Were they alive?
How much time did they have left?
As I texted Joe, my new husband, my partner sang the refrain of an old Steve Miller song, “Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.”
I checked in with dispatch, then said to my partner, “Okay, Rich. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 4
Conklin and I got out of the car and headed up the stone stairway from the street to the school.
At the top of the stairway was a manicured lawn with a high 180-degree view of the ocean that was opaque with a foggy marine layer this morning. Ahead of us stood Pacific View Prep, a compound made up of three five-story buildings at right angles, forming a horseshoe around an open courtyard.
We approached the main entrance dead ahead in the central building and badged the armed security guard, whose name tag read K. STROOP.
I made the introductions.
“Sergeant Boxer,” I said. “Homicide. My partner, Inspector Conklin.”
“Homicide?” Stroop said. “Hey, no. You found their bodies?”
“No, no,” Conklin said. “We’re treating this missing persons as top priority. All units, all hands are on deck.”
Stroop looked relieved. I asked him, “Did you see Myers, Jones, and Saran leave the school Monday night?”
He shook his head. “I go off duty at four.”
“But you know them, right?”
“Sure, casually. I see them in the hallways, say, ‘Morning,’ ‘Have a great weekend.’ Like that.”
I asked, “Would you know if any of them have enemies? Maybe a jealous boyfriend? Or a disgruntled student who didn’t get the grade he or she wanted? Anyone showing inappropriate interest in any of them?”
He shook his head no again.
“They’re all nice ladies. Our students are good kids.”
I nodded. “I do have some routine questions for you.”
He said, “Go ahead.”
I asked where he had been the last couple of nights. He’d spent Monday home all night with the wife and son; last night he and his wife had gone to a birthday dinner at a restaurant with friends.
He pulled out his phone and produced time-stamped selfies at the dinner table, which he forwarded to me with his phone number and that of the birthday boy.
He said, “I wish I knew something. I want to help. I can’t stop thinking about them.”
Conklin handed his card to Stroop. “Call anytime if a thought strikes.” Then we entered the main building and started down the wide hallway.
Two days ago Carly Myers, Adele Saran, and Susan Jones had walked this same hallway on their way to and from class. As Stroop had confirmed, Monday had been an ordinary workday. He hadn’t seen any red flags that had caused alarm.
So what had happened to the three schoolteachers?
My sense was that they’d had no clue their lives were about to veer off from ordinary workday to an extraordinarily bad place. That they’d be abducted on Monday night within minutes of leaving the Bridge.
Every passing hour made it more likely that they were dead.
CHAPTER 5
Conklin and I checked the names on the doors as we made our way down the broad, locker-lined hallway to the office of assistant dean Karin Slaughter.
In a conversation with the dean, we’d learned that Slaughter was thirty-two, had a master’s degree in education, had been with Pacific View Prep for five years, and, importantly, was friends with the three missing women.
Even if she didn’t know it yet, she might have a clue to their disappearance.
We found Slaughter’s office, and Conklin knocked on her open door. Slaughter stood up from her desk and stepped forward to shake our hands. She was a conservative dresser, wearing a midcalf-length black jersey dress, low-heeled shoes, and a look of genuine concern.
I heard myself say, “You have the same name as one of my favorite writers.”
“I hear that a lot,” she said with a smile. “We’re Googlegangers,” she said.
“Googlegangers? Let me guess; people with the same name?”
“That’s it. Google Karin Slaughter and we both come up. I’m a big fan of hers, too.”
I liked her immediately. She indicated a row of Slaughter’s bestsellers on her bookshelf, but as she returned to her desk, her welcoming expression drooped with worry.
My partner and I took the two chairs across from Slaughter’s desk, and she blurted out, “I’m so frightened. I cannot sleep or think about anything but them. Did you know that I was supposed to go out with them Monday night? I couldn’t go. I had too much work. I had to beg off.”
Conklin and I had the missing women’s photos, home addresses, and work schedules but knew little about their personalities, habits, and relationships. Karin Slaughter was eager to fill us in.
“Carly Myers is a born leader,” she said. “She’s the one to organize a party or a field trip. She teaches history and loves sports. Baseball, football, whatever. I’d say she’s outgoing and adventuresome. In a good way.”
Then Slaughter described Jones, who taught music, was divorced, watched late-night TV every night, and had lost thirty-five pounds in the last year. “She’s fun and a gifted pianist, and she’s looking for love,” Slaughter said. She’d bought skinny jeans and become a blonde.
We asked about Saran next, and Slaughter told us that she was new to the school. “She came here about a year ago from a public school in Monterey. Teaches English lit, reads a lot, and works out at our gym every day at lunch. She’s thoughtful. Serious. She’d been coming out of her shell lately. We’re good for her, I’d say. Although now …”
Conklin and I had questions: Had any of the women had any recent problems at the school with students or faculty? Had any of them received threats? Did they have addictions, any trouble with relatives or suitors? Any sign of depression?
No, no, no, no.
According to Slaughter, the three young women had perfect attendance records, were well liked, and, except for Adele, were dating a bit.
“This is hell,” she told us. “I feel very bad to say this, but really, I could be missing right now. You could be looking for me. Please tell me that they could still be … safe.”
I couldn’t tell her what she wanted to know, so I deflected.
“Every cop in the city is looking for them. Our forensics lab is going over their cars and apartments and electronics. We’re in contact with their parents. We will find your friends.”
I was reassuring Slaughter and convincing myself that we’d have a solid lead on this crime by day’s end. There had to be a video, a witness, a tip, that would lead to the missing schoolteachers. Right? Even a ransom call would be welcome.
We thanked Karin Slaughter for her help, urged her to call if something useful occurred to her, and headed to our next appointment.
By the end of the school day, my partner and I had spoken to two dozen people at the school and had gotten a few thin, go-nowhere leads. We stopped off at the forensics lab around five that evening.
Clapper was putting on his jacket when we walked in.
“Their cars are dirty,” he told us. “Like regular dirty. A lot of fingerprints, dirt on the floor mats, water bottles. We’re running the prints off all of that. Nothing jumps out from their personal or office computers, but we’re still working on those and their cell phone histories.”