms. Greystone teaches an adult education class at seven on Tuesday and Thursday nights. The class members have been arriving and I’ve been getting each person’s name and address before sending them back home.”
Clay shifted his kit from one hand to the other. “Seems like a lot of trouble for a classroom break-in. Who’s inside?”
“Ed Rogers. He’s guarding the classroom door, making sure nobody goes in until after you’re finished in there.”
“Anyone else there?”
“Ms. Greystone and that’s it. It’s room 230.”
Clay nodded and entered the building. He was instantly assailed by scents of the distant past…the smell of chalk and teenage sweat, of industrial floor polish and bathroom deodorizer.
He took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, a new irritation growing inside with each step he took. This was ridiculous, to be called here to process what was probably a simple case of classroom vandalism by some disgruntled student.
He had so many more important things to be doing…like trying to find his mother…like trying to find a serial killer. He didn’t give a damn who Tamara Greystone thought she was, this was a waste of his time.
Ed Rogers greeted him at the top of the stairs. He motioned down the hallway. “Room 230 is on the left. Ms. Greystone is in room 231 across the hall. I wrote up a report, but I doubt we’ll ever find out who did this unless some tough guy decides to brag.”
Clay nodded. He’d already come to that conclusion. Still, he had a job to do. He headed down the hall, his heels silent against the polished tile floor.
Although he would have preferred to go directly to work, he turned into classroom 231 first. She stood, facing the doorway as if she’d heard his silent approach.
His first impression of her was one of grace and delicate beauty. She wore a traditional calico Cherokee tear dress. The dress had three quarter length sleeves and fell to her calves. It was sky blue with red-diamond-shaped accents around the yoke.
Her long hair was coiled in a careless knot at the nape of her neck, but it was her eyes that captured his attention more than anything. Large and more gray than black, they radiated kindness and peace. She certainly didn’t look like an arrogant, artist diva.
“You must be Officer James.” She took a step toward him and help out her hand. “I’m Tamara Greystone.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said as he gave her slender hand a quick shake, then released it. “I understand there’s been a break-in into your classroom. What can you tell me about it?”
Clay liked to get as much information as he could before he actually processed a scene. He never knew what tidbit of information a victim might tell him that would reveal a clue to what he saw and discerned from the crime scene itself. He gestured her to a nearby student chair.
Once she was seated, he took the chair next to hers and withdrew a pad and pen from his pocket. Even with the distance between them, he could smell her. The scent was earthy and mysterious. It surprised him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d noticed the scent of a woman.
“There really isn’t much I can tell you,” she said. “I left the school this afternoon just after four and went home. The classroom was fine at that time. I returned this evening just after six and found the room had been destroyed.”
“Was anyone here when you left at four?” He kept his gaze focused on his pad.
“I think I was the last one out. I usually am. We have three periods of classes for summer school. Math is at ten, English is at noon and my class is at two.” She offered him a smile that curved the corners of her full lips.
“What about the cleaning crew?” He looked back down at his pad, finding her smile far too appealing. What was wrong with him? First her smell, then her smile. For some reason he was finding her very distracting.
“The cleaning crew consists of Vernon Colby. He doesn’t come in until about nine and works through the night. I’m not sure what his schedule is during the summer months.”
“Vernon Colby? I didn’t know he was still alive.” He’d been cleaning the high school when Clay had gone to classes here, and Clay had thought him ancient then.
“Have you had a fight with any of the students? Flunked anyone who might have a temper?” he continued with the questions.
“No. Nothing like that.” She shook her head, making tendrils of her dark hair come loose. “Well, technically most of the summer school students are in the class because they’ve flunked a class or need an additional credit to graduate.”
He wondered if those tendrils would feel like silk between his fingers. Clay put his pad and pen away, recognizing that whatever other information he needed would probably be in the official report Ed had written up.
Besides, he needed to get out of here and away from her.
“I’ll just get to work now.” He picked up his kit and headed out of the room and across the hall.
Maybe he was having some sort of a mini-breakdown, he thought. He’d never found a woman who could hold his attention like an intriguing crime scene.
He’d expected overturned desks, torn books, perhaps a smashed window or two, but when he looked into room 230, shock held him momentarily motionless.
He’d seen vandalism before, but nothing to the extent of what lay before him. Desks were not only overturned, but also smashed and broken into pieces. Torn books and papers littered the floor like confetti after a parade.
The blackboard was cracked in half, but it was none of these things that sent a shock of adrenaline racing through him. What captured and held his attention were the marks that slashed high across the walls. Deep, gouging marks that were red with what appeared to be fresh blood.
Any irritation he’d felt about being sent here vanished as he stepped into the classroom and pulled a camera from his kit, the woman across the hall already forgotten.
This was where he came alive—in the middle of the chaos of a crime scene. Work was his life, and when he worked was the only time the anger inside him subsided, the only time the guilt silenced, the only time he was at peace within himself.
She watched him from the doorway as he walked around the room, taking pictures of the damage from every point of view. Tamara Greystone knew far more about Clay James than he thought he knew about her.
She’d worked with his mother at the Cherokee Cultural Center and Rita had often confided in Tamara her worry about her eldest child.
He was a sinfully handsome man, with rich black hair and sculptured features that were traditionally Native American—high cheekbones and a proud, strong nose, dark straight brows over intense black eyes. He had thin lips that appeared to have never curved upward in a smile.
Tall and lean, he had shoulders just broad enough to hint at wiry strength. As he moved around the room he displayed a natural, sleek grace that belied the fact that she knew he spent most of his days cooped up in a laboratory.
“Quite a mess, isn’t it?” she said.
He started, as if he’d forgotten her presence,