"No problem," he answered. "The policeman you sent came with his lights and siren blaring right up to the front door." He gave a forced chuckle. "I have to admit, it was a little disconcerting."
Amanda smiled her grandmotherly smile. "Consider it incentive to keep your nose clean."
Will shook his head at the silence on the other end of the line. He took over the call, asking, "Mr. Bernard, can you give us your impression of the letters?"
"I have to admit, I find them curious."
"Can you explain why?"
"The first one, which I would read as ‘she belongs to me,' just doesn't ring true. I told you yesterday that each dyslexic is different, and perhaps you'd be better off talking to a linguist for regional dialect and such, but in my opinion, you're dealing with a phonetic speller, not a dyslexic."
Will asked, "How can you be sure?"
"Well, I'm not." He made a thinking noise. "All I can speak from is my own experience. With a dyslexic, I would expect the letters to be mixed up, not just misspelled or run together. Transposition is the most notable characteristic. For instance, Emma continually transposed the ‘e' and ‘l' in help, spelling it ‘h-l-e-p.' "
Amanda did nothing to hide her impatience. "What about the other ones?"
"The second one, ‘rapist,' is correct, of course, but the third one, the ‘lev her along' for ‘leave her alone'-and again, let me qualify this by saying that each person is different-but the ‘along' seems odd. Typically, you would not expect to find the ‘g' there. It's what I would call a heavy letter, meaning it has a definitive sound within a word. You often see it used for ‘j' or a ‘j' used in its place, but you never see it just thrown in for no reason." He made the thinking noise again. "But then the ‘lev' gives me pause."
Will was having a hard time following all the spelling, but he still asked, "Why is that?"
"Because, generally, that's a dyslexic spelling. It's the word in its purest form. No run-on, no ‘g' thrown in for effect. I would assume that spell-check added it there."
"So, what's your opinion? Is someone trying to appear dyslexic or do they really have the disorder?"
"Well…" The man hesitated. "I'm not a doctor. I'm a reading teacher. But if you were to put a gun to my head, I'd say that you are looking at the work of an adult, probably of average intelligence, who simply never learned basic reading skills."
Will looked up at Amanda and found her staring back at him. They were both unused to getting straight answers. Just to clarify, Will asked, "You don't think this person has some sort of reading disability?"
"You asked for my honest opinion and I gave it to you. I would say that the person who wrote these letters never learned how to properly read or spell. At best, they're on a second- or third-grade level."
Amanda was obviously skeptical. "How is that possible?"
"I saw it more when I taught in the public school system, but, it happens. Kids with all kinds of reading problems can slip through the cracks. You try to help them, but there's nothing you can really do. That's one of the reasons I moved to Westfield."
In the background, they heard the class bell ring.
Bernard said, "I'm sorry, but I need to get to class. I can get someone to cover if you-"
"That's okay," Will told him. "Thank you for your time. If you could give those notes back to the patrolman who gave them to you?"
"Of course. Please call me if anything else comes up. I wish I could have been more help to you."
"You were very helpful," Will told him. "I would appreciate if you kept this conversation to yourself. We don't want to do anything to jeopardize Emma's situation."
"Of course not. I think our students are damaged enough by this tragedy as it is."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Bernard."
Amanda ended the call. "Did you follow any of that?"
"Yes," Will said. "Our letter writer is an adult of average intelligence who happens to be a functional illiterate."
"You don't know how refreshing I find it for an expert to give me their honest opinion."
Caroline came into the office with a file folder in her hand. "Background checks on the Copy Right employees, and Gordon Chew called to say he's running half an hour late."
Amanda did not bother to thank the woman. She opened the file and skimmed the pages, giving Will the highlights. "Everyone's clean except for Lionel Edward Petty, who has a drug conviction. During a traffic stop, they found two ounces of pot in his glove compartment."
"Was he hit with intent to distribute?" Will asked. Though it was discretionary, one ounce of marijuana would generally buy you a misdemeanor. Two ounces could be construed as drug trafficking.
Amanda told him, "He ratted out his dealer and they knocked it down to a fine and time served."
"Faith found some pot taped under Adam Humphrey's desk," Will said. "It's a tenuous connection, but the Copy Right is close to Tech. If he really was dealing, then he could easily walk to campus during his lunch hour."
"I'm sure there are dealers living right on campus who have that business all wrapped up." She closed the file folder. "I'm getting the runaround from the contractors who had construction crews outside the copy center. My gut says they were using illegals. Maybe we should go back and see if anyone in the store talked to the workers. There's a Hispanic girl who works the morning shift." She referenced one of the pages in the folder. "Maria Contreras. Maybe she had some contact with them. Maybe I'm racial profiling. Check the other girls, too. They may have flirted with the men." She started to hand the sheet to Will, then thought better of it.
He held out his hand. "I can give it to Faith."
She put the paper on the desk and slid it over, making her point loud and clear. "You need a partner, Will."
"You know I don't work well with others."
"You seem to be working fine with Faith Mitchell."
"Because she knows there's an end to it."
"Ah," she said. "There it is. The famous Trent self-esteem."
He bristled. "What does that mean?"
"I'm not your mama, Will, but it's time to grow a pair and stop feeling sorry for yourself because you have a disability."
He did not ask why she kept throwing his dyslexia back in his face if she thought his problem was so inconsequential. Amanda had built her career around knowing people's weak points and exploiting the hell out of them.
She leaned forward, making sure she had his attention. "You see cases as puzzles and whatever it is that's so different in your brain makes it possible for you to solve them the way no one else can." She paused, letting that sink in. "I trusted you with this case because I knew that you could handle it. I don't need a crisis of confidence from you right now. I need you to go out there and work with Faith and do your job the best way you know how."
"Amanda-"
"And while I'm at it, you could probably do a hell of a lot better than Angie Polaski."
"That's out of line."
"Probably, but consider yourself put on notice. When this case is over, I'm going to ask Faith to join the team."
"She's APD. She'll lose her benefits and pension and-"
"I'll worry about the details. You worry about finding a way to tell Faith about your little problem, Special Agent Trent. She's going to figure it out on her own eventually and she'll be furious at you for hiding it." She added, "And I'm not too pleased myself about having to babysit you on this phone call when I could be off doing something that actually moves this case forward instead."