Fractured

comment, pulling some small talk out of the air, he simply stared at the floor. She saw that his shoes were scuffed, the hem of his pants caked with dirt from climbing under the fence to the North Avenue house.

'What did Warren say to you?' she asked. 'I know that he said something. I saw the way your face changed.'

Will kept staring at the floor. She thought he was not going to answer, but he did. 'Colors.'

Faith did not believe him any more now than she had before. 'He told you the colors on the file folders?'

'It's a trick,' he answered. 'Remember what Bernard said, about how dyslexics are good at hiding their problem from other people?' He looked back at her. 'The colors tell you what's inside the folders.'

With all that had happened in the last few hours, Faith had almost forgotten her earlier revelation about Will's inability to read. She thought about the psych evaluation Will had shoved in Warren's face, the way he had pressed his finger to each differently colored dot as he called out the findings. Will had never looked at the words. He had let the colors guide him.

'What about the last sheet?' she asked. 'Warren was functionally illiterate. He had some ability to read. Why couldn't he see that it was a dress-code memo?'

Will kept his eyes trained at the wall opposite. 'When you get upset, it's harder to see the words. They move around. They blur.'

So Faith wasn't crazy, after all. Will did have some sort of reading problem. She thought about the way he always patted his pockets, looking for his glasses, when there was something to read. He hadn't noticed the rural route address on Adam Humphrey's license or read the Web page on Bernard's computer that talked about teacher retirement. Still, she had to admit if you stacked him up against Leo Donnelly or any other man in the homicide division, he came out the better cop.

She asked, 'What other tricks would Warren use?' 'A digital recorder. Voice recognition software. Spell-check.' Faith wondered if she could have been any more blind. She was supposed to be a detective and she had missed all of the obvious signs right under her nose. 'Is that why Warren fixated on the colors?' she asked. 'Did he see the different colors on your file folders and figure out you-'

'Colors,' Will interrupted. 'He said the colors.' A big, sloppy grin spread across his face. 'That's what Warren was trying to tell me.' 'What?'

He stood up, excitement replacing exhaustion. 'We need to go to the copy center.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WILL WALKED DOWN through the cells, not looking at the crime-scene tape covering the open doorway where Warren Grier had hanged himself. He could feel the cold stares of the prisoners follow him to the end of the hall. There were the usual sounds of jail: men talking trash, other men weeping. Evan Bernard was in one of the larger holding cells. Men who raped young girls were always targeted by other prisoners. The ones who were attached to sensational cases could pretty much kiss their lives good-bye. The transgendered cell was the only safe place for a man like Bernard. The women were usually arrested for crimes of circumstance: stealing food, public vagrancy. Most of them were too feminine to get construction work and too masculine to turn tricks. Like Evan Bernard, they would have been torn apart in the general population.

The teacher had his hands hanging outside the bars, his elbows on the supports. The cell was a large one, at least fifteen feet wide. Beds were stacked three high across the space. As he walked up, Will noticed that the women were all huddled around a single bunk, as if they, too, could not stand the sight of Evan Bernard. Will had a sheet folded up under his arm. The material was thick prison issue, bleached and starched to within an inch of its life. When he propped it up between the bars, it stayed that way.

Bernard made a point of looking at the sheet. 'Poor kid. The girls are crazy upset.'

Will glanced into the cell. The girls looked ready to rip him apart.

Bernard said, 'I'm not talking to you without my lawyer present.'

'I don't want you to talk,' Will said. 'I want you to listen.'

He shrugged. 'Nothing else to pass the time.'

'Do you know how he did it? How he strangled himself?'

'I assumed he was the victim of some sort of police brutality.'

Will smiled. 'Do you want to know or not?'

Bernard raised his eyebrow, as if to say, Go on.

Will took down the sheet, unfolding it. He explained as he worked. 'It's hard to figure out, right? It doesn't make sense that you can asphyxiate yourself just sitting on the floor.' He looped the sheet through his hand, wrapping the material around his arm.

'What you do is, you tie one end around the doorknob, and then you loop it around your neck like this.' Will jerked the sheet tight, his skin pressing out between the folds. 'You kneel down with your head close to the knob, and then you start breathing really fast and really hard until you hyperventilate.'

Bernard smiled, as if he finally understood.

'And then, just before you pass out, you kick your legs out from underneath yourself.' Will pulled the sheet away. 'And then you wait.'

'It wouldn't take long,' Bernard said.

'No, just a few minutes.'

'Is that why you came down here, Mr. Trent, to tell me this tragic tale?'

'I came down here to tell you that you were right about something.'

'You'll have to narrow that down for me. I've been right about so many things.'

Will looped the sheet through the bars, letting the material hang down either side. 'You told me that dyslexics were good at developing tricks so that they can blend in with everybody else. True?'

'True.'

'It got me to thinking about Warren, because that day he went to Emma Campano's house, there were lots of things for him to remember.' Will listed them out. 'What time Kayla was going to let him into the house. Where Emma's room was. How many pairs of gloves to bring. Where to transfer her from one car to the other.'

Bernard shook his head. 'This is fascinating, Mr. Trent, but what on earth does it have to do with me?'

'Well,' Will began, digging in his jacket pocket for his digital recorder. 'Since Warren couldn't write down lists, he made recordings.'

Bernard shook his head again. He wouldn't have recognized the recorder because it belonged to Will. 'Warren used his cell phone to make recordings,' Will explained. 'He transferred them to compact discs that he kept filed along with customer artwork at the copy store.'

Bernard seemed less sure of himself.

'Blue, red, purple, green,' Will repeated. 'That was the sequence he used for his discs.' He clicked on the player. Evan Bernard's voice was easily distinguishable. 'No, Warren, the rope and tape will be in the trunk. Kayla will give you the keys.'

Warren mumbled, 'I know, I know.'

On the tape, Bernard was obviously agitated. 'No, you don't know. You need to listen to what I'm saying. If you do this right, none of us will get caught.'

A girl's voice they had verified was Kayla Alexander's, said, 'You want me to write it down for you, Warren? You want me to make a list?'

Will clicked off the recorder. 'You can hear the rest in court.'

'I'm going free in an hour,' Bernard said. 'My lawyer told me-'

'Your lawyer doesn't know about the DVDs.' Charlie Reed had been wrong about the cables in back of Bernard's home computer. They had been attached to a recordable DVD drive.

Will told the man, 'We have at least a dozen videos showing you in your special room, Evan. My partner is at Westfield Academy with Olivia McFaden right now. We made stills from the videos-pictures that show the girls' faces right alongside yours. So far, they've identified six students from the school.' Will asked, 'How many more do you think we'll find? How many women do you think are going to come forward?'