The Competition (21 page)

My cell phone
rang on our way back to the station. I looked at the number, then at Bailey, who was navigating the downtown traffic. “You won’t believe this. It’s Dorian.”

“
She’s
calling
us?
” Bailey’s jaw dropped. “I think the earth just started turning backward.”

As I hit talk to take the call, I whispered to Bailey, “I should tell her not to bother me.” Bailey clamped her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Knight here.”

“Tell who not to bother you?” Dorian’s familiar growl was a reassuring touch point in this Bizarro World case.

“Uh, the press, sorry. I was talking to Bailey.”

Dorian proceeded without further preamble. “I finished at the Cutter house. The ground under the bedroom window was a muddy mess. Too damp to see much of anything. But I might have something on the concrete walkway leading down the side yard and out to the street.”

“Recent shoe prints?”

“That’s what I’m hoping they are. Tell you when I know more. But I can say for sure that there’s only one set of prints. Consistent with the kid taking a powder. I know we’ve got to rule it out, but I’m not seeing any evidence of foul play.”

Not that there’d been much doubt about it, but the possibility of abduction had to be addressed. “Think you can get some idea of the shoe size?”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Dor—” Dead air. She was gone. I told Bailey what she said.

“I’d guess Dorian already asked the sergeant to get some of Evan’s shoes from his parents, but I’ll call the sergeant. Make sure he remembers.”

“That reminds me, what about Logan’s folks? I know the unis have been getting what they can out of them, but maybe we should try talking to them ourselves—”

“No, kiddo,
we
don’t need to do anything with the Jarvises. They wouldn’t spit on us if we were on fire.” True. Telling them their son was a mass murderer hadn’t endeared us to them. “And it hasn’t just been unis. I’ve had Harrellson talk to them too. He found out Logan has cousins in Utah, but we already checked them out. No way Logan ran to them. They’d have tied him to the back of a truck and dragged him to the police station.”

“I’m glad you got Harrellson.”

“One of the few good things about this case: I get what I want.”

Harrellson was a great detective. Light on his feet for a man his size—six feet by three feet if he was an inch, which explained his penchant for suspenders—he was as smart, funny, and quick as they come, and he never missed a lick.

Bailey pulled into the parking lot at the PAB. When we got back to her desk, she called the sergeant in charge at Evan’s house. It was Saturday, but you couldn’t tell. All hands were on deck, and they probably would be until we had the shooters in custody.

I sat down at a vacant desk nearby and called Eric on his cell. “You heard about Evan?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Terrible, just terrible. They got anything yet?”

I told him what Dorian had so far. “And Bailey’s checking on the door-knock. We need to get out ahead of this somehow, but we just keep hitting dead ends. It’s making me crazy.”

“Rachel, remember, it’s always like this until it isn’t. We run into walls until we find the door. All you can do is keep digging. In the meantime, don’t make yourself any crazier than you have to. I have faith in you. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

I appreciated the support. I did. And I’d have found it reassuring but for one tiny fact: Eric didn’t know about the threatening letter yet. A pang of guilt made my throat tighten. I wanted to tell him, but I’d promised Graden I wouldn’t. I said nothing. When I ended the call, Bailey was off the phone.

“Just got the report from the unis who covered Evan’s ’hood,” she said. “Nothing from the door-knock. One of the unis contacted the paper deliverer, who said he thought he saw a white Corolla around the corner from Evan’s house around five a.m., but the uni didn’t think it was solid. Everyone in that neighborhood knows Logan drove a white Corolla.”

“The paperboy didn’t get a license plate?”

Bailey shook her head. “Another reason I’m not buying it. If Logan’s car had been around, we’d have more than this one sighting. But Nick’s got something for us. He’s on his way over.”

A few minutes later, he appeared holding a printout. He threw it down on Bailey’s desk. “There’s the reason you haven’t seen anything exciting in Logan’s emails.”

It was a few paragraphs of very fine print. “Enlighten me so I don’t have to strain my eyes,” she said.

“Sorry. I always set it to eight-point font to save paper.”

“You’re a tree hugger?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Like to hug lots of things.” Nick gave me a sly grin. I folded my arms and tried not to smile. Nick continued. “This email must have been written right when they first met. It was sent about the same time. Logan tells Evan not to put anything in an email he wouldn’t want the world to see because there’s no way to really hide it. Says the government is intercepting everything and keeping it in this huge storage place under a mountain in Utah. He’s got a link to an article that claims the government can intercept everyone’s email and that they plan to start real soon. Logan says they’ve probably already been doing it for a while.”

I picked up the printout. “Is that for real?”

“It might be. I know the government wants to be able to grab whatever whenever they want. Now does that mean the government’s interested in two high school kids’ bullshit? Probably not. But ain’t it typical of teenagers to think so?”

It was. And it did explain why nothing incriminating showed up in Logan’s email. After Nick left, we worked on our next move. With no solid leads, it wasn’t easy.

“What do we have on Logan’s past?” I asked.

“So far we’ve only gone back to the beginning of high school, but it shouldn’t be hard to go back further,” Bailey said. “And remember, Shane was in the military. So we’ve got military records and the records from the VA. They’re pulling it all together. We’ll have a full report soon.”

“But nothing that gave us any leads on where he might be?” Bailey shook her head. “Well, since we’ve got time and no better ideas, may as well go back further on Logan. Hit middle school and elementary school.” I thought about what Jenny had told me during an earlier phone conversation. “The underlying point of these shootings is to feel powerful, superior.”

“And to get famous.”

“Yeah, but according to the shrinks, power and control is the key. It was all over that letter.”

“True,” Bailey said. “So if school was a place where he got tweaked about feeling inferior or weak—”

“Then it becomes a proving ground. But it’s also a pragmatic thing. Logan knows the layout, and it’s a relatively easy place to score a high body count—‘fish in a barrel’ style. Plus, it’s where other shooters staged their scenes. So if they’re looking to beat out the other killers, that’s the optimal target.”

“Then Logan’s next target might be one of his past schools—”

“An elementary school. Or even a middle school.” Both were the sites of previous mass murders.

Bailey’s cell rang. She looked at the number and rolled her eyes. “The tip line, God help us.” She answered the call. But this time, she sat up and stared straight ahead, her gaze intense. After taking a few notes, she ended the call and swiveled her chair toward me. “Finally, a real one.” She consulted her notes. “Someone who fits the description of Shane Dolan was sighted up in Red Bluff—”

“Where the hell is that?”

“North of Sacramento. Up near Cottonwood.”

“Where was he?”

“Filling up at a gas station. They didn’t get the plate. But they did give a description of the car.” She picked up her notepad. “A blue Volkswagen Jetta with body damage to the right rear fender.”

We grinned and bumped fists. “We have ignition.”

I couldn’t believe how good it felt to finally get a break.

Bailey’s cell buzzed. “Text from Nick. They figured out where the letter was mailed.” She picked up her desk phone and punched in the number.

I sat up. If we could pin down where Logan—or the second shooter—had mailed the letter, we’d have another area to search. It was a very brief conversation. Bailey didn’t look happy. “It was sent from Boulder, Colorado.”

“Boulder?” I’d been sure he was still here, in L.A.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re in Boulder. They might just have someone there who was willing to mail the letter.”

And finding that person would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. A haystack the size of…Boulder, Colorado. I sighed. After the tip about Shane, I’d thought we might finally be on a roll. Two steps forward…

With no known
ties between Logan and Boulder, the letter was a dead end. I’d had enough of those to last me a lifetime. I went back to the sighting of Shane Dolan. “They didn’t see anyone with him? Or did the PR say?”

PR, person reporting. “He didn’t notice anyone else. But the suspect was pumping gas, so our PR probably only noticed him because he was standing outside the car. I’d guess our tipster didn’t bother to look inside the car once he recognized Shane.”

“Assuming it
was
Shane.”

Bailey sighed and nodded. “But his picture’s been everywhere, so we’ve got reason to hope. I’m sending Harrellson up there with a couple of unis. If it’s a righteous tip, he’ll run it to ground.”

Harrellson was going to have a lot of miles on him before this was over. “Okay.”

Bailey hit a key to wake up her computer and pulled up the report. “But there is something we can do in the meantime. I’ve got the names and locations of Logan’s junior high and elementary school. They’re both local, so we could—”

“Say no more.” I stood up and grabbed my purse. We were looking for personal information on Logan. Something to tell us whether he’d had an experience at either school that might motivate him to stage another shooting there. But the incident we were looking for might only be something a teacher would remember under questioning—it might not have been significant enough to make it into any records. It was probably something a team of unis could handle, but we’d lose our minds if we didn’t get out and do something. “We’ll have to see if they’ll make time for us on a Saturday, but that’s a great idea.”

Bailey raised an eyebrow. “But first let’s see if we can score you a Xanax, so you don’t make them hide under the table.”

I looked at my watch. “Come on, let’s move. It’s after two. Let’s catch those teachers before they decide to have a life.”

Bailey looked like she wanted to stuff a red ball in my mouth, but we both knew every minute that passed brought us closer to another atrocity. It wasn’t a matter of if. It was a matter of when. And when was likely to be very soon. She placed calls to each of the principals. The principal of Platt Junior High answered first. She told us to come in to the school. She’d round up all the teachers she could find. We trotted out to Bailey’s car, and within seven minutes, we were bombing down the 101 freeway.

Platt Junior High was a low-profile, almost country-looking little school with colorfully painted walls—some with cartoon-style murals featuring flowers, insects, and animals; others in solid vibrant hues of red, purple, and green. The overall effect was cheery, if a little on the young side for middle schoolers.

And Principal Marion Jenks seemed more like someone’s c
ooki
e-b
akin
g mom than the head of a junior high. Short and round, she was dressed casually in slacks and a heavy sweater. She ushered us into her office. “Just call me Marion.” Her warm, relaxed smile soothed my frayed nerves. “Logan’s teachers were all happy to come in, and they said they’d stay for as long as it takes. So don’t feel as though you have to rush through anything.”

Not that we would’ve, but it was nice to hear. “How many of them do we have?” I asked.

“Four. Math, English, Spanish, and phys ed.” She opened a file that was on her desk. “He’s a brilliant kid, did you know that?”

“We heard he’s a math genius,” Bailey said.

“He’s a genius, period. He scored one hundred sixty-eight on his last IQ test. I’m not a big believer in those things, but that does indicate a fairly superior level of intelligence—by any measure.” Marion flipped the pages of the file. “I’ve never met him myself, but his file shows no indication that he ever gave us any trouble whatsoever.” She looked from me to Bailey. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll find evidence that he wasn’t one of the shooters?”

“It seems unlikely,” I said.

She shook her head, her eyes sad. “I guess you just never know.” Marion closed the file and handed it to Bailey. “I’ll need you to cover me with a subpoena, but I made this copy of his records for you. It’s under the table, so hang on to it. When you get the official copy you can just shred it.” Marion stood up. “Better get started.”

She walked us down the pathway that led past the outdoor lunch area and out to the gym. “I set you up to begin with his phys ed teacher, Joe Cooper. When you’re done here, he’ll take you to Sophia Magana.”

Joe was shooting hoops in a gym that was impressively professional-looking for a middle school. He looked like Jimmy Buffett—with the leathery skin of someone who spent a lot of un-SPF’d time in the sun. Joe remembered Logan more for what he didn’t do than what he did. “From the first minute the kid walked into the gym, I’m thinking he’ll be a basketball star. Tall as hell, long arms, long legs. I was stoked. It’s been a while since we had a decent team.”

“How’d he do?” I asked.

“He didn’t. Wasn’t interested, threw bricks like a girl—oh, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said. The look on Bailey’s face told me we were both fighting the temptation to grab the ball and show him how girls threw. “So he didn’t seem to be the aggressive type?” I asked.

“Aggressive? About as aggressive as overcooked pasta, you ask me.” He moved the basketball to his left side. “I’m not saying he was a bad kid. He’d dress and do what he had to do. Which, believe me, I appreciate. Half of ’em won’t even put on their gym clothes.”

“Did he ever get a hard time from the other kids?” Bailey asked.

“Not in my class. I don’t put up with any bullying bs. I tell ’em from day one I’ll turn ’em in to the principal and call their parents the first whiff I get of any ugly stuff.” He held up the basketball and spun it on his right index finger. I’d always wanted to be able to do that. Watching him, I realized for the first time that it might’ve helped if my fingers had been a little bigger. Then again, maybe I just wasn’t a great “ball handler.”

We lobbed a few more questions at Joe, but it was clear that beyond his disappointment at not finding star material in Logan, he didn’t have much to tell us.

We thanked him for his time, and he dutifully squired us to Señora Magana’s classroom. Her interview yielded even less. Logan was a quiet kid who sat in the back of the class, always turned in his homework, and got straight A’s, though he avoided speaking the language whenever possible. Señora Magana did not find that to be an issue unique to Logan.

We moved on to Albert Packman, the math teacher. Here, I expected to get a full report. Surprisingly, he didn’t have that much to say. “I remember him because he aced every test and his homework was always perfect. But he’d never talk in class. He always sat in the back and never seemed to be paying attention. At first, I’d call on him just to bust him. But he had the answer every single time. I finally realized he was bored, didn’t have to give it his full attention. It was just that easy for him. I suspected he helped some of the kids because they’d turn in homework that was pretty damn good and then bomb their exams, but I couldn’t prove it.”

And no, he didn’t see Logan get into any fights or get picked on by anyone. As we were wrapping up the interview, Bailey got a call on her cell and stepped outside. When I caught up with her, she said the elementary school principal had called back. There was only one teacher who had any specific recollections about Logan. “But she’s not far. She lives in Westlake Village and she said we could come by anytime.”

Excellent. Our last stop at the middle school was Cherry Fournier, the English teacher. Here, at last, we got something. Cherry was an unfortunate name for a teacher of young boys, and she was doubly cursed to have looks that went with it: blonde and blue-eyed, a sweet face, and a heroic bust, which she tried—and failed—to disguise.

“I don’t know how he could have gone so wrong,” Cherry said. “The Logan I remember was a wonderful boy. Incredibly smart and very soulful. He wrote poetry, and he actually understood Shakespeare better than almost any student I’ve ever had. That’s no small feat for a kid that age. I’d give him extra reading assignments because the work in class was way too easy for him. He loved Voltaire, so I gave him more of the French classics like Balzac and Camus. He flew through them.”

With very little hope, I asked, “Did he have any problems with any of the other students?”

“Logan?” Cherry shook her head. “No, not that I re—” She stopped abruptly. “No, wait. I think he did.” She stared out the window for a few moments, gathering the memory. “Yes, now I remember. We’d just finished King Arthur and I asked everyone to write a paragraph about Camelot. He wrote a beautiful poem, very romantic as I recall. About Lady Guinevere and Sir Lancelot. I gave him an A, and I wrote a comment about how sensitive and original it was. When I handed the papers back to the class, I accidentally gave Logan’s to one of the football players.”

“Uh-oh,” Bailey said.

Cherry nodded. “Yeah, big uh-oh. The jerk passed it around to his buddies, and they started laughing and making fun of him, and then this really big kid they called Hot Rod waved it in the air and told me he got Sir Pantsalot’s paper by mistake.” Cherry’s face reddened with anger. “His buddies were all hooting about Sir Pantsalot. Poor Logan just sat there like a bug pinned to a board. I felt so bad for him. I tried to talk to him at the end of class, but he ran out. I could hear the jocks out in the hallway calling him Pansy-Ass-Pantsalot…among other things.” Cherry made a face. “Anyway, the next thing I knew, I heard someone screaming out curses. A stream of ‘fuck-yous’ and ‘motherfucking asshole’ and whatnot. I ran out there, thinking someone must be getting hurt.”

“And?” I asked.

“It was Logan. He was screaming at the top of his lungs at Hot Rod and his buddies. Which took some guts, because he was way outnumbered. But what shocked me was the way Logan looked. His whole body was rigid and shaking, and his face was bright red. And he screamed so hard he was spitting. I was worried he might pass out.”

“And the jocks? How’d they take it?” I asked.

“That’s the strange part. They just stood there and stared. I think they were probably in shock. Logan’s reaction was so completely out of character. He’d always been so quiet, so shy. To see him go ballistic like that was just…kind of scary, actually. Like there was another person inside of him and there was no telling what that person might do.” Cherry looked from me to Bailey. “Kind of significant, isn’t it? I mean, in hindsight.”

Which seemed to be the only way to spot this kind of criminal. “So it didn’t turn into a physical fight?”

“No. Logan finished screaming, and Hot Rod and his crew walked off.”

“The jocks didn’t mess with him again?” I asked.

“Not in my class.”