The Competition Page 8

  “I assume Otis Barney is a gamer?” Jenny asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “So I guess that doesn’t necessarily prove anything.”

  “Not in and of itself,” Michael said. “But what is significant is that, based on what you describe, Otis is a follower. That means your second shooter is certainly the leader. I can’t think of a case in which there were two leaders.”

  “Okay,” Bailey said. “We’ve got a leader and a follower, and we shouldn’t bother canvassing video game sites. We should ask around about kids who did a lot of venting about being persecuted or waxed on about gun stuff. What else?”

  “Have someone who’s good with computers check the Internet,” Jenny said. “This type of criminal almost invariably writes about his desire to kill. I’d be very surprised if you didn’t find writings, blueprints, or drawings showing how they planned the attack. Check out Tumblr, Instagram; I hear Pheed is getting hot these days. I’d also check with English teachers for any poetry, short stories, or essays that depict homicidal fantasies.”

  “What about someone who’s been diagnosed as mentally ill at some point?” I asked.

  “Typically, no,” Jenny said.

  “No?” Bailey said. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re saying these sick fucks are normal?”

  “No,” Michael said. “We’re certainly not saying that. We’re just saying they’re not necessarily mentally ill—”

  “They have personality disorders,” Jenny said. “Usually borderline personality disorder or antisocial personality disorder. But those are not mental illnesses. In fact, people with those disorders are usually highly intact, organized, and articulate. Frequently, very intelligent.”

  “What about Adam Lanza, though?” Bailey asked. “Didn’t he have Asperger’s?”

  “So I’ve heard. But again, that’s not a mental illness,” Michael said.

  “Regardless, our shooters are different, aren’t they?” I asked. “Don’t these guys usually kill themselves? Like Harris and Klebold?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “And your shooters probably will too…ultimately. I doubt they plan to be taken alive.”

  I mentally replayed the images on the video footage taken from inside the gym, our walk-through at the school. “Fine by me.”

  13

  Tuesday afternoon, October 8

  We promised to keep the doctors up to speed on the investigation, and they promised to review any “interesting” writings we found on the Internet or at school. After they left, Bailey glanced at the clock on the wall, which was slightly crooked. It had bugged the hell out of me through the whole interview. Maybe I lacked focus too.

  “It’s lunchtime,” Bailey said. “You feel like eating?”

  “Not really.”

  She picked up the manila envelope with the photo of the shooter’s tattoo. “Then we may as well go see Charlotte and company.”

  The traffic wasn’t bad. We made it to Woodland Hills in just under forty minutes. This time I had the chance to take in the neighborhood. It was pretty uniformly middle- to upper-middle class. Mature pepper and weeping willow trees and ’50s-style ranch homes showed that it wasn’t a new development. But it had always been a fairly nice one. Nothing flashy, but nice. Families had moved here, at least in part, to get away from the crime and violence of the inner city. The bitter irony was that at least two of those families had spawned the most vicious predators of all.

  We found Charlotte, her mother, and Charlotte’s friends Letha and Marnie sitting over steaming cups of tea in a bright-yellow breakfast nook. The flowered curtains were parted to let in the pale sunlight. Bailey and I joined them at the table. I declined their offer of coffee. I’d had three cups in my room and a fourth at the station. Any more than that and I wouldn’t sleep till next year.

  I took a moment to look at the girls. It had only been one day, but their haggard faces and haunted eyes showed the enormity of the trauma they’d suffered. I wished we could leave them alone to grieve privately and regain their balance. The whole world probably felt like a precarious high-wire act for them. On the other hand, maybe talking to us would give them a sense of control over the situation. In any case, we had no choice.

  Bailey pulled out the photograph of the taller shooter’s wrist.

  “Do any of you recognize this?” I asked.

  Each girl examined the photograph, shook her head, and passed it on.

  “What is it?” Charlotte said.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me,” I said. Charlotte shrugged. “I heard Otis had a friend named Jason. They did a science project together a year or so ago. Does that ring a bell?”

  They frowned in unison. “Jason…the only Jason I know graduated last year,” Letha said.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t our tall shooter. “What did he look like?”

  Marnie made a face. “An Ewok. Real short and really hairy.”

  So much for Jason. Or at least that Jason. Maybe there were others. “Do you happen to remember the names of the science teachers for last year—which would’ve been what, your junior year?”

  “Yeah,” Charlotte said. “I had Mr. Forster.”

  “Who’d you guys have?” I asked Marnie and Letha.

  Letha pulled her long hair forward over her right shoulder and began to stroke it. “Marnie and I had Ms. Sherman.” Her mouth turned downward. “We got sent to the principal’s office because we wouldn’t dissect a frog—”

  “How can they kill animals just so high school kids can cut them up?” Marnie said. “It was so…brutal.” She hadn’t meant it to be ironic, but it landed hard anyway. On all of them.

  We wrapped it up shortly after that and walked out to Bailey’s car. I stopped at the passenger door and spoke to her over the hood. “Is Principal Campbell back in act—”

  “Dale, and yes, he’s reachable.”

  We got into the car and Bailey called Dale, who got us the numbers for the evil Ms. Sherman and Mr. Forster. Both answered on the first ring and offered to meet us anytime, anywhere. It was a grim upside to a case of this magnitude: no one thought they had anything more important to do. We told them for now, we only needed a few minutes on the phone.

  Ms. Sherman, who sounded more like Betty Crocker than Cruella De Vil, was a model of efficiency. She kept records for the past four years on her computer.

  “I didn’t have any student named Otis Barney,” she said. “I did have a Jason a couple of years ago, but I think he would have graduated by now.”

  Jason the Ewok, I guessed. We thanked her and moved on to Mr. Forster.

  “Otis Barney? That name sounds familiar,” he said. “Hang on, let me go get my laptop.” A few minutes later, he was back. “Let’s see, this was last year, you say?” I confirmed it. “Okay, yes, I did have Otis Barney. No Jason though.”

  Damn. “Who was Otis teamed up with, then?” I asked.

  “Carson. Carson James. Why?”

  Bailey and I exchanged a look. Carson…Jason. Close enough. A parent could easily misremember. “Mr. Forster, would you mind if we stopped by for a few minutes?”

  The science teacher lived on the outer edges of the neighborhood that fed Fairmont High, where the homes and the lots they sat on were a good deal smaller. A teacher’s pay doesn’t go far. But no worries, the universe provides balance. Britney Spears has mansions in at least three states.

  When Mr. Forster opened the door I was momentarily speechless. Why do I expect teachers to be old? I guess because way back when I was a student, they all looked old to me. The fact that Mr. Forster not only looked young, but hot—in a science nerd kind of way—was upsetting for so many reasons.

  He wore a gray waffle shirt and jeans. His black, curly hair was charmingly messy and complemented by heavy-framed black glasses. His welcoming smile seemed to stretch a little farther than he’d planned when he saw us. That helped assuage my “I’m so old” blues a little.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Forster,�
� I said.

  “Uh, it’s Liam, okay? I get enough ‘Mr. Forster’ at school.” Liam ushered us into a small living room that was furnished in Early Bachelor. Ikea couch, coffee table, two chairs, a television. No flowers, no paintings, no knickknacks. There were a few framed photographs of people who looked like family on the mantel over the fireplace. “Would you like coffee or tea? It’s the extent of my culinary skills, but I do those pretty reliably.”

  We declined, and Liam sat down in one of the chairs across from the couch. I started by asking him whether he’d been in the gym at the time.

  He shook his head. “I stayed in the classroom so I could set up for our weather experiment.” He’d eventually heard the gunfire, but his classroom was on the second floor, at the opposite end of the hall from the library. He hadn’t seen anything.

  “Can you tell us what you remember about Otis Barney?” I asked after Bailey and I had settled into the couch.

  “I figured you’d ask that so I’ve been thinking about him. He was pretty quiet, intense, you know? He seemed like a sensitive kid who was trying not to be, if that makes any sense.”

  It did. But it was probably true of half the school. “Was he a problem in class?”

  “Not really. He was never disruptive. But there was something…anxious about him. It felt like he was trying very hard to fit in, be one of the guys. I kind of got the impression he was getting picked on.” Liam sighed. “He never told me, and I never saw anyone attack him in any way, so I couldn’t do anything about it. And maybe I’m wrong about that. It was just a feeling. But no, he never caused me any problems. Why? Are you thinking…?”

  I didn’t want to answer that question, not until we had solid evidence of Otis’s involvement. “We’re just following up on all leads. Otis is one of the many we’re looking into.” Not true, but the safest answer for now. “Any information you can give us will be helpful.”

  Liam nodded. “I remember being surprised that Otis volunteered for the extra-credit team project. He didn’t really seem all that interested in science.”

  But it didn’t surprise me. If Otis was looking for a friend, signing up for a team project gave him a safe way to make one. “And he teamed up with Carson James,” I said. “What can you tell us about him?”

  “Carson was kind of a loner, and a rebellious type—sat in the back and never talked in class—but he loved science. And he was good at it. He didn’t want a partner, didn’t want to have to collaborate with anyone, but I told him that was the deal. Otis was happy to let Carson call all the shots, so it was a good fit. And I’m sure Otis also liked the fact that no one messed with Carson.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “For one thing, he was over six feet, and he seemed to be in pretty good shape.”

  The pieces were starting to fall into place. I didn’t have to look at Bailey to know that her ears had perked up too. “Mind if I show you a photograph?” I pulled out the enhanced cell phone photo of the taller shooter’s wrist. “Do you remember seeing any student with a marking like this on his right arm?”

  Liam studied the photograph carefully. “No. Several of my students have tatts, but I don’t recognize this one.”

  “Did you ever see any kind of tattoo on Carson’s wrist?” I asked.

  Liam paused. “Not that I can recall. Sorry.”

  It was a letdown, but not a game ender. He might’ve just missed it. “Do you happen to know any of Carson’s friends?” I didn’t want to go to his parents yet. If he did have the tattoo, they’d jump to the right conclusion. And possibly help him run.

  “I don’t. But I can give you the names of the other students in the class. Maybe one of them can help you.”

  Someone had to. And soon.

  14

  Tuesday, late afternoon, October 8

  Bailey started the car but let it idle. “I think this Carson dude is exactly what the doctor ordered.”

  “Agreed.” I snapped my seat belt into place. “Just because Liam didn’t see the tattoo, doesn’t mean it wasn’t there—”

  “Or it might be very recent. The kid could’ve even done it the night before the shooting.”

  “Yep. I say we put the unis on Carson, find out if he’s shown up anywhere. In the meantime, we can ask around about him while we keep running on Otis Barney. Are Tom and Sonny still hammering Graden?”

  “Every five minutes,” Bailey said. “Graden keeps telling them Otis isn’t the only one who’s still MIA, that they’re working twenty-four/seven to account for everyone, but—”

  “They know he didn’t have any friends to run to, and he hasn’t turned up in the hospital or the morgue. And they don’t like what that means. But they haven’t gone public yet, right?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We need to whittle down that list. Is anyone going through juvy cases? Maybe one of our shooters has a record.”

  “That would be refreshing,” Bailey said. “And of course we’re checking juvy cases. So far, all they found were some curfew violations and minor drug busts. All those kids are accounted for. The only thing we can do is move fast on the interviews. We’ve already got Liam’s student list, so we may as well start there. I’ll call Dale and get student lists for the rest of Otis’s classes. Start with this year and work our way backward.”

  “Shit.” That might mean hundreds of interviews. While two murderers ran the countryside.

  “You got a better idea, Sherlock?”

  I folded my arms and tried to come up with one while Bailey made the calls.

  We managed to line up immediate interviews with four of Liam’s students. One of the moms, Meredith Charnosh, volunteered to let us use her house. “I just think it’d be nice not to traumatize them any further by making them go to a police station,” she said.

  I considered telling her it might actually be reassuring for them to see law enforcement at work, but I had the feeling she just didn’t want to let her son out of her sight. I didn’t blame her.

  We gathered in the living room, which was overfurnished but oddly comforting. The three boys, Mark, Vincent, and Harrison, took the sofa. The only girl, Paula, perched on the matching ottoman. All of them had that hundred-yard stare usually reserved for battle-scarred soldiers.

  “Were you all in the gym when it happened?” I asked. They were. I asked what they’d been able to see of the gunmen.

  “Just that they were wearing camo jackets and masks with eyeholes,” Paula said.

  The boys agreed. They’d all noticed that one was taller than the other. Estimates of the taller one’s height varied between six feet two and six feet six.

  “One of them yelled something about jocks,” Mark said. Vincent and Paula heard that too.

  In short, nothing new. Time to move on to Otis and Carson.

  I had to be careful not to get too heavy with specific questions about them. If I did, it’d hit the grapevine in seconds and some kids might suddenly “remember” things that were more a product of imagination than reality. Not necessarily to get attention, but just because some people are susceptible to suggestion. Plant the idea and they’ll fill in the blanks. So I started by asking the open-ended questions suggested by our shrinks: did they know anyone who vented frequently about feeling persecuted and hating the world or talked about taking revenge—

  “On who?” Mark asked. “Lots of kids feel screwed over and talk about payback against their teachers or”—he craned his neck to see if Mrs. Charnosh was within earshot—“their parents.”

  “Or other kids,” Vincent Charnosh said.

  A fair question. “I mean someone who was always venting about everyone screwing him over, and wanting to kill them. Not just someone who spouted off once about wanting to kill the math teacher because he got an F. Someone who’s angry at the world and talks about payback—a lot.”

  “I can’t remember anyone talking like that,” Paula said.

  “I’m pretty sure I would’ve turned in someone who went off like that
,” said Harrison, the most conservative-looking of the group. “After Sandy Hook and that freak in Colorado, we all know what’s going on.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “Ever since Sandy Hook, they’ve been talking about putting in metal detectors.”

  I’d been thinking about that when our shrinks gave us the checklist. Given how many shootings there’d been, and recently, I had a feeling most kids thought they were on top of it, could spot the dangerous types. But knowing that homicidal nutbags could walk among them didn’t mean they knew whom to take seriously. It was the typical hubris of youth to think they had it all figured out. But if the shooters turned out to be Otis and Carson—or anyone else they’d actually known—what few shreds of false security they had left would dissolve like spun sugar in the rain. But they didn’t need to hear that right now, so I sat back and let Bailey take over.

  “Do you know anyone who’s heavily into guns?” she asked. “Anyone who talks about going to the range a lot or about having a lot of military paraphernalia?” They didn’t.

  She asked a few more gun questions, got more nos, and then asked whether they knew anyone who’d written about homicidal fantasies. When she again got a chorus of nos, I decided it was time to bring up Otis Barney and Carson James. I started by asking if any of them did the extracurricular team science project. I was betting Vincent, yes, the others, no. I was right. Sometimes, you just know.

  “Did you get friendly with any of the other teams?” I asked.

  “Some,” Vincent said. “Not a ton.”

  “Did you ever hang with Otis and Carson?” I asked.

  “No. They pretty much just did their own thing.”

  “So they were tight?” I asked.

  “I guess. I didn’t hear them argue or anything.”

  I pressed on with a few more questions about Otis and Carson—and threw in a few about the other teams just for cover—but got nothing, so I had to let it go and move on. I played the recording of the weird laugh that Marnie had identified as Otis’s. “Do any of you recognize that laugh?”

  “Uh, I don’t know,” Vincent said.