Will filled the cup and stood at the gate to the cells, waiting to be buzzed back through. Inside the lockup, he kept his eyes straight forward, aware of the stares he was getting through the narrow panes of steel-enforced glass in the cell doors. Evan Bernard was on this wing, at the opposite end of Warren's cell. Billy had put him in with the transgendered women, the ones who still had their male equipment. News had already leaked out that Evan Bernard liked raping young girls. The tranny cell was the only place they could think of where Bernard would not get a big dose of his own medicine.
Will opened the narrow slot in Warren's cell door. He put the cup on the flat metal. The cup was not taken.
'Warren?' Will looked through the glass, seeing the tip of Warren's white, jail-issued slipper. The man was obviously sitting with his back to the door. Will crouched down, putting his mouth close to the metal slot. The opening was little more than twelve inches wide by three inches high, just enough to slide a meal tray through.
Will said, 'I know you're feeling alone right now, but think about Emma. She's probably feeling alone, too.' He paused. 'She's probably wondering where you are.'
There was no response.
'Think about how lonely she is without you,' Will tried. 'No one is there to talk to her or let her know that you're okay.' His thigh started to cramp, so he knelt on one knee. 'Warren, you don't have to tell me where she is. Just tell me that she's okay. That's all I want to know right now.'
Still there was no response. Will tried not to think about Emma Campano, how terrified she would be as time slowly passed and no one came for her. How merciful it would have been if Warren had just killed her that first day, sparing her the agony of uncertainty.
'Warren-'
Will felt something wet on his knee. He looked down just as the slight odor of ammonia wafted into his nostrils.
'Warren?' Will looked through the slot again; the white slipper was tilted to the side, unmoving. He saw the bed was stripped. 'No,' Will whispered. He jammed his arm through the open slot, feeling for Warren. His hand found the man's sweaty hair, felt his cold, clammy skin. 'Billy!' Will screamed. 'Open the door!'
The guard took his time coming to the gate. 'What is it?'
Will's fingers grazed Warren's eyes, his open mouth. 'Call an ambulance!'
'Shit,' Billy cursed, flinging open the gate. He slammed his fist into a red button on the wall as he jogged toward the cell. The master key was on his belt. He slid it into the lock and jerked open the door to Warren's cell. The hinge squeaked from the weight of the door. One end of the bedsheet was looped around the knob, the other end wrapped tightly around Warren Grier's neck.
Will dropped to the floor, starting CPR. Billy got on his radio, calling out codes, ordering an ambulance. By the time more help arrived, Will was sweating, his hands cramping from pressing into Warren's chest. 'Don't do this,' he begged. 'Come on, Warren. Don't do this.'
'Will,' Billy said, his hand resting on Will's shoulder. 'Come on. It's over.'
Will wanted to pull away, to keep going, but his body would not respond. For the second time that evening, he sat back on his knees and looked down at Warren Grier. The younger man's last words still echoed in his ears. 'Colors,' Warren had said. He had figured out Will's filing system, the way he used the colors to indicate what was inside the folders. 'You use colors just like me.' Warren Grier had finally found a kindred spirit. Ten minutes later, he had killed himself.
Another hand went around Will's arm. Faith helped him stand. He hadn't realized she was there, hadn't seen the circle of cops that had formed around him.
'Come on,' she said, keeping her hand on his arm as she walked with him up the hallway. There were catcalls, the kind of remarks you expected men behind bars to make when a pretty woman walked by. Will ignored them, fighting the urge to slump against Faith, to do something foolish like reach out to her.
Faith sat him down at Billy's desk. She knelt in front of him, raised her hand to his cheek. 'You had no way of knowing he'd do that.'
Will felt the coolness of her palm against his face. He put his hand over hers, then gently pulled it away. 'I'm not much good at taking comfort, Faith.'
She nodded her understanding, but he could read the pity in her eyes.
'I shouldn't have lied to him,' Will said. 'The stuff about the cigarette burns.'
Faith sat back, looking up at him. He could not tell whether she believed him or was simply humoring him. 'You did what you had to do.'
'I pushed him too hard.'
'He put that sheet around his own neck.' She reminded him, 'He also pulled the trigger, Will. You would be dead now if those chambers had been full. He may have been more pathetic than Evan Bernard, but he was just as cold and calculating.'
'Warren was doing what he was programmed to do. Everything he had in his life-everything-was a struggle. No one gave him anything.' Will felt his jaw clench. 'Bernard's educated, well liked, he has a good job, friends, family. He had a choice.'
'Everyone has a choice. Even Warren.'
She would never understand because she had never been completely alone in the world. He told her, 'I know Emma's alive somewhere, Faith.'
'It's been a long time, Will. Too long.'
'I don't care what you say,' he told her. 'She's alive. Warren wouldn't have killed her. He wanted things from her, things he was in the process of taking. You heard how he talked in the interview. You know he was keeping her alive.'
Faith did not respond, though he could see the answer in her eyes: she was just as certain Emma Campano was dead as Will was that the girl was alive.
Instead of arguing with him, she changed the subject. 'I just talked to Mary Clark.' She walked him through the discovery of the yearbooks in the photographs Will had taken of Warren's apartment, the phone call to the teacher wherein Mary Clark confirmed that Warren had given Bernard an alibi all those years ago. As Faith spoke, Will could finally see everything coming into focus. Bernard would have been the only anchor in Warren's life. There was nothing the young man would not have done for his mentor.
Faith told him the other things the teacher had said. 'Bernard let them come to his house and drink, smoke, do whatever they wanted. Then when he was finished using them, he tossed them away.'
'He probably tutored Warren,' Will guessed. 'He would've been the only adult in his life who tried to help him instead of treating him like there was something wrong with him.' Warren would have lain in front of an oncoming train if Bernard told him to. The young man's refusal to implicate the teacher suddenly made sense.
'This shows a pattern with the girls,' Faith told him. 'Bernard will get more time in prison if Mary tells a jury what happened to her.'
Will did not believe for a second that Mary Clark finally had the strength to confront her abuser. 'I want him to die,' he mumbled. 'All those girls he raped-he might as well have killed them. Who was Mary Clark going to be before Evan Bernard got hold of her? What kind of life was she going to have? All that went out the door the minute he set his sights on her. That girl Mary was going to be is dead, Faith. How many other girls did he kill like that? And now Kayla and Adam and God knows what Emma's going through.' He stopped, swallowing back his emotions. 'I want to be there when they put the needle in his arm. I want to jam it in myself.'
Faith was so taken aback by his vehemence that, for a few seconds, she could not trust herself to speak. 'We can look for other witnesses,' she finally told him. 'There have to be other girls. Tie it in with the allegations at Georgia Tech and he could get thirty, forty years.'
Will shook his head. 'Bernard killed Adam and Kayla, Faith. I know he didn't do it with his own hands, but he knew what Warren was capable of. He knew that he had complete and total control over him, that he could pull the trigger and Warren would shoot.' Will thought about Warren, how desperately he must have wanted to fit in. Sitting around Bernard's house with the other kids, drinking beer and talking about all the losers who were still at school, must have been the closest he ever came to being part of a family.
Faith said, 'The room in his house thirteen years ago was just like the one we found in Bernard's apartment. He's been doing this for years, Will. As soon as his picture goes out on the news, we're going to have-'
