by Marcia Clark
Hey, Rachel, I bet you thought this would be an easy one, didn’t you? After all, how hard could it be to chase down a couple of kids? I guess you’re finally realizing how superior we are to all you losers. Especially you. You’re turning out to be quite the disappointment. Otis—a “person of interest.” Ha! He’s a lot more interesting dead than he ever was alive.
I know, you think you can figure me out, just like all those headshrinkers. All you fools with your clichés and psychobabble. You have no fucking clue. You’ve never seen anyone like me. I’m the best you’ve ever seen or ever will see. You’re not going to get your happy ending this time, Rachel.
Because life is not a movie. Good guys lose, everybody dies, and love does not conquer all.
“So this is the guy who supposedly wrote eloquent poetry?” Bailey said.
“Not exactly Keats,” I agreed. “But he’s not aiming for an A in English.”
“How did he find out that we know Otis is dead?” Graden asked. “I don’t remember releasing that information—”
“You didn’t,” Bailey said. “He screwed up. He thinks he’s digging on his own private joke, making fun of us for calling Otis a ‘person of interest.’”
“Laughing at how we fell for the decoy,” I said. “Back when we first found out Otis was dead, we hit on the possibility that they deliberately framed Otis to throw us off. That the second shooter might’ve deliberately mimicked Otis’s laugh.”
“But we weren’t sure Otis wasn’t in on it, so we kept looking for more evidence to link him to the shooting,” Bailey said. “We’ve found nothing. All we have is what we started with: the weird laugh and Logan’s photograph on Otis’s computer.”
“So we figured they probably did set Otis up as a decoy—” I said.
“And this letter proves it,” Bailey said. “I’d bet Shane—or whoever the second shooter is—sent that photo the night before the shooting to frame Otis.”
“So the second shooter screwed over his buddy, Logan?” Nick asked. “’Cause that photo dumps Logan out big-time.”
“I thought so too at first,” I said. “But actually, it doesn’t. So what if Logan’s holding a gun? We couldn’t even prove the gun in the photo was real, let alone that it was his. And the upside for them was huge: it bought them time while we chased a dead boy.”
“Then Logan could’ve sent it himself,” Nick said.
Graden looked skeptical. “But how could they be sure they’d be able to find Otis near the library in all that chaos?” he said. “If he’d survived, we would’ve been able to clear him pretty fast. So how could they know Otis would be close enough to the library at just the right time?”
“Logan was friendly with him,” I said. “He might’ve known Otis planned to go to the library that morning—he might even have told Otis to meet him there. But then again, maybe they didn’t know. It’s entirely possible they decided to use Otis as a decoy and then just lucked out to find him near the library. I don’t think they needed him to be dead. It just bought them more time that way.”
“True,” Nick said. “It was no biggie if they didn’t kill him. The mislead would work for at least a little while no matter what.”
“Well, at least we can finally clear Otis,” Bailey said. “You agree, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah,” Graden said. “Write it up. We’ll notify the parents right away.”
Finally, a piece of good news. I looked back down at the letter. Something else was bothering me. “That last line.” I studied it again. “It’s familiar somehow. But something’s off about it. It’s not right.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Nick said. He stared at the letter. “Wait, I think I’ve got it. It’s from that movie with Kevin Spacey, Swimming with Sharks.”
I looked at him, surprised. “You’re a movie buff?” Nick shrugged. I considered the line again. “I’ll be damned. You’re right.”
I turned back to the letter and tried to figure out what was wrong with the quote. Then I had it. An icy chill gripped my heart. “It’s everybody lies. Not everybody dies.”
53
A theater. I’d figured it out. Just not in time. A movie’s take on the human condition. A movie about the movie business. A quote from that movie—with just one word changed. But we were set up to fail. By the time we got the letter, it was already too late. And even if there’d been some lead time, there was no way to know which theater, or even which city. Los Angeles? Or in Shane’s neighborhood, Camarillo? Or in Boulder? It was another needle in a haystack.
Bailey got the call within minutes. A shooting at the Cinemark in Woodland Hills. A theater Logan probably knew well, since it was close to home. We broke all speed limits getting to the scene. There were at least twenty squad cars and two fire trucks occupying all of the drivable space in front of the theater. Bailey double-parked next to a squad car at the far end, and we ran toward the police line. She badged us through and tracked down the detective in charge. It turned out to be Detective Gina Stradley—an old friend of Bailey’s from their Police Academy days.
“I heard this one’s yours, Keller,” she said.
“Yeah, lucky me,” Bailey said. “What have we got?”
“Same mo as the school. Twisted fucks.” Gina gestured for us to follow her into the theater. “And it was so easy for them. It’s sickening. They must’ve bought tickets, because there’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Just walked in with everyone else. Assault rifles were SBR AR fifteens, like last time.”
A short-barrel rifle wouldn’t be hard to conceal under a coat, and this was coat weather. Gina turned right and led us up the staircase to a wide corridor on the second floor. She stopped just outside the crime scene tape that stretched across the hallway and pointed to a door on our right. Uniformed cops stood guard as crime scene techs worked inside the taped-off area. Most seemed to be grouped near the doorway Gina had pointed out. “They headed up here to the projection booth, got the projectionist to open the door, and stabbed him to death. They fired through the projection window.” A sniper couldn’t have picked a better spot. I remembered Jenny’s words: “‘fish in a barrel’ style.”
“Only two dead?” Bailey asked.
“In the audience,” Gina said. “Four, counting the projectionist and the manager, who ran to the booth when he realized where the shots were coming from.” Gina shook her head. “He called nine-one-one on his way up. If it hadn’t been for him, it would’ve been a helluva lot worse.”
“So they dumped the weapons again,” I said.
“Yeah,” Gina said. “But it looks like they shot the manager with a nine millimeter. We picked up a shell casing near the body.” It was crowded in the hallway with all the cops and techs, and we were three extra bodies that weren’t needed at the moment, so Gina led us back downstairs to the lobby. “Our gun expert says it looks like the rifles were rigged to go fully automatic, but one of them jammed.”
Bailey nodded. “One of them jammed last time too—”
“But last time they weren’t rigged to go fully automatic,” I said.
“Where the hell are they getting these guns from?” Gina asked.
“Probably the same person who altered them,” Bailey said. Shane checked both boxes. Bailey told Gina we thought he might be the second shooter.
“Well, thank God he screwed up,” Gina said. “If that gun hadn’t jammed, we would’ve had a higher body count than Fairmont.”
I nodded. “We got lucky.” I stopped even as I heard myself say it. This case had mangled all sense of proportion. Anything less than a double-digit body count felt like a blessing.
Bailey stared out through the glass doors at the throng of police. “Worse than Aurora. That’s what they were going for.”
“Right,” I said. I thought about the incident between Logan and the jocks in middle school. “We’d better shut Platt down.”
“I’ll get ahold of the principal,” Bailey said. “In the meantime, Gina, would you mind if I got
our firearms guy, Ed Berry, out here? Just to keep things clean and simple?”
“No problem. I’ll make sure they don’t bag anything up. Your guy can put himself in the chain.”
The chain of custody is how we prove evidence wasn’t tainted or tampered with. The more hands on a piece of evidence, the more of a hassle it is in trial because I have to call every cop who touched, tagged, or moved something. So Gina was saving us a headache down the line by letting Ed handle the firearms evidence.
Gina moved off to see to it, and while Bailey put in the call to Ed, I called Nick. “Have you had any luck with the postmark on that envelope?”
“Same as the last one: Boulder, Colorado. And it was sent out by expedited mail yesterday.”
“I guess they could’ve sent it themselves—”
“It’s physically possible, but if you ask me, that dog won’t hunt. Too much exposure bein’ on the road all that time.”
“Someone’s helping them.”
“Has to be.”
It depressed me almost more than the existence of the shooters themselves to know that there was someone out there willing to help them.
54
Bailey managed to track down the principal of Platt Junior High. Marion was less than pleased at having to shut the school down but smart enough not to argue about it.
We moved out to the front of the theater and talked to the cops who’d interviewed the witnesses, hoping to get some kind of ID on either of the shooters, but it was a bust. The killers had been in the projection booth during the shooting, and afterward, they’d melted in with the crowd. Most of the theatergoers had been blinded by panic, and the rest couldn’t see past the stampede. The cashier and ticket takers didn’t remember seeing anyone unusual. But I didn’t expect them to. Even if they’d worn the same kind of camouflage coats, they wouldn’t stand out in this weather.
It was almost midnight by the time Bailey dropped me off at the Biltmore, and we were both wrung out. “I’m going to check in at the office in the morning unless something pops between now and then.”
Bailey nodded wearily. “I’ll let you know.”
I started to get out, then paused. “Have you been getting hassled by the press at all?”
“No. I pushed all my calls to our media liaison, and so far no one’s tried to get past him. Plus, the chief’s been doing pressers every day.”
“They haven’t gone after me either, other than bombarding me with messages asking for information. But those poor families…” Since the day of the shooting, there’d been nonstop pieces on the news showing the grieving friends and relatives of the victims.
The funerals had begun as early as Tuesday. There’d been eleven, which still left another twenty-two to go. So far, none of the families had allowed the press to cover them. Bailey and I usually make it a point to go to victims’ funerals, but we couldn’t this time. There were too many.
I got out and patted the roof. Bailey took off.
Being involved in an investigation can block the big picture, the human side of things. We follow clues and focus on the minutiae, nose to the ground. And we don’t look up until someone’s in custody. But the next morning, as I was getting out of the shower, the disastrous enormity of the case hit me like a sledgehammer. The body count. Shooters still at large. Their bizarre motivations. And their unpredictability, the impossibility of knowing where they’d strike next. Evan somewhere out there, maybe dead already. Or close to it. As the thoughts flooded my brain, I struggled to catch my breath.
I walked out to the balcony. For the first time in days, the sun was shining and the sky was a rich, brilliant blue. The air was surprisingly warm, but I didn’t trust it. I went back inside and pulled out a turtleneck sweater and slacks. I had an idea about an alternate plan of action, and I mulled it over as I dressed. Then I called Bailey. It was Sunday, and she usually spent at least part of the day with her family, but I knew that ritual would be on hold until this case was solved. “Did the chief approve shutting Platt down already?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because I’ve been thinking. That school is our only lead right now. If Logan and Shane see that it’s empty, they’ll just look for another target—”
“It’s not going to be empty. I’ve set up cops to pose as teachers. A few as students, too, which for a middle school wasn’t easy. Believe me.”
That was exactly what I’d been about to suggest. Bailey didn’t sound happy about it, and I didn’t blame her. It was about as dangerous a duty as it gets. Plus it was a big expense, and there was no guarantee Logan would choose Platt as the next target. But I’d rather be overprepared and wrong than unprepared and right. Besides, this gave us a fighting chance. The only one we’d had since this whole ordeal began. “And I’d like to talk to our shrinks, see what they think about last night.”
“It’s Sunday, Knight. They might have lives.”
“It can’t hurt to try.”
One hour later, we were seated around the table in Jenny’s office with steaming mugs of coffee. It was really good. “What is this? I’ve never had anything like it before.”
“It’s my own special blend. And no, I won’t share the secret, but I will mix up a bag for you.”
“The shooting last night,” Michael said. “You’re sure it was them?”
Bailey nodded. “Has to be.”
I told them about the letter we’d gotten that afternoon and filled them in on details of the shooting. “So who do you think picked the Cinemark? Shane or Logan?”
Michael set down his cup. “We think it may have been Shane’s choice—”
“Not that Logan wasn’t happy to go along with it,” Jenny said.
“Because the Cinemark was their chance to beat out the Aurora shooter, right?” I said.
“Yes, there’s no question about that,” Michael said. “But they failed, so I was thinking that their next target might be another theater.”
I told them about our belief that Logan’s junior high school was a likely target, and why.
“That’s a fair guess too,” Jenny said. “Certainly theater owners will be taking extra precautions now, so a theater would be a more jeopardous choice. Plus, the school would be a crossover target. There was a somewhat famous shooting at a middle school in Arkansas. Johnson and Golden set off a fire alarm and then hid in the woods and picked off the students as they came out. They killed five and wounded ten. And they had planned to get away. The car they used was loaded with supplies.”
“I remember that. Back in the nineties, right?” I said.
“Right,” Jenny said. “Nineteen ninety-eight. They weren’t nearly as sophisticated as your killers. The police caught them before they could even get back to the car. So your middle school theory is a sound one from both perspectives: it’s a personal target for Logan, and it’s a place where they can ‘best’ another set of famous killers.”Bailey’s cell rang. She looked at the number, then quickly stood up. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” She walked out to the anteroom, closing the office door behind her.
“Even another high school is possible,” Jenny said. “They’re staying pretty close to home so far, choosing targets where they know the lay of the land. I expect they’ll continue to do so.”
“Then you agree it’s unlikely they were in Boulder to mail the letter?”
“Highly unlikely,” Michael said. “As you mentioned, there’s a lot of risk involved in that much movement. It’s much more likely someone is helping them.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “I assume you’re concentrating on the Valley.”
“We are. We’re even covering community colleges in case they decide that’s a close enough match to Virginia Tech.”
“Good,” Jenny said. “In the meantime, we’ve been digging into Shane’s military records. We’re trying to construct a profile—”
Bailey stepped back inside, radiating nervous energy. “I’m sorry. We have to go.” Her voice was tense and urgent. She tappe
d her cell phone against her thigh as I gathered my coat and purse. We said hurried good-byes and headed for the elevator. Bailey punched the down button. A few seconds later, she punched it again. “Damn. Screw it.” She flew down the hall toward the stairs, and I ran to catch up.
I waited until we were in the car and headed for the freeway to ask. “What the hell is going on?”
“They’ve found Shane Dolan.”
“Is he in custody?”
“No. We got a tip that he’s holed up at someone’s house. An Army buddy of his.”
“And our tipster knows that guy…how?”
“It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.” Bailey headed north on the 101 freeway.
“And we’re sure this is a righteous tip because…?”
“Our tipster is a cop.”
Doesn’t get much more righteous than that. I closed my eyes and prayed that we were finally about to get a real break.
It felt long overdue.
55
Bailey continued north on the freeway.
“But he didn’t see Logan?” I asked.
“No. They might’ve split up to lay low until the next hit.”
“I thought you had Harrellson working the Shane angle up here,” I said.
“I pulled him off to head up the detail at Platt.”
We passed through the Valley and Camarillo. When we kept heading north after Ventura, I seriously started to wonder exactly where this small town was. “Mind telling me where we’re going?”
“No, but it won’t help. We’re going to La Conchita.”
Actually, it did help. Graden and I liked to take day trips up to Santa Barbara, and La Conchita was on the way. It was a town tailor-made for a sitcom—a bohemian, beachcomberish kind of place. Nestled into a hill on the east side of the Pacific Coast Highway—the only thing separating the town from the ocean—La Conchita was a tiny burg filled with individually built houses, trailers, and a random assortment of small apartment buildings. The mom-and-pop liquor store just off the highway was the town’s main attraction for travelers. Graden and I had stopped there once or twice to get water and sandwiches.
