by Lisa Gardner
Rainie backed up against the wall and sat in a crouch until her hands stopped shaking.
Only the teacher had a head wound, she thought. A single-entry shot, dead center, delivered with a great deal of precision. The two girls sported a multitude of wounds, high, low, left, right, as if they had walked into a firestorm. But the teacher … the teacher was different. Perhaps the intended target? Shooter went for her first, then encountered the two girls walking down the hall?
Or maybe he started with the girls in the hall, and upon hearing the noise the computer-lab teacher opened her door. She would’ve been right in front of the killer. Had he gotten up his courage by then? Decided it wasn’t that different from a video game? Figured why waste bullets if he could do it with a single shot?
Either scenario bothered Rainie. For the little girls to have so many wounds and the adult victim only one. There was something to that. She just didn’t have the time to think about it now.
Suddenly, she heard a noise. The faint screech of a metal chair slowly being pulled across the floor.
Rainie scrambled across the hallway. She threw herself against the wall next to the classroom door just as the metal handle turned and the door eased open.
“Don’t do this,” a man said. “We can still fix everything. I swear to you, son, there’s nothing that happened today that we can’t handle.”
Shep O’Grady came into view, tan uniform stretched tight over his burly frame. His buzz-cut hair glistened with moisture, while his bulldog features were unnaturally pale. From her angle, Rainie could see that he’d managed to unsnap his holster, but he’d never had time to draw his weapon. Now his hands were held in front of him in a gesture of submission. He worked frantically to plead his case.
“I’m sure it’s all a big mistake. A misunderstanding. These things happen. Now we gotta work together, clear things up. You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Shep took another step back, his hands still up, his gaze focused ahead. Being forced into retreat? Rainie didn’t know. Then she glanced fifteen feet behind Shep, where the three bodies lay. Shep was being herded into the scene of carnage, she realized. And when he got there …
It was amazing how steady her hands felt, how calm her nerves had become. Shooting was something she’d done all her life. Never in the line of duty, but Shep was her boss, her friend. They went way back, had a history together few could appreciate. Everything felt natural after all.
One last thought: commit to the shot, for hesitation was the number one killer of cops.
Rainie pivoted sharply away from the wall and simultaneously shoved Shep out of the doorway. Her gun went level, her legs braced for recoil, and her fingers found the trigger just as Shep screamed, “No!”
And Rainie found herself face-to-face with thirteen-year-old Danny O’Grady, pale as a sheet and bearing two handguns.
FOUR
Tuesday, May 15, 2:43 P.M.
Oregon state homicide detective Abe Sanders had just sat down to a late lunch, a big Italian sub with double pepperoni and double cheese. His wife would yell at him if she saw him, lecture him about jeopardizing his health and turning her into a cholesterol widow. Most of the time he agreed with her, and at the ripe old age of forty-two, he had the trim waistline to prove it. But not today. Today was just one of those days.
Margaret Collins, an attractive blonde who manned the department phones, came walking by his desk and did a double take. “Wow, Abe. Next thing we know, you’ll be drinking beer.”
“They were out of turkey,” Abe muttered, and unconsciously held his Italian sub closer to him, as if he feared someone would take it away.
“The Hathaway case turned sour, didn’t it?” Margaret deduced sagely. She was a true-crime buff and often had better instincts than any of the detectives.
“Damn judge,” Abe said, and took a huge bite of sandwich.
“Inside a drawer isn’t plain sight.”
He chewed busily, too polite to talk with his mouth full. After a choking swallow, he declared, “The drawer was already open.”
“By another homicide cop.”
“Damn cop,” Abe said, and took a bite of cheese.
Margaret laughed. She winked, making him momentarily forget his wife, then sauntered away, leaving him alone with his feast. Abe chewed down another bite, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Brown deli mustard had dripped onto his desk. He shook his head and set down the sandwich in favor of a napkin.
Truth was, he always ordered indulgent food when cases went bad, and he rarely ate any of it. He’d fantasize about just what he’d like to order, salivate while in line, and get the largest size possible. Then he’d take it out, think about the calories, the fat content, the cholesterol level, and set it aside. Decadence just wasn’t in him. He was a type-A control freak to the core, even when confronted with a loaded Italian sub or a plateful of double-chocolate brownies. He’d even been known to put the lid back on a pint of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate-chip cookie-dough ice cream after only one bite.
When Abe Sanders was young, he’d been the Boy Scout with all the merit badges, the student with the good report card, and the track star with the fastest time. He’d read the classics “just for the hell of it.” He’d gotten the girl every guy had wanted. And he’d bought a four-bedroom ranch in an older, “nice” section of Portland with an impeccably manicured lawn.
Then he’d finally shocked his family. He’d become a cop.
His parents joked that their neat-freak son had decided to clean up the whole world. His two brothers, one older, one younger, told him he suffered from an overdeveloped hero complex. His chess buddies gravely informed him that the entire accounting community had wept the day he headed for the academy, that spreadsheets would never be the same.
Abe himself never really talked about why he became a cop. Maybe he simply understood better than most that life was messy, even for type-A control freaks. There was his wife, whom he loved and adored and who finally discovered, after five years of trying, that she could never have children. There was the tidy house they’d chosen as their home in the early eighties, only to have gang-bangers and crack addicts move in down the block. There was Abe himself, anal, precise, obsessive–compulsive, learning that his planned path as a CFO simply couldn’t hold his attention.
He wanted a sense of accomplishment, a sense of change. Hell, maybe he did just want to make the whole world as orderly as his desktop files.
Didn’t matter in the end. Detective Sanders was a damn good cop.
Other detectives rode him hard. They shook their heads at his manicured hands, told jokes about his polished loafers. Tried to drive him nuts by replacing his expensive, personally purchased black stapler with a cheap gray government issue that always jammed. One day they even rotated the tires on his car to see if he’d notice (he did).
Then they worked with him.
Abe Sanders with a case was a man obsessed. Abe Sanders with a case was passion and drive and, for reasons not even he could explain, anger. Pure rage at the injustices of life and the goddamn shit-faced pea-for-brains numbnuts who took away good, honest, hardworking lives.
Maybe other detectives didn’t understand the value of a good stapler, but all cops knew rage. It was the common denominator no one ever spoke about and everyone understood.
Abe carefully rewrapped his sandwich, placing it in the middle of the triangle-shaped paper, folding in the corners, and rolling it tight. He dabbed at the mustard on his desk with a wet napkin. Then he threw everything away.
The Hathaway case had burned him. Not that it was really the judge’s fault. Snickers had written the search warrant too loosely, so the cops had had to improvise. That never worked anymore. Lawyers ran the world, and smart cops had to learn to anticipate the fine print. That was just the way of things.
Abe could count on one hand the number of warrants and arrests he’d had problems with. Being anal was good.
He got up to go wash his
hands, and his lieutenant stuck his head out of his office.
“Sanders? Need a word.”
Abe walked in curiously. He sat on the edge of the hard plastic chair in his lieutenant’s office. And a moment later he heard about a small town called Bakersville, two hours southwest of Portland, that didn’t even have its own homicide force. He sat, quiet and stunned, as his lieutenant described what they believed to be the second school shooting in Oregon in just a matter of years. Already reports of casualties. Crime Scene Unit was on its way, county officers on their way, and state officers rushing in. No word on the shooter yet and, oddly enough, no one could locate the sheriff.
“The call has come down from the governor,” his lieutenant said. “This case is high profile and, by all accounts, already out of control. The brass wants a good front man, someone with experience, solid organizational skills, and the ability to coordinate city, state, and—most likely—federal resources.”
“Absolutely.”
His lieutenant looked at his neatly tailored gray suit and strong, trim figure. “Someone who looks good to the media.”
Abe smiled wolfishly. He liked the press. He knew just how much to feed them and then he devoured them alive. It made him happy. “Absolutely!” he said with more enthusiasm.
“You’d have to be on the road. Probably two to three weeks straight at the beginning, then all the return trips.”
“Not a problem.” It wasn’t. Sara hardly noticed his presence these days. He’d finally given in to her pleas and gotten her a ten-week-old puppy. Now she was busy coddling the pup and feeding the pup and chucking it under the chin. One day he was going to come home and find the dog decked out in baby clothes and a bonnet. The damn thing would probably grin and take it, too; so far, the sheltie seemed remarkably even-tempered.
Sometimes Abe found himself petting the creature. The little guy’s downy coat was remarkably soft to the touch. Not that he wanted to get that close to anything that had no bladder control, for chrissakes.
“Then you’re on the case,” his lieutenant said. “Tackle it as if you’d gotten there yesterday. And Sanders …”
Abe halted at the door.
“The EMTs reported at least two children dead. It’s gonna be a tough one, for everyone.”
“Is the shooter a kid?”
“No word on the shooter yet.”
“But most of them are kids.”
“We’re assuming that’s the case. Play it tight. And quick. That would be best for everyone.”
Abe understood. When kids were harmed, people went a little nuts. Sometimes, cops did too.
Sanders commandeered a car. He phoned ahead for a hotel room, as he always did, grabbed what little information the department had on the still-evolving scenario, and hit the road.
“One measly sheriff and two semitrained officers,” he muttered as he headed home to pack his bags. “Kids killing kids, and not even a homicide department to manage the mess. Good thing I’m heading out there, ’cause these yokels have got to be shitting their pants.”
Rainie jerked her finger off the trigger just before she pulled it back.
“Danny,” she gasped.
The boy stood, shell-shocked. His right arm was extended halfway, pointing the .22 somewhere around Rainie’s kneecaps in a sure grip. He held a .38 in his left hand, down by his side, and for a moment Rainie wasn’t certain where to look.
She kept her weapon trained on him, then Shep took a step toward her.
“Stop!” she yelled to no one, to all of them. Shep was still armed, and though she trusted him as a friend, she couldn’t count on his actions as a father. If he thought Danny was threatened or if Danny felt threatened …
Rainie could feel the situation spiraling dangerously out of control. She reined in her panic.
“You,” she said to Shep, keeping her gaze on Danny. “Are you okay?”
“It’s a mistake,” Shep said desperately. “All of this is one big mistake.”
“Fine, but until this mistake is over, keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Rainie—”
“Danny, I want you to listen to me. You must put down your guns. Okay? I want you to move very slowly and place your weapons on the floor.”
Danny didn’t move. His gaze swung wildly from side to side, and Rainie could nearly smell the panic roiling off his skin. He was dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and white running shoes. She couldn’t see any more weapons on him, but it was hard to be sure. He came from a house loaded with firearms, and she knew Shep had taken him hunting from the time he could walk.
“Danny,” she said in a more commanding voice. “I’m going to count to three, and then you are going to place your weapons on the floor.”
“Rainie—”
“Shut up, Shep. Danny, are you with me?”
“He didn’t do anything!”
“Shut up, goddammit, or I’m going to make you flatten out on the floor too!”
Shep shut up, but it was already too late. Danny’s expression had grown wilder, and his right hand was beginning to tremble. Rainie shifted her stance for better balance. She slid her finger back on the trigger, just in case.
“Danny,” she said more loudly. “Danny, are you listening to me?”
The boy turned his head slightly toward her.
“This is pretty intense, isn’t it, Danny?”
He nodded shortly, both his hands shaking now.
“I think you’d like this to end, Danny. I know I’d like it to end. So I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do. I’m going to count to three. You are going to slowly lower your weapons to the floor. Then, when I tell you to, you’re going to kick the guns over to my feet. Then you simply lie down with your hands and feet spread. That’s it. Everything will be over, Danny. Everything will be all right.”
Danny didn’t say anything. His gaze flickered past her, to where the two girls were sprawled with their hands still outstretched toward each other. He seemed to notice the teacher as well, and a deep tremor snaked through his thin frame.
Christ, he was going to go. Shoot himself or suicide by cop. Rainie didn’t know which, but the end would all be the same. Dead bodies. Dead kids. Jesus, no.
“Danny,” Rainie said desperately.
It was too late. His right arm lifted.
“No!” Shep sounded wild.
“Don’t do it, Danny!” She had no choice, her finger pulling back on the trigger.
And Danny turned his gun toward his head.
“Goddamn!” Shep hurtled toward his son. Rainie jerked her gun up and blasted her shot into the ceiling, just as Shep sent himself and his boy tumbling to the ground. Danny’s handguns disappeared from view, trapped between two bodies. Then one came sliding out from between them. Rainie kicked it away and looked in time to see Shep grab the .22 in Danny’s right hand. He squeezed hard. His son cried out. Shep jerked the weapon free and flung it down the hall.
That quickly, it was over. Danny collapsed on the floor, the fight gone out of him, as his father sat up. The burly sheriff was breathing hard and tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Goddamn,” Shep gasped. “Goddamn, goddamn. Ah, Danny …”
Belatedly, he tried to pull his son into his embrace. Danny pushed him away.
Shep’s head fell forward. His big shoulders continued to shake.
Quietly, Rainie took control. She rolled Danny onto his stomach eight feet from where three people would never move again. She spread his arms and legs and patted him down. Finding no additional weapons, she curved his arms behind his back and handcuffed his wrists.
“Daniel O’Grady,” she said as she hauled him to his feet, “you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”
“Don’t say a word,” Shep ordered roughly. “You hear me, son? Don’t say a thing!”
“Shut up, Shep. You can’t invoke silence for your child, and you
know it. Do you understand these rights as I’ve said them to you, Danny? Do you understand that you’re under arrest for what you did here at school?”
“Don’t say a word, Danny! Don’t say a word!”
“Shep,” Rainie warned again, but it didn’t matter.
Danny O’Grady didn’t even look at his father. He stood with his shoulders hunched, his oversize black Nike T-shirt too big on him, his features haggard. He said finally, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you do this, Danny?” Her voice softened. Rainie heard her own confusion, her need for reas-surance. She’d known this boy most of his life. Good kid. Used to wear her deputy’s badge. Good kid. She said more firmly, “Did you shoot these people, Daniel? Did you hurt these little girls?”
And he answered, in a faraway voice, “Yes, ma’am. I think I did.”
FIVE
Tuesday, May 15, 3:13 P.M.
Rainie and Shep remained silent, each trying to process what they had just heard. Shep didn’t argue with Danny’s statement, didn’t try to say it was a misunderstanding, didn’t try to remind her that Danny was just a kid. He appeared too overwhelmed.
Rainie herself couldn’t think of anything more to say. She was a cop; she had heard a rough confession. Her duty was clear.
Rainie led her handcuffed murder suspect to the front doors of the school, where a dozen flashbulbs promptly went off in her face. The media had arrived. Shit.
She backpedaled furiously, yanking Danny away from the glare of hot lights and frenzy of shouted questions. He looked at her in dazed confusion, meekly submitting to her will. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that.
“You can’t be seen walking out with us,” she told Shep after a minute, the three of them pressed against the hall walls like fugitives.
“I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“You don’t have any say in the matter. I can interrogate him without you, and I can sure as hell stick him in jail without you, and you know it.”
Shep absorbed this with a scowl. Oregon law didn’t give much special consideration to juvenile murder suspects. As long as Danny was at least twelve years of age, he could be held criminally liable for his actions and would be eligible for waiver to adult jurisdiction. His rights were the same as those of any person under arrest, and his parents had no say in things. The best Shep and Sandy could do was hire a good lawyer for their son. And be happy that he wasn’t fifteen years old, in which case he’d fall under Measure 11 and automatically be tried as an adult. And be happier still that Oregon didn’t have so-called CAP laws, which would hold Shep or Sandy criminally responsible for allowing guns to fall into Danny’s hands.
