by Marcia Clark
“And it was in good shape?” I asked.
Pedro said in Spanish that it looked brand-new.
Isaiah nodded. “He said it looked—”
I held up my hand. “Got it. Did Pedro buy it?”
Isaiah translated, and Pedro shook his head.
“Did Shane offer to sell guns to anyone else?” I asked.
Isaiah translated, and Pedro replied in Spanish. Isaiah turned to me. “Pedro says he tried to sell to all the other guys, but he doesn’t think anyone bought a gun from him. Too much money, and they weren’t sure how legal it was.”
But just to make sure, we had Isaiah bring in all the other workers, one by one. Pedro was right. No one had bought a gun, though others had seen the one Pedro described and all agreed it looked new. When we finished with them, we thanked Isaiah for his help, said we’d be in touch, and warned him that at some point the media might come after him for a statement. He chuckled. “Don’t worry, they won’t get anything out of me, ladies.” Ladies. Again. Oh, well.
But I wasn’t worried about him.
The reporters who messed with him—them, I worried about.
35
“Do you realize how much a new Smith and Wesson thirty-eight special costs?” I asked, when we got back into Bailey’s car.
“No, but I’m guessing you do.”
“Over seven hundred bucks. If that gun Shane was trying to sell to Pedro really was new, his price was ridiculously low. Looks like Shane had a little business going on the side.”
“Selling hot guns?” Bailey said. I nodded. “Pretty risky. If anyone ever ratted him out he’d do some serious time.”
“He doesn’t seem like the type who’d play out those consequences. Like Isaiah said, he’s got authority issues.”
“Assuming Paul Bunyan back there sussed him out right.”
“So you saw it too?” I grinned at Bailey. “He was actually kind of dreamy, don’t you think?”
“To me? No. But I noticed you got a little fluttery.”
“Fluttery.” I gave her a look. “Me. Are you high?”
“S’okay. He looked like he wouldn’t have minded letting you do a little more questioning either.”
“You can let me out of this car any time.” I folded my arms and looked out the window. The road to the freeway led us past miles of strawberry, Brussels sprout, and lettuce fields. We were out in the middle of nowhere.
Bailey turned on the radio. The opening organ notes of “Light My Fire” filled the car. I usually love the Doors, but the timing right now only served Bailey’s obnoxious purpose. And, of course, she was smiling. I glared at her. “I just want you to know I’m ignoring you.” She stifled a yawn.
We rode on through the fields in silence. I thought about what we could accomplish while we were up here in farm country. “You want to try and dig up Nancy Findley?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”
“Not necessarily better, but if we have trouble finding her, we could head back to L.A. and see what Evan and Caleb have to say about Shane Dolan. If Logan was that impressed with Shane, he might’ve tried to show him off.”
“Good idea.”
Bailey called in and asked for a location on Nancy Findley. As it turned out, she lived in Thousand Oaks, just a few minutes south of Camarillo, which was on our way back to L.A. And she was in pocket.
“Guess it was meant to be,” I said. “So where’s ‘in pocket’?”
Bailey pulled off the freeway. “You’ll see.” Five minutes later, she’d parked in front of a tattoo parlor in a strip mall. It was sandwiched between a nail salon and a frozen yogurt place. Kind of a nice combination of services. I could just picture it: “Hey, Mom, let’s have a girls’ day. We can do mani-pedis, get tattooed, and have double scoops with sprinkles.”
Nancy was easy to spot because she was the only girl there. Also because she had waist-length, neon-green hair with a black stripe down the middle, multicolored tattoo sleeves that snaked up her neck—one of which was an actual snake—a double nose ring, a lip ring in the left corner of her mouth, and rows of piercings up each ear. And those were just the things we could see. I forced my imagination away from all the other piercing possibilities both above and below the belt.
Bailey had pulled up a photo of Shane on her cell phone. After we’d made the necessary introductions, she showed it to Nancy. “Do you recognize this person?”
Nancy, who’d been practically catatonic when we introduced ourselves—so much so, I suspected chemical or herbal influences—suddenly woke up. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh no!” Nancy’s eyes were round with fear. “Is Shane in trouble? Did something happen to him?”
“We just need to ask him some questions,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Nancy wrinkled her nose. “Do you mean actually saw him, like in person? Or like on FaceTime?”
“Let’s try in person first,” I said.
“That would be a little over a month ago. It was at the tree service where he works.”
“Did he discuss any plans he may have had to leave the city for any reason?” I asked.
“No.” Nancy’s brow furrowed. “So he’s gone?”
No, I just like to hear about my suspects’ vacation plans. “It seems so. Do you remember what you talked about?”
Nancy frowned at the floor and jammed her hands into the back pockets of her skinny jeans. When she looked up, I saw she was blinking back tears. “That…uh…he didn’t think it was going to ‘happen’ for us. That I couldn’t keep coming by his job and calling him and…like that.” The tears finally escaped and rolled down her cheeks. She gave them a rough, angry swipe.
If Shane had been standing there I would’ve slugged him. Sure, she was a little strange, and, yes, quite possibly a stalker. But still. Knowing what we did about Shane so far, I’d guess Nancy was one of the many girls Shane had picked up, got bored with, and dumped. Asshole.
“I’m sorry, Nancy,” I said. “Did you talk to him again after that? On FaceTime?”
“Yeah. But I called from a friend’s phone, so I don’t think he realized it was me at first. When he came on, I could tell he thought…”
It was someone else. I might’ve been channeling some issues of my own with past boyfriends, but seriously, if I ever found him, I was going to mess this jerk up so bad.
“I told him I just wanted to see him one last time. He said his boss was calling him and he had to go. Said he’d call me later. That was a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him since.” Nancy heaved a big sigh and swallowed the rest of her tears. “I know he wasn’t good for me. My mom says it’s for the best and I’ll get over it, but it just doesn’t feel that way right now.”
Oh, Very Young, it never does. “Your mom’s right. You won’t be over it until you’re over it. All you can do is keep reminding yourself that you deserve better. Eventually, you’ll believe it.”
Nancy nodded. “Thanks.”
We gave her our cards and told her to call if she heard from him. She promised she would.
We headed back to the 101 freeway, southbound for L.A. “Feel like killing him?” I asked.
“Nah, killing’s too fast. I’d kneecap him. Both knees.”
“Nice.” When it comes to payback, Bailey and Toni are creative geniuses.
At that weirdly inopportune moment, Graden called. “Rachel?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t recognize his voice at first, and I think mine was probably still in “I hate Shane” mode.
“You okay? You sound…strange.”
“Sorry. I’m just a little tired. It’s been pretty nonstop.”
“I know,” Graden said, his tone warm and full of sympathy.
My lizard brain remembered that Graden wasn’t Shane or any other asshole I’d ever had the misfortune of knowing. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Look, I just got word that a letter addressed to you was
delivered to the school.”
School? “What school?”
“Fairmont High—”
“Why on earth would anyone send mail to me at—”
“Good question. And there’s no return address. It feels bad to me, Rachel. I know this may sound paranoid, but I told them to leave it right there and not touch it. I called in the bomb squad—”
“Jeez, seriously? It might just be someone who recognized me on some news footage or—”
“I’d be glad to be wrong. But I’m not taking any chances. The bomb guys are going to handle it. Assuming it doesn’t explode, Dorian’s people will check it out. But I expect everyone to move fast, so you should be able to get a look at it pretty quick. I’d suggest you get downtown as soon as you can.”
I agreed, ended the call, and told Bailey what he’d said. “I don’t know how many people would’ve recognized us from the news footage though. The shot I saw was maybe two seconds.”
“Yeah, but they showed footage from the Antonovich trial that had your face all over it. So anyone could’ve written that letter. Might just be a weird fan—”
Big cases always brought out the tinfoil hat brigade. “I’m still getting mail about that trial…”
“Yeah, the only thing that bugs me is no return address. I’m with Graden. If it were an innocent thing, why not leave a return address?”
That was the question. One of them anyway.
36
On the way downtown, I called Principal Campbell to ask him how they’d come across the letter.
He’d been surprised by it too. “The past couple of days we’ve had mail pouring in from all over the world. There was no way to keep up with it, so some of the teachers volunteered to help sort. But it turned out to be easier than we’d thought. Most of them were addressed to the school, and they were obviously meant for everyone. The rest were addressed to the families of the kids who…didn’t make it.” He paused to collect himself. “So the one addressed to you stood out. I thought I should call.”
“You did the perfect thing, Dale,” I said.
By the time we got to the station, the letter had been cleared by the bomb squad, and Dorian had finished processing it. Now it sat alone in a ventilated cardboard box on Graden’s desk.
“Did you read it?” I asked him.
Graden nodded, tight-lipped. “I only had the chance to scan it, but…”
His worried expression made me nervous. I opened the box. There was just the letter, no envelope. “They took the envelope?”
Graden nodded. “Yeah, to see what they could do with the postmark. And there were two actually. The outer envelope was addressed to Rachel Knight at the school, and there was one inside it that just had your name. The letter was in that second envelope.”
The letter was typed on plain white Xerox paper. I put on latex gloves and took it out.
Rachel Knight, Fairmont High is only the beginning. They say we’re Columbine Copycats. They’re idiots. We already proved those pathetic losers are nothing compared to us. But we have more, much more, to show the world. Do you realize how lucky you are? You have the privilege of being involved in what will be the greatest criminal legacy of all time. They say you got famous after that case with the Hollywood director, but that was nothing compared to this. I bet that’s why you wanted my case. Because you always want the big case. Because you blew it with Romy. And now she’s probably dead. I could have saved her. You know why? Because I’m superior to you—to all of you—in every way.
I am the best, the very best you’ve ever seen or ever will see. Our victory at Fairmont High was NOT luck. It was skill. MY skill.
If you catch me, you’ll be a hero. But if you fail, Rachel Knight, like you did with Romy, many, many more will die. So now, it’s all up to you. Do your job, you’ll stop us. Fail and we will go on. And on.
I felt as though I’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. I reread the letter. It wasn’t the fact that he knew about my sister’s abduction. That story had been blasted all over the tabloids during the Antonovich trial. Everyone and his dog could know that my sister had been abducted by a man in a pickup truck while we were playing hide-and-seek in the woods near our house. And it didn’t strike me as a big leap in logic or insight that Logan figured out I might need to avenge my sister’s kidnapping by taking on the gnarliest cases I could find. But that this kid had managed to zero in on my survivor’s guilt—that was a little less obvious. It showed me he not only had smarts, but he also knew how to go for the emotional jugular.
Logan’s teachers had said he tested at genius level. And strategizing the shooting and escape clearly took some intelligence. What I hadn’t counted on was this kind of insidious cunning. Or such grandiose megalomania.
I gave the letter to Bailey. Her face was ashen when she passed it to Graden. He read it, and when he looked up, his eyes were blazing with fury. “This animal needs to be put down, and fast.” Graden raked his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got to take this to the chief ASAP.” He looked from Bailey to me, his expression stern. “This stays between us until I say otherwise. If anyone asks, it was just fan mail. Got it?” Bailey and I nodded. If the public found out what was in this letter, the threat of future shootings would cause mass hysteria. And there was no realistic way we could allay the fear. As Bailey pointed out, we couldn’t secure every single public building in the city and county of Los Angeles. Graden reread the letter, then put it back in the box. “This was obviously written by the ringleader—”
“Logan, based on what we know at this point,” Bailey said.
“And it sounds like a high school kid,” I said.
Graden frowned. “Do we know if Shane Dolan is our second shooter?”
“No,” Bailey said. “He’s looking good, but it’s too soon to commit to anything.”
Bailey filled Graden in on what we’d just learned from Isaiah Hamilton and Nancy Findley.
“And we’re sure no students are unaccounted for?” he asked.
“Checked and double-checked,” Bailey said. “All accounted for now. We’ve got alerts out for Logan, his Toyota, and for Shane and his pickup. And the lab is still sifting through a mountain of evidence.”
“We’re going to hit up Caleb and Evan and see what they know about Shane,” I said.
Graden nodded. “Sounds right.” He looked at me closely. “That letter was one hell of a gut shot. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I’d tried to sound casual, but the words came out a little chokey. Graden put an arm around me. That kind of physical display was something we never did at work. Ordinarily I would’ve appreciated it. Not now. This was my private bête noire and I needed to deal with it on my own. I straightened and leaned away. “It really is okay. I’ll be fine.”
Graden nodded and stepped back behind his desk, the move as much emotional as physical. “Just a word of advice about your interview with Evan,” he said. “You might want to go easy on him right now. He felt bad for not telling you about seeing Logan in the parking lot and, beyond that, for not realizing what was up at the time. Go too heavy and he might just shut down.”
“I agree,” Bailey said. “He was trying not to show it, but he looked pretty bent about the whole deal.”
Graden picked up the box containing the letter. “I sincerely doubt that these guys have the wherewithal to follow you two—”
I shook my head. “We’re too small a target. They don’t want us. They want a massive hit and they’re busy planning it. Right now.” Just hearing myself say the words made me want to run outside and start hunting, anywhere and everywhere. Every second we stood there was another second wasted.
“Still, I’m going to try and get you extra security. But in the meantime, be on your guard.” He looked from Bailey to me and back again. We nodded.
Graden left to see the chief, and Bailey and I headed out to her car. In the last twenty minutes, the entire complexion of the case had changed. It had never occurred to me t
hat escaping from Fairmont High wouldn’t be enough for them. That far from trying to hide, they’d be brazenly planning another attack. But now that I knew, it seemed obvious, even naive of us not to have anticipated this. Bailey’s grim expression as she steered out of the parking lot told me she was having similar thoughts.
“All we can do is push ahead,” I said. “The moves are the same.” Track down the witnesses, squeeze them for information, follow the leads.
“Yeah, but the moves need to be a lot faster now.”
I nodded, feeling my gut tighten with anxiety. I forced my brain to slow down and focus on our interview with Evan. Graden and Bailey had both made a fair point. Evan was pretty frayed around the edges when we’d last seen him. The past few days had given him time to think. Time to feel guilty about not having sounded the alarm when Logan told him to ditch school. Maybe time to wonder whether Logan or the other shooter would remember that conversation—and decide to do something about it.
I still had trouble believing Logan would risk making a move on him. But Evan knew Logan better than we ever would.
37
The sky was turning to hues of purple and indigo when we pulled up to Evan’s house. It was downright cold now that the sun had set. I was glad I’d worn my peacoat and cashmere scarf. This time we met Evan’s father. John Cutter had that tight, lean muscle and super-groomed, short-haired look that screamed military.
“Did you happen to know Logan, Mr. Cutter?” I asked.
“I met him a few times when he was here to see Evan, but I can’t say I formed any strong impression one way or the other. He seemed pretty introverted.” He shook his head. “I guess you just never know, do you?”
“You really don’t,” I said. “Have you ever met a person named Shane Dolan?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell. If you had a picture, I might—” Bailey showed him the photo she had on her cell phone. Cutter shook his head. “No, I’d remember if I saw a man like that in my house.”
Like the k in knuckle, the “he-wouldn’t-step-foot-in-this-house-again” was silent. “Do you mind if we speak to Evan in his room?” I asked.