The Competition

by Marcia Clark

  Finally, the SWAT officer in charge reported that the building had been cleared. All officers left through the back door.

  At the front of the school, all was quiet. Unnaturally so. Traffic had been diverted for a six-block radius, and more than three dozen officers encircled the outer perimeter of the school grounds. All had their guns drawn and ready.

  Detective Dwight Rosenberg parked at the edge of the student parking lot, thirty yards behind the Chevrolet. Without taking his eyes off the car, he asked his partner, Meg Wittig, “Did someone put in the call to Detective Keller?”

  “Captain said he’d take care of it.”

  Dwight got out and peered into the driver’s side window of the Chevrolet. He spoke quietly. “You see someone in the driver’s seat?”

  Meg nodded. “But it looks like his head is covered—”

  “A ski mask.”

  Meg swallowed, her heart pounding. “Yeah.”

  “Where’s our sniper?”

  “On his way.”

  Dwight Rosenberg shook his head. He didn’t like any of this. Precious minutes were being wasted. If that was Evan Cutter, he could come out blasting at any moment. Dwight pulled out his bullhorn. “This is Detective Dwight Rosenberg with the LAPD. I’m ordering the occupant of the beige Chevy to exit the vehicle immediately with your hands up.”

  There was no response.

  Detective Dwight Rosenberg signaled to the detectives in the unmarked cars to get ready to move. He again raised the bullhorn and ordered the occupant of the car to exit the vehicle.

  There was no response.

  Sharpshooter Officer Butch Cannaday pulled into the parking lot behind the detectives and came running. Dwight nodded and pointed to the car. The sharpshooter pulled up his high-powered rifle. Sighting through his scope, he focused on the driver’s seat of the beige Chevrolet. He lowered the gun but kept his eyes trained on the car as he spoke to Dwight. “Someone’s definitely in the driver’s seat. Wearing a black balaclava.”

  “That’s our boy’s mo,” Dwight said. “All right, kill the car.”

  Butch raised his rifle and took aim. Four out of four shots hit the tires.

  Dwight again used the bullhorn to order the occupant out of the car.

  There was no response.

  Dwight’s cell phone buzzed at his hip. It was the West Valley captain, who’d been monitoring the events on his radio. “Dwight, fall back and wait for the bomb squad.”

  Dwight grunted. Another delay—the last thing they needed.

  “Dwight? Don’t fuck with me. That’s an order.”

  Dwight ended the call, relayed the order to Meg, and muttered under his breath. “We’re just giving this shitbird more time to do his worst.”

  Meg nodded, but she agreed with the captain. If it was Evan Cutter in the car—and she was fairly sure it was—she wanted all the backup they could get. Meg liked the idea of being a hero, just not a dead one.

  Dwight signaled for the detectives parked behind him to fall back. They retreated and crouched behind the open doors of their cars.

  Police helicopters arrived, and the air above the school parking lot filled with the whop-whop of their propellers. Off in the distance, media helicopters hovered, waiting for the chance to move in.

  Dwight’s cell phone buzzed again. “Yeah?” he answered, irritated.

  It was the head of the bomb squad. “We’re trying to get there, we’ve got sirens and lights going, but the traffic’s a bitch—”

  “How long?”

  “Hard to tell right now. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  “Shit.” Dwight huffed. He gave Meg the news.

  “Figures,” she said. “It’s morning rush hour. Nothing they can do about that.”

  Dwight shook his head. He didn’t care whose fault it was. Cutter obviously couldn’t escape, but Dwight didn’t think that was the plan. He was staging his finale. Dwight fully expected him to come out shooting at any second. That’d be just his style. And what if he had grenades? Dwight looked at all the officers and detectives holding the perimeter. How many would die? They couldn’t afford to wait for the bomb squad. Dwight spoke to Meg in a low whisper. “Stay back and don’t let the others move until I tell you.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say a word, Dwight had turned and begun to move toward the beige Chevrolet.

  Hunkered down to make a smaller target, his gun held out in front of his body, arms shaking with tension, Dwight slowly edged toward the car. Meg couldn’t let him do it alone. Against her better judgment, she followed. But she held up a hand to signal that the detectives behind them should stay back.

  The detectives, seeing her signal, exchanged looks and reached a silent agreement. All six of them quietly fell in behind her. Slowly, the phalanx inched forward, guns held at the ready.

  When he got to within ten feet of the car, Dwight thought he saw movement in the driver’s seat. He stopped and tried to peer in through the rear window. Behind him, Meg and the other officers stopped and watched. Meg could feel a pulse throb at the base of her throat, imagined a bullet—or a piece of shrapnel—lodging there. She swallowed and tried to slow her breathing.

  Dwight stared at the driver’s seat. Another movement? It looked like it. He raised his gun and took a step forward. But in that moment, he heard a low rumble, like the sound of a gas flame igniting. Dwight yelled, “Get down!”

  Everyone dropped to the ground just as a thunderous explosion split the air. Fire shot out through the cracks in the doors, and flames engulfed the car. Seconds later, two smaller explosions, muffled and weak, followed. Smoke billowed out and spread through the parking lot.

  For a brief moment, Dwight, facedown on the asphalt, heard nothing. Was he dead? But a few seconds later, he noticed that his ears were ringing. Not dead. But he couldn’t feel his arms, his legs. His heart began to race as panic set in. He’d had nightmares about being paralyzed ever since his former partner took a bullet to the spine. Squeezing his eyes shut, he begged his body to move. With an effort, he managed to roll onto his side. He could at least move his body. He opened his eyes. The smoke stung and made him tear up, but he could dimly make out shapes through the haze. He could see. He inhaled but pulled in smoke, and his body convulsed in a hacking cough. But as he struggled to catch his breath, his knees reflexively drew up. His legs felt okay. He straightened his arms, then curled his hands into fists. A smile spread across his face, and he almost laughed with relief.

  Slowly, head still swimming, he stood up. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and took a few shallow breaths. He looked down at his body. Unbelievably, there were only minor cuts and scrapes. Behind him, he heard coughs and sputters. Dwight turned to see that all the other detectives had advanced with him, Meg in the lead. Jesus, what had he done?

  Dwight helped Meg up. Her forehead was badly scraped, but she was able to stand and dust herself off. She was wobbly, but okay. “Why didn’t you stay back?” he asked.

  Meg shrugged. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”

  His heart was heavy with guilt. Dwight should’ve known she wouldn’t let him move without backup. He looked back at the rest of the detectives, who were wiping the blood off of palms, cheeks, foreheads. “You guys okay?” The detectives nodded.

  Dwight looked at the Chevrolet. He tried to see Cutter’s body, but flames and smoke obscured his view. When they’d cordoned off the parking lot, Cutter must’ve realized it was over and decided to make his grand exit. It struck him again just how reckless his move had been. If they’d gotten just a little closer, or Evan had a little more firepower…Dwight didn’t want to think about it.

  The bomb squad arrived just as he was pulling out his phone. He restrained the impulse to say that “better late than never” really wasn’t their best motto. The truth was, he was glad to see them. He doubted the car was rigged with any more “surprises,” but after what they’d just been through, he was happy to let the experts make sure of it.r />
  The head of the bomb squad, a big beefy type, jumped out of the truck and stomped over to Dwight. His voice was hot. “Ya just couldn’t wait, could ya? Ya had to be a friggin’ hero. You’re just damn lucky you didn’t get your whole team killed.” Dwight heaved a sigh, but said nothing. He’d known this was coming. And he knew he deserved it.

  Dwight turned back to look at the Chevrolet. Now the only sound coming from the car was the crackle and whoosh of flames eating whatever would burn. They stood and watched, and waited.

  The bomb squad took statements from Dwight and his team, examined the debris that had blown from the car, and studied the car itself through binoculars. After they’d huddled, the head of the squad marched up to Dwight, his jaw clenched. “Rosenberg, I know I said you got lucky. But now we have a better idea of just how lucky. You need to hear this: he had three bombs rigged up. Only the smallest one detonated. The other two were duds. If things had gone as this asswipe had planned, you, your team, and a whole lot of others would’ve been blown to smithereens.” He gave Dwight a hard look. “Get it?”

  Dwight swallowed. He hadn’t thought he could feel any worse. “Got it.”

  “Good. You can let the fire dudes in now.” He headed back to his truck.

  The fire department moved in and put out the fire. Now even more smoke poured out through the shattered windows. Dwight grabbed a rag, doused it with water and covered his eyes. He wanted to move closer, but the heat coming from the car was still so intense it was hard to breathe.

  When the air had cleared somewhat, Dwight moved in and peered into the driver’s seat through streaming eyes. The body was charred, burned, and now soaking wet—with odd bits of the black balaclava still clinging to the head—but it was Cutter.

  Dwight ran back to his car and pulled out his cell phone. He called the captain and gave him the update. Then he called Bailey. It went to her voice mail, so he left a message. “Detective Keller, it’s Detective Dwight Rosenberg. If you’re on your way here, you can stand down. We got him. Cutter’s dead. It’s over. I’m heading over to the memorial right now. I should get there in about twenty minutes.”

  80

  Bailey and I moved into the amphitheater behind a group of students. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders, heads tilted together. It had been sunny when Bailey picked me up at the Biltmore, but now clouds had gathered and the air smelled like rain. As we walked down the aisle on the right side of the amphitheater, toward the front section, I noticed the governor and his wife, the chief of LAPD, and several councilmen. And, of course, Vanderputz, who was cozying up to the governor’s entourage, hoping to worm his way up to the man himself. There were no cameras, at the families’ request. But I’d seen reporters, both print and television, packed into the back seats, near the entrance. The police presence out front had been impressive.

  The families of the victims were all around us, and grief hung damp and heavy over the theater. Some cried, others stared vacantly, unable to absorb the cataclysmic loss. Ushers moved through the theater with baskets of tissues. Surviving students walked with heads hung low and shoulders hunched. They embraced their dead friends’ parents awkwardly, eyes cast downward.

  The floral arrangements were so massive they took up the entire back half of the stage and the lower part of the hill behind it. At either side of the stage there were open wings, and I could see Principal Campbell standing with the clergymen at stage left. From the crowd behind him, it looked like all denominations were represented.

  As we took our seats, my cell phone buzzed. It was a voice mail from Graden, asking if we’d heard the news. He didn’t want to say what it was on the phone. I told Bailey. “Have you had any calls?”

  “No.” She pulled out her cell. “Shit! The battery’s dead. Jesus H. Christ. I can’t believe it.”

  I popped the battery out of my phone and gave it to her. Bailey took it and moved to an alcove across the aisle on our right. I watched volunteers dressed in black pants and long-sleeved shirts guide elderly family members to their seats. Other volunteers carried in armloads of still more flowers, some wobbling under the weight of the larger arrangements.

  As the last of them placed a huge wreath on the stage, I noticed another volunteer on the hill behind the stage, wheeling out what looked like a small trash can. Bailey came back and spoke into my ear in an urgent whisper. “They got him! Evan’s dead! He parked in the student lot at Taft High School. Rigged it up with a bomb—”

  I pulled back and looked at her with alarm. “Was anyone…?”

  “No. No one was hurt.”

  I exhaled, relieved. “And they’ve got Evan’s body”

  “Yeah. It’s in the car.”

  It was over. I couldn’t believe it. I was glad. I was. Especially because no one else had been hurt. But I was angry too. He’d gotten his wish. I’d never get the satisfaction of seeing him cuffed and caged like the animal he was. “Should we get out there?” I asked.

  “To do what? Dwight—he left me the message—said he’s on his way here. There’s nothing left for us to do. Except celebrate.” Bailey gave me a grim smile, but she didn’t look all that elated either.

  “You wanted to bring him in too, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Bailey nodded. “I didn’t think it mattered till now. But yeah, I guess I wanted to see him locked up. This way…”

  “He kind of gets what he wanted.”

  “Exactly.”

  My eyes drifted back toward the hill. The volunteer had left the trash can in the middle of the hill and was now moving toward the wings at stage right. Were they planning some display up there? I started to ask Bailey, but Principal Campbell walked onto the stage, leading the procession of clergymen. When he got to the microphone set up in the center, he tapped it and cleared his throat.

  “On this saddest of all days, I welcome our Fairmont High families.”

  At that moment, a booming explosion shook the theater. On the hill behind the stage, a fireball burst into the sky. Hot, orange flames leaped into the trees. Jagged metal pieces of the trash can shot out through the air, sharp and deadly. Principal Campbell dropped, face-first, onto the stage, and a flower of red spread across the back of his head. Deadly metallic shrapnel rained onto the stage and the front rows of the audience. The clergymen fell to the floor. Fire crackled on the hill, and sparks flew into the floral arrangements at the back of the stage.

  Screams of terror filled the amphitheater. The audience jumped to their feet and tried to head for the exit, climbing over one another in a blind panic.

  Damn, I knew it! “Bailey, that was Evan! That volunteer on the hill was Evan!” And I knew exactly where he was headed. The wings led into the building that wrapped around the back of the theater and out to the open terrace that overlooked the only point of exit or entry into the theater. He’d be able to fire straight down into the fleeing crowd. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

  With the audience clogging the entrance, the police would be stuck outside for precious seconds. We were the only ones who could get to him in time. I grabbed Bailey’s arm and pointed to the wings at stage left. “Go that way! He’s got to be heading for the terrace over the exit!” Bailey took off running. I snatched my gun out of my purse, put it into my coat pocket, and ran toward the wings at stage right.

  The fire roared all around me; trees crackled and splintered as they burned. The heat from the flames was so intense I could feel it blistering my face and hands. But it hadn’t spread onto the stage yet. The earth was slippery with mud from the recent rains, and I kept sliding back down the hill. Finally, I managed to grab the low branches of a scrub oak and pull myself up the muddy incline. As I pushed my way up the hill, the branches of the shorter trees stabbed at my eyes and scraped my face and neck. Finally, covered in mud, eyes stinging with sweat and the blood that had trickled down from my scalp and forehead, I reached the ledge. I put my hands on it, jumped, and levered myself up onto the stage. Ahead was the enclosed hallwa
y that would lead me to the open terrace.

  Where I was sure Evan was now headed.

  The hallway was dark. As I stepped inside, the abrupt shift from daylight to darkness blinded me. I forced myself to move slowly at first to let my eyes adjust, and tried not to imagine that Evan was drawing a bead on my forehead. After a few seconds, I was able to see well enough to run. I took out my gun and stayed close to the wall.

  Knowing that Evan might be just steps in front of me, my heart thudded hard against my rib cage, but I kept running. I found the door to the stairway that would lead me to the rooftop. He might be waiting for me behind that door. But there was no other way. I had to risk it.

  I crouched down and twisted the doorknob as slowly and quietly as I could. Then, using all my strength, I threw the door open and held my gun out in front of me. It banged into the wall and bounced back so fast it almost knocked me down. I pushed it open and flew up the stairs to the roof. Like the one on the floor below, this was an enclosed hallway and it was pitch black, but I pounded down the corridor, heart beating like a trip-hammer, lungs on fire.

  I stopped at the curve just before it opened onto the terrace. And there he was, the monster we’d been chasing since this nightmare began. Evan Cutter stood just a hundred feet away. He’d shaved his head and was wearing dark-tinted aviator glasses. He was slamming a magazine into a .forty-caliber Smith and Wesson as he watched the fleeing audience. His lips were twisted in a sick, gleeful smile. I knew that gun held eleven rounds, and I saw another seven clips on the wall in front of him. Even if that was the only gun he had, he’d be able to take out dozens.

  He took aim and began to fire at the crowd below. The shots echoed loudly in the hallway, mingling with shrieks of terror. Without thinking, I ran straight at him, gun in hand. Desperate to stop him, and afraid I might miss at this distance, I screamed as loud as I could, “Evan! Stop!”