by Marcia Clark
She put the chicken pieces on paper towels and began drying them. “I’ve been thinking about that, and no. None. He was a pretty quiet kid. That’s why it’s so hard to imagine that he was involved in something…like this.” A mixture of fear and sadness crossed Vera’s face as she washed her hands and moved to the refrigerator. I got the feeling that she was glad to help us, but she’d be just as glad to put this interview behind her.
“Did you ever see him act out in a violent manner with any of the other kids?” Bailey asked. “Or see him get unusually…upset?”
Vera took eggs out of the refrigerator and put them into a bowl. “Violent? No. I never worried that he was a danger to others.” She put the bowl on the counter and pulled out a whisk, then gave us a wry half-smile. “And I never saw him start fires or be cruel to animals.” The sociopathic checklist. “But what I do remember is that he was a perfectionist. Even at that early age.”
“What age exactly?” I asked.
“Ten. I taught fifth grade. It isn’t that uncommon to see kids be perfectionists at that age, but Logan took it to an extreme. If every single thing he did wasn’t absolutely flawless, he’d have a fit, and I mean that literally. He’d shred the work, clench his fists, and shake. Sometimes even scream and call himself names, like ‘stupid idiot’ and ‘loser.’”
“What did you do?” I asked.
Vera cracked the eggs into the bowl. “I’d try to calm him down as best I could, and eventually, it would pass. But I knew it was a sign that there was a problem, so I told his parents about it and recommended a child psychologist.” Vera began to beat the eggs.
“How did they take it?” Some parents didn’t appreciate it when teachers suggested their children needed professional help.
“Very well, actually. They started therapy right away. At least that’s what they told me.” Vera put the chicken pieces into the bowl and coated them.
Bailey and I exchanged a look. “Did Logan seem to get better?” I asked.
“He did. He definitely stopped having those fits.”
We fished around for a little while longer to make sure there was nothing else of consequence, then thanked Vera for her time and let ourselves out. The spatter of chicken hitting hot grease crackled behind us as we headed out the door.
When we got into the car, Bailey pulled out her cell. “Someone should check this shrink business out with the Jarvises. See if they put Logan on some kind of medication.”
If we got to trial, any possible chemical influences would offer big support to a mental defense. “Damn. I’d like to hear this for myself. What if we got Nick to go with us? Think that would help?” Nick had the kind of laid-back attitude that might soften the parents’ feelings toward us. Although he’d been at the Jarvis house during the search, he’d stayed in the background. It was possible the parents never even noticed him.
Bailey chewed the inside of her cheek. “Bonnie’ll be less hostile than Brad. I’ll have Nick call and see who’s home. If it’s just her, and Nick’s available, we can give it a try, see if she’ll talk. But if she gets the least bit hinky, we’re outta there. Harrellson can handle it.”
“Of course.” Logan’s parents didn’t have a right to refuse to talk to us. And, fortunately, they hadn’t lawyered up yet. But if they’d be more cooperative with another officer, there was no sense insisting on doing the interview ourselves. I could only hope that Nick’s charm would work its magic. Because I wanted to hear for myself what Bonnie had to say about all this. And why she hadn’t given us this information before.
49
The Jarvises had moved since we’d last seen them. From the moment we’d released Logan’s name as a ‘person of interest,’ they’d been under siege. Reporters camped out in their front yard, gawkers and hecklers filled the street, and within twenty-four hours, they’d not only received death threats, but someone had painted graffiti on the walls of their garage and sidewalk calling them “killer breeders.” Luckily, a friend had a small rental property available in Santa Clarita, which was about half an hour northeast of Woodland Hills.
Nick toned down the cowboy theme for the occasion. He still wore the boots, but he’d dispensed with the hat, and his sheepskin-lined leather coat looked expensive. He introduced himself with a warm smile, apologized for the inconvenience with convincing sincerity, and asked Bonnie if he could take “just a few moments” of her time.
Bonnie’s expression had hardened when she saw us on her doorstep, but Nick’s easy manner won her over. She stood aside and let us in without complaint. As we got seated in the living room, I saw that Bonnie looked a great deal worse for the wear. It’d been less than a week since the shooting, but she’d aged ten years. Her face sagged like a melted candle. By unspoken agreement, Nick took the lead in the questioning. He broached the subject of Logan’s therapy gently. “We’ve learned that Logan had a few…problems when he was younger. Tell you the truth, it sounded like the same kind of problems a nephew of mine had a while back. Sure was tough on my sister. I was just wondering what you could tell us about that.”
Bonnie’s lip trembled. She stared out the window in silence for several long moments. “I-I forgot about that. I hate to talk about it. It’s embarrassing to Logan, and it’s really not relevant anymore. It was such a long time ago. The doctor said he was fine.”
Her reaction was understandable…if Logan were in trouble for ditching school. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and scream, “Embarrassing to Logan? Have you lost your mind?” It was a good thing Nick was doing the questioning.
“But you did get him some help,” Nick said.
“Yes, we took him to a therapist.” She looked up at the ceiling. “What was his name?” After a few moments, Bonnie sighed. “It’ll come to me. But he was a wonderful man. He did Logan a world of good. The diagnosis was obsessive-compulsive disorder and anxiety. No hallucinations or voices.” She looked at us pointedly. “No indication of any violent thoughts or tendencies. At least, not toward others.”
“Did the doctor believe there was a suicide risk?” Nick asked.
Bonnie swallowed and nodded. “But he also said it was something the medication and therapy would alleviate. That and time. The doctor felt very sure Logan’s problems would be resolved over time.”
“That must have been very hard for you,” Nick said.
Bonnie teared up. “The poor little guy was giving himself fits.” Then she looked out the living room window and drifted off. No doubt to a happier time, before the “poor little guy” turned into a vicious killer.
“And was the doctor right?” Nick asked. “Did the therapy work?”
Bonnie nodded. “Yes, therapy and the medication. He seemed to calm down considerably.”
Shit. I could see it coming already. A mental defense: the drugs made me do it. “Do you remember what kind?” I asked.
Bonnie squinted at the floor for a few moments. “Luv…something. Luvox? Was that it?” She nodded. “Yes, I believe that’s it. But after about a year, the doctor said he was over the hump and took him off it.”
Nick gave me a look that said he’d take it from there. “Then he wasn’t taking anything by the time he got into middle school?”
“Oh, no. By then he was certainly not taking it anymore.” Bonnie gave a heavy sigh that seemed to deflate her whole body. She was worn down to a nub. “Now I remember. It’s Dr. Bingham. Jerry Bingham.”
Nick asked a few more questions to make sure Bonnie wasn’t sitting on any other information, and then we left and huddled at Nick’s car.
“Thanks for that,” Bailey said to him.
He tipped an imaginary hat with a smile. “Always happy to help out lovely ladies.” Then he looked back at the Jarvis house, his expression somber. “You know, if I met her on the street, I’d never figure her for the mother of a maniac like this.”
True that.
“So how’s that nephew of yours doing?” I asked. Nick looked puzzled. “Your sister’s kid, the
one who had mental problems.”
Nick gave a little smile. “Always wished I had a sister.” Nick saluted and took off. We got into Bailey’s car, and I called Dr. Michael to ask if he’d heard of Luvox.
“Of course. It’s a preferred drug for OCD. Just a general question, I assume?”
“Right. A friend of mine asked me about it yesterday.” I had warned the doctors not to mention this case on the phone. “What are the contraindications?”
“There have been some studies that show it may cause suicidal ideation, depression, and violence.”
“Even if he’s not still taking it? Our information is that he stopped taking it years ago,” I said.
“It’s possible. The long-term effects are not well documented.”
I asked Michael if we could drop by. I had more questions, but I couldn’t them ask on the phone.
“Probably better if I meet you at the station,” he said. His office was just ten minutes from the Police Administration Building. “There was a shooting across the street this morning, and the reporters are still floating around.”
”We’ll meet you in the lobby,” I said.
When Michael arrived, we took him straight to an interview room.
“Do you know of a psychologist or psychiatrist by the name of Jerry Bingham?” I asked.
“I do,” Michael said. “He’s a good guy. He was Logan’s doctor?” I nodded. “I’m sure he’d have useful information. But of course…”
“Yeah.” Dr. Bingham couldn’t tell us a damn thing. The information was all privileged. “Would Logan have any way of getting his hands on more Luvox without his parents finding out?”
“Well, I’m not sure why he’d want to. It’s not exactly a hallucinogenic, though I guess you never know.” Michael sighed. “It would have to be under the table. Maybe he could find it online—”
“Or maybe he could talk the doctor into passing him free samples.”
“I really wouldn’t expect any doctor to do that,” Michael said. “Especially with a minor. And even if he did, I doubt he’d have continued to do so over any extended period of time.”
But he couldn’t rule out the possibility. We wouldn’t know for sure until we got to trial.
“Do you have anything more for us on Shane?” Michael asked.
“We’ve got reports on his stint in the Army for you,” Bailey said. “But from what I saw, there’s nothing out of the norm. We’re still digging into his earlier stuff.” Like crazy, actually. But it’d only been two days since we’d identified Shane Dolan as our likely second shooter, and his pre-military history was a little harder to find than we’d expected.
Shane was adopted, no known siblings, and both parents were dead. We hadn’t found his birth parents yet. He hadn’t gone to college, his high school records were archived somewhere—we had unis working on it—and his elementary school records had all been on paper (the school didn’t have digital records when Shane was a kid) and they’d been purged.
Michael frowned. “That’s too bad. What your witnesses have said so far is helpful, but it really only gives us a thumbnail sketch. And there are some…anomalies in terms of Shane being the follower. I have no doubt that Logan chose Fairmont High as their first target. But that doesn’t necessarily mean Shane will let him choose their future targets. The problem is, we don’t know enough about Shane to make even an educated guess about what target he’d choose.” Michael paused. “There’s no indication Shane had any problems in the Army? None at all?”
“Not from what I saw,” Bailey said. “Honorable discharge, no record of discipline. It was probably the only time anyone kept him close to the straight and narrow.”
“Then we focus on Logan’s motives,” he said. “Given what you’ve found, I can’t say that Shane necessarily has a motive to target government buildings—”
“Other than his time in the service—” I said.
“Which was apparently uneventful,” Michael said. “And I don’t have enough data to figure out what motive he might have to target any other place.”
50
Bailey escorted Michael to the elevator, and I waited for her in the interview room, thinking about what he had said.
“It is weird that Shane would go along for the ride and let this kid call the shots,” I said.
“Yeah, it is. But we don’t know that he is. It might be more mutual than that. Shane’s had a tough life. There’s a lot we don’t know and may never know. But even if Logan is calling the shots, it wouldn’t be the first time a younger, smarter perp winds up being the ringleader.”
How could anyone predict what might happen when two complementary psychos connect? It’s crazy to think there could be any concrete rules about anything, let alone which one might be the leader and which the follower. “Have we heard back from Harrellson yet about the Shane sighting up north?”
“So far, no dice. At least no credible dice. And our media relations guy is laughing his head off at how the press is getting a dose of his world. The reporters have been complaining to him about all the wing nuts phoning in their sightings. Mostly of Logan, but some of Shane too. He told them to cry him a river.” Bailey shook her head, with a little smile.
“But bottom line, no new information on Shane?”
“No,” Bailey said. “He’s not using credit cards, and I’d guess he’s switched cars by now since the Jetta hasn’t been spotted again. But we don’t have any more stolen reports we can tie to Shane.”
The blue Jetta had been reported stolen, but we hadn’t connected it to Shane until after our tipster spotted him at the gas station. Now, we had alerts for Los Angeles County and all points north on any cars reported stolen in the past five days.
“Tell you what,” Bailey said. “You call Dorian, see if she’s got anything else on Evan’s room. I’ll check on the security setup for Platt Junior High.”
I shot her a dagger look. “I can make the calls about security.”
“No, you can’t.” Bailey gave me a smug little smile.
She was right, I couldn’t. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t deliberately set me up to take the brunt of Dorian’s wrath. We bought snacks from the vending machine. I got a disgustingly healthy apple; Bailey got Doritos.
While Bailey worked her phone, I pulled out a swivel chair next to her desk, ate her chips, and punched in Dorian’s number on my cell.
“Yeah, what?” Dorian said.
“Hey, Dorian, it’s Rachel Knight. I was just calling to find out—”
“Whether I’ve got money on the Raiders’ game, right? I do not.” Dorian’s funny side showed up at the most unexpected times. “I can’t say the shoe prints I found near the house were left that night. They might’ve been, but there was dirt in the impression, so they could’ve been there from the day before. Bottom line: I can’t rule out the possibility that Evan was abducted, but my very educated guess is that there was no foul play here. The kid rabbited on us.”
“No hairs or fibers to work with?”
“So far, everything comes back to Evan or his mother.”
My line beeped with a call waiting. I signed off with Dorian and took it.
It was Graden. “Hey, what’s up?”
“We’ve got another letter.”
I felt the apple travel back up to my throat. I took a deep breath to force it back down. “At the school?”
“Yeah. The bomb guys are already on their way out there. Assuming it clears, we’ll have it in my office within the hour.”
“Call me when it gets there.”
51
He smiled. It made him happy to see the line of people waiting for the seven o’clock showing of Hail of Metal. They’d been right to pick a Saturday night at the Cinemark in Woodland Hills. No matter how crappy the movie, the idiots always had to have their “date night.” The place would be packed to capacity. A pimply young man dressed in a black shirt and trousers opened the doors, and the line slowly filed in to the theater. Pathetic sh
eep.
It was hard to wait. The digital clock in the dashboard felt torturously slow. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. One minute crawled by. Then another. Then another. Finally, it was time.
Moving quickly up to the doors, past the usher, then moving slowly, with deliberate nonchalance, into the theater. The clock above the concession stand read 7:15. Perfect. They’d planned it all so well. The movie would start any minute. This was it. Go, go, go! Up the staircase. Down the hall. To the door on the right.
Knuckles rapped hard, with authority, on the door of the projection booth.
A voice from inside the booth called out, “Who’s there?”
You’ll see, dickweed. “The manager. It’s important. Open up.”
The door opened just a crack. It was enough. Slam! The door flew back, throwing the projectionist to the ground. The knife plunged into his gut, right up to the hilt. He exhaled with a grunt. The knife plunged again, this time straight into his throat. Gurgling, choking sounds bubbled out of the projectionist’s mouth. It would’ve been fun to watch, but there was no time.
Ready.
Two assault rifles, locked and loaded, poked through the window to the theater.
Aim.
As the lights dimmed, the guns tipped down toward the audience. One shifted to the right, the other to the left.
The opening scene—a four-car pursuit—began to play. The sound track blasted the screech of tires, the clash of metal on metal as the cars careered through tight city streets, slamming into walls, parked cars, and mailboxes.
Finally, the cue: a long hail of bullets.
Fire!
The projection booth filled with manic laughter and gunshots. Blam! Blam! Blam!
Down in the theater below, people began to scream.
52
Graden had the letter brought into his office, so we gathered there. Nick had asked to be included in the meeting because he’d helped trace the postmark on the last letter. Once again, there were two envelopes. I put on latex gloves and took the folded paper out of the evidence box with shaking hands. Bailey and Nick read over my shoulder.