The Competition

by Marcia Clark

  The police officer who’d offered to help earlier now spoke up. “I’m pretty sure someone was continually posted because I relieved the officer who’d been standing guard before me.”

  “I’ll need a list of all the officers who got posted here,” Dr. Shoe said. “Who’s the investigating officer in charge?”

  Bailey stepped forward and introduced herself, but they didn’t shake hands.

  “I’d like to talk to you privately,” the doctor said. He led Bailey out of the room, and I fell in behind them. When we got to the elevator, he frowned at me. “This is a private discussion.”

  Again? Now he was going to throw me out? “I’m the prosecutor on the case. Whatever you have to say, I need to hear it.”

  Dr. Shoe looked at Bailey for confirmation, and she nodded. “Yeah, she’s okay.”

  We exited the school and headed for the area at the back. It was the only spot that was safe from prying microphones and cameras. Dr. Shoe motioned for us to sit down on a stone bench.

  “I suppose you’re here to prepare this case for trial?” he asked me.

  “Usually I would be,” I said. “But in this case…well, obviously, there isn’t going to be a trial.”

  “You’re the lawyer so I won’t presume to tell you your job. But I am the pathologist, and I will presume to tell you this: the position of the bodies in that library does not fit with the scenario everyone seems to have accepted.”

  Bailey and I looked at each other. “You’re saying they didn’t shoot each other?” I asked. “So what? They shot themselves?”

  “I’m saying neither. The angles are way off—for everything. The bodies wouldn’t have fallen in those positions. The handguns wouldn’t have landed where they did. And I thought I saw a faint blood trail on the carpet leading up to the bodies. You’ll need a good tech to test that carpet to make sure—”

  “We’ve got one,” I said. “But what…”

  Dr. Shoe raised his hand, cutting me off. “Even the balaclavas seem…oddly placed. Too close to the bodies. If you pull off an item like that—especially if your intent is to shuffle off this mortal coil—you toss it away. Those balaclavas were right next to their heads. One body might coincidentally land with the head near the balaclava, but two? No. Everything about this is wrong.”

  “Then…what’s your theory?” I asked.

  “Just between us, understood?” We nodded. “I need to check lividity, get a better look at the wounds, get the gunshot residue test results, and obviously the luminal results on the carpet. But if that all pans out as I expect, my conclusion will be that a person or persons shot these kids, dragged their bodies into position, and staged it to look like a mutual suicide.”

  “Then if you’re right, those bodies in the library—” Bailey said.

  “Are not the killers,” I finished.

  Dr. Shoe looked up in the direction of the library. “They most certainly are not,” he said.

  6

  His words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. The killers were still at large. I could feel my breath getting shorter as the implications sank in.

  “Thank you, Dr. Shoe,” I said. “And you’re right. We need to keep this theory quiet until we’re absolutely sure. So watch out for those parabolic mics…” I shifted my eyes to the throng of reporters in front of the school. Backup in the form of a flotilla of satellite trucks had now arrived to clog the street. “The sooner we can get final confirmation from you, the better.”

  “Obviously. But I won’t be able to do that until I get the bodies on the table, and I’d like to let the crime scene tech do his work before I move them—”

  “Her work,” Bailey said, reading her cell phone. “It’s Dorian Struck.”

  For the first time, I saw Dr. Shoe smile. “Excellent.”

  What’d I say about the perfect match? The doctor strode off to finish his work in the library.

  “The killers wore masks—” Bailey said.

  “Why bother to hide your face if you’re planning to off yourself?”

  Bailey nodded and stood up. “It all fits with Shoe’s theory. I told the principal to cue up the surveillance footage for us. He’s got to have it ready by now.”

  “Did he say what areas it covered?”

  “Front entrance, back doors, cafeteria, the door to the gym, and one upstairs. He wasn’t sure what that one covered.”

  “There were no surveillance cameras inside the gym?”

  “No.”

  It figured. We headed back to the main entrance and found Principal Campbell downstairs standing just inside the doors. His hands were clasped together so tightly I could see the whites of his knuckles from twenty paces. When Bailey asked if he was able to answer some questions, he nodded eagerly, but his ashen color worried me. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. Bailey started by asking how many shooters he saw. Now that the murder-suicide theory was effectively nixed, we couldn’t assume anything we’d heard was accurate; every detail had to be reexamined. Principal Campbell believed there were two shooters, but he couldn’t swear to it.

  “I was sitting near the door of the gym when the shooting started, so I couldn’t see that much,” he said. “But as soon as I realized what was happening, I led as many students as I could out through the side door next to the cafeteria. It’s the closest exit to the street.”

  His breathing quickened; I could practically see his blood pressure rise as he relived the horror of it. He was stuck in the memory and couldn’t get out. Eyes wet, he stammered, “I-I should’ve gone back in sooner. And Angela…my God, if it hadn’t been for her…covering them with her body…she was so brave—” He broke off and blinked back tears. “I-I don’t think she made it. Do you know?”

  “I can check,” I said. “But Angela who?”

  “The girls’ soccer coach. I heard she was pushing a bunch of kids out of the gym, but I haven’t seen her…”

  I shook my head. “It’ll be a while before we know the status of everyone who was wounded, Mr. Campbell—”

  “Dale. It’s Dale—”

  “Dale. It’s over now. You did all you could. It’s time to take care of yourself. Have you been checked out by the EMTs yet?”

  “I…uh—” His gaze dulled. “D-don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I’m okay.”

  Obviously, appealing to his sense of self-preservation wasn’t going to cut it. “Look, the only thing we need from you right now is to show us how to view the surveillance footage. We’ll come back to you soon. And when we do, we’ll need you to be in shape because it’s going to be a detailed interview. If you land in the hospital, you’ll slow down the investigation. You wouldn’t want to do that, right?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “So you need to stay healthy for everyone’s sake. Let the paramedics give you a once-over, okay?”

  He didn’t like the idea, but he finally capitulated. He took us to the room where the video monitor for the surveillance footage was kept, showed us how to scan the footage, and left.

  “Let’s start with the cameras closest to the gym doors,” Bailey said.

  Black-and-white images of the hallway just outside the gym doors jerked across the monitor. A woman holding a clipboard to her chest came into view. Her heels snicked loudly on the linoleum floor as she passed under the camera, then faded as she moved away. For another few seconds the screen showed an empty hallway, and I heard faint echoes of a voice speaking into a microphone—Principal Campbell, probably—then cheering, like waves breaking on a distant shore. It was another few seconds before I heard the screaming. At first, it sounded like any ordinary crowd watching a basketball game. Then I heard the flat crack of gunshots—faint at first, but growing louder as the killers moved down the bleachers. A few moments later, the screen filled with the images of bodies desperately clawing their way out through the gym doors, climbing over each other as they struggled to make it through the clogged exit. In the background, the sounds of gunfire, continuous, rel
entless, grew louder. Finally, the gunmen came into view.

  The balaclavas and camouflage jackets covered them so completely I could only get a general idea of height and weight. One was taller than the other and looked to be around six feet. They both carried assault rifles and wore gloves. I saw the shorter one take aim at a person who, with outstretched arms, was trying to shield a group of students. Most likely Angela, the coach we’d just heard about from Principal Campbell. The killer fired. He threw back his head. Was he laughing? Jesus.

  The taller one took aim at someone on the ground, then held his weapon up in front of his face and shook it. He smacked it with his palm once, twice, then dropped it to the ground. As he moved away, I saw him reach inside his jacket and pull out a handgun. By that time the shorter gunman had already moved out of camera range, but I could hear the crack-crack-crack that told me he was firing continuously.

  Eventually, the sounds of gunshots and screaming faded into the background, leaving only the shrill clanging of the fire alarm. The screen showed an empty doorway and three inert forms sprawled on the floor.

  Bailey started the next tape. “This is the one upstairs. I’m not sure it has anything for us.”

  It didn’t. The shriek of the fire alarm echoed down empty hallways, though I could hear screams and gunshots in the distance that had to be coming from the stairway or the library.

  “And this will be the cafeteria exit,” Bailey said.

  The monitor showed Principal Campbell holding the door as panicked students tumbled and staggered out. He faced the inside of the school as they ran, looking over their heads. “He’s acting as the lookout. But what was he going to do if the killers showed up? Throw a lunch tray at them?”

  “My guess? Take the bullet.”

  Angela, the principal…and probably many more had shown such bravery and selflessness in the face of such vicious, gratuitous violence. It struck me that the alpha and omega of human existence had crashed into each other here in this suburban high school.

  I refocused on the video. Between the screaming and the constant ringing of the fire alarm, I couldn’t hear whether the killers were saying anything, and the picture quality was so poor, there was no way to distinguish one student from another.

  “I was hoping for better clarity than this,” I said.

  “Yeah, this is pretty fuzzy. Let’s try the front and back doors.”

  But that was a bust too. The back door had been locked, so the students who’d run that way were forced to turn around and head for the main entrance. The path to the front door was so jammed with kids scrambling to escape, it was hard to make out anything of use.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way and talk to witnesses. Maybe someone noticed a couple of guys carrying rolled-up camo jackets—”

  “Sure, and a couple of guns. And holding a signed confession. Why not? If you’re gonna dream, may as well dream big.”

  “So unfair that people call you a smartass.” But I had another idea. “Has anyone started the outside search?” I was betting no, since the working theory had been that the killers were lying dead in the library upstairs.

  Bailey saw where I was going. “Good point.”

  We found Dorian in the library.

  “We need you to work on the outside of the school,” Bailey said. “Keep this to yourself, but Dr. Shoe says—”

  “Stop,” Dorian said, holding up a hand as she glanced around the room. “I know what Dr. Shoe says. And I was just about to move outside.”

  Bailey and I looked at each other.

  “Please,” she said, with a disgusted look. “You think he’d tell you anything he wouldn’t tell me first?” Dorian shook her head and stomped off to pack up her kit. When she finished, we headed out through the rear exit. “You got a priority in mind?”

  I pointed to the side of the school where Principal Campbell had ushered the students out. “The cafeteria door. I’m guessing the killers chose the exit that was least visible,” I said. Which, if I was right, meant they’d waltzed out right under the principal’s nose.

  “Why wouldn’t that be the back door?” Dorian said.

  “Because it’s locked during school hours,” Bailey said. “So the kids who ran that way had to redirect to either the front or the side door. The front door is more exposed.”

  “And from the killers’ perspective this exit has another benefit.” I pointed to the Dumpster ten feet away.

  Dorian looked up at me and nodded. “Pretty impressive.”

  “Thanks.” A compliment from Dorian. That never happens. I admit it: it felt good.

  “Impressive how you think like a deranged teenage boy.” She gloved up and opened her kit. Bailey smirked openly.

  I ignored her. As Dorian climbed into the Dumpster, I pictured the scene in the library again. “Did you get a look at those balaclavas near the bodies?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Dorian said. “If you’re going to ask whether I’ll rush the analysis, don’t.”

  “I wasn’t.” Because I knew better than to do it in person. I’d take the coward’s way out and do it on the phone. “I was actually thinking they looked pretty new.”

  Dorian gave me an incredulous look. “You’re thinking these kids were smart enough to bring extras to throw down so they wouldn’t leave me anything?”

  “Maybe.” With all the crime shows on television that featured so much trick shit—some real, some fictional—it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that a mask worn over the face and head could have hairs, fibers, or DNA.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Ten minutes later, my hunch about the Dumpster paid off. Dorian pulled out two camouflage jackets. “Hand me a couple of those paper bags.”

  I gave her the bags and whispered to Bailey, “I’d say this clinches it. They took off their coats and blended in with the crowd.”

  “Yeah, but I’d still wait for Shoe’s final answer before we go public with it. He won’t take long. Besides, they’re just kids. We’ll catch up with them pretty quick.”

  I looked at my watch. “Except those ‘kids’ have already cost us two hours. They could be almost anywhere by now—especially if they have fake IDs.”

  Dorian’s low, rasping voice came out of the Dumpster. “Vegetable matter, all kinds of junk in here,” she groused. “Probably ate up any DNA.”

  Bailey sighed and whispered, “I’ll go in and check on Dr. Shoe. You stay here with Mary Sunshine.”

  I gave her a look that would’ve made her weep. That is, if she hadn’t turned and walked off.

  I answered Dorian. “But the coats haven’t been in there long,” I said. “And if you get hair, it’ll probably still be testable, right?”

  “Probably. And then I guess we can just assume the hair we find is the killer’s…not the salesclerk’s…or the packer’s…or the sewing machine operator’s…or the—”

  “Yeah, I get it, Dorian. Can you tell if there’s anything in the pockets?”

  “Like a driver’s license? Maybe a student ID?” Dorian asked. “Maybe while I’m at it I can look for a signed confession.”

  I wondered what my horoscope for today said. Probably “Stay away from women in law enforcement.” Dorian humored me and carefully parted the pockets.

  “Nada,” she said. “But if I was you, I’d take the information off the labels and see who sells ’em.”

  “That’s what I was planning to do.”

  Dorian gave me a “yeah, sure” look. She was never a walk in the park, but she was unusually caustic today. She’d be the last to admit it, but I had a strong feeling this case had gotten to her in a big way.

  She had lots of company.

  7

  Dorian continued to root around in the Dumpster for a while longer before determining there was nothing else of value. She stayed outside to work on the area between the cafeteria door and the parking lot, and I headed back to the library. Dr. Shoe was stripping off his gloves
as the bodies were being loaded into bags and readied for the two nearby gurneys.

  Bailey motioned me over. “He found entry wounds just under the jawline on one and behind the ear on the other.”

  “So they were already dead when the suspects shot their faces off.”

  “Right. It’s another page out of the Columbine playbook.”

  Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold had committed suicide in the school library. Our shooters had played on that scenario so we’d jump to the conclusion that they’d done the same, which would buy them some precious time. It killed me to admit that it had worked. Any doubt I’d had that our shooters had studied the Columbine case was gone. There were too many similarities to be coincidental: the full-on style of the attack, the way they stormed through the halls, the final act in the library. And I had a feeling Graden was right: the body count was no accident either. They’d set out to “beat” the Columbine killers in every way: top their death toll and escape.

  “But in the meantime, we need to figure out who those kids in the library are,” Bailey said. “Hopefully their prints are on file somewhere. But if not…”

  I took stock of where we stood. Surveillance cameras hadn’t panned out, the bodies on the floor weren’t the killers, the camouflage jackets might—or might not—tell us who the killers were, but it would take days before we knew one way or the other. And even if we did manage to get usable DNA from the coats or the balaclavas, since the killers were high school students, we probably wouldn’t find them in the criminal DNA database. That meant we’d have to get parents’ DNA and do a paternity match—a crazy amount of work. We’d need to narrow down the suspect list considerably before the crime lab could even start.

  “Time to talk to the kids,” I said. “We’ve got to get to them while it’s all fresh.”

  Bailey gave me a grim nod. Talking to victims of a violent crime is always hard. But this would be worse by a factor of about a hundred. These kids had been through a massacre that would’ve made battle-hardened soldiers weep.