The Third Victim (Quincy / Rainie)

by Lisa Gardner

  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. “There 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.”

  Sandy hesitated. “How?”

  “Let’s start with Danny’s overcontrolled rage. He needs to learn to vent his anger steadily and constructively instead of letting it build to dangerous heights. Most experts would recommend daily physical exercise as a starting point.”

  “He’s not athletic.”

  “What about a family walk, Mrs. O’Grady? Or some teens like martial arts.”

  “I . . . I could look into that.”

  The agent nodded encouragingly. He continued, “Also for a child like Danny, violent books, video games, and movies are not appropriate. They only fuel angry thoughts.”

  “Danny’s never really been into violent movies. But in all honesty, I don’t know what he does on the Web.”

  “If you have a troubled son, you need to know what he’s reading or surfing on the Internet, Mrs. O’Grady. It can make a difference.”

  Sandy hung her head.

  “Danny’s issue with his father is more involved,” Quincy said quietly. “He and Shep need family counseling, or Danny needs private counseling, or both. You also might want to find additional family relationships for Danny with a grandparent or aunt or uncle. That way if things are strained at home, the child still has other sources of comfort and support.”

  “I never thought of that,” Sandy said honestly. “Our family’s not that big. Shep’s parents passed away years ago. My own . . . God knows they love my kids, but they aren’t the warmest people in the world. It’s not their way.” She paused. “Do you think . . . Do you think Danny’s troubles are caused by the fact that I went back to work?”

  Quincy smiled at her kindly. “No, Mrs. O’Grady. Being a working mom doesn’t mean you’re a horrible mom. Stay-at-home parents have troubled children too.”

  Sandy nodded. She would never admit it out loud, but she was relieved. She hesitated, then asked, “My son was already troubled. Now at the
very least he’s witnessed three violent murders. What will that do?”

  “He needs to get it out. Keeping the experience bottled up will only make it worse.” Quincy’s gaze drifted toward Rainie.

  “And if . . . if he did do something bad?”

  Quincy was silent for a moment. “He’s going to need a lot of help,” he said at last. “Chances are that he’s experiencing a great deal of guilt and self-loathing. Someone needs to help him come to terms with that. Otherwise, there is the danger that he will simply shut down that part of himself. He will start actively considering himself to be a remorseless killer. And he will become one.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Luke Hayes stuck his head in. His gaze went straight to Sandy.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  “Already?”

  Sandy glanced at her watch. It took her a moment to read the dial, for her hand was still shaking violently. Nine A.M. The joint funeral for Alice and Sally wasn’t due to start until one. But the whole town was probably turning out, and people wanted to get good seats.

  She had no choice but to go home. By the mayor’s orders, she and her family would be spending the day under virtual house arrest. He didn’t want them to upset the town, and that hurt Sandy almost more than the threatening phone calls, messages, and casseroles combined.

  She slowly rose and gathered up her purse. She had hoped for easy answers this morning. Of course, there were very few such things anymore. Just more questions. And more doubts to torment her through all the long days to come.

  She loved Danny so desperately. Was it right to actively wonder if her son was a murderer and still love him? Was it right to mourn for Alice Bensen and Sally Walker but still want the best for her child?

  Suddenly, she felt so exhausted, she wasn’t sure how she was going to make it down the stairs.

  She turned to Rainie one last time. “Do you know who this other person is yet? Do you have any leads on who did this to us?”

  Rainie seemed to hesitate. “Danny ever mention anyone named No Lava to you?”

  Sandy regarded her curiously. “Of course he did. No Lava@aol.com. That was his teacher’s account. It’s Avalon, spelled backward.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Friday, May 18, 10:05 A.M.

  RAINIE AND QUINCY climbed into Luke’s patrol car at a little past ten. Since Luke and Chuckie were sitting in the front seat, they took the back. Chuckie immediately looked self-conscious about having a commanding officer and federal agent behind him. He kept glancing nervously over his shoulder, as if he thought Quincy might goose him at any moment. After the second time, Quincy placed his face against the patrol car’s mesh divider. When Chuckie turned again, he discovered Quincy’s nose up close and personal. The rookie literally squealed.

  Luke sighed heavily. Rainie shook her head. Quincy sat back, contented.

  “You’re riling my partner,” Luke said at last. He was slouched low behind the steering wheel, studying Sandy and Shep’s quaint neighborhood with a deceptively lazy gaze. His hat was on the seat beside him; the brim limited his line of sight. The top of his head came to just above the dashboard; the lower vantage point expanded his field of view. Mostly, he watched the residential street for signs of out-of-place traffic, but from time to time he also perused the rooflines of the surrounding houses with his narrow gaze. Luke was an ace sniper.

  “Any activity?” Rainie asked.

  “Quiet as a church mouse.”

  “How are you holding up?” Rainie asked Chuckie. He had his baton on his lap and was stroking the handle as if it were a favorite pet.

  “All right,” Chuckie muttered.

  He studied his lap, refusing to meet her gaze. His broad face was haggard, his hair uncharacteristically mussed. Rainie hadn’t given the green rookie any thought during the last three days. Now she regarded him intently.

  “Cunningham,” she ordered more sharply.

  Chuckie’s gaze reluctantly rose to meet hers. She held it for a minute. Chuckie was messed up. He had dark circles under his eyes and a nervous twitch in his hand. Apparently, seeing real action was different from boasting about it, and it was wrong of her not to have thought about him before now.

  “You did well on Tuesday,” she said curtly.

  “I broke a freaking door,” Cunningham muttered. “Left footprints everywhere. The state technicians yelled at me. That man Sanders said I was a disaster.”

  “Sanders is full of shit. You acted with heart, Chuckie. The rest you’ll learn with time.”

  Chuckie’s gaze fell to his kneecaps. He still looked troubled. When he had volunteered for this job, he had probably envisioned saving lives and protecting his community. He had not expected the debilitating frustration of arriving too late or the hard truth that today his job was merely processing the damage. Rainie understood. She knew one of the reasons George Walker hated her was that she hadn’t paid him the respect of personally visiting his family. She should’ve done that the very first day, except that she couldn’t bring herself to go, sit on a worn sofa, and make small talk while a father sat hollow-eyed and a mother wept. She just couldn’t do it.

  Rainie turned back to Luke. He was still studying Shep’s house. It was a tidy, three-bedroom ranch with an attached two-car garage. Soft gray paint. Crisp white trim. One garage door was a brighter white than the other, obviously the one vandalized on Wednesday. Rainie wondered if Shep and Sandy could look at the bright white paint without remembering what was written underneath.

  “We need to talk,” she said to Luke.

  He nodded. He looked tired from his long trip yesterday, his cheeks not as freshly shaven as usual and his uniform rumpled. But his eyes were sharp and his hands steady. You could always count on Luke.

  “How’d it go in Portland?” Rainie asked.

  He frowned. “Thought we were debriefing after the funeral.”

  “Something came up. You can watch and talk.”

  “Apparently.” He slapped Chuckie’s leg with his hand. “Go get us some coffee, Cunningham.”

  “Again?”

  “Three cups. The good stuff this time. We gotta impress the fed.” Luke shot Quincy a look in the rearview mirror.

  “I take mine black,” Quincy offered.

  Chuckie grumbled, but he knew when he wasn’t wanted. He got out of the patrol car and started walking to the grocery store around the corner.

  “Chuckie needs some personal time,” Luke said the minute the rookie disappeared from view.

  “I noticed.”

  “He’s a good kid, Rainie. Just saw too much.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Luke shrugged. “Kid that age? We should take him out shooting a few times. Then take him drinking after that. He’ll work through it.”

  “Stress, guns, and alcohol,” Quincy said dryly. “Makes me wonder why the Veterans’ Administration hasn’t thought of it.”

  Luke grinned at him. “You’re thinking quality time on the shrink’s couch, huh? Yeah, uh-huh. Chuckie boy will open up to some hundred-dollar-an-hour suit the day pigs fly. Sorry, feebie, but sometimes the locals know best.”

  “All right, all right.” Rainie held up a hand. “I want to know about your meeting with the Avalons in Portland yesterday. Tell us everything.”

  Luke’s face immediately fell. He released his breath as a sigh, his gaze returning to Shep’s house and looking troubled. “Jesus, Rainie, why don’t you start with the easy questions?”

  “Do you like Mr. Avalon as a suspect?”

  “I spent three hours in the man’s company, and hell if I know. First off, Mrs. Avalon isn’t Melissa’s mother. Guess she died in childbirth. So I met with Daniel Avalon and Melissa’s stepmother, Angelina.”

  “Daniel Avalon?” Rainie asked sharply.

  “Yep,” Luke said gloomily. “Weird, Rainie. Real weird. Mr. Avalon comes from old money. Invested heavily in real estate in central Oregon and made out like a bandit in the recent boom. He and Mrs. Ava
lon live in an old Victorian in Lake Oswego. Nice house, I guess. It was crammed full of so much junk, I was afraid I’d break something if I sneezed. They served me tea. In real china. With Mrs. Avalon all fussed up in some buttoned-up, lace-collar, cameo-brooch outfit that I think she bought at Jane Austen’s garage sale. Mr. Avalon favors tweed and doesn’t permit his wife to speak unless spoken to. Need I say more?”

  “Stuffy and pretentious wasn’t a crime last I checked.”

  “May I?” Quincy intervened.

  “By all means,” Rainie assured him. She was sitting as far away from him as she could in the backseat. They were both pretending not to notice.

  “Did Mr. Avalon wait many years before remarrying? Say twelve to fifteen years?”

  “Thirteen,” Luke said. He looked at Quincy curiously.

  “Did he speak of his daughter glowingly, but always as a child? ‘When Melissa was eight years old she was the best dancer. . . . Oh, little Melissa always had the sweetest smile. She used to charm everyone in grade school.’ Little acknowledgment of her life now?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, he had pictures of her all over the place, but they were mostly little-girl stuff. First ballet class, ten-year-old piano recital, that sort of thing.”

  “No photos of her mom?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Her room still a little girl’s room? Lots of pink ruffles and teddy bears?”

  “And clowns.” Luke shuddered.

  Quincy nodded. “I’m guessing Mr. Avalon had inappropriate relations with his daughter.”

  “Incest?” Rainie looked at Quincy incredulously. “Jesus, SupSpAg, how do you sleep with that mind?”

  “I can’t be sure,” Quincy said modestly, “but it has all the classic signs. Domineering father alone with his young daughter for the first thirteen years of her life. Seems very doting on the outside. I’m sure if you conducted further interviews you’d find plenty of neighbors and teachers telling you how ‘close’ Mr. Avalon and his daughter were. How ‘involved’ he was in her life. But then she hits puberty and the jig is up. To continue risks pregnancy, plus she’s starting to get a woman’s body, and many of these men aren’t interested in that. So Mr. Avalon goes ahead and takes a wife, some poor, passive woman to serve as window dressing and help him appear suitable to the outside world. Now he clings to the fantasy of what he once had. And protects it jealously.”