Carla Cassidy - Trace Evidence

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 don’t have to apologize to me for your living conditions,” he said as he pulled to a halt before the place.

“On the contrary, Officer James, I wasn’t apologizing. I was merely trying to make pleasant conversation.”

She hesitated a moment, then continued. “I’m sure you’ve put in a long day. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” She wasn’t sure what had prompted the invitation. He certainly hadn’t been overly sociable and there was no reason for any further contact with him.

He stared at the cabin for a long moment, then, to her surprise shut off his van engine and turned to look at her. “A cup of coffee sounds good.”

He had no idea why he’d agreed to go inside her home and drink a cup of coffee. Maybe because he didn’t want to go back to the lab just yet. Maybe because he didn’t want to go to his own home, which would be far too silent and allow him far too many thoughts and recriminations.

“It’s pretty isolated out here,” he observed as they walked up the three steps that led to a long front porch. The small cabin was in the center of a copse of thick trees and brush.

She laughed, the sound echoing like birdsong in the air.

“That’s the difference between a cop and an artist. A cop sees isolated, an artist sees secluded.”

Despite the irritation that had filled him earlier, he felt himself relax a bit, as if the pleasant sound of her laughter had worked like a balm on a sore wound. “A cop sees lots of hiding places. I suppose you see lots of things to paint, Ms. Greystone.”