Road Kill; Puppet Master; Cross Wired

by Jan Coffey

  Neither of the agents was ready to leave the car.

  “One good thing,” Bryan said. “We have a survivor to talk to.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said, not trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “That’s great.”

  “Look, Juan Bradley is the only shooter who has survived the recent rash of incidents,” Bryan said. “He could shed light on whether there are any connections with the others or not.”

  “That is, if he comes through alive.”

  “Have you gotten any straight answers about his condition?”

  Hank shook his head. “One report said it was a stroke.”

  “Is that possible for a fifteen-year-old?”

  “It is, but they didn’t send me any test results. Nothing to support it.” Hank looked out at the brick and cement wall of the hospital building next door. Yale-New Haven Hospital, together with its medical school, had to cover about ten city blocks. “So we’re here.”

  “We’re here.”

  Hank glanced over at his friend seated behind the wheel of the SUV. The two of them were close to the same age. They had around the same number of years with the agency. But they’d never met until they’d been assigned to the school violence program back in the nineties.

  Perhaps it was the fact that they both had their own children. Or maybe it was the tragedy that surrounded those school shootings. But the two men had become good friends, and it was a friendship that had lasted through a lot of ups and downs, a couple of moves, and some personal tragedies. Bryan was a company man, higher ranking than Hank. The six foot four, square-built agent had given plenty in the service of his country. There used to be a time when Bryan never refused assignments. But that had changed over the past decade. This case was a sad exception and, for his friend’s sake, Hank wished he’d refused it.

  “Did you get a hold of your wife?” Bryan asked.

  Hank nodded. Cathy was speaking at a seminar in Florida. He hadn’t been able to get hold of her until very late last night. “She’s getting back to Boston tonight.” He glanced down at his watch. “Actually, she’s probably landed. The girls are picking her up at the airport.”

  “She must have had a few things to say about what we’re working on again.”

  Hank smiled. “She has a very colorful mouth for a psychologist turned academic.” Being in the same profession as him, Cathy never kept her opinions to herself. During the years of Bryan’s struggle, Cathy had been right there, helping and interfering as she saw fit. “Yeah, she called me a few names for letting you get back into this.”

  Bryan shook his head and smiled. “I hope you took it like a man and shouldered the blame.”

  “Of course.” Hank looked around the quiet garage before turning to his friend again. “In all seriousness, are you going to be okay with it?”

  “No problem.”

  “I can find a way out of this for us. We could argue that these cases are nothing like the ones we worked on before.”

  “How is that?” Bryan asked.

  “I spent the afternoon reading over the interviews with the witnesses and school officials,” Hank explained. “Unlike what we saw before, none of these teenagers appear to have planned out the attacks. None told their friends about it beforehand. They weren’t loners or Goth rebels trying to kill conceited jocks. Every one of them seemed to just snap. If everyone is telling the truth, then that’s a very serious pattern…and very different from the profile we worked up.”

  “Geary’s group didn’t mention that,” Bryan said.

  “That’s right. Because if he admitted to it, the cases would be out of our realm of expertise. The kind of adolescent killers we worked with before didn’t snap. They planned. They acquired weapons. They told their friends. They had websites.”

  “That’s true. If Juan Bradley lives, his lawyer will have a clear insanity defense.”

  “So you see,” Hank replied, nodding. “There’s still time to drive away.”

  Bryan rubbed his neck. “What’s difficult to get a handle on is the frequency of these shootings. There could be more.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So, the fact is, they need us. Even though the profile is different, we could possibly do something to prevent more killing.”

  “That’s possible,” Hank agreed.

  He watched his friend frown and take a deep breath.

  “Then let’s go.” Bryan pushed open his door. “Before I change my mind.”

  ~~~~

  Chapter 6

  Some of the wounded had been flown to Hartford Hospital. Two of the students and the teacher, Kevin Gordon, were here at Yale-New Haven. Lexi wanted to go and visit them, but she didn’t know how to deal with the anger that the parents of those teenagers and Kevin Gordon’s family must be feeling. She would be lost as far as what to say to them. Swearing to Juan’s innocence wasn’t what they’d be after. But she believed in it. He couldn’t consciously hurt anyone. Not her Juan.

  She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose as more tears threatened to fall. She’d been pacing these hallways for the past two days, keeping her chin up. But tonight she was exhausted. The fatigue was pulling her under. She was losing control and she couldn’t stand it.

  The elevator door to her left opened. Heavy footsteps came out of it. She already recognized the sound. Cops, detectives, federal agents. Heavy-footed marchers, sending you the message that they were in charge. She rubbed the back of her neck, looking down at the shoes as two people went by her toward Juan’s room.

  She searched in her pocket for a tissue to wipe her face. She’d face them with a clear voice. She’d already figured they wouldn’t have anything to do with her if she were upset or angry or if she displayed any emotions. Monday night had been a loss. The same thing yesterday. She’d been too upset, and everyone simply pretended that she didn’t exist. She’d been able to accompany Juan to his tests this morning only because she’d approached Jeremy Simpson, a Wickfield police detective she knew from around town and from his work with teenagers in the area. She was also Jeremy’s fiancée’s doctor. She’d forced herself to be calm and had approached him as a professional. As Doctor Bradley.

  Whatever it took, Lexi told herself. She’d use every connection.

  She wiped her face with the tissue. Her contacts seemed to be permanently glued to her eyes. A thick film covered them from two days of neglect and tears, making her vision a haze.

  She looked at the two men who’d just arrived. They were talking with the uniformed officers by Juan’s door. One was an FBI agent she’d met here the first night. He’d spent more than three hours asking Lexi all kinds of questions, right after one of the State Police detectives had finished asking her the very same questions. She couldn’t remember either of their names off the top of her head, but she’d written them in her phone. Good advice that Allan had brought back from Attorney McGrath, writing everything down. Lexi had been trying to make herself do that.

  More advice Allan had brought back was that Lexi didn’t have to talk to anyone or answer any questions unless her attorney was present. But Lexi had nothing to hide. Everything she’d said could only be seen as defense of her son’s character.

  She wondered if Juan was awake and that was why the agents were back. Lexi looked at the nurse’s station. The three nurses behind the divider were busy doing their thing. He couldn’t be awake, she decided.

  The other newcomer had his back to Lexi. He was very tall, with square shoulders. The body of an athlete. He was wearing a black suit, or maybe it was dark gray. She couldn’t tell. His hair was curly and lightly sprinkled with gray at the sideburns. He needed a haircut. She hadn’t seen him before. He seemed to be asking all the questions.

  Lexi saw one of the uniformed officers motion toward her. The tall man half turned and looked right at her.

  She held her breath. There was judgment in that look, hardness that made her think he’d decided on her character long before getting here. Her son
was a criminal, and she was an unfit mother. Her insides tightened in protest. Blood rushed to her head, pounding at her temples. So far, everyone had been civilized, even the FBI agent during the hours of questioning. But this was a different person and a new battle. He had better be civilized or she knew she’d start swinging.

  The tall man said something to the others and started toward her. Lexi straightened up and pressed her back against the chair. Earlier, she’d tucked one foot under her. Now she took it out. Her leg was asleep. She should never have sat down. It was so much easier to face the world on her two feet. She didn’t trust herself to stand up now, though.

  She wished her brother were here. Maybe she should have accepted the offer of food from Linda. She felt weak, out of sorts. She dug her hand into her pocket again and touched the lawyer’s card. Maybe this was the time to refuse their questions.

  He had a way of dominating the space. The lines and angles of his face were chiseled, like a movie actor from the thirties. He could have been considered handsome, she supposed, but his features seemed frozen in a deep frown, making him look even more intimidating. She forced herself not to look away. From where she was sitting, his head seemed to brush the ceiling. Her neck hurt to look up at him.

  “Hello, ma’am. I’m Agent Atwood.” He flashed a badge under her nose. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  United States Secret Service. She was able to read that much before he whisked his badge away. She felt small and insignificant sitting there, especially since his voice had conveyed as much of a reprimand as his glare.

  “Dr. Bradley,” she said formally. She had to reach deep and use everything in her arsenal. Her leg was still sleep. There was no use trying to stand up yet. She extended her hand out to him.

  He stared at it for a couple of seconds as if it were a loaded weapon before reluctantly shaking it.

  Her fingers were swallowed up by the agent’s large hand. She was quick to pull her hand back and tuck it under her leg. It annoyed her that he continued to stand up, towering over her, instead of taking the seat next to her.

  “I’ve answered every possible question, at least twice. And I know those answers have been recorded and documented in their files.” She motioned with her head toward the FBI agent and the uniformed officer. “You can save yourself plenty of time and listen to the tapes.”

  “Three times is always the charm.”

  She shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck. “Have a seat. Ask away. I promise, my answers will be the same.”

  “I don’t want to disturb any of the patients or the staff. I’m told there’s a room down the hall that we could use. It would be a lot more private.”

  “I don’t make scenes or disturb the peace,” Lexi said tensely. “I’m a pretty levelheaded individual, agent…officer…detective…whatever you guys call yourself.”

  “Atwood. You can call me Agent Atwood.”

  “Agent Atwood,” she said in a matter-of-fact manner.

  The nurses at the station were watching. She felt everyone else’s eyes in the hallway were on her, too. Not that it mattered to her. She would go through the exercise a dozen times if it could make a difference. Maybe this one would have more pull in getting them to let her see Juan, to be involved with his care. Lexi looked around and collected her pocketbook and overcoat. She’d kicked her shoes off, but they were right by the leg of the chair. She pulled them on. “Lead the way.”

  “After you.”

  Her joints cracked in protest, but Lexi pushed herself to stand. The moment she did, she knew it was a mistake. The room tilted, and she saw small suns exploding in front of her eyes. It was a miracle when she landed back on the seat again.

  “Got up too fast?”

  “I must have. Give me a couple of seconds,” she whispered under her breath, clutching the edge of the seat, looking at the line of the tiles on the floor. Her vision continued to play games with her. She was lightheaded from sitting for too long. The agent continued to stand there, probably glaring down. She was sure that he thought she was faking it, trying to work on his sympathy. Maybe she should. She wished she were a better actor.

  Lexi moved her bag and coat to one arm and stood up again. “Which way?” she asked.

  He motioned with his hand past the elevator door to their left.

  She turned, took a step, and went down flat on her face.

  ~~~~

  Chapter 7

  There was no bona fide profile for an adolescent killer.

  From his last time investigating these cases, Hank Gardner knew that the teenagers who’d committed the crimes came from many different kinds of families. Most had close friends. Few had disciplinary records. Some were honor students; others were failing.

  Almost ten years later, Hank made no pretense of having any answers. The publications they’d put together, with its checklists of warning signs, was a guide, but in most cases it was useless. Over the years, he’d come to accept that the lists created a risk of over-identification. The great majority of students who fit those profiles didn’t pose any risk of violence. Each child was different. Each case was a puzzle.

  The only solid conclusion that Hank had from all of this was that each one of these kids, over a period of time, had cried out for help. They needed someone to listen to them.

  The only physician on the floor tonight who could update Hank on the teenager’s condition couldn’t see him until he was done with his rounds. When Bryan went upstairs to grill Juan’s mother, Hank poked his head into one of the victim’s rooms. Based on the report he’d received, the English teacher, Kevin Gordon, was in stable condition and accepting visitors.

  Luck was on Hank’s side when he found out that the tall brunette sitting in Gordon’s room was the high school guidance counselor, a woman named Sally Michelson. Curiously enough, she was very familiar with Juan Bradley’s file and eager to share her thoughts with the forensic psychologist.

  “I’ve been involved in this line of work for fifteen years, twelve of them in the New York City public school system, prior to coming to Wickfield,” Sally explained. “I’ve dealt with students who had daily grievances and who openly bragged to their friends about what violent act they were going to commit. Some of them were pretty specific about whom they were going to shoot. Those students had easy access to weapons and ammunition. With that in mind, you should know that Juan would have been the last person I’d ever suspect of doing this.”

  Hank kept quiet, jotting down notes. This was exactly what he’d read this afternoon in the files of the other recent teen shooters. But he tried to stay objective. He wasn’t going to make any hasty assumptions.

  “I agree,” Gordon put in from his hospital bed. His leg was in a full-length cast and suspended in a sling. “In fact, if I hadn’t had a bullet dug out of my knee on account of this kid, I’d argue that someone else…a look-alike…was responsible for the shooting. I still have a hard time believing that Juan was the one holding that rifle. I mean, I looked right into his face. It didn’t even look like him. There were no emotions there. I don’t know…there was something very strange about the whole thing.”

  Hank took down some more notes.

  “I’ve read a lot of articles and books on violence in schools,” the guidance counselor continued. “I read the report that the Secret Service put out a few years ago, cover to cover.”

  Hank always felt embarrassed mentioning that he was one of the authors of the report. She obviously didn’t know. He let it be.

  “I’ve attended more workshops than I can count that dealt specifically with how to handle adolescent boys,” Sally went on. “About the importance of listening to them, on how to read them. I’ve read studies that conclude that the way we bring up boys in America predisposes them to loneliness, alienation, and sadness, and that makes them more prone to violence. As the single mother of two boys myself, I’ve been more than aware of this. Knowing Juan and knowing his home life, I can tell you that his relationship with
his mother, his attitude, his openness in expressing his feelings and communicating with her has been exemplary. That boy has no deep-seated problems, no pent-up anger. No…”

  “How is it that you’re so familiar with Juan?” Hank asked casually.

  “I know his family and at the very time he entered the school, we happened to be in a faculty meeting, talking about giving him a citizenship award.”

  “That’s pretty ironic.”

  “Incredibly ironic,” the English teacher said, moving gingerly. “I was the one who nominated him for the award.”

  “So you agree with Ms. Michelson.”

  “He’s a great kid,” Gordon said, nodding his head. “I just don’t understand it. There was no sign of latent hostility or violence in the creative writing he’s done for my English class. None of it in his daily journals that students had to keep. Nothing.”

  It was curious that, despite being witness to the violence and even being a victim of it, both of these people were such fans of the teenager and continued to defend his character. Gordon’s kneecap had been shattered by the bullet. But that didn’t seem to make any difference.

  “Does he have many friends?” Hank asked.

  “He’s very popular,” Michelson commented. “Not a loner, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’d say he’s probably the most respected member of his class,” Gordon asserted.

  “I think the local police have already interviewed quite a number of his friends from school,” she added. “Between that and the information that the crisis counselors are no doubt getting, you should get a good idea of how shocking this is to everyone.”

  Despite the reports from the six recent school shootings, from past research Hank knew that attacks, such as the one in Wickfield, were rarely spontaneous or impulsive. In almost all cases, the attacker developed the idea well in advance. Most planned it out carefully and talked to their friends about it.