by Marcia Clark
“The world is filled with stupid, pathetic, inferior worms. They’re all a waste of precious resources.”
Evan, the brilliant, the amazing, had no use for the “shrimp brains” of the world. Except as fodder for his sadistic fantasies.
“I saw a movie once where they tied a guy’s arms to the bumper of one car and his legs to the bumper of another, then drove the cars in opposite directions. Just tore him to shreds. I loved it.”
Graden finished the fourth notebook. “Jesus,” he muttered. Bailey and I exchanged looks. We’d had a similar reaction. It was a birds-eye view into the mind of a raving psychopath. But these pages explained something that had always bothered me about the letters I’d received. Back when I thought they’d been written by Logan, I’d had a hard time squaring them with the eloquent writing style Logan’s teachers had described. I’d supposed Logan’s fury had stripped his prose of its usual poetry. But now, knowing that it was Evan who’d written the letters, and seeing the writing in these notebooks, it all made sense.
In Notebook 6 we found a mention of the car burglary charges in Lubbock, Texas. It was a chilling example of Evan’s skill in presenting a facade that was a hundred and eighty degrees from the truth.
“Dumbass fools! Not one of those stupid fucks in juvenile court has a fucking clue. I wrote that bullshit letter to that loser victim yesterday and my P.O was all like, ‘Oh, Evan, y’all are doin’ so well. I wish all my probationers were like you.’ Really, rat face? Do you? Do you wish all your probationers were a thousand times smarter and better than you? And that dumb fuck victim. He DESERVED to have his shit stolen, leaving it on the dashboard in plain sight. STUPID chump-assed motherfucker!”
Stanley, the PO, had no clue. He'd been completely taken in by the act. As the PO put it: “he was a model probationer.” And all the while, Evan was laughing at the “chump-assed motherfuckers” he’d duped so easily.
There was a mention in Notebook 7 of James Holmes, who’d done the shooting in the theater in Aurora, Colorado.
“Pathetic fucking loser, with that stupid orange hair. Fucking clown. It’s all in the execution, asshole! If you’d done it RIGHT, you could’ve taken out at least a hundred. Fool.”
In Notebook 8we found a sneering reference to Timothy McVeigh and Oklahoma City. “He sets up a bomb and hides like a little bitch. Where’s the art in that? Where’s the joy? The world is going to see how it’s done by the BEST. And when we get through, everyone will know we’re far superior to that little punk-assed bitch McVeigh.”
I pointed to the line. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him say we. So at this point he must’ve hooked up with Logan.”
“And started some actual planning,” Bailey said.
Evan made it clear that he didn't intend to get caught "like that stupid clown douche in Aurora," and that he wasn't afraid to die. In fact, he planned to go out in a "blaze of glory." Just as our shrinks predicted. But there was no mention of any plans for future shootings. Not even a specific mention of the plans for the Fairmont shooting.
When he’d finished reading the last notebook, Graden looked up at us. “I have never seen anything like this.”
“Who has?” Bailey said.
“But I don’t get this,” Graden said. “For a kid this young, with his background, to be such a cesspool of hate. I’m not saying his parents were necessarily perfect—we never know the whole story when it comes to family dynamics. But they didn’t seem that far off the beam. Where did it come from?” I shook my head. That was a question no one seemed to be able to answer. “And why didn’t he put his plans for Fairmont or the Cinemark in these notebooks? You think he didn’t trust Amanda?”
Bailey began putting the notebooks back into their manila envelopes. “Yeah. He couldn’t take the risk. If Amanda read about those plans, she’d have called the cops—”
“And also, he probably wanted to keep those plans close,” I said. “The shrinks did say these mass murderers get off on writing and reading their own master plans.” My eyes were gritty and my shoulders ached. I looked at my watch. Nine o’clock. I hadn’t realized how long we’d been at it.
“Guess we can pull back on the Platt Junior High security,” Graden said.
“Yeah,” Bailey said. “That was Logan’s thing, not Evan’s. We should probably keep a detail on it just in case, but I doubt Evan will hit there.”
Graden looked more than just tired. He looked drawn, spent. “You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I went to another one of the funerals today.”
A lead weight pulled at my heart. I was no stranger to depravity—none of us were—but this case was enough to shake what little faith I had in humanity. I thought about naive, unsuspecting Amanda, all the innocent children and teachers at Fairmont High, the victims at the Cinemark, and all the others who were such easy pickings for monsters like Evan. Good people didn’t stand a chance against this kind of random evil.
74
Graden drove me home. I invited him to come up to my room even though we were both fried. I needed to connect with something positive. The insanity I’d been immersed in for the past week had reached a crescendo with those notebooks.
I poured us each a glass of Ancien Pinot Noir. “Do you want to order room service?”
Graden studied his glass. “No, I don’t want anything to get in the way of the buzz.”
I turned on the CD player and we sat on the couch. The lazy-sweet strains of Stanley Turrentine’s “Little Sherie” softly filled the room. Graden clinked his glass against mine and we took a sip. He put an arm around me, and I kicked off my shoes and curled up next to him. “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “I’ve seen you more during this case than I ever do, but it sure doesn’t feel that way.”
We hadn’t had the chance to really connect because we were always running ninety miles an hour. “It is kind of a tease.”
He smiled. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of that before.” He put down his glass, lifted my chin, and kissed me. A long, slow kiss. “Better?”
I was a little breathless. “Even more of a tease.”
He took my glass and put it down on the coffee table, then stood up and pulled me to my feet. Ten minutes ago, I’d have bet serious money that nothing could put me in the mood. But all it took was five minutes alone with Graden to completely change my mind. I followed him into the bedroom and we fell into each other as though we’d been apart for months.
I woke up Thursday morning feeling rested for the first time since I’d caught the case. Graden was already out of the shower and trying to dress quietly. “It’s okay, I’m up.” My voice was still hoarse with sleep.
He smiled and came over to sit next to me on the bed. He pushed my hair out of my eyes. “What’s on tap for you today?”
“We’ve got to meet with the shrinkers about those journals.”
“Did you get a look at that letter he wrote to Amanda?” he asked.
“The one asking her to keep the notebooks for him? No.”
Graden shook his head, his features stony. “He worked her but good. Said, ‘You’re so special. You’re the only one who gets me. That’s why I trust you with these. They’re the most important things to me—other than you, of course.’ It’s incredible how that monster can mimic human behavior.” Graden picked up the remote. “Since you’re up, mind if I turn on the news?”
“Nope. And you can order us breakfast while you’re at it. Two eggs over medium and a bowl of mixed fruit.”
“I’ll go rattle some pots and pans.”
I kissed him and headed for the shower. I’d just finished drying my hair when I heard my name coming from the television. I ran into the bedroom and saw a news reporter standing in front of the St. Julian, where Bailey and I had stayed in Boulder. I turned up the volume.
“…and now we’ve learned that prosecutor Rachel Knight and Detective Bailey Keller paid a visit to someone here in Boulder yesterday. Officials h
ave refused to answer questions about why they were there or who they saw, but it had to be something big to take them out of Los Angeles with at least one killer still at large. Back to you, Andrew.”
Graden had walked in during the newscast. He looked at me, worried. “How the hell did they find out about your trip?”
“Could be someone at the airport, or at the hotel. Who knows?”
Room service arrived. Graden started toward the door, then abruptly stopped. “Wait…Evan—”
“Will know we were talking to Amanda.”
Graden pulled out his cell. “Yeah, Sandy, get me Boulder PD right now.”
The captain of the Boulder Police Department took about ten seconds to guarantee immediate, round-the-clock protection for Amanda and her family. We barely spoke as we ate, each of us consumed by our own thoughts. When we’d finished, I brushed my teeth and grabbed my raincoat and scarf. The sun was shining, but I didn’t trust it—the trees were swaying in a strong wind.
Graden pulled me in for a quick hug before we went out into the world. “Let me know what the shrinks say.”
“I will.”
He gave me a little smile. “And hey, thanks for last night.”
“No, thank you.” I wrapped the scarf around my neck and opened the door. “Your money’s on the nightstand.”
Graden gave me a shove. “Get out.”
We headed downstairs. Graden, unlike Bailey, always had Rafi park his car, and he tipped well. His car was waiting at the curb. Bailey pulled up, and Graden waved as he drove off. She raised an eyebrow at me as I buckled up. “I see you’ve been putting in some overtime.”
“How original of you.” I told her about the newscast and getting protection for Amanda.
“I’d be surprised if Evan bothered with her at this point, but we should ask the shrinks about it.”
I intended to. “Did you get a copy of Evan’s journals out to Jenny and Michael?”
Bailey nodded. “Made them myself last night. Sealed them up and had them hand-delivered early this morning.”
“Do you ever sleep?” Bailey gave a grim smile. It was a drag of a chore, but she was wise not to trust anyone else with it. If those journals leaked, there’d be mass panic. “You talk to Harrellson yet?” I asked. “Hear anything about that San Diego kid, Mark…?
“Unger, yeah. He’s got a solid alibi. Kid’s been in school and at work at the local Jamba Juice every day for the past month. So at least we know we’re only looking for one psycho.”
“Good,” I said. “Did you ask Harrellson if he ever found that uni report saying witnesses had seen Evan in the gym?”
“I did. He can’t find it, and now he thinks he must’ve been hallucinating.”
“But Evan did go to homeroom,” I said.
“Yeah. But if they had all their stuff stashed close by, he could’ve ducked out when everyone else headed to the gym. It’s not that hard.”
Exactly what I’d figured. Now that I thought about it, I’d snuck into the girls’ room to ditch assembly a time or two myself. “I assume by now someone’s told Evan’s parents that we’ve got an arrest warrant out for him?” Bailey nodded. “How’d they take it?”
“The mom fell apart, but the dad refuses to believe it. Said Evan was never violent and never showed any interest in guns.”
“Did anyone ask them how Evan was acting just before the Fairmont shooting?”
“Yeah, and they said he acted completely normal. A little busier than usual; he wasn’t around much. But that was it.”
I had a hard time believing it. How could he possibly be that well controlled? Maybe later, when the shock wore off, his parents would be able to sift through their memories and find the clues that were escaping them now. But those clues had to have been fairly subtle for the parents to have missed them to begin with.
“Has the tip line blown up?” I asked. Now that we’d identified Evan Cutter as the shooter and released his photo, I expected a flood of calls.
“Of course. But nothing solid yet.”
Releasing Evan’s identity was a double-edged sword. The upside was that people would be on the lookout. The downside was that now he’d know he had to act fast to put on his big “finale.” And that meant the pressure was on like never before.
I put in a call to Eric to bring him up to speed.
“Hey, Rachel, I just heard about Evan being your suspect. What the hell?” I gave him the whole story in abbreviated form. “I have never seen a case like this in my life.” Eric gave a long sigh. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Vanderhorn wants you in ASAP for a debriefing.”
“Tell me he didn’t actually say ‘debriefing.’”
“Unfortunately, he did. I wouldn’t push you on this, but there’s a big memorial planned for the Fairmont High School victims, and he’s planning to attend.”
“Of course he is. There’s bound to be a ton of press.”
I could hear Eric smiling. “So Vanderhorn wants to know as much as possible, just in case he has to give a statement.”
Just in case. He’d chase them down and tackle them if they didn’t ask for a statement. This was one of the few moments when I really hated my job.
“Okay. But I’ve got a meeting with the shrinks first.”
75
We found Jenny and Michael already starting on their second cup of coffee. This coffee-meeting ritual had grown on me. There was something comforting about it, although given the reason for these meetings, I didn’t know why. The photocopied pages of Evan’s journal were spread out on the table between them. Jenny held up the pot. “Want some?”
“Sure, thanks,” I said. Bailey took a cup too, and we settled in around the table. Bailey brought them up to speed on the latest events, including the press release identifying Evan Cutter as the shooter and the leak that we’d been in Boulder.
Michael and Jenny exchanged a look; then Michael cleared his throat. “Before we get to these pages”—he gestured to the copies of the journals—“we think you should be aware that the press releases are likely to speed up his timetable. I guarantee he knows that he’s been identified.”
“So the net is tightening quickly,” Jenny said. “As we’ve surmised, he never expected to go on indefinitely, and this journal confirms what we’ve said all along: he plans to continue these rampages until he’s stopped—”
“And that means when he dies,” Michael said. “Evan Cutter has no intention of being taken into custody.”
And I had no intention of letting him have his finale of choice. Death was too good for this subhuman. I wanted Evan Cutter taken into custody alive and kicking. “We agree. What’d you think of his journals?”
Jenny led off. “This boy is a classic example of a psychopath—”
“No big shock there,” Bailey said.
“No. But I’ve seen what many would have called the most extreme psychopaths in the world, and Evan Cutter is right up there. And unlike some of the other more prolific killers, he doesn’t even pretend to be serving a political ideology. He simply hates the world. And loves power. The combination of that hatred and thirst for power is what fuels his desire to kill. Murder for him is the epitome of power.” Jenny pushed a few of the pages around, then pulled one out and pointed to the bottom of the page. “See here, where he rails against his father for moving the family around so much? For a normal child that might be tough, but for Evan Cutter it was torturous because it undermined his power. His father said go, and like it or not, he had to go. That infuriated him. You said his father is a military type, a former Marine, correct?” I nodded. “And I’d guess fairly strict?”
“I got that impression,” I said.
Jenny shook her head. “You couldn’t hope for a worse combination. In general, psychopaths can’t tolerate any form of restriction. But Evan in particular has a very low threshold for frustration. What is apparent in these pages is that any obstacle, no matter how small, sends him into a rage.”
“Because
it’s a threat to his power,” I said. Michael nodded. “But he didn’t fit the profile you guys gave us. Evan didn’t complain about feeling persecuted or even do a lot of yakking about guns. And neither did Logan.”
“We had to go with generalities,” Jenny said. “But when it comes to specific individuals”—she sighed—“there just are no concrete rules. And this is a big part of the problem when it comes to spotting a potential psychopath of this ilk. As we said from the start, they’re heterogeneous. There is no single profile.”
“True,” I said. “But Logan…he doesn’t fit any mold.”
Jenny nodded,reached into an accordion folder that was on the floor next to her chair, and pulled out some photocopied pages. I recognized them as the pages from Logan’s journal. I’d forgotten we’d given them a copy. “After hearing that Logan was dead, I took another look at these pages. I’d always had the sense that Logan was a follower, not a leader. I think Amanda probably had it right when she told you she thought Logan had a crush on her primarily because he wanted to emulate Evan. And Logan clearly had some serious psychological problems—certainly he was severely depressed. I don’t think, given what he ultimately did, that it’s a big stretch to say Logan also had a great deal of anger boiling inside him. In that regard, he and Evan had something important in common. But the difference is in how they dealt with that anger. That difference is what made Evan so attractive to Logan. Evan’s aggressive energy, his apparent power, was revelatory for Logan. Here was someone who channeled his rage outward, who punished others rather than what Logan did—”
I nodded. “Punish himself.”
“Right,” Jenny said. “I doubt Logan, on his own, would ever have harmed another person. He might’ve fantasized about homicide in his darker moments, but I doubt he would ever have acted on it. It was the introduction of Evan into his life that induced him to turn his rage outward—”
“You think he committed suicide out of guilt?” I asked.