Larkin stared at the disturbing contents recovered from the drawer as Doyle put in a call to have CSU come up and fully process the desk—preferably Detective Neil Millett, if he was available, at Larkin’s behest. “Gary Reynold isn’t on school property,” he stated.

“Have a uniformed officer come along for door duty. … Yeah, school’s still in session. … Great. Thanks.” Doyle hung up, met Larkin’s stare as he tucked the phone into a pocket, and asked, “What was that?”

“You spoke with Principal Widalski at quarter to twelve.”

“Roughly.”

“She would have likely informed Reynold by noon of our imminent arrival—between periods. He then hid this evidence that incriminates him in a… murder? Underage pornography?… I’m not sure what these photographs signify exactly. Then he collected his personal effects and left sometime between 12:00 p.m. and 1:06 p.m. without anyone noticing.”

Doyle’s thick brows rose, and he said, “Public schools usually have two lunch periods. I’ll bet his last class finished just as second lunch began. Widalski would have spoken to him then—probably closer to 12:30. Reynold left on his lunch break and simply didn’t come back.”

“Why.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No. The question is, why did he leave and not take these items with him,” Larkin corrected, motioning to the pictures and phone.

Doyle hesitated. “Because he didn’t expect them to be found? He intends to come back?”

Larkin raised his index finger. “Yes.”

“If he planned on returning to work, why run off to begin with?”

“He has evidence elsewhere that’s not hidden.”

“He’s disposing of it right now,” Doyle said, his voice sinking. “But where—”

“Home,” Larkin answered. “He took his keys. He went home.” He started for the classroom door just as Widalski reappeared.

“I’m sorry about that,” she began.

“Call the office,” Larkin interrupted. “Tell them I need Gary Reynold’s home address right now.”

And then he ran into the hall.

Larkin could hear Doyle’s brief instructions to not touch anything and to please wait for responding officers who would be processing the room, and then his partner’s steps were pounding the tiles, the soles of their shoes beating in sync as they made for the stairwell. Even with the late start, Doyle had longer legs, and he reached the stairs before Larkin. He put even more distance between them by sliding down the banister, the slap of his oxfords on the floor bouncing off the bare walls and high ceiling. Doyle turned as Larkin jumped the final two steps, caught his hand, and pushed Larkin to take the lead.