The Competition (7 page)

“Got coffee?”
I asked. I’d been up since five thirty, and my engine was starting to sputter.

“I’ll see if I can snag some of Graden’s. The shit we’ve got probably had dinosaurs stuck in it. In the meantime, check this out.” She handed me a large manila envelope. Inside, I found the blowup of the taller gunman’s wrist. When Bailey came back with two steaming mugs, I held it up. “What the hell is that? A dagger through a rose? A spider? A screwed-up iron cross? I can’t believe this is the best they can do.” I’d hoped this picture would give us a solid lead on the second shooter.

“It’s not great. I’ve got the lab working on getting us a better enhancement, but don’t expect much. It’ll probably never be super clear.”

“We need to show it to Charlotte and her buddies.”

“We will.”

I held the photo at arm’s length to see if it helped. It didn’t.

“Rache, don’t obsess. It’ll be good enough if we find someone who knows him. At least you can tell it’s not just a birthmark.”

That much was true. It was better than nothing.

A patrol officer with two civilians in tow headed toward us. Our doctors had arrived. Bailey and I thanked them for showing up on such short notice and for agreeing to help us. “I know you had to push a lot out of the way to get here,” I said.

“Please,” Dr. Malloy said. “I’m just glad to be able to help out. And you’ll have to call me Michael if we’re going to work together.

He looked like a Michael. And he looked like someone kids would have an easy time opening up to. Of average height and sporting a hint of a belly, he had warm brown eyes and thick, wavy brown hair that in spite of his best efforts kept falling into his eyes. To top it off, he wore a sweater vest. Nothing says “cuddly” like a sweater vest.

Dr. Shelby, who likewise insisted on her first name—Jenny—was slender and attractive. Not the frilly type, she wore a brown turtleneck sweater and black slacks. Her shoulder-length dark blonde hair hung straight and simple in a side part, and she wore minimal makeup that enhanced her gray eyes and high cheekbones. She too had an easy, approachable vibe. Even without a sweater vest.

They declined my offer of Graden’s coffee—it really was pretty good—and Bailey led the way to one of the smaller conference rooms. We got right down to business. I told them what we knew so far and what we needed from them. Then I played the video footage from inside the gym. When it ended, Michael rubbed the side of his head as though he were trying to wake up from a nightmare. Jenny looked pale.

“How many dead?” Jenny asked.

“Thirty-three as of now,” Bailey replied. “We’re hoping it stops there.”

“Jesus,” Michael said. “That’s worse than Sandy Hook.”

“And much worse than Columbine,” Jenny said. “But from what you’ve told me, I’d agree that may be exactly what they intended. They wanted to prove they were better, so they exceeded the body count
and
managed to escape.”

“Yes, that much seems obvious,” Michael said.

“As for what type of person you’re looking for, that’s less obvious,” Jenny said. “The angry loner, bully victim—which seems to be Otis Barney—is a stereotype, but it doesn’t always hold. Columbine is instructive. Eric Harris was very socially adept—”

“And popular with the girls, if my memory serves,” Michael said.

“He was,” Jenny said. “Even Dylan Klebold was fairly social. So there are no hard-and-fast rules. Studies show these mass shooters are a heterogeneous group. They come in all stripes. But there are certain markers that show up with some consistency.”

“The sense of feeling persecuted or victimized is very common,” Michael said. “They frequently feel mistreated or undervalued by the school, their teachers, their parents—”

“Great,” Bailey said. “How’re we going to spot that?”

“By asking other students to tell you if they’ve heard anyone talk about feelings of persecution and plans for revenge,” Jenny said. “Individuals with this type of pathology often vent to others, may even demand an audience.”

“You should also ask students if anyone has seemed overly invested in guns or military paraphernalia, or romanticizes guns and weaponry in general,” Michael said.

“What about the video gamer theory?” I said. “Some shrinks—uh, sorry, psychologists—say the first-person-shooter battle games desensitize kids, get them addicted to violent fantasies, and make them forget people are real. I heard there’s even a game called School Shooter.” Which sickened me on every level: both the fact that someone dreamed it up and the fact that people bought it.

“First of all, we call each other shrinks, so no apologies necessary,” Michael said. “Second of all, no normal kid turns into a mass murderer because he played too many video games—”

“But if a kid has pathological homicidal tendencies, an addiction to violent video games can tip him over,” Jenny said. “So the games may exacerbate the tendency, but they don’t create it. In fact, someone who’s already planning to commit this type of crime might use the video game as a form of practice and perhaps to further desensitize himself—”

“Just to play devil’s advocate, isn’t it possible the games act as a form of release?” I said. “You know, like porn?”

Jenny smiled. “They may. If you’re normal. In that case, certainly, porn or video games can be beneficial. But for a sexual predator, or someone with a homicidal pathology, the opposite is true. The porn might offer the predator temporary release, but in the long run it’ll just cause the pathology to escalate until he explodes and acts out. Same thing with the homicidal types. The games might provide transitory relief, but ultimately the games aggravate the unbridled rage and lack of focus that’s intrinsic to their pathology.”

“Lack of focus?” I asked. “Seems to me the games require a lot of focus.”

“Only in a superficial sense,” Michael said. “You have to pay attention to what you’re doing, but the focus is constantly shifting from one obstacle to the next, with only fractions of a second per target. So the focus is extremely fragmented.”

“In general, though, the games may encourage what’s already there. But they don’t create it,” Jenny said.

“You said they like to talk to people about their pisstivity with the world and their plans to get revenge,” Bailey said. “Isn’t that what you guys always say people should do? Talk things out? How come it doesn’t do anything for them?”

“Because they’re not talking constructively, with the purpose of understanding their feelings,” Michael said. “They’re just venting, spewing. When you talk to a friend or lover about your feelings, you’re trying to understand, to gain some awareness of your situation. Not these people. They’re just looking for an audience. So talking only feeds their rage.”

“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.”

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.