by Marcia Clark
“Anything you ladies need,” the principal said. “You just let me know.”
I gritted my teeth at ladies. It conjured up white gloves, pantyhose, and tea parties. I was sorely tempted to show him my .38. But I wanted to hit the road.
It had been downright cold outside when we’d first arrived, but as we headed for the parking lot, a shaft of warm sunlight pierced a hole through the heavy bank of clouds and lifted my spirits. “Mind if we hit the mall?” I said. “I’d like to pull the unis off and talk to Logan’s boss myself.” The mall was only a few minutes away.
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“It’s uncanny the way we do that, don’t you think?”
“No.”
As we rolled out of the parking lot, Bailey asked, “So what did you think of that paragraph Otis wrote? A city without people.”
“It wouldn’t have meant much to me back when he wrote it,” I said. “Really, it only looks bad now, in hindsight; I guess that’s what got Windemere all excited. He thought he’d just solved the whole case—”
“Nah. You ask me, he’s scared his neck is going to be on the chopping block for not sounding the alarm when Otis first turned that thing in.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “You think that’s why he had the principal there?”
“Yeah. He’s worried.”
Bailey was probably right. “But to tell you the truth, all I thought when I read it was, who hasn’t felt that way? Didn’t you?”
“I’m taking the Fifth.”
The mall on Topanga Canyon Boulevard was one of the big, omnibus types, with a merry-go-round, a huge food court, and stores that ranged from Neiman Marcus to Sears. Logan’s place of employment, Cut-Rate Kicks, was a chain store on the second floor, not far from the food court. As we wove our way through the crowds—it always amazes me how many people have the free time to float around a mall in the middle of a weekday—the tantalizing aromas of barbecued beef, marinara sauce, and pizza wafted through the air. I felt my stomach grumble. As we entered the shoe store, I pointed to the food court. “We’re going there after we’re done. No arguments.”
Bailey put her hands up. “Hey, no problem. I’m in.” The store was almost empty, and the sales clerks were clustered near the window, talking and laughing. Pretty cushy job. We walked up to the girl behind the register, identified ourselves, and asked to see the manager. Seconds later, a young Latina with her hair up in a bun, wearing dark slacks, a white blouse, and low-heeled pumps, came out from the back room.
“I’m Lupe Velasquez.” She put out her hand and we shook. “What can I do for you, Officers?”
Bailey produced Logan’s yearbook photo. “Does this young man work here?”
Lupe glanced at the photograph. “He did.”
“He got fired?” I asked.
Lupe shook her head. “No. He quit. About three months ago.”
Bailey and I exchanged a brief look. “Have you seen him since then?” I asked.
“Once, when he stopped by to pick up his last paycheck. But that was a while ago. Just a week after he quit.”
I waited for her to ask about Logan’s involvement in the shooting, but she said nothing. Hard as it was to believe, I supposed she might not have heard about Logan being a person of interest.
Bailey held out Otis’s photograph. “Did you ever see this person in the store?”
“Not that I recall. He could have come by when I was in the back, though.”
“Was Logan a good worker?” I asked.
Lupe shrugged. “He was already here when I got transferred to this store, and he only stayed for a few months. But from what I saw, he did okay. Toward the end, though, around the last month, he called in sick a lot.”
“So I guess you weren’t surprised when he quit,” I said.
“To be honest, no. Most kids are happy to have the work—well, the paycheck anyway—but some get bored and burn out. I figure they don’t really need the money.”
“He seem like that to you?” I asked.
“Kind of, yeah.”
“Was he friendly with any of the other employees here?” Bailey asked.
“I’m not sure, but you can ask.” She called the three sales clerks and the cashier over. All were young, no more than college age. We spoke to each one separately. They didn’t have much to say. Logan was kind of quiet and “okay” as a coworker. No one had ever hung out with him. And only one of them—a ponytailed girl whose ears were pierced all the way around—knew he was suspected of being involved in the shooting.
When we’d finished with the sales clerks, I asked Lupe whether there were any others who’d worked with Logan who weren’t there today. Lupe brought us to the back room and checked her computer. “There were two others who were working here at the same time as him. I can’t say whether they were friends or anything.” She pointed to the screen. “Joy Pickerton and Ava Landau.” Lupe printed out their contact information for us. We’d let the unis check them out. It was unlikely we’d get anything from the kids at Cut-Rate Kicks. We thanked her and headed to the food court, where I indulged in a slice of pepperoni pizza.
I took a big bite and savored the oily cheesiness. The echoing din of the crowd gave us enough cover to talk about the case. “Three friggin’ months he lied about working here. Probably spent every minute of it planning the shooting.”
Bailey shook her head. “You wouldn’t think kids that crazy would have the patience to do that much prep work.”
Bailey’s cell phone rang, and I focused on my pizza while she took the call. When she put the phone down, she looked stunned. Bailey never looks stunned.
“What?”
“They got back the DNA results on the parents. The other dead kid in the library? It’s Otis Barney.”
27
“But that picture of Logan on his computer—”
Bailey nodded. “And the hate band posters on his wall—”
And he fit the profile: a loner who’d been bullied by jocks, a follower who’d been Logan’s acolyte—someone likely to follow his leader into hell. Who’d written that a perfect city is one without people. And who had that weird laugh. Neither of us spoke for several moments. I slid down in my chair and let my gaze wander. It landed on the jewelry kiosk to my right. The fake baubles were dazzling in the lighted glass case. Dazzled, that was us. “We fell for it. We fell for the stereotype.”
Bailey raised an eyebrow. “Really? Just like that you’re ready to dump Otis? Clichés are clichés because they’re true, Knight. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he wasn’t a shooter.”
“But why would Logan kill his partner?”
“Shit. Who knows why these fools do anything? Maybe Otis was a weak link, and Logan wanted to cut the dead weight—”
“In which case maybe we only have one shooter on the loose.” Not that one wasn’t enough.
“Or…”
I sighed. “Or, Otis was involved but he wasn’t a shooter.” In which case we still had two shooters out there. I bent my straw into tiny, accordion squares. “I agree, we can’t rule Otis out as a possible suspect just because he’s dead. But that photo on his computer. The more I think about it, the more it bothers me.”
“The one of Logan with the gun,” Bailey said.
“Yeah. Why would Logan send something like that just before the shooting? If Otis’s parents had seen it, that could’ve screwed up their whole plan.”
“True. So what are you thinking? That Logan sent that photo on purpose, to incriminate Otis? Or a third mystery guy—maybe the second shooter—sent it?”
“The mystery guy, more likely,” I said. “And yeah, to frame Otis.”
“But that still leaves your question: why take the risk?”
“Because only Logan would’ve been tagged. He’d still be in the clear.”
“So you think our unknown guy was willing to go through with the shooting alone?”
“Probably not his first choice. And he didn’t ha
ve to go through with it. If the shit hit the fan with Logan’s photo, he could pull the plug and do it another day.” I let go of the straw. It uncoiled and lay semi-curled on the table. I reached for it again.
“Then you’re also saying this unknown guy deliberately imitated Otis’s laugh during the shooting?”
I started to fold the straw again. “Why not?”
“He would have to have access to Logan’s computer—”
“Logan’s got friends,” I said. “And laptops move around. He could’ve taken it anywhere—to work, to school.”
Bailey grabbed the straw out of my hands. “Give it a rest, would you?” She put the straw on her plate. “Okay, let’s assume that plays. Why pick Otis?”
“If our mystery guy is a friend of Logan’s, he probably knew Otis. So he knew Otis fit the profile. A fringy loser who got knocked around by football jocks. He figured we’d jump on him.” I grabbed the straw off her plate. “You know, like we did.”
“That’s pretty friggin’ smart for a kid.”
“Not really. Anyone can read about these school shooters. There’s stuff all over the place. And we’re pretty sure our shooters did study the others. Besides, who says these guys aren’t smart? Just because they’re fucked up and homicidal—”
“Yeah, ‘I may be crazy but I ain’t stupid,’” Bailey said. “But I’m an Occam’s razor kind of guy. When in doubt, go simple. Logan sent that photo to Otis the night before the shooting to celebrate their big day. And he wasn’t worried about the risk because Otis told him his parents never check his computer.” Bailey glared at the straw, which I’d resumed torturing, then looked me in the eye. “And as we know, he was right. They didn’t.”
And they probably didn’t check because having his password made them feel secure. I couldn’t argue that one. “I’m just saying we can’t ignore the possibility that Otis was an innocent bystander.”
“Who just happened to be in the library at exactly the right time to be killed and set up to look like one of the shooters?”
“Might’ve just been a lucky break for them.” Awfully lucky, I had to admit. But stranger things have happened.
“Whatever.” Bailey sighed. “We’ve got to notify his parents.”
And we wouldn’t even be able to give them the comfort of knowing their son was in the clear. “You want me to set it up?”
“Yeah. And I’ll try to think of something better to say than ‘I’ve got bad news and…bad news.’”
I left a message for the Barneys asking if we could come by in the early evening. When I ended the call, I tried to focus on what little bright side we had. “We still have Logan. And he looks solid.” I mentally went through the to-do list we’d put together for the unis. “Did anyone report in on his bank account yet?”
“No, but I can goose them. And I’ll get unis to go talk to those other sales clerks at the shoe store.” Bailey pulled out her phone and punched a number.
“I want to go back to Logan’s buddies, Caleb and Evan—”
Bailey gestured to the phone. While she spoke, I remembered the other person I wanted to see.
Bailey ended the call. “We should get the info on Logan’s financial empire by the end of the day.”
“I want to get out to Logan’s brother too. The sooner, the better.”
“He’s in Oxnard. I vote we get the local police to help us set that up before we run out there.”
Oxnard was an hour and a half north of us, and if we hit traffic, it could easily be double that. We couldn’t afford to spend hours in travel only to find out the brother was in the wind. “Okay, then let’s hit up Evan and Caleb again.” I looked at my watch. It was after three. School would be out by now. “I’d like to get them somewhere quiet.”
“How about their cribs? We can tell the parents we need to talk to them privately.”
We went to Caleb’s house first. It looked similar to Logan’s. Two stories, but with a brick-and-white, wood-trimmed front. Caleb answered the door in his socks. He looked less than thrilled to see us. “Oh, hi.”
We said we had a few more questions for him, and he reluctantly stood aside, then gestured for us to follow him. Lucky for us, his parents weren’t home. He led us to the kitchen. “I’m just having a sandwich. My mom hates it when I eat in the living room. You, uh, want something?”
“No thanks, Caleb,” I said. His ham and Swiss on rye looked pretty tempting though. We sat at the breakfast table, and Caleb took a man-sized bite. His cheeks bulged as he chewed.
“Did you see Logan at all on the day of the shooting?” Bailey asked. “Maybe on the way to school? At a gas station?”
Caleb swallowed and shook his head. “The last time I saw him was when I told you. A couple of weeks before in the parking lot. When Otis was hanging around.”
He took another bite of his sandwich. I let him swallow before I jumped in. “Do you drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you drive to school that day?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did you happen to notice Logan’s car in the parking lot?” I asked.
Caleb picked up his sandwich, stared at it for a long moment, then shook his head. “I can’t remember. It’s not something I would’ve been looking for, you know?”
I nodded. He took another bite. “Remind me where you were during the shooting,” I said.
Caleb put down his sandwich and stared at the table. “I was in one of the lower rows, close to the floor. By the time I turned to see what everyone was screaming about, they had started shooting. I dropped to the ground and hid under the seat.”
“Did you hear what the shooters were saying?” I asked.
“I thought I heard them yelling things when they were up at the top of the bleachers, but I couldn’t make it out. I was pretty far down and then I got under the seat. And everyone was screaming and…” He looked away.
I felt guilty about making him relive it, but I couldn’t risk missing anything. “Did you hear either of the shooters laugh?”
“No. I’ve already told you everything. Really, it was all just a blur. I’m sorry.”
We left Caleb to his sandwich. He didn’t seem as interested in it anymore.
28
Evan’s house was a single-story ranch. It was smaller than Caleb’s, but it was nicely maintained, and there were multicolored ice poppies lining the front of the house. Evan’s mother answered the door. She was petite and dressed in a spandex workout outfit that showed off a well-toned body. Her blonde hair was gathered up in a tight ponytail. Her makeup was subtle and flawless. If not for the crow’s-feet and a few laugh lines, I’d have thought she was in high school herself. Bailey made the introductions.
She dipped her head. “I’m Mikayla, please come in.” We followed her into the living room, which was sparsely furnished in beige and cream. The room was immaculate. There was very little in the way of ornamentation. No flowers, no framed photos. One silver Nambé-style bowl sat precisely in the center of the coffee table, and two matching beige ceramic lamps on the side tables—that was it. We sat on the couch. Mikayla perched on one of the loungers, feet together, hands on her knees.
“Do you know Logan Jarvis, ma’am?” Bailey asked.
“Yes. He and Evan became friends shortly after we moved here. I heard what they’re saying about him on the news, but from what I know, he’s a lovely boy. Kind of on the shy side, but very sweet.” She gave us a tight, “I’m trying to help” smile.
I could tell from that smile alone that we wouldn’t get anything useful from her, and after a few more minutes, Bailey came to the same conclusion.
“We’d like to see Evan now, Mrs. Cutter,” Bailey said. “And I hope you don’t mind if we speak to him alone.”
She’d kept her head down, made only sporadic eye contact before, but now she looked up at Bailey with alarm. “He’s not in trouble is he?”
I shook my head. “No, not at all. It’s just better—less distracting—if we
talk privately.”
Mikayla nodded. “I understand. I’ll go get him.”
Evan looked surprised to see us. He gave us a nervous “Hey,” and took his mother’s place on the lounger.
“I’d like to go back over the morning of the shooting,” I said. “I’m sorry, I know it’s upsetting, but we don’t want to miss anything.”
He nodded and dipped his head. Just like Mikayla. “Sure. I get it.”
“Did you see Logan the morning of the shooting?” I asked. “I mean, before school.”
He gripped his knees. “Uh, I don’t remember.”
Yes, you do. “Evan, I don’t want to scare you, but it’s a criminal offense to withhold information.”
Evan looked down at his lap and picked at the knee of his jeans. After a few moments, he spoke. “I saw him for, like, a minute. He was in the parking lot, standing by his car.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yeah. Just for, like, a second.”
“Who spoke first?” I asked.
“I did. I said, ‘Hey,’ and ‘What’s going on?’ and, like, that.” Evan pressed his lips together.
“And what did he say?” Bailey asked.
“Said he was waiting for someone.”
“Did you ask him who he was waiting for?” I asked.
“No. I saw Otis heading over so I took off. He can be kind of a blabber sometimes, and they make you pick up trash around the school if you’re late.”
But that wasn’t the whole story. “What else happened, Evan?”
He pulled at a thread on the arm of the lounger. I saw his Adam’s apple bounce. “I told Logan I had to get to class.” Evan licked his lips with a dry tongue. “He told me I should cut and not come back.” Evan finally made eye contact—a brief apologetic look—then dropped his gaze back to the floor. “I’m sorry. I guess I should’ve told you before. But I knew it would sound bad. And I didn’t want to believe…any of it.”
And he didn’t want to be another brick in the wall of mounting evidence against his friend. “It didn’t sound bad at the time?” I asked.