by Marcia Clark
“No, not that I ever knew.”
It wasn’t a DNA match, but it was enough to make it worth our time to find out whether Otis Barney had been accounted for. We rescheduled the rest of the interviews for the following day, and hurried out to Bailey’s car.
“I don’t want to red-flag this guy before we’re sure he hasn’t shown up anywhere,” I said.
“We can check EMT lists, hospital lists, and police reports without getting noticed.”
I took the hospital and EMT lists; Bailey took the police reports and the school liaison who’d access the attendance records for us. An hour and a half later, I had my answer: eighty-four wounded, thirty-three dead, and none of those who had been positively identified were named Otis Barney. The numbers were so staggering, just hearing them was beyond comprehension. I felt numb as I waited for Bailey to finish her calls.
“And?” I asked.
“He doesn’t show up on any police log and he wasn’t checked in at homeroom. He might’ve just gotten to school late.”
“He might have. There’s one way to find out for sure.” I looked at my watch. “Almost ten o’clock. If his folks haven’t heard from him they’re not sleeping. Assuming they’re even home.”
“And if they are, and he’s there, we apologize for waking them up and say we’re checking in on everyone and have to talk to him,” Bailey said. “I just don’t want any reporters to run with this. We’ve already mentioned his name to some of the kids. If the press sees us at Otis’s house and asks the kids…”
It was a problem. We’d warned all the students that it could seriously undermine the investigation if they talked to reporters, and we’d asked them to warn all their friends about it. But it was a big school—more than three thousand enrolled—and reporters knew how to make people feel important. Odds were, someone would cave to the siren song of momentary fame. And even if the kids stayed strong, reporters were bound to have their own sources in the hospitals or in LAPD. Hell, I was sure they had sources in my own office.
“All the more reason to move on it now,” I said. “The press probably has interns comparing lists of wounded and dead to school records even as we speak. I—wait, do we?”
“Have people working on the lists? Yeah. But the attendance records aren’t entirely accurate. Like I said about our buddy Otis, if a kid skipped homeroom, played hooky, or a teacher just made a mistake taking roll, that’ll take a while to sort out.”
Bailey got the number for Tom and Sonny Barney fairly quickly. She paused before punching in the number. “For our sake, I hope this is our guy. But for their sake…”
I nodded. I could hear the phone ring. No one picked up. Not even an answering machine.
Bailey ended the call. “Could mean they’re on the phone or—”
“At the rec center, looking for their son.” The community recreation center had been designated as the gathering place where family and friends of missing students could wait for reports. “Let’s hit the house first.” It’d be easier to talk to them there. “You have an address?”
Otis lived five miles away, in a small, Spanish-style house adorned with colorful tiles just under the roofline. Bailey and I approached the house quietly, listening for any sounds coming from inside. When we reached the front door I heard a woman’s voice, shrill with tension, then the deeper tones of a male voice. Bailey and I exchanged a look.
With one hand on the holster of her gun, she knocked. The voices abruptly stopped. After a few seconds the male voice responded, “Who’s there?”
Bailey identified us. “We’re here to ask you about your son, Otis.”
The door opened, and a man in socks and corduroys stared at us for a moment before asking to see our IDs. As I held out my badge, I saw a petite woman with short, dark hair peeking out from behind him. She was holding a Kleenex to her nose, and her eyes were wet and red. Tom and Sonny Barney.
The man stood back to let us in and gestured to the couch against the wall. Before we even sat down, the woman asked, “Have you found our boy? Do you know where he is?”
“No, ma’am,” Bailey said. “We were hoping you’d heard from him.”
At this, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as tears leaked out and ran down her cheeks. There was a framed photograph on the side table next to the couch that showed Otis standing between his parents. He could definitely be described as medium height and build—for what it was worth.
“We’re so sorry we don’t have better news,” I said. “You’ve heard nothing all day?”
Tom Barney shook his head. “We’ve been at the rec center—just came home to change clothes. And we’ve called all over the place, but no one seems to know anything.”
Bailey and I exchanged a look.
“We can tell you that his name has not shown up on the list of injured or…deceased,” Bailey said. “But he doesn’t seem to have been in school today either. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“Not in school?” Sonny asked, her tone incredulous. “That’s impossible. I dropped him off myself this morning.”
“Did you see him go inside?” I asked.
“N-no. There was a line of cars behind me. I had to move. But he doesn’t ditch. He might play sick, try to stay home, but…”
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“His usual: hoodie and jeans,” Sonny said.
“Have you checked with his friends?” Bailey asked. “Asked whether they’ve seen him?”
Sonny dropped her head slightly. “He really doesn’t have many.”
Tom frowned. “I’ve been trying to remember the name of that kid he did that science project with. Jason…something. He came over here a couple of times, didn’t he?”
“That was last year, Tom. He hasn’t come around since.” Sonny looked at us, her eyes filled with pain. “Otis is a very sweet boy, but not much of a socializer. I-I’m afraid I don’t know of any friends he’d skip school with.”
“Do you mind if we take a look at his room?” Bailey asked.
Sonny stopped, looked at Bailey, then at me for a long moment. “Wait a minute…what’s going on?”
“Now, Sonny.” Tom put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re probably just checking on all the students who’re still missing.” Tom Barney looked from me to Bailey. “Right?”
Bailey and I were silent.
Sonny’s breathing quickened. “No. They’re not.” Her eyes flashed, her voice was low and raw. “You think he’s one of them! Don’t you? Well, I’m telling you right now, that’s impossible! I know my son! He had nothing to do with this! Do you hear me? Nothing!”
“Mrs. Barney, we’re not accusing your son of anything,” I said. “But we have to follow up on all leads. We have reason to believe someone involved in the shooting may still be at large,” I said. We hadn’t released the fact that the killers had escaped, so I had to keep it vague. “If you won’t cooperate, we’ll just have to get a search warrant. It’ll cost us precious time, but…”
I was bluffing. I didn’t have enough to get a warrant. We might be able to justify a quick search right now as hot pursuit of a fleeing felon. But getting consent would be a lot safer. I waited and tried to act confident.
Sonny’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her body began to shake, whether from rage or fear or grief—or all three—I couldn’t tell. Tom put his arms around her, his expression tortured. After a few moments, he spoke. His voice was raw, angry. “Sonny’s right. Whatever kind of ‘leads’ you got that pointed to Otis are wrong. But we have nothing to hide. Look all you want.” Tom led us down a short hallway, to a room with navy-blue walls covered with posters of bands I didn’t recognize. Bloodstained Boots, Crew XXX, and Der Fuehrer. They all showed white guys with shaved heads, most sporting swastika tattoos.
“Mind if we look around?” Bailey asked.
Tom made a sweeping gesture. “Have at it.”
We went through everything—his chest of drawers, the b
edding, the closet—searching for guns, ammunition, any mention of a weapons supplier, any notes or photos that might relate to the school shooting. Nothing. I glanced up at the posters on Otis’s wall again.
Sonny saw me. “I know how it looks. We hate them too, but Otis isn’t…he’s not that guy. It’s just a…phase he’s been going through. We think it probably makes him feel powerful, tough. But he’s a good kid. Really.”
I didn’t answer. Tom saw my expression, and his features hardened.
Bailey scanned the room. “It’d help if we could have a crime scene tech in to test for gunshot residue or—”
Tom cut her off. “We’ve already helped enough. Now how about you help us and find our son, goddamnit! Otis had nothing to do with this! So if you want to waste more time searching here, you’d better get a warrant.”
He turned and left the room and we followed him out. There was no point arguing. If we got anything more to tie Otis to the shooting, we’d get that warrant. Short of that, we had no choice but to leave.
From what we’d seen, Otis did look like the typical angry, alienated loner who hated the world enough to lash out, but that didn’t mean he was one of the shooters. At least, not yet.
10
By the time we left Otis Barney’s house it was almost eleven p.m. The autumn air had a bite that made me pull my peacoat closer and wish I’d brought my cashmere scarf. When we got back to Bailey’s car I reached for the heater.
“It’s not that cold,” she said.
“It is for me.”
Bailey closed the vents on her side. “Maybe you should transfer to the DA’s office in Dubai.” We rode in silence as she steered us toward the Tampa Avenue freeway on-ramp.
“Those posters were pretty strange,” I said. “But we didn’t find anything else. Maybe his parents are right. Maybe he isn’t one of the shooters.”
“And maybe his parents are in denial about who their son is. They wouldn’t be the first. But I don’t blame them for being pissed off at us. It’s a hell of a thing to hear your kid accused of mass murder.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. It was hard to even imagine how that must feel. I pictured Otis’s room again. Those posters. And something I hadn’t seen. “I didn’t notice a computer,” I said. “He must have one.”
“Yeah, probably a laptop. But I didn’t want to bring it up and give them any ideas. If Otis does have one, I’m hoping they won’t think to wipe it before we can get a warrant.” Which meant we had to dig up some probable cause for a search warrant, and fast. “Home?” she asked.
“May as well. Can’t get anything more done tonight.” I put my hands next to the vents to warm them. “We need to have the unis ask around about Otis. Talk to students, teachers, and counselors and find out if he was into guns or made any threats, that kind of thing. But they can’t make it sound like—”
“He’s our guy. One of ’em, anyway. I know.”
Traffic was light, and before I knew it, we were heading into downtown Los Angeles. Bailey cleared her throat. “Feel like a drink?”
I was tired and depressed and in no mood to hang out, but Bailey’s voice was uncharacteristically strained. I looked at her closely. She had a death grip on the steering wheel, and her jaw was clenched so hard the cords in her neck stood out. She needed company—and a stiff drink…or seven. Come to think of it, so did I. “Sure. And why don’t you crash with me?”
Bailey gave me a tight smile. “Sounds good.”
Twenty minutes later, Bailey pulled up in front of the Biltmore and parked next to a fire hydrant. Bailey believes illegal parking is one of the few perks of being a cop. But it’s not just a matter of convenience. She’ll pick the red zone over a closer space every time. It’s a religion with her. “You know, eventually, someone’s going to bust you for this shit.”
“Good thing I know a lawyer then, huh?”
“Please. I’ll be the first to testify against you. You want to know who’ll be second?” I pointed to Rafi, the Biltmore valet, who was shooting daggers at Bailey.
Bailey threw him a smile as we walked past the valet stand. “Catch ya next time, partner.”
Rafi nodded sullenly.
“That’s what you always say,” I said, as we reached the front entrance.
Angel, the doorman, opened the door and chuckled. “I believe she’s right about that, Detective,” he said.
“Good idea, Angel, side with her,” Bailey said. “You don’t care about getting that Christmas bottle of scotch anyway, right?”
Angel put on an earnest expression. “On second thought, I believe you have let him park your car on many prior occasions,” he said.
“Shameless,” I said.
“Nicely played,” Bailey said.
Angel smiled. “Marriage has taught me many things.” We stepped inside. “Have a nice evening, ladies.”
The familiar faces of home. It was the best I’d felt all day. And I knew it was comforting to Bailey too. Even so, as we crossed the lobby and headed for the bar I noticed her steps were heavy. We had to lighten up. There was no way of knowing how long it would take us to wrap up this case. If we didn’t find some emotional balance we’d wind up wearing jumpsuits with very long arms. I grabbed the large brass handle of the bar door, pulled it open, and gestured for her to enter. “Your Highness.”
“Your Highness?”
“There’re plenty of other things I could call you.”
Bailey and I took our usual spots at the end of the bar nearest the wall. It was a classic, well-appointed bar, mahogany with plush swivel stools and a mirror that was lit softly enough to prevent depressing news if I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself. Our spot at the end offered the most privacy. But that wasn’t a problem tonight. The bar was relatively empty. Just a few businessmen whose loosened ties and red faces told me they’d finished their business for the day at least three drinks ago.
“I don’t see Drew,” I said. Drew Rayford is the head bartender and, more important, Bailey’s boyfriend.
“No, he’s off tonight. We were supposed to have dinner, but…”
“But a mass murder got in the way.”
We exchanged a look and sank back in our chairs. I’d hoped Drew would be here tonight. It would’ve been good for both of us to see him. Cliché though it is, he became my confidant and buddy from the day I first moved into the hotel. And he’s plenty easy on the eyes, which is also helpful. Tall, with a muscled V-shaped torso and skin the color of mahogany, Drew had women falling into his lap when he wasn’t even trying. When he and Bailey got serious, I could practically hear the weeping from all corners of L.A. County. I probably would’ve been one of them myself if I hadn’t been such an emotional wreck when we first met. I had been staying with my mother, nursing her through her battle with breast cancer. But after she died, I couldn’t bear to be there anymore. I had a high-profile murder trial that was about to start, so I’d temporarily moved into the hotel because it was within walking distance of the courthouse. The murder victim was the Biltmore CEO’s wife, and she’d been killed in the parking garage during a robbery. Between the stress of that trial, my mother’s recent death, and the breakup with my long-term boyfriend, Daniel Rose, I wasn’t looking for love. Drew poured my drinks while I poured out my heart, and a deep, long-lasting friendship was born. As a side perk, after I’d won the trial, the CEO had made me an offer I couldn’t afford to refuse of a permanent residency at the hotel. I hadn’t planned to stay longer than a year—two at the most. But it’s been three years now and it still hasn’t gotten old. The truth is, it’s hard to give up a life with no laundry, no dishes, and room service.
A young bartender who’d started a few months ago took our orders: Ketel One martinis straight up, very dry, very cold, olives on the side. Bailey asked for an extra tray of Crunchies, the only food we could get at that hour.
“We need to nail down a list of who’s accounted for and who isn’t,” I said. “Have all the bodies in the hospital and t
he morgue been identified?”
“Not quite. Not all the kids carried ID with them when they went to the pep rally. We’ve got officers on loan from the burglary desk working on it. A lot of kids ran home, but not all. The parents have been blowing up the phone lines at the Valley Division.”
“It would help if we could round up all the students and take roll call—”
“Like they’d be doing if they had a school to go to?”
I sighed. “Yeah.” Fairmont High School would be out of commission for the next few weeks while every inch was combed for evidence. In the meantime the students had to be relocated, but finding the space for them in the overcrowded L.A. Unified School District was going to be a nightmare.
“I hate to tell you this, but it’s even worse than you might’ve thought,” Bailey said. “The unis said there were a ton of kids who were ambulatory whose parents took them to hospitals and clinics all over the place. If they weren’t brought in by paramedics, they might not show up on any of our lists.”
“But I heard the parents who haven’t found their kids are all waiting at the local rec center. That should give us a pretty accurate missing list.”
“Not necessarily. Not all of the parents are there, and even those that keep coming and going. Like Sonny and Tom. Plus, some kids got taken to the hospital by other kids’ parents. Some kids went on their own. And I’ve heard some just ran to friends’ and relatives’ houses. It’s pretty crazy.”
So even if students were reported missing, that didn’t mean they really were. “The fastest way to find out who’s really unaccounted for is to go public with the fact that the shooters are still at large and ask all students to check in at the local police station. But that’ll tip off the killers—”
“Not to mention cause a riot,” Bailey said. “But we’ve got to do something or it’ll take us days to figure out who’s missing—”
“And we don’t have days.” I rubbed my forehead. “We’re going to have to let it out pretty soon no matter what.”
“If it doesn’t get leaked first.”