The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(9)

“Joshua Moore,” he says, holding out a hand for us to shake in turn. “I’m the principal here.”

“Thank you for speaking with us, Dr. Moore. I’m Agent Eddison, this is Agent Sterling; we’re here with the FBI.”

I wonder how many times per case we say that.

“Have there been any developments?” Moore asks as we start walking. Cynthia gives us a small wave and power walks in the direction of the office.

“Not yet,” Eddison answers. “Obviously we’re searching for Brooklyn, but we’re also trying to piece together what happened yesterday afternoon.”

“Of course. Here, the library will be a bit more comfortable than my office, and we’re trying to stay visible for the children. Only essential paperwork is getting done today, I’m afraid.”

“How many parents kept their children home today?”

“Maybe thirty percent? Most of our parents work, so staying home with their children impacts their ability to pay the bills. With the children here, they have a support network of friends, teachers, counselors. We’ll try to start teaching again on Monday.”

The library is a warm, inviting room with mostly open sightlines. Tall bookcases line the walls, but the cases out on the floor are only half the height and broken up at regular intervals by tables, computer terminals, or comfortable chairs. A pentagonal pit in the center has two broad steps like an amphitheater, steps and bottom space alike stuffed with large floor pillows and beanbags. At a cluster of tables in one corner, a group of what looks like college kids are collating and paper-clipping packets of papers.

“They’re education majors,” Moore explains, following my gaze. “Some of them are volunteers; some are assigned here for their student-teaching quarter. We asked them to put together resource packets to send home with the kids for their families. Some of the parents donated the cost of the copying.”

“So they’ve all had background checks?”

“Yes. Any volunteer who interacts with the children has to pass one before they can begin.” He gestures us to one of the tables, set a little apart from the others and on a short platform. It offers a good view of the entire room. He waits for us to seat ourselves before he sits down. “The same is true for every employee, whether they work directly with the children or not, and any contractors working in the school.”

“Have you had to reject any applications because of the background checks?” Eddison pulls his battered Moleskine notebook from his back pocket and opens it, rooting through his coat for a pen. I hand him the one in my hair. He takes notes on the tablet when he has to, but he thinks better when he can actually write it and take the time later to work back through everything as he types it up for the file.

“For this school year? Several. Some drug offenses, some theft. Only one I can think of for any violent offenses. A man applying for a position as a gym coach had an active restraining order against him and several instances of domestic violence in his history. Nothing against children, but we weren’t going to put our female employees into a potentially dangerous position with him. I don’t recall his name, but his application was pulled and copied for the police this morning.”

“You were called last night?”

He nods, smoothing his tie. The motion forces him to resettle the lanyard, which skews the tie again. “We have an after-hours number for the school. Sometimes children forget something that can’t wait for the next school day, like medication or inhalers, so we can arrange for a keyholder to meet the parents to retrieve the item. They also take down messages for expected absences if a child or family member has fallen ill. In an actual emergency, whoever is working the after-hours number can put the call through to me or the administrator on duty. For a missing child, the call came to me.”

“What time was this?”

“A little after ten. Officer Bernal—the school’s main resource officer—and I had walked the buildings and grounds before we left a bit after six. We didn’t see anything or anyone out of place. When I got the call, I came back, arriving a little after ten-thirty. Officers met me here and we did another walk-through. No indication that Brooklyn was here after school or that she’d come back.”

Eddison nods and jots down the times.

“I understand you have too many students to get to know many of them,” I begin, and stop at the principal’s smile.

“That’s true, but I do try. I rotate through the classrooms in the mornings. All going as it should, I spend a morning with each class twice a quarter. It doesn’t let me get to know them well, but it gives me at least a passing familiarity with most of them.”

“So you do know Brooklyn.”

“A little, yes. Last year, on the first day of school, she came to my office sobbing her little heart out because she and Rebecca Copernik had been placed in different classes. She begged us to put them together.”

“Did you?”

“After consulting with the teachers and parents, yes. It turned out that Rebecca’s absence was only part of the problem. Another girl in Brooklyn’s original class has a history of bullying Brooklyn and Rebecca, and Brooklyn didn’t want to be in a class with her.”

“This girl’s name . . . it wouldn’t happen to be Suzie Gray?”

His brows rise. “The very same. The three girls are in the same Brownie troop, as well.”