Chapter 2 - The Girl Without a Voice
Detective Quinn immediately ordered the room cleared.
The silver device was sealed in an evidence pouch and taken to the police technology unit.
A hospital security officer searched the room for additional electronics.
Nothing else was found.
The possibility that someone had been listening to us changed everything.
The attacker—or someone connected to them—wanted to know what Lily remembered.
They wanted to know whether she could identify anyone.
They might also know I had heard the letters she tried to write.
VA.
I stared at the hallway every time footsteps approached.
By sunrise, two uniformed officers were stationed outside Lily’s door.
Her surgery lasted nearly five hours.
I waited alone in a family room with cold coffee and a television I never turned on.
Detective Quinn returned shortly before noon.
“The device was not transmitting in real time,” she said.
“What was it doing?”
“Recording locally. It appears voice-activated.”
“Who put it in her hoodie?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Was it there when she was found?”
“The clothing passed through campus security, ambulance personnel and hospital staff. We’re reconstructing chain of custody.”
“So anyone could have planted it.”
“Yes.”
She sat across from me.
“We reviewed the available campus footage.”
“Available?”
“That’s the problem. Cameras covering the rear of the science building lost connection between 10:39 and 10:42.”
“Three minutes.”
“Yes.”
“Lily’s phone went offline at 10:41.”
Detective Quinn nodded.
“The cameras resumed normally afterward.”
“Power failure?”
“No. Only four cameras were affected.”
“Could someone disable them remotely?”
“Possibly.”
“And the university’s explanation?”
“Routine network interruption.”
I leaned forward.
“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t believe in convenient interruptions.”
Neither did I.
The surgeon came in at 1:30 p.m.
The operation had gone as well as possible.
Lily’s jaw was stabilized with plates and wires.
She would be unable to speak for some time.
Swelling made writing difficult, but when she was fully awake, doctors would give her a tablet with a simplified communication program.
I entered her room two hours later.
She looked smaller than she had the night before.
A feeding tube had been placed through her nose.
Her face was almost unrecognizable beneath bruising.
I sat beside her and held up the tablet.
The screen displayed large buttons.
YES.
NO.
PAIN.
WATER.
AFRAID.
I touched the final word.
“Are you afraid?”
Lily pressed YES.
“Of the person who attacked you?”
YES.
“Do you think they’ll come here?”
Her finger hovered.
Then pressed YES again.
I moved closer.
“You’re safe. Police are outside.”
She shook her head faintly.
Her finger moved to the keyboard.
Typing took almost a minute.
NOT ONE PERSON
I read the words twice.
“More than one person was involved?”
YES.
“Did more than one person attack you?”
NO.
“One attacked you, and others helped cover it up?”
YES.
Detective Quinn was called back into the room.
Lily typed again.
PHONE HAD PROOF
“What proof?” Quinn asked.
Lily’s finger paused above the keys.
WATER TESTS
“What kind of water tests?”
RIVER SAMPLES
She became exhausted.
The nurse asked us to stop, but Lily lifted one finger and typed a final message.
DON’T TRUST CAMPUS
Then she closed her eyes.
Outside the room, Detective Quinn made a call.
I contacted Bradley University myself.
The president’s office transferred me to someone named Charles Denton, vice president for campus operations.
He expressed sympathy in a polished voice.
“We are cooperating fully with local law enforcement.”
“Why did four cameras stop recording for exactly three minutes?”
“We experienced a technical disruption.”
“Has that happened before?”
“I don’t have those details.”
“My daughter says not to trust campus officials.”
There was a pause.
“Mr. Mercer, Lily experienced severe trauma. It would be inappropriate to treat every statement she makes immediately after surgery as reliable.”
Anger tightened my throat.
“My daughter knew exactly what she typed.”
“I’m not questioning her sincerity.”
“You just questioned her mind.”
“We want what is best for Lily.”
“No. You want this contained.”
I ended the call.
At 5:00 p.m., a woman arrived carrying flowers.
She introduced herself as Professor Celeste Monroe, chair of the environmental sciences department.
She was elegant, composed and visibly shaken.
“Lily is one of our best students,” she said. “Everyone is devastated.”
“Did she work for Dr. Adrian Vale?”
Professor Monroe’s eyes flickered.
“Yes.”
“What were they studying?”
“A long-term water-quality project involving agricultural runoff and industrial contaminants in the Illinois River watershed.”
“Who funded it?”
“Several organizations.”
“Names.”
She hesitated.
“The primary corporate sponsor is Halcyon Chemical.”
I knew the company.
Halcyon operated manufacturing sites across the Midwest. It had donated millions to universities, hospitals and political campaigns.
“Did Lily discover something in the water?”
Professor Monroe looked toward the closed hospital-room door.
“I shouldn’t discuss research details.”
“My daughter’s jaw is held together by metal plates.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
She lowered her voice.
“Two weeks ago, Lily asked me how to file a confidential research-integrity complaint.”
“Against Dr. Vale?”
“She didn’t name anyone.”
“Did you report the conversation?”
Professor Monroe looked down.
“I contacted the university compliance office.”
“And what did they do?”
“They told me to direct Lily back to her supervising professor.”
“You sent her back to the person she may have been reporting.”
“I followed procedure.”
“Procedure nearly got her killed.”
Professor Monroe’s face tightened.
Before leaving, she placed a business card on the table.
On the back, she had written a phone number.
“This is my personal line,” she whispered. “Do not contact me through university email.”
“Why?”
She glanced toward the hallway.
“Because someone accessed my account this morning and deleted every message Lily sent me.”
She walked away before I could respond.
That night, I opened Lily’s backpack with Detective Quinn present.
Inside were notebooks, textbooks, a yellow raincoat and three small sample bottles labeled with dates.
One bottle contained cloudy water.
Another was empty.
The third held reddish sediment.
A folded campus map had been marked with circles along the river.
In the margin, Lily had written:
Results don’t match Vale’s report. Levels 18x higher. Ask Noah.
“Noah who?” Quinn asked.
I searched Lily’s contacts through a backup stored on her laptop.
There were four Noahs.
Only one belonged to her department.
Noah Briggs.
Graduate research assistant.
Detective Quinn called him.
No answer.
Campus records showed Noah lived in an apartment near the university.
Officers went to the address.
The door was open.
The apartment had been emptied.
No clothing.
No computer.
No personal photographs.
The landlord said Noah left in a hurry that morning.
A neighbor heard him arguing with a man in the hallway.
The man reportedly said:
“You should have deleted everything when Vale told you.”
At 11:47 p.m.—exactly twenty-four hours after the hospital called me—Lily’s missing phone came back online.
Its location appeared for less than ten seconds.
Not on campus.
Not near the river.
May you like
Inside the home of Professor Adrian Vale.
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