The Competition

by Marcia Clark

  Bailey whipped her gun out of the shoulder holster and shouted, “Police! Drop your weapon!”

  At that moment, the rest of the officers, who’d been hiding behind the bushes that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk, sprang out with guns drawn and pointed as they shouted at him. “Put your hands on your head! Get down on the ground! Now!”

  He put his hands in the air and slowly backed away from the car.

  “Stop!” Bailey and the officers shouted. “Get down! Now!”

  But he kept backing up until he bumped into the front door of the Chipotle. Then he reached behind, pulled it open, and slid inside.

  77

  We ran toward the diner, just steps behind the officers. Lieutenant Braverman came pounding up, bullhorn in hand, as the unis took cover behind cars and around the sides of the building. At least seven squad cars screeched into the parking lot and surrounded the restaurant. Four officers balanced assault rifles on the hoods of their cars and trained them on the front door.

  Braverman raised the bullhorn to his lips, but before he could speak, the door opened, and a burly Hispanic man in a white apron and paper hat emerged holding the young man by the back of his jacket. His arms dangled helplessly, like a puppy held by the scruff of its neck.

  The Hispanic man hauled him outside. “This the guy you want?” Braverman confirmed that it was. Before the lieutenant could issue a further order, the Hispanic man tossed him out as though he were a heap of garbage. He fell, face-first, onto the asphalt.

  So much for Hotshot Braverman’s moment of glory. The officers swarmed the young male, and when they stood him up, we finally got a chance to move in and get a closer look. He was tall, skinny, and had long dirty white-guy dreadlocks that looked like they might house a family of small rodents.

  One thing was immediately clear: it wasn’t Evan. I hadn’t realized how much I was banking on this being the end of the road until just that moment. My spirits crashed and burned as I watched the officers load the now-docile suspect into the back of a patrol car. We followed them back to the local station.

  I stared out the passenger window, feeling bitter and frustrated. “Maybe this fool has some connection to Evan or Logan.”

  Bailey was in no better mood. “If he does it’s probably useless.”

  When we got to the station, the guy—who looked like he was in his early twenties—was already set up in the interview room, one hand cuffed to a ring in the table. Two burly unis stood on either side of him, their hands on their weapons. Neither of them looked particularly concerned, and I could see why. The guy was a string bean, not a muscle in sight, and he was cowering in his seat, looking pale and sweaty. A paper cup of water was in front of him, and when he reached for it, his hand trembled so badly he spilled half of it on the table.

  A detective came in and handed Bailey the booking form with his information. I offered my hand to the detective and introduced myself and Bailey.

  He took my hand and shook it warmly. “Dwight Rosenberg, nice to meet you.”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Braverman?” I asked.

  “He’ll be here.”

  “Good, I miss him.”

  Dwight’s lips twitched. We weren’t the only ones who thought the lieutenant was a jerkweed. We sat down across from the suspect, and Bailey led off.

  “Charlie Herzog. It says here you’re twenty-two, that you live with your parents and you’re unemployed. That right?” He nodded. “So how do you know Evan Cutter?”

  Charlie licked his lips, which were cracked and dry. “I d-don’t.” He picked up the cup and gulped some water. “I d-didn’t have any idea who he was back when I s-saw him.”

  Bailey waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she prompted him. “But you know who he is now.”

  Charlie nodded. “They just told me.”

  “They?” Bailey said. “Do you mean the officers who arrested you today?”

  Charlie nodded. It was bad procedure to tell a suspect anything before questioning. Annoyed, I looked up to catch Dwight shaking his head.

  “Okay, let’s make sure we’re on the same page,” Bailey said. She pulled out the photograph of Evan we’d used in the public release. “Do you recognize this guy?”

  Charlie stared at it. “I’m, uh, not sure. Dude was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. That might be him, though. Looks pretty similar.”

  “Tell us how you met him.”

  “I saw an ad on Craigslist. A guy was looking for a straight trade, said he might throw in some cash if it made sense.”

  A straight trade? The light began to dawn. I stepped in. “Of cars?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yeah. I had this old junker Chevy my folks gave me when I graduated high school. I figured, what the hell? It couldn’t hurt to see if he’d go for it.”

  Pretty friggin’ clever. “And he did.”

  Charlie gave a short chuckle, remembering the sweet deal he’d scored. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. Dude was crazy to do a swap like that. I mean, his car had a little body damage. But hell, it was about a thousand times better than my old piece of sh—” Charlie stopped. “Uh, junk.”

  I hadn’t had the chance to look at the car yet, but I remembered Jeremy had said Logan sideswiped his car as he and Evan fled from the school. “When did you make the trade?”

  Charlie looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not great on dates. Five, maybe six days ago?”

  “Do you have any paperwork?”

  “At home, yeah.”

  That might nail it down. Though given what I’d seen of Charlie, it might not. He had stoner written all over him. But if his estimation was right, then Evan had made the trade right after the Cinemark shooting. Which was well before we’d identified him. No way Charlie could’ve known whom he was dealing with. He might be in violation of some DMV registration laws, but not much more. I’d leave it to the local cops to decide what to do with that.

  Bailey put the photo back in her notepad. “Where did you meet with him when you made the swap?”

  “Just down the block from my folks’ place.”

  “You didn’t want them to know about the trade?”

  “Nah, I didn’t care about that. If it was righteous, I was getting a sweet deal. But I didn’t know this dude. I didn’t want to be too close to my parents’ house in case he was, you know…a problem.”

  I was kind of touched that Charlie was protective of his parents. Then again, he might’ve just been protecting his meal ticket. And I thought I couldn’t get more cynical.

  Bailey nodded at me. “You got anything else?”

  “No, thanks. We should get the car to Dorian for processing.” I knew Evan would’ve done his best to clean out any evidence, but his best was no match for the superhuman abilities of Struck.

  Bailey thanked Charlie for his time and nodded to Dwight and the unis. They’d just taken Charlie away when our buddy Lieutenant Braverman walked in. I could see that Bailey enjoyed telling him we’d already finished. “I’m not recommending any charges,” she said. “But if it’s important to you, there might be some vehicle code registration violations.” Translation: “There’s some chicken shit over there in the corner for ya.”

  Braverman’s face locked up and his eyes narrowed. “We can process the car out here.” Translation: “If there’s some glory to be salvaged from this wreck, I’m taking it.”

  Bailey gave him a cold smile. “Thanks, but it doesn’t make sense to bring anyone else in. Dorian’s handled all the other crime scenes, so she’ll know what to look for.” Translation: “Go fuck yourself.”

  We left the station with a spring in our step. It wasn’t as big a victory as we’d hoped. We didn’t net Evan Cutter. But we did have a line on the car he might be driving now. That was something. We who live on crumbs demand very little for a feast. Bailey called in the description and plate of Charlie’s car to get out an alert, and we spent the rest of the ride back downtown laughing at Bullet Brain Braverman. By the time Bailey
took the off-ramp at Sixth Street, it was after six o’clock.

  My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “You hungry?”

  “Apparently you are.” Bailey glanced at my stomach. “We were just at Chipotle. We could’ve picked something up.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. I’m sure the manager would’ve been thrilled to serve us. Biltmore bar?”

  “Sold.” It’d be nice to sink into the plush quiet with a glass of Pinot Noir. Or a martini. And I knew Bailey hadn’t seen Drew in days. For that matter, neither had I.

  Bailey made up for her obnoxiously legal parking job in the Valley by selecting a space in the red zone right in front of the hotel. We slid into the booth closest to the bar. “What’re you having?”

  “A tiny Martin.”

  “Sounds good. And an appetizer?”

  “How about a grilled artichoke?” I gave her the thumbs-up, and Bailey went to the bar to order. And make kissy face with Drew. She came back with him bearing two icy martinis.

  He set them down as Bailey sat. “I heard you two had a wild ride today.”

  We gave him the highlights. Drew laughed out loud when Bailey told him about the manager dragging Charlie out by the scruff of the neck. “I wish I’d seen that.”

  “You still might,” Bailey said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone caught it all on a cell phone.”

  “I’ll keep the TV tuned to the news.” Drew headed back to the bar.

  I raised my glass and we clinked. “To a wild ride.”

  We sipped our drinks, and I thought about what we’d gained from it. “We might not find anything in Logan’s car, but if Evan didn’t dump the one he got from Charlie, we now have a license plate and description of what he’s driving. Are the unis still pulling all stolen license reports?”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure that’ll pan out fast enough, though. If Evan’s been planning all this for as long as we think, he could’ve ripped off a plate a year ago.”

  “Yeah. Well, at least we know what the car looks like. That’s something.” I sighed. “It feels like I’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

  Bailey gave me a little smile, then looked over my shoulder. Her smile disappeared. “Oh, no you didn’t. You little turd.” She pointed to the television above the bar.

  And there, in all his pixilated glory, was Charlie Herzog. The crawl said that the footage was being broadcast courtesy of TMZ—a tabloid television show. It figured. I shook my head. “They flashed the cash, so of course he went for it.”

  Bailey went to the bar and asked Drew to turn up the volume. Charlie’s voice drifted over the clink of glasses and soft chatter. “Yeah, when I swapped cars with the dude a few days ago I had no [bleep] idea who he was.” Charlie leaned in and cocked his ear at the reporter, “What?” The reporter said something we couldn’t hear, and then Charlie said, “My car? Oh, my car was a beige 1999 Chevy. Back bumper’s a little dented, and the driver’s side door’s got a ding in it. Oh, and the front passenger door’s kind of messed up too.” Then he gave the license plate. The reporter asked another question, and Charlie smiled. “Nothing unusual about the dude at all. He was just a regular guy, about so high.” Charlie gestured six inches below his head. “Had short hair…uh, that’s about it.”

  Bailey and I exchanged a look. I shrugged. “We should probably thank the fool. The whole world’s going to be looking for that car now.”

  “That ought to tighten the screws on psycho boy.”

  78

  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 Valley 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.”

  79

  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 Jenks,” 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 ou
t 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.