The Third Victim (Quincy / Rainie)

by Lisa Gardner

  Jim Beckett did not go down without a fight. He cut a long, bloody swath through the task-force team, including putting some fresh scars on Quincy’s own chest. But Tess proved to be tougher than anyone had suspected. When Beckett hunted her down after he escaped from prison, Tess made sure the Massachusetts taxpayers never had to pay for his room and board again.

  Quincy hadn’t thought of her in years. He tried to do the math on how old her daughter Samantha would be now. Ten years old? It had been a bit. He wondered how she and Tess were doing.

  He never followed up on the people in his cases. Even in the ones that went well, he was still a reminder of a dark time. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate to be sending out Christmas cards.

  “Are you going to stand there mooning all afternoon?” Rainie asked from her desk, still staring down at her paper.

  “Just admiring the view.”

  She looked up long enough to shoot him a hard glance. “Oh, please.”

  “The autopsies went that well, I see.”

  “Everything I ever feared, plus ten. For heaven’s sake, either get in the room or shut the door. I can’t stand people loitering in the doorway.”

  Quincy took his time entering, eyeing her more cautiously. She was more ragged than he’d expected. When she spoke, her voice carried the edge of someone teetering on the brink of a dark place. He would bet she hadn’t let herself cry. That was a bad sign. Sometimes you had to cry after autopsies. It was the only way to release the pain.

  “Writing up the report?” he asked neutrally.

  “Nope. Writing up a list. What do you think of the mysterious man in black?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The man in black, the figure various kids reported seeing at the school. Fact or fiction?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if he exists? Could a stranger be involved in shooting up a school?”

  “You would be amazed at the things a stranger can do,” Quincy said slowly, “even one met over the Internet. Witness all the young kids currently being lured from chat rooms into real-life meetings with pedo-philes.”

  “Fine.” She scribbled furiously. “Man in black. Connection to Danny through the Internet, then tries to cover tracks by erasing the hard drives of the machines. Except then we’re back to Melissa Avalon. Why one precise gunshot to her head? I hate that fucking wound.” Rainie caught herself, blew out a breath of air, and briskly started writing again. “We can work on that angle later. Next up, school counselor Richard Mann.”

  “What about Richard Mann?”

  “He’s young, thirty-three according to his file, though he doesn’t look a day older than fifteen if you ask me. If we go back to assuming that Melissa Avalon was the intended target, he could have motive. Maybe he had a thing for Melissa Avalon and didn’t like learning about her private staff meetings with VanderZanden. Plus, as a counselor, he’d know what buttons to push to drive Danny over the edge. That takes care of means.”

  Quincy finally got it. “You’re working on a list of other possible suspects.”

  “Yes, the fed can be taught.”

  Quincy arched a brow. She wasn’t just edgy this afternoon, she was brutally cutting.

  “May I ask who you have listed?”

  “Charlie Kenyon, Principal VanderZanden, the mysterious man in black, and now Richard Mann.”

  “I thought the principal had an alibi.”

  “At first glance, but you never really know until you start applying pressure.”

  “Charlie Kenyon makes sense,” Quincy mused after a moment, deciding it would be most productive to play along. “An older, influential kid. We already know he has trouble with authority and likes to hang around the school. I’m less convinced about the principal. Even if it was a love affair gone awry, I have a hard time seeing him shooting two students and an even more difficult time seeing him coerce Danny into taking the blame.”

  “Strong authority figure. Danny can’t stand up to his own father, so why should he be able to stand up to the school principal? Plus, you heard his last words in the interview. The kid’s scared. When you’re in elementary school, who seems more all-powerful and all-knowing than your principal?”

  Her logic wasn’t bad. “But then there is Vander-Zanden’s reaction to consider. He appears genuinely grief-stricken.”

  Rainie granted that. Then her eyes lit up. “What about his wife?”

  Quincy exhaled slowly and watched her scribble it down. Her movements were feverish. She was trying too hard.

  “Rainie, why are you making this list?”

  “Focus. This investigation lacks focus.”

  “You already have a suspect in custody. That appears very focused to me.”

  “Yes, but we don’t know if he’s the right suspect.”

  “His fingerprints on the casings haven’t con-vinced you?”

  “They didn’t convince you.”

  “I’m paid more to be skeptical.”

  Rainie set down her pen. She paused long enough to look him in the eye, and Quincy was startled by the sight of her pale skin stretched taut over her gaunt face. Apparently she was forgoing food as well as sleep. It was only a matter of time, then, until she crashed.

  “Shep visited me last night,” she said abruptly.

  “Ah,” Quincy said. Things became much clearer for him. “Laid on the personal guilt.”

  “Of course. What are friends for? Even better, he contacted the crime lab himself through a friend. Turns out Abe Sanders has been holding out on us.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “There’s a problem with one of the .38 shell casings. Not only does it completely lack prints or smudges—as in it appears to have been wiped clean—but ballistics found something strange about it. When I followed up this morning, I learned that it had some kind of residue inside, probably a polymer.”

  “Plastic? As in perhaps threads of polyester fabric?”

  “Who knows? But inside a shell casing is a weird place to find traces of fabric, plus Danny was wearing one hundred percent cotton when I brought him in. They’re conducting further tests, of course, but we’re back to having more questions than answers.”

  “You’re going to kill Detective Sanders, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. At three this afternoon. You’re welcome to watch.” Rainie smiled tightly. “Then I had the most fascinating chat with the ME at seven this morning. She conducted Avalon’s autopsy late last night so we could get straight to the girls this morning. Lucky me. And get this: the .22 slug that killed Melissa Avalon was not deformed. In fact, the damn thing traveled in a nice straight line through the center of her brain and stopped at the base of her skull. No ricocheting. Nice, recoverable slug with an intact base. Should yield plenty of rifling marks for ballistics. Except it has none.”

  “No rifling marks? Is the ME thinking a smooth-bore gun?”

  “I don’t know what the hell Nancy Jenkins is thinking. The woman is definitely intrigued and, unfortunately for me, coy. Let me see if I can get her exact words right. Something like ‘The slug would appear to have come from a .22, but I don’t think it has.’”

  “She doesn’t think it has?”

  “Turns out Nancy Jenkins is a gun buff. She’s not commenting officially until she gets the ballistics report back, but there’s something funny about the slug that killed Melissa Avalon. And she’s pretty clear it’s not your average funny. It’s your smart, clever funny.”

  “Too smart and clever for a thirteen-year-old boy?”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  “And the bullet came to rest at the base of Avalon’s skull?”

  “Exactly. At the base of the skull. As in a downward trajectory. As in how can a four-foot-ten boy shoot down at a five-foot-six woman?”

  “Who was not on her knees,” Quincy filled in for her, “considering how the body fell.”

  Rainie nodded angrily. “So there you have it. At this point it looks like there’s s
omething rotten in Denmark. At the very least, it’s doubtful that Danny killed Melissa Avalon, which also raises questions about Sally and Alice.”

  “There was probably someone else present and a murder weapon we have yet to identify.”

  “Yep. A murder weapon we have yet to identify and a motive. Why Melissa Avalon? I can’t get it out of my head. Why young, beautiful Miss Avalon?”

  “And now you’re building the new theory of the case.”

  “Since I am primary officer, I thought I’d give it a shot.”

  “Rainie, can I make your day?”

  “By all means, give it a whirl.”

  “I have a one-thirty appointment with Richard Mann to ask him about Danny O’Grady. Come with me, Rainie. I’ll be good cop, you be bad cop. Together, we’ll ambush him.”

  A feral gleam came into Rainie’s eyes. The satisfaction in her face was enough to make him smile. And unfurl something slow and tender in his chest.

  “I get to be bad cop?”

  “You are the most qualified.”

  “SupSpAg, I could kiss you.”

  “Promises, promises,” he said lightly, and led his favorite law enforcer from the room.

  SEVENTEEN

  Thursday, May 17, 1:28 P.M.

  THEY MET RICHARD MANN in his office at the battered school, which had finally been opened up to staff members. He’d told Quincy he needed to catch up on paperwork, and Rainie’s impression of the young counselor was of someone deeply disheartened. His face was pale, his eyes bruised. He’d made an effort to dress up for the meeting in tan khakis and a sage-colored sweater, but he maintained a certain rumpled air that spoke of sleepless nights and unanswered questions. Did he wonder if he should’ve seen the shooting coming? In the dark hours after midnight, did he think there was more he should’ve done?

  Rainie didn’t know much about the man. She’d asked a few parents, all of whom said he seemed very nice. Inexperienced, a few commented, but hardworking in an earnest sort of way. Tuesday, when things had been hairy at the school, he’d certainly stepped up to the plate and done what she’d asked. There was something to be said for that.

  But Rainie still wondered about him and Miss Avalon. Even tired, Mann had that clean-cut, all-American look going for him. Trim figure. Short-cropped brown hair. Blue eyes. In a high school he would’ve inspired half a dozen juvenile crushes. And at Bakersville’s K–8?

  “Officer Conner,” Mann said with obvious surprise when she showed up in the doorway alongside Quincy. “How nice to see you again.” He smiled at her, clearly not alarmed by her presence, and held out a hand.

  “Mr. Mann.” Rainie accepted his handshake. Weak grip, she thought. Definitely young. Then added, unnecessarily, not at all like Quincy.

  “Oh, call me Richard. Mr. Mann is my father.”

  “I know the feeling.” She and Quincy took seats. Located off the admissions office and next to VanderZanden’s room, Richard Mann’s space was small but tidy. The main attraction was one large window overlooking the side of the school parking lot, which let in lots of sun. The floor was blue Berber, the walls stark white, and the multitude of filing cabinets industrial gray. Except for two plants and one poster of cartoon faces demonstrating different human emotions, there wasn’t much in the way of decorations. Definitely a bachelor’s office, Rainie decided. She’d bet his apartment looked equally utilitarian.

  At the moment, empty cardboard boxes and discarded files littered the floor.

  “Cleaning house?” Quincy inquired.

  “Going through old files,” Mann confessed. He waved his hand apologetically over the pile. “We’re starting to run out of room, and most of these files are from before my time.”

  “That’s right. You’re new here.”

  “It’s been a whole year. I don’t feel so new anymore.”

  “Bakersville is a big change from L.A.,” Rainie observed.

  “That’s what I was looking for.”

  “Small-town life?”

  “Someplace with no drills for drive-by shootings.” He smiled weakly. “Of course, that didn’t work out quite like I had planned.”

  “Where were you when the shooting started?” Rainie asked.

  “In my office. It was my lunch break.”

  “You don’t eat during normal lunch hours?”

  “No. I have an open-door policy for the kids. You know, anyone can walk in if there’s something they want to talk about. That sort of thing.”

  “We understand Melissa Avalon also left her door open for the kids during lunch.”

  “That’s right.” He nodded.

  “So you both took lunch at the same time.” Rainie narrowed her eyes suggestively and watched Richard Mann grow confused. He’d been expecting an interview about Danny O’Grady, not his own activities on the day of the shooting.

  “Yes, I believe so,” he said with less certainty. On his lap, his hands were already beginning to fidget. This, Rainie decided, was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  “You two ever do lunch together?”

  “Well, we were coworkers—”

  “We understand Miss Avalon liked to get to know some of her coworkers.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “She and Principal VanderZanden. Or didn’t you know about that?” Rainie hardened her voice, and Richard Mann squirmed in his seat.

  “I thought we were going to talk about Danny.”

  “How well did you know Melissa Avalon?”

  “We worked together, that’s all.”

  “She was very beautiful.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “Young, about the same age as yourself?”

  “Yes, I guess.”

  “Also new to the area. Come on, Mr. Mann, don’t tell me you two didn’t have anything in common.”

  “Wait a minute. You think Melissa and I—” Mann made a little gesture with his hand, looked at them with shock, then vigorously shook his head. For the first time since the start of the interview, he visibly relaxed. “I’m sorry, Officer, but if you guys think I was involved with Melissa, then you don’t know much about her.”

  “What do you mean?” Quincy asked smoothly.

  “Melissa had issues—Freudian issues.”

  “You mean with her father?” Rainie demanded sharply.

  “I don’t know all the details,” he replied, “but she mentioned once that she was estranged from her family. Her father was a hard man, she said, very demanding and not very forgiving. Then you consider that she took up with VanderZanden in a matter of weeks and the man’s nearly twice her age . . .”

  “A substitute father figure,” Quincy filled in.

  “That was my analysis, yes,” Mann said, and flashed Quincy a grateful smile. He was obviously pleased to have a chance to show off his own psychological training to a big-shot profiler.

  “The father ever visit?” Rainie pressed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about her mom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For someone you worked with for a whole year, you don’t know a lot about her, do you?”

  “She was very private about her family!”

  “Not with Principal VanderZanden.”

  “I was not involved with Melissa Avalon,” the counselor said through clenched teeth. “We were coworkers, that’s all. If you people are so concerned about her private life, talk to Steven. Or, better yet, call her father. I’ve heard a rumor he hasn’t even bothered to claim her body yet.”

  “We’ll be sure to do that,” Quincy said.

  “So what about Danny O’Grady?” Rainie pounced. “We understand you’d been seeing him as a counselor.”

  “Only for a few weeks—”

  “Oh yeah? And precisely how long does it take to figure out that a boy who trashed his school locker has problems managing rage?”

  “His parents are going through a rough time. There was no reason to think Danny’s anger was
anything more than an adjustment phase. When marriages turn sour, kids get mad.”

  “Where were you again when the shooting happened?”

  “In my office!”

  “Do you have witnesses?”

  “How dare you!” Richard Mann lurched out of his chair, his handsome face beet red and his expression injured. “I did everything I could to help those kids, Officer. Don’t you remember? I’m the one who arranged the first-aid center. I’m the one who got the parents cleared out of the parking lot so the emergency vehicles could get through. And now I’m the one fielding dozens of calls from parents whose children are waking up screaming. So how dare you imply that I had something to do with this? My God, this is breaking my heart!”

  “Officer Conner doesn’t mean to imply anything, Mr. Mann,” Quincy said calmly, holding up his hands in a soothing gesture. “It’s simply her job to ask these kinds of questions. Of course we appreciate the help you gave on the day of the shooting.”

  Mann turned to Quincy, obviously still unsure. Quincy smiled warmly.

  “I just thought we were going to be speaking about Danny,” Mann said after a moment. “I wasn’t expecting this kind of . . . attack.”

  “Police interviews can be intense,” Quincy said diplomatically. “Of course, we consider everyone innocent until proven guilty.”

  Mann looked pointedly at Rainie. She lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. Pretty boy had no alibi and got really defensive really fast, she thought. Then again, the student he’d been counseling had allegedly murdered three people. It probably didn’t let him sleep well at night.

  “Back to Danny O’Grady,” Quincy encouraged.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you there,” Mann said sulkily. “Some of it is privileged.”

  Quincy beamed at him. He said with a saccharine sweetness that nearly made Rainie roll her eyes, “Of course, I would never ask a psychologist to violate his oath by breaching client confidentiality. Even general information would be helpful.”

  Mann had to think about it. He finally sank back down into his seat, steepled his hands in front of him, and regarded the FBI agent more intently. “I honestly don’t know much,” he said at last. “I’d just started talking to Danny a few weeks ago, and the first few sessions were small talk. You know, establishing trust, building a rapport. We hadn’t had a chance to get into things.”