by Lisa Gardner
She crumpled it up and threw it away.
TWENTY-ONE
Friday, May 18, 7:18 A.M.
Ed Flanders had been a bartender for thirty-five years. He hadn’t meant to do that. In the beginning it had been just a gig, a mindless summer job that would let him hit on girls while making a ton of money in tips. He was passing down the Oregon coast on his way to L.A., where he was going to make it big. Hanging out in Seaside to catch a community play, he’d first seen the Help Wanted sign and decided what the hey.
It had been a long time since.
In the beginning, he told himself he stayed for his art. Seaside had a decent community theater program and enough tourists passing through to make it worthwhile. Each summer he’d audition for a lead role and work on building his résumé. Then, when he never moved beyond parts such as Peasant #3, he told himself he stayed for the money. A bartender could make a little dough during the wild summer months. Then he told himself he stayed for the benefits, because he’d finally hit thirty and realized the true joy of a good HMO. Truth was, he’d met Jenny by then and, stick a fork in him, he was done.
Next thing Ed Flanders knew, several decades had passed, he was now a grandpa and pretty little Jenny was still the love of his life.
Ed Flanders didn’t have any complaints.
Until two days ago. That man, coming into the bar and ordering his buffalo wings. That man, getting Darren all riled up, though God knows it didn’t take much anymore.
That man, talking about those poor little girls and all the things that had gone wrong over in Bakersville.
Ed Flanders had met a lot of people in his time, and that man bothered him.
Not the questions, he decided after a bit. Everyone in town was talking about the shooting that happened just an hour and a half away. Some people claimed to know Shep personally. Lots of people had some sort of family involved.
Oh, people talked about the shooting, all right. In the bars, in the churches, in the streets.
But not that many locals, let alone strangers, went around spouting some junior officer’s name. Lori … Liz … Lorraine. Lorraine Conner. She wasn’t even the one on TV. That was the mayor, and some state guy named Sanders.
So how’d this guy know Conner’s name like that?
And worse, why did Ed Flanders think he’d seen the guy before? Something about the eyes, or maybe it was the nose. Take away the years, maybe soften the hair …
Damn, he couldn’t quite place the face.
That strange, uncomfortable man who had walked into his bar and made everything wrong.
Ed didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him. He just didn’t know what to do about that yet.
Back in the hotel room, the man finally allowed himself to collapse. Damn, he was tired. The pace of the last few days, the things he still had to get done … People who thought murder was easy had obviously never tried it.
The man fished around in his pockets until he dug up a cellophane wrapper of pills. He ripped it open with his hands and downed four herbal diet pills, one after another, then poured a glass of water. The caffeine made him a little light-headed, but he needed the pick-me-up.
Lots of things done, lots of things left to go.
Last night he’d almost botched the whole affair. Lorraine Conner had looked so wiped out when she’d finally returned home, it had never dawned on him she’d wake up. One minute he thought he’d safely made it from her bedroom closet to the back deck, the next she was flying off the couch like some banshee.
Holy shit, he’d barely cleared the deck railing in time. Even then he’d been about to crash through the woods like a maniac, when something about her movements drew him up cold. She was acting stilted, surreal, looking at things that weren’t even there. A second later he figured it out. She was still asleep, chasing some phantom in her twisted dreams.
Maybe he’d triggered something. Maybe night turned her into a raving loon. Hell if he knew. He’d taken cover in his normal spot and simply waited her out. After another moment she’d gone back into the house and he’d been free and clear.
He’d gotten a little giddy after that. He even remembered laughing, one of those high-pitched sounds like you hear in movies. He’d have to watch that. Can’t lose control.
Not just yet.
Today, after all, was the funeral. And then …
He was a very smart man. Someday soon Lorraine Conner would get to appreciate that.
Lorraine Conner, Pierce Quincy, Shep O’Grady, and little Becky.
Now this, he told his old man silently, this is how you have some fun.
TWENTY-TWO
Friday, May 18, 7:53 A.M.
“Danny called me this morning. I know it was him.” Sandy O’Grady sat on a metal folding chair in the task force’s HQ, twisting her hands on her lap and trying very hard to sound calm. “I could hear clanging in the background and people talking. Institutional noises. But the caller was silent. I said, ‘Danny, I know it’s you. Please talk to me, Danny. I love you.’ ”
“What did Danny say?” Quincy asked. He was sitting in a chair beside her, impeccably dressed, which immediately made her think of Mitch, her boss. She pushed the thought to the back of her head.
“He didn’t say a word. He just sighed. Heavily. Like … like someone hopeless. Then he hung up.”
“You’re sure it was Danny?” Rainie spoke up for the first time. She was leaning against the windowsill all the way across the room. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her cheeks were gaunt. Frankly, she looked the worst that Sandy had ever seen her.
Not that Sandy was in a position to talk. She’d quickly grabbed a nearby OSU sweatshirt after receiving Danny’s call, and it turned out to be stained in four different places with old yellow baby spit-up and new white patio paint. Her normally bright blond hair was dull and matted from sleep. She hadn’t showered, let alone put on makeup. She didn’t have the energy anymore to worry about these things.
“It was Danny,” she told Rainie firmly. “Shep changed our number to an unlisted one two days ago. Only family members and Danny’s lawyer know how to reach us now. We haven’t gotten one of those calls since.”
“Are you getting a lot of pressure from your neighbors?” Quincy asked gently.
“Some.” Sandy kept her chin up. “Others, our good friends, are still there for us. One couple on our block—I don’t even know them that well—came over last night with a plate of brownies and sat with us. There are … bad moments, but there are good ones too. Danny’s innocent until proven guilty, you know.”
Unable to help herself, she turned once more toward Rainie.
“It’s official police business,” Rainie said curtly. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Rainie, he’s my son. He’s upset, he’s suicidal. Just yesterday he tried to gouge his wrist with a fork, for chrissakes. I’m not sure how much longer he can take being locked up in the detention center, and I don’t know what to do. Shep tells me there’s proof someone else was involved—mysterious shells, I don’t know. Can’t you do something with that? Drop the charges? Bring Danny home? Please—” Sandy’s voice broke off pleadingly. She didn’t know Rainie well. She would call her a friend, but more because they had Shep in common than because they’d ever spent any time talking. Still, Rainie had come to their house for dinner at least once every few months. She played with Danny and Becky. She seemed to honestly enjoy time with the kids. Surely she wouldn’t forget those moments now. Surely she wasn’t completely immune to Danny’s plight.
The woman in question, however, remained impassive. Her uniform suddenly loomed as a wall between them, and for the first time, Sandy got it. Rainie wasn’t looking at her as the sheriff’s wife. This morning Sandy was in the task-force center as a mass murderer’s mother.
Sandy threw out desperately, “Maybe Shep can help find out who did it.”
“We don’t want Shep,” Rainie said flatly. “We want Becky.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is she still sleeping in closets, Sandy?”
“That’s not anyone’s business—”
“She saw something; we all know it. You and Shep keep saying you want the truth. Let us ask for it.”
“Avery Johnson would never permit it.”
“It’s not his call.”
“Yes, it is! He’s our lawyer. My God, we’re going to have to mortgage our home just to pay his fees. After all that, how can we not listen to what he says? He’s acting in our best interests.”
“What about Becky’s best interests?” Rainie pressed relentlessly. “The girl only feels safe in enclosed spaces. She’s having nightmares, and Luke says she’s as pale as a sheet. How long are you going to let that go on?”
“The doctor said she’ll grow out of it with time—”
“We can make it sooner versus later.”
“You can’t have Becky! Dammit, Rainie, she’s all I have left!”
Rainie pressed her lips into a thin line. She gazed at Sandy disapprovingly. Sandy returned the stare. Rainie didn’t understand what she was asking. She wasn’t a mother.
“We can prove that Danny didn’t shoot Miss Avalon,” Rainie said abruptly. “We can tell by the slug that was recovered and the trajectory of the shot that it was done by someone other than Danny.”
“Oh thank God.” Sandy sat back in the metal chair. For the first time in three days, she felt weight lift off her chest. “So there was this man in black at the scene. He’s the killer, and Danny’s just confused and traumatized by what he saw. Can’t you drop the charges now?”
“Mrs. O’Grady,” Quincy said quietly, “I think there are some things about Danny you need to know. I suspect you’re beginning to wonder about them, too, or you wouldn’t have called this morning.”
Rainie supplied bluntly, “We’re not sure he didn’t kill Sally and Alice.”
“But the man, the man in black—”
“Ballistics matched the slugs that killed those two girls to the .38 revolver Danny brought to school. And we have his prints on the other .38 shell casings recovered at the scene.”
“That just means he loaded the guns,” Sandy countered. “Shep explained this to me. The prints don’t prove a thing.”
“Danny’s fingerprints are on over fifty shell casings. That means he also reloaded the guns during the shooting.”
“Shep told me that rapid loaders were used. So Danny prepped the guns and the rapid loaders. This other person did all the shooting.”
Rainie finally pushed away from the window. She shook her head impatiently. “Listen to yourself! Danny brought a revolver and a semiautomatic weapon to school. He loaded them, and he prepared additional ammunition. Does that sound like an innocent bystander to you?”
“He’s just thirteen—”
“You don’t have to be old to pull a trigger.”
“He’s confused—”
“He confessed multiple times!”
“He’s frightened! He’s angry, he doesn’t understand—”
“He told Charlie Kenyon he wanted to hack Shep into twenty pieces and run him through a blender! Jesus, Sandy, we’re beyond simple acting out. You didn’t catch Danny smoking a cigarette or staying out after curfew. He’s involved in a triple homicide. At the very least, he supplied the murder weapons. At the most, he may have massacred two eight-year-old girls. For God’s sake, wake up!”
“My son is not a killer!”
“But maybe he is! Now, what the hell are we going to do about it?”
Rainie drew up short. She was breathing hard. Sandy was breathing hard too. She glared at her husband’s most senior officer, and she thought she had never hated anyone more. How dare she talk about Danny that way. After all those dinners in Sandy’s home. All those times Danny had asked to sit next to her, sweet and adoring. The cold, unfeeling—
And then she realized that Rainie’s eyes were overbright. And then she realized that Rainie Conner had thinned her lips in order not to cry.
The air left Sandy’s lungs in a whoosh. In Rainie’s frustrated gaze she saw all the truths she’d been working diligently to deny, and suddenly she had no defenses left.
Her son was a loner. And subject to fits of rage. And he struggled with Shep and struggled to fit in at school and, dear God, he was good with guns. Learned everything straight from his father.
The world began to spin. Sandy grabbed her chair and held tight.
“Mrs. O’Grady?” Quincy asked.
“Give me a moment.”
She locked her gaze on the floorboards, concentrating on making them stay in focus. Minutes passed. She didn’t know how many. Time had grown slow, and she was mostly aware of an oppressive cold stealing into her body and making her tremble.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sandy whispered. “I don’t … I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Quincy spoke up first. “I imagine your lawyer has arranged for a forensic psychologist to examine Danny?”
“Yes. And the court has appointed a second. They haven’t started yet. He said it would be months before they delivered their reports. Maybe even six months before we know anything.”
“He’s your son, Mrs. O’Grady. What do you think Danny did and what do you think he needs now?”
“I can’t tell you.” Sandy gave a hollow bark of laughter. “That’s the truth, you know. I’m under orders from my lawyer and my husband not to talk to you—an expert on these things—because you’re also part of law enforcement and you could testify at trial. And my suicidal son isn’t allowed to speak with anyone either. Testimony might be used against him, better not to say anything at all. Oh my God. What am I supposed to do?”
Quincy didn’t say anything. Neither did Rainie.
Sandy’s eyes filled up. She said through her tears, “I don’t understand how this can be legal. They took away my son. They’ve locked him up for murder, but with the waiver hearings and pretrial motions it could be years before he goes to court. In the meantime, Danny has to stay in a place where he’s not supposed to talk to anyone and he’s surrounded by other convicted juvenile delinquents. Even if he’s found innocent one year or two years later, how can he possibly be better off? I’m worried that the county is ruining an innocent boy. And I’m terrified that they’ve imprisoned a guilty one. Oh my God, Rainie, what if he did it? What will we do then?”
Quincy had squatted down in front of her. He had such compelling eyes. Deep, and heavily crinkled at the corners, as if he’d seen a thing or two. Sandy hadn’t expected to like the man. Shep had positioned him as an enemy in their lives, to be avoided at all costs. But Sandy discovered that she was comforted by his presence. Supervisory Special Agent Quincy seemed sure of himself and the situation, whereas she felt as if the entire world were made of quicksand and she was sinking down, down, down.
He took her hand and placed it between his own. His palms were warm and rough. “It’s not hopeless,” he said.
“How? Our lawyer already said that if Danny is found guilty in adult court, they’ll lock him up and throw away the key. No one cares that he’s only thirteen.”
“But the fact that he’s thirteen does put him below Oregon’s automatic waiver to adult court. He is going to get a hearing designed to look at his specific case, and thank goodness, because Danny’s case has some elements worth considering.”
Sandy gazed at him. Quincy ticked off the points with his fingers.
“One, we have evidence that somebody else was involved. If we can identify that person, we may be able to prove that Danny was manipulated, perhaps even threatened, into acting.”
Sandy nodded faintly.
“Two, we have to look at Danny himself. The fact that he’s now under suicide watch may be a positive sign. It could indicate that Danny feels remorse for his actions, that he’s a troubled boy but not a budding psychopath.”
“Or it could mean he’s traumatized,” Sandy said after a moment, her voice gaining strength. “Th
ere is someone else involved. You all agree on that. So maybe Danny was just doing as he was told by bringing the guns. Maybe he didn’t understand what was really going to happen, and then by the time it was all over and done with, there was nothing he could do anymore.”
“But confess,” Rainie said dryly.
“That’s the good news, Mrs. O’Grady,” Quincy said levelly. “Now you have to face the other facts.”
Sandy hesitated. She bit her lower lip. She knew where he was going to go, and she wished he wouldn’t. Deep in her heart, she’d already gone there. Danny was troubled, and it was her fault as his mother for not doing something about that sooner. That’s what everyone said when these shootings happened. Where were the parents?
I’m sorry. I was at work.
“Danny is subject to mood swings, isn’t he?” Quincy said matter-of-factly. “He goes for long periods of time without reacting, then explodes with rage.”
“You mean the incident with the school lockers.”
“He’s alone a lot.”
“There are not a lot of boys on our block the same age.”
“He doesn’t have many friends at school.”
“He’s really into computers.”
“Mrs. O’Grady, Danny has problems coping. His anger is overcontrolled, which I think you realize. He also doesn’t have a good support network, and given the issues with your marriage, he’s under a lot of stress. Then we get to the issues between him and his father. Danny’s mad at Shep but also intimidated by him. This sets the stage for displaced rage, where Danny takes all that emotion and turns it on someone else, someone who doesn’t scare him.”
“You mean like two little girls?” Sandy whispered.
“Or a cat or dog.”
“Danny has never hurt animals,” Sandy said immediately. “Becky would never stand for such a thing, and he’s very protective of his sister.”
“It’s good that Danny’s symptoms aren’t that extreme. But he still exhibits some of the warning signs we see in kids prone to do these types of shooting. For his sake, we need to deal with that.”