by Lisa Gardner
“Can you really help a kid who’s committed murder?” Rainie asked curiously.
“Sometimes. The younger the child is, the better the chances. Also, attachment disorder is a range. Some of the kids I’ve interviewed represented the extreme end of the spectrum. To put it in Sanders’s terms, they are ‘little freaking psychopaths.’ And I’ll agree with him there—it’s safer for us all to lock those ones up and throw away the key.” Quincy smiled dryly at the state detective. Then his voice dropped. He appeared more somber. “However, that’s not the case for all of our teenage offenders. As we discussed before, Officer Conner, mass murderers are not homogeneous. Some of the school shooters were definitely more followers than leaders. They were troubled, they were vulnerable. They let themselves be manipulated into performing a violent act, because they were hurt and disturbed and didn’t know how to deal with that. They did what they did, but afterward they also felt remorse and regret. I think these kids probably could be reformed. Given their ages, it seems a shame not to try.”
“And if we’re wrong and they kill again?” Sanders quizzed. “You gonna be the one visiting the family’s home to tell them how your failed science experiment murdered their wife, sister, mother? You gonna be the one on TV trying to explain why we thought it was such a great idea to let a known killer loose on society?”
Quincy gave him a faint smile. “It happens. Some of our more prolific serial killers—Kempner, for example—are graduates of the juvenile system. Killed young. Were sentenced to rehabilitation. Came of age. Killed even more people.”
“At times like this, I’m glad I don’t have a kid,” Sanders said.
Quincy finally sighed. He set down his fork and seemed to lose interest once and for all in the salad. “Things are becoming more complicated,” he murmured. “Do you know we’re now using our serial-killer profiling techniques in high schools?”
Rainie arched a brow. Sanders exclaimed more eloquently, “You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not, Detective. In the wake of the recent shootings, several school districts have implemented ‘student profiling.’ School administrators have a checklist of ‘suspicious’ behavior to use to evaluate each student’s potential for violence. Things like animal cruelty, abusive language, writings containing graphic violence. A few of our agents are now teaching classes in behavioral science and psychological profiling to teachers.”
“What happens if a student is profiled as potentially dangerous?” Rainie asked with a frown. “Do they call the cops, pat him down, and confiscate his video games?”
“Most districts have a policy to notify the parents, then the student can be sent to counselors or be expelled. It’s being taken quite seriously.”
“So were the Salem witch trials.”
“Yes, but the witches never killed thirteen people. Schools are under pressure. Three years ago Principal VanderZanden rejected the notion that a shooting could happen here. How much do you want to bet he’s regretting it now? And if the school board hears of profiling next week, how much do you want to bet your teachers will be searching for future homicidal maniacs in between grading papers?”
They all grew silent. Sanders shook his head. “Man, I could not be a teacher,” he said vehemently. “I see two to four homicides a week, nice fresh kills, and still the thought of what’s going on inside the classroom scares me to death. Half of these teachers are being bullied and harassed by their own students, and now they’re supposed to actively wonder which little boys are cold-blooded killing machines. Yeah, they’ll sleep well at night.”
Rainie shrugged. “Teachers should be used to it by now. When was the last time the PTA called for better parenting? It’s always the school’s fault. No matter what happens, my God, why aren’t schools doing a better job of raising our kids?”
Quincy smiled dryly. “Spoken as two people who don’t have children.”
“I wonder what did it for Danny O’Grady,” Sanders mused out loud. “He doesn’t seem so different from the other school shooters to me. Bit of a loner, spends all his time in a computer lab, and can’t cut it on the football field. I haven’t found a teacher yet who knows of any close friends. Then you throw in the fact that his father seems to have a God complex, his parents are fighting all the time, and little Danny pretty much cut his teeth on a hunting rifle. . . . Hell, maybe profiling would’ve saved the school from him. Seems like it was only a matter of time.”
Quincy shook his head. “I don’t think profiling would’ve identified Danny O’Grady. He was a good student, polite with his teachers, diligent in his studies. We’ve heard no stories of torturing pets and not even a fascination with fire. Danny is angry. But there’s still no evidence that he’s homicidal.”
“Oh, the kid did the deed,” Sanders said confidently. “Conner caught him red-handed with the murder weapons, and he’s confessed twice. Case closed. Now we just got to wrap everything up before this whole frigging town explodes. Redneck assholes. There oughtta be an IQ requirement for owning a gun.”
Rainie didn’t say anything. It was after nine-thirty, the diner was nearly empty, and in spite of Sanders’s big words, they all appeared pensive.
“Food for thought,” Quincy said in the hushed solitude of the restaurant, wiping his hands on his paper napkin and getting ready to stand. “All of the school shooters craved notoriety. They walked openly into their schools and pulled out their guns in plain sight. They wanted their classmates to know it was them. They wanted full recognition of their vengeance. But Danny O’Grady managed not to be seen by a single person. In fact, one of the teachers claimed the shots were fired from within the computer lab, as if the killer was deliberately seeking to remain unnoticed.”
“He panicked, he was scared,” Sanders said.
“Second thought. School shootings are about displaced rage. Now, by all accounts, Danny has a domineering, intimidating father. I imagine he does have some displaced anger. So why didn’t he target the football coach, a macho man like his father, or star athletes, who would represent the kind of boy his father wants him to be, or the school principal, a classic father figure? Why would he deliberately seek out Me-lissa Avalon—young, female, and an expert at the subject he loved the most? What about her would incite his rage?”
“Maybe he developed a crush on her. She refused his attentions and he snapped.”
“Third thought. Most shooters go after as many victims as possible. Overkill and inciting terror in their peers is part of their fantasy. They want to feel powerful. So why did Danny wait until after lunch, when everyone was back in their classrooms? And why choose smaller handguns when he’s comfortable with rifles and they’d inflict more damage?”
“Maybe it wasn’t a real school shooting,” Sanders said with a scowl. “Maybe he just wanted to get back at Miss Avalon because she hurt his feelings or looked at him the wrong way and it was more than he could take. So he snaps, plots his revenge against her, and the other two girls simply get in the way.”
“Not a bad theory, Detective, but you have one problem.”
“What?”
“You can’t tie him to Melissa Avalon’s death. You’re saying that she’s what this was all about, and yet she’s the one victim you can’t prove he killed. How do you explain that?”
Sanders finally spluttered to a halt. He was wide-eyed and thinking hard.
Quincy’s lips curved into an ironic half smile. “I don’t know what happened yesterday afternoon in that school, Detective, but I think there’s more to it than meets the eye. We need to keep our minds open at this point. And we need to know what’s in those computers. Especially after what your technicians said.”
“What did my technicians say?”
“That somebody tried to erase the Web browser history and cache files. You don’t erase what isn’t important.”
“Shit,” Sanders said.
Quincy smiled again, but the shadows were darker around his eyes.
They all rose from
the table. Rainie reached for money, but Sanders surprised her by picking up the tab.
Then they were outside, where the night air smelled of pine needles and fresh spring rain. No one had anything more to say. Sanders walked back to his car. Rainie and Quincy remained standing alone. She studied his face again, his blue eyes that could be both warm and hard. She wondered if he was right about Danny, and the fact they still knew so little frustrated her.
She wanted answers for her community. She wanted answers for Shep and Sandy. She wanted answers for herself, so she could finally get visions of the school out of her head and the night would stop closing in on her.
The fed was watching her, the look on his face hard to read. She studied his hands again. Those hard-earned calluses. The absent wedding ring.
“I need somewhere to sleep,” Quincy said at last.
She said, “I know just the place.”
THIRTEEN
Wednesday, May 16, 10:03 P.M.
GINNIE’S MOTEL HOTEL wasn’t seedy. The mattresses were twenty years old and the scarred maple dressers had been picked up at garage sales, but the flowered curtains were hand-sewn, the worn white sheets freshly laundered, and the rugs vacuumed vigorously each day.
Ginnie ran the front desk, her gray hair in pink sponge curlers and her massive frame covered by a dark blue muumuu with an orange-flowered print. She explained to Quincy that she had opened the Motel Hotel ten years ago when her fourth husband, George, had passed away. After so many years of taking care of men, she’d decided to run a business where she could have a new man over every night. She winked flirtatiously when she said this. Quincy hoped she was joking.
Ginnie went through her spiel. She served homemade muffins every morning, Toll House cookies every night. She’d wash your laundry for two bucks a load; please leave the dirty clothes piled by the front door. Finally, the Motel Hotel was not as rustic as it seemed. She’d installed state-of-the-art data lines so she could check her stock portfolio every hour on-line.
She slapped a laminated list of access numbers for local Internet providers on top of the desk. Then she invited Quincy to visit her site at BigMama.com.
Rainie suppressed a smile. Quincy began to back away slowly from the muumuu. Moments later he and Rainie were in the parking lot, where the tiny string of rooms spread out in a pink-painted V.
“Where the hell have you brought me?” Quincy asked Rainie as he found his door and fumbled with the key.
“Local color,” Rainie told him. “Only tourists stay at the Motel 6.”
“Can’t I be a federal tourist?”
“Of course not. Ginnie knows the best gossip in Bakersville—after Walt, of course. Show up for breakfast tomorrow morning. Down a few bran muffins. You’ll be amazed how much you’ll learn.”
“And how clean my colon will be,” Quincy muttered, and shoved the old door open.
Inside, Rainie watched as Quincy set his duffel bag on the single queen-size bed, placed his computer beneath the pine table, and identified the location of the phone jack. She imagined that she was observing a ritual the agent had performed in hundreds of hotel rooms in hundreds of small towns. He checked the closet, grabbing the extra pillow for the bed, then hung his jacket neatly on the back of a chair. Next he entered the tiny bathroom, inspecting the stock of soap and shampoo. Finally he returned to the front of the room, studying the window and the door locks.
A single curved latch, which appeared older than dirt, held the window shut. Quincy grimaced. The door cheered him up about as much. One chain, easily snapped. One bolt lock that could be jimmied by a two-year-old. He shook his head.
“Is anyone around here aware of basic safety?”
“And spoil our small-town charm? The city council would never hear of it. Besides, what kind of idiot robs a fed?”
“I’m going to need a broom handle to jam this window,” he said seriously. “And a chair to stick under the door.”
“Don’t you carry a gun, SupSpAg?”
“Yes, but requisitioning sticks involves less paperwork.”
Quincy went outside, found a suitable twig to jam the lower window casing, and jury-rigged the room the best he could. Apparently, he did take safety seriously. Then again Rainie had caught a glimpse of the photos he carried in his computer bag. She supposed if she did nothing but stare at murder victims all day, she would be obsessed with bolt locks and window guards as well.
Finally, Quincy dusted off his hands. He’d done all he could do with his accommodations. Now his gaze drifted to the phone. Rainie watched him quickly look away. Unfortunately, there was little else in the room to hold his attention. Ginnie didn’t believe in TV.
The night was thick outside. The room filled with shadows. Nothing left to do but say good night and hope they didn’t wake up too many times, dreaming of little boys armed with assault rifles and little girls fleeing down long, dark hallways.
“Rainie,” Quincy said after a moment, “can I buy you a drink?”
Rainie was startled. She hadn’t seen the offer coming. She stared at him harder and tried to decide what it meant. A drink. Just a drink? With smart, capable Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy. He struck her as the kind of man who lived his life by certain rules. But his gaze was softer now. Not an agent anymore, she thought. A man addressing a woman.
She honestly wasn’t sure what to do with that.
She felt restless, edgy. She’d seen too much death, and tomorrow morning she would rise at the crack of dawn to examine it some more. She should be alone. Sit on her back deck, cradle an icy bottle of beer, and listen to the hoot owl mourn. But she wanted to go to a bar. Someplace where the music was loud and the dance floor crowded and all the women were pretty, while all the men had a gleam in their eyes. She could pick a date. She could pick a fight. On nights like this, she wasn’t sure which she preferred.
She just knew that sometimes she was her mother’s daughter, and she never trusted herself when she was in this kind of mood. Go home, Rainie. You know the drill.
She studied Quincy instead. The firm set of his lips. The strong line of his shoulders. That blue, blue gaze of a man who knew what he was about.
Goddamn him.
Thirty minutes later, she’d changed into civvies and they were sitting at a bar.
Tequila’s was a happening place. Plank floor covered in peanut shells. Tiny booths covered in scarred brown vinyl. Pitchers of beer that went for a buck fifty on Wednesday nights and all-you-could-eat mozzarella sticks during happy hour. The jukebox belted out country favorites. On the dance floor, half the couples moved easily to the rhythmic steps of line dancing. Deeper in the shadows, other couples moved to other rhythms in perfect time.
Rainie yelled her order for a bottle of Bud Light over the din. Quincy surprised her by ordering the same. He struck her as a Heineken man, but live and learn.
For a while they simply sat, watching the dance floor, absorbing the noise and loosening up until the lessons of Bakersville’s K–8, and Danny O’Grady, seemed far away.
“Nice place,” Quincy said shortly.
“Fun,” Rainie said.
“Come here often?”
“Careful, SupSpAg. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking my sign.”
Quincy grinned. It was a good look on his face, especially with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his silk tie loosened. He took a long pull from the beer bottle.
“Nice and cold,” he said. “How’s yours?”
“Don’t know. I’m an alcoholic, Quince. Came from an alcoholic mother. Probably had an alcoholic father. I’d know if my mother had sobered up long enough to remember his name.”
He gave her a curious look. “We didn’t have to come to a bar.”
“Not a problem. I’ve been sober ten years. I know what I’m doing.”
“But you still order a beer?”
“Yep. I like holding the bottle in my hand and knowing I can set it down again. It’s the sense of power, I’m sure. Plus”—she
slipped him a wink—“beer bottles are a goddamn phallic delight.”
Quincy burst out laughing. She grinned back at him. She bet he didn’t laugh often, which was too bad. He sounded good laughing. He looked good too.
“And you?” she asked, setting down the bottle. “Tell me the truth, SupSpAg, what really brings you to Bakersville?”
“The job, of course. So much crime, so little time.”
“Travel a lot?”
“Three or four cities a week. I’m either a federal agent or a rock star.”
“Hell on relationships,” she said casually.
His lips curved at one corner. She hadn’t fooled him. “I was married,” he said. “Lasted fifteen years, which was probably seven more than I deserved. I used to carry a photo of her in a silver frame in my briefcase. Every hotel room I stayed in, the first thing I would do was place her picture on the table. Unfortunately, that didn’t match her idea of quality time. We divorced. I learned to work without her photo on my desk. And you?”
“I don’t do relationships. Have a strict policy against them. I figure if half of the American people are getting divorced, that’s good enough for me.”
Quincy gave her a skeptical look. She could tell he was trying to evaluate her statement for truth versus bravado. “You’re young, intelligent, beautiful. What about starting a family?”
“Oh no. I don’t do children. They’re small, needy, easily destroyed. Let’s be honest. I’ve come a long way from my family history, but I’m still the child of an abusive alcoholic and we don’t make great parent material. For the Conners, the cycle ends here.”