The Competition (35 page)

Friday, October 18
7:08 a.m.

I was having
a nightmare about being chased by a man in a ski mask—it doesn’t take Freud to figure out the symbolism in my dreams—when my hotel phone rang. I sat up before I grabbed it, hoping that would make me sound more awake. “’Lo?”

“I woke you up.” Bailey sounded triumphant.

“No, you didn’t. I was just lying here thinking about what to wear.”

“Sure you were.” I can never get away with anything. “I just wanted to warn you to wear boots and a heavy coat since we’re going to be sitting outside for a few hours.”

Outside? Then I remembered. Today was the memorial for the victims of the Fairmont High shooting.

They’d chosen the San Juan Theater, a lovely outdoor amphitheater on the north side of the Santa Monica Mountains. The stage was set into a steep hill planted with beautiful multicolored shrubs and scrub oak trees. Above the entrance to the theater was an open rooftop that afforded a north-facing view of the mountains. That space was used for private parties, and I’d had the chance to attend one a few years ago. A flamenco troupe was performing that night, and standing there under the stars, seeing the dancers move against the dramatic backdrop of the mountains, was an incredible experience.

“Nine o’clock?”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Friday, October 18
7:14 a.m.

“He’s here!
He’s at the school! I saw it! I saw his car!”

The 911 operator spoke with deliberate calm. “You need to give me a name. Who’s there? And where are you?”

“The shooter! That guy from the school! He’s here!”

The dispatcher stared at the blinking dot on her monitor, then put out the call.

7:15 a.m.

“Zero hour”—when band members and athletic teams had practice—was at seven thirty at Taft High School. The janitor opened the doors to the main entrance and found two tenor sax players and a wide receiver already waiting. They straggled in, still half asleep. “Good morning to you,” he said with an amused smile.

The principal and three teachers pulled into the faculty parking lot. An older Honda Civic stopped in front of the main entrance and three students carrying instrument cases got out. Then it headed for the student parking lot, which faced Ventura Boulevard.

No one noticed the beat-up beige Chevrolet parked in the middle of the lot.

But a few minutes later, a squad car slowly cruised down Ventura Boulevard, past the school. The officer in the passenger seat tapped the driver on the arm. “Hey, there it is.”

The driving officer pulled to the curb. “Call in the plate.”

The passenger officer called it in. “I can’t tell whether anyone’s in the car,” he told the dispatcher.

Within seconds the dispatcher confirmed it was the car Evan Cutter got from Charlie Herzog, and reported the sighting to the Valley Division. When she came back on the line, she relayed the captain’s orders. “Stay in the area, but do not approach. Repeat, do not approach. Stand by for backup.”

As the squad car slowly circled the block, five male students in workout sweats poured out of a van and entered the school.

Principal Dingboom sat down at his desk, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. The hour before regular classes began was always a welcome quiet time. He’d just raised his mug to take a sip when the phone on his desk rang. Startled, his hand jerked, and coffee spilled on his desk and dribbled onto his lap. He grabbed a Kleenex and wiped his trousers as he picked up the phone. “Principal Dingboom,” he said.

“This is Captain Vroman of the West Valley station of LAPD. I need you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say.” The captain told him that Evan Cutter’s car had been sighted in the school parking lot. “I need you to lock the front doors, then round up everyone in the school and evacuate them through the back doors. Immediately. SWAT officers are on their way. Do you understand me?”

The principal’s throat tightened. He barely managed to choke out “yes.” He dropped the phone into its cradle with a shaking hand. Outside, he saw five more students and two teachers walking up the front steps of the school. The principal yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out his set of keys, and ran.

Seconds later, four SWAT officers pulled up behind the school and hurried to the gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the football field. The team had just begun to warm up. The officers called out to the coach. He stared for a moment, then hurried over and let them in. The coach’s weathered face blanched as he listened to what they said.

When they’d finished, he blew his whistle to gather the players. They huddled around him and a SWAT officer stepped forward. “Don’t ask questions, just do as we say. You’re going to exit through the back gate, fast and quiet. Follow your coach. Do it now.”

The players, too stunned to question the orders, rapidly filed out. The coach handed his keys to the officer, who gave his final order. “Take those kids as far away from the school as you can. Then call the station. They’ll have someone pick you up.”

The coach joined his players outside the gate, raised an arm, and gestured for them to follow as he ran down the street. The SWAT team headed into the school.

Outside, officers had begun evacuating all homes and businesses within half a mile of the school and were cordoning off the entire area.

West Valley Detective Dwight Rosenberg and his partner, Meg Wittig, drove up in an unmarked car and badged their way through the line of officers guarding the perimeter. They stopped at the west edge of the school parking lot, five hundred feet behind the beige Chevrolet. Seconds later, three other unmarked cars lined up behind them.

Meanwhile, the SWAT officers shepherded the principal, the teachers, and all the remaining students out through the back door of the school, where squad cars waited to take them out of the neighborhood. The SWAT officers then went back inside and continued to clear the building.

Within minutes, more backup arrived. A dozen uniformed officers and four canine units swarmed in through the back door of the school and fanned out through the hallways. They combed every inch of the school for bodies, bombs, spring-loaded guns, and IEDs. Lockers were swept, trash bins turned upside down, bathrooms, classrooms, and offices searched top to bottom.

Finally, the SWAT officer in charge reported that the building had been cleared. All officers left through the back door.

At the front of the school, all was quiet. Unnaturally so. Traffic had been diverted for a six-block radius, and more than three dozen officers encircled the outer perimeter of the school grounds. All had their guns drawn and ready.

Detective Rosenberg remained at the edge of the student parking lot, behind the Chevrolet. Without taking his eyes off the car, he asked Meg, “Did someone put in the call to Detective Keller?”

“Captain said he’d take care of it.”

Dwight got out and peered into the driver’s side window of the Chevrolet. He spoke quietly. “You see someone in the driver’s seat?”

Meg nodded. “But it looks like his head is covered—”

“A ski mask.”

Meg swallowed, her heart pounding. “Yeah.”

“Where’s our sniper?”

“On his way.”

Dwight shook his head. He didn’t like any of this. Precious minutes were being wasted. If that was Evan Cutter, he could come out blasting at any moment. Dwight pulled out his bullhorn. “This is Detective Dwight Rosenberg with LAPD. I’m ordering the occupant of the beige Chevy to exit the vehicle immediately with your hands up.”

There was no response.

Dwight signaled to the detectives in the unmarked cars to get ready to move. He again raised the bullhorn and ordered the occupant of the car to exit the vehicle.

There was no response.

Sharpshooter Officer Butch Cannaday pulled into the parking lot behind the detectives and came running. Dwight nodded and pointed to the car. The sharpshooter pulled up his high-powered rifle. Sighting through his scope, he focused on the driver’s seat of the beige Chevrolet. He lowered the gun but kept his eyes trained on the car as he spoke to Dwight. “Someone’s definitely in the driver’s seat. Wearing a black balaclava.”

“That’s our boy’s MO,” Dwight said. “All right, kill the car.”

Butch raised his rifle and took aim. Four out of four shots hit the tires.

Dwight again used the bullhorn to order the occupant out of the car.

There was no response.

Dwight’s cell phone buzzed at his hip. It was the West Valley captain, who’d been monitoring the events on his radio. “Dwight, fall back and wait for the bomb squad.”

Dwight grunted. Another delay—the last thing they needed.

“Dwight? Don’t fuck with me. That’s an order.”

Dwight ended the call, relayed the order to Meg, and muttered under his breath. “We’re just giving this shitbird more time to do his worst.”

Meg nodded, but she agreed with the captain. If it was Evan Cutter in the car—and she was fairly sure it was—she wanted all the backup they could get. Meg liked the idea of being a hero, just not a dead one.

Dwight signaled for the detectives parked behind him to fall back. They retreated and crouched behind the open doors of their cars.

Police helicopters arrived, and the air above the school parking lot filled with the
whop-whop
of their propellers. Off in the distance, media helicopters hovered, waiting for the chance to move in.

Dwight’s cell phone buzzed again. “Yeah?” he answered, irritated.

It was the head of the bomb squad. “We’re trying to get there, we’ve got sirens and lights going, but the traffic’s a bitch—”

“How long?”

“Hard to tell right now. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Shit.” Dwight huffed. He gave Meg the news.

“Figures,” she said. “It’s morning rush hour. Nothing they can do about that.”

Dwight shook his head. He didn’t care whose fault it was. Cutter obviously couldn’t escape, but Dwight didn’t think that was the plan. He was staging his finale. Dwight fully expected him to come out shooting at any second. That’d be just his style. And what if he had grenades? Dwight looked at all the officers and detectives holding the perimeter. How many would die? They couldn’t afford to wait for the bomb squad. Dwight spoke to Meg in a low whisper. “Stay back and don’t let the others move until I tell you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say a word, Dwight had turned and begun to move toward the beige Chevrolet.

Hunkered down to make a smaller target, his gun held out in front of his body, arms shaking with tension, Dwight slowly edged toward the car. Meg couldn’t let him do it alone. Against her better judgment, she followed. But she held up a hand to signal that the detectives behind them should stay back.

The detectives, seeing her signal, exchanged looks and reached a silent agreement. All six of them quietly fell in behind her. Slowly, the phalanx inched forward, guns held at the ready.

When he got to within ten feet of the car, Dwight thought he saw movement in the driver’s seat. He stopped and tried to peer in through the rear window. Behind him, Meg and the other officers stopped and watched. Meg could feel a pulse throb at the base of her throat, imagined a bullet—or a piece of shrapnel—lodging there. She swallowed and tried to slow her breathing.

Dwight stared at the driver’s seat. Another movement? It looked like it. He raised his gun and took a step forward. But in that moment, he heard a low rumble, like the sound of a gas flame igniting. Dwight yelled, “Get down!”

Everyone dropped to the ground just as a thunderous explosion split the air. Fire shot out through the cracks in the doors, and flames engulfed the car. Seconds later, two smaller explosions, muffled and weak, followed. Smoke billowed out and spread through the parking lot.

For a brief moment, Dwight, facedown on the asphalt, heard nothing. Was he dead? But a few seconds later, he noticed that his ears were ringing. Not dead. But he couldn’t feel his arms, his legs. His heart began to race as panic set in. He’d had nightmares about being paralyzed ever since his former partner took a bullet to the spine. Squeezing his eyes shut, he begged his body to move. With an effort, he managed to roll onto his side. He could at least move his body. He opened his eyes. The smoke stung and made him tear up, but he could dimly make out shapes through the haze. He could see. He inhaled but pulled in smoke, and his body convulsed in a hacking cough. But as he struggled to catch his breath, his knees reflexively drew up. His legs felt okay. He straightened his arms, then curled his hands into fists. A smile spread across his face, and he almost laughed with relief.

Slowly, head still swimming, he stood up. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and took a few shallow breaths. He looked down at his body. Unbelievably, there were only minor cuts and scrapes. Behind him, he heard coughs and sputters. Dwight turned to see that all the other detectives had advanced with him, Meg in the lead. Jesus, what had he done?

Dwight helped Meg up. Her forehead was badly scraped, but she was able to stand and dust herself off. She was wobbly, but okay. “Why didn’t you stay back?” he asked.

Meg shrugged. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”

His heart was heavy with guilt. Dwight should’ve known she wouldn’t let him move without backup. He looked back at the rest of the detectives, who were wiping blood off of palms, cheeks, foreheads. “You guys okay?” The detectives nodded.

Dwight looked at the Chevrolet. He tried to see Cutter’s body, but flames and smoke obscured his view. When they’d cordoned off the parking lot, Cutter must’ve realized it was over and decided to make his grand exit. It struck him again just how reckless his move had been. If they’d gotten just a little closer, or Evan had a little more firepower…Dwight didn’t want to think about it.

The bomb squad arrived just as he was pulling out his phone. He restrained the impulse to say that “better late than never” really wasn’t their best motto. The truth was, he was glad to see them. He doubted the car was rigged with any more “surprises,” but after what they’d just been through, he was happy to let the experts make sure of it.

The head of the bomb squad, a big beefy type, jumped out of the truck and stomped over to Dwight. His voice was hot. “Ya just couldn’t wait, could ya? Ya had to be a friggin’ hero. You’re just damn lucky you didn’t get your whole team killed.” Dwight heaved a sigh, but said nothing. He’d known this was coming. And he knew he deserved it.

Dwight turned back to look at the Chevrolet. Now the only sound coming from the car was the crackle and whoosh of flames eating whatever would burn. They stood and watched, and waited.

The bomb squad took statements from Dwight and his team, examined the debris that had blown from the car, and studied the car itself through binoculars. After they’d huddled, the head of the squad marched up to Dwight, his jaw clenched. “Rosenberg, I know I said you got lucky. But now we have a better idea of just how lucky. You need to hear this: he had three bombs rigged up. Only the smallest one detonated. The other two were duds. If things had gone as this asswipe had planned, you, your team, and a whole lot of others would’ve been blown to smithereens.” He gave Dwight a hard look. “Get it?”

Dwight swallowed. He hadn’t thought he could feel any worse. “Got it.”

“Good. You can let the fire dudes in now.” He headed back to his truck.