The Third Victim (Quincy / Rainie) Page 5

  “Danny,” she said in a more commanding voice. “I’m going to count to three, and then you are going to place your weapons on the floor.”

  “Rainie—”

  “Shut up, Shep. Danny, are you with me?”

  “He didn’t do anything!”

  “Shut up, goddammit, or I’m going to make you flatten out on the floor too!”

  Shep shut up, but it was already too late. Danny’s expression had grown wilder, and his right hand was beginning to tremble. Rainie shifted her stance for better balance. She slid her finger back on the trigger, just in case.

  “Danny,” she said more loudly. “Danny, are you listening to me?”

  The boy turned his head slightly toward her.

  “This is pretty intense, isn’t it, Danny?”

  He nodded shortly, both his hands shaking now.

  “I think you’d like this to end, Danny. I know I’d like it to end. So I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do. I’m going to count to three. You are going to slowly lower your weapons to the floor. Then, when I tell you to, you’re going to kick the guns over to my feet. Then you simply lie down with your hands and feet spread. That’s it. Everything will be over, Danny. Everything will be all right.”

  Danny didn’t say anything. His gaze flickered past her, to where the two girls were sprawled with their hands still outstretched toward each other. He seemed to notice the teacher as well, and a deep tremor snaked through his thin frame.

  Christ, he was going to go. Shoot himself or suicide by cop. Rainie didn’t know which, but the end would all be the same. Dead bodies. Dead kids. Jesus, no.

  “Danny,” Rainie said desperately.

  It was too late. His right arm lifted.

  “No!” Shep sounded wild.

  “Don’t do it, Danny!” She had no choice, her finger pulling back on the trigger.

  And Danny turned his gun toward his head.

  “Goddamn!” Shep hurtled toward his son. Rainie jerked her gun up and blasted her shot into the ceiling, just as Shep sent himself and his boy tumbling to the ground. Danny’s handguns disappeared from view, trapped between two bodies. Then one came sliding out from between them. Rainie kicked it away and looked in time to see Shep grab the .22 in Danny’s right hand. He squeezed hard. His son cried out. Shep jerked the weapon free and flung it down the hall.

  That quickly, it was over. Danny collapsed on the floor, the fight gone out of him, as his father sat up. The burly sheriff was breathing hard and tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “Goddamn,” Shep gasped. “Goddamn, goddamn. Ah, Danny . . .”

  Belatedly, he tried to pull his son into his embrace. Danny pushed him away.

  Shep’s head fell forward. His big shoulders continued to shake.

  Quietly, Rainie took control. She rolled Danny onto his stomach eight feet from where three people would never move again. She spread his arms and legs and patted him down. Finding no additional weapons, she curved his arms behind his back and handcuffed his wrists.

  “Daniel O’Grady,” she said as she hauled him to his feet, “you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”

  “Don’t say a word,” Shep ordered roughly. “You hear me, son? Don’t say a thing!”

  “Shut up, Shep. You can’t invoke silence for your child, and you know it. Do you understand these rights as I’ve said them to you, Danny? Do you understand that you’re under arrest for what you did here at school?”

  “Don’t say a word, Danny! Don’t say a word!”

  “Shep,” Rainie warned again, but it didn’t matter.

  Danny O’Grady didn’t even look at his father. He stood with his shoulders hunched, his oversize black Nike T-shirt too big on him, his features haggard. He said finally, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you do this, Danny?” Her voice softened. Rainie heard her own confusion, her need for reas-surance. She’d known this boy most of his life. Good kid. Used to wear her deputy’s badge. Good kid. She said more firmly, “Did you shoot these people, Daniel? Did you hurt these little girls?”

  And he answered, in a faraway voice, “Yes, ma’am. I think I did.”

  FIVE

  Tuesday, May 15, 3:13 P.M.

  RAINIE AND SHEP remained silent, each trying to process what they had just heard. Shep didn’t argue with Danny’s statement, didn’t try to say it was a misunderstanding, didn’t try to remind her that Danny was just a kid. He appeared too overwhelmed.

  Rainie herself couldn’t think of anything more to say. She was a cop; she had heard a rough confession. Her duty was clear.

  Rainie led her handcuffed murder suspect to the front doors of the school, where a dozen flashbulbs promptly went off in her face. The media had arrived. Shit.

  She backpedaled furiously, yanking Danny away from the glare of hot lights and frenzy of shouted questions. He looked at her in dazed confusion, meekly submitting to her will. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that.

  “You can’t be seen walking out with us,” she told Shep after a minute, the three of them pressed against the hall walls like fugitives.

  “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

  “You don’t have any say in the matter. I can interrogate him without you, and I can sure as hell stick him in jail without you, and you know it.”

  Shep absorbed this with a scowl. Oregon law didn’t give much special consideration to juvenile murder suspects. As long as Danny was at least twelve years of age, he could be held criminally liable for his actions and would be eligible for waiver to adult jurisdiction. His rights were the same as those of any person under arrest, and his parents had no say in things. The best Shep and Sandy could do was hire a good lawyer for their son. And be happy that he wasn’t fifteen years old, in which case he’d fall under Measure 11 and automatically be tried as an adult. And be happier still that Oregon didn’t have so-called CAP laws, which would hold Shep or Sandy criminally responsible for allowing guns to fall into Danny’s hands.

  “What do you want to do?” Shep asked.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  Shep glanced at his son, followed her train of thought, and unbuttoned his sheriff’s uniform. Underneath it was a plain white T-shirt, worn in places and bleached white by Sandy every Sunday when she did the laundry. The sight of him in just his undershirt made him look all too human and tore at Rainie’s emotions a little more. She resented that.

  Shep carefully draped his shirt over his son’s head, as if his boy were made of glass and Shep couldn’t bear to break him.

  “It will be all right,” he whispered. He looked at Rainie again, humbled and waiting for her next command.

  “Go find Luke,” she said, her voice coming out unsteady. She jerked her head toward the east exit. “Have him bring the patrol car around to the side.”

  “I want to ride with Danny.”

  “No. Luke’s going to find a state guy, someone we don’t know, and he’s going to interview you. Don’t look at me like that, Shep. You know it has to be done. You and Danny have been alone together. He’s your son. . . . We have to know what he said to you. What he did. Why you entered a crime scene alone, and”—she smiled thinly—“why you appointed your second-in-command the primary officer the minute you got the call.”

  She met Shep’s gaze and, for the first time, saw him flush. “You didn’t think I’d picked up on that, did you? Or were you hoping I’d let it go?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Did you know, Shep? Did you hear the news and already know?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “I don’t even believe you and I’m your friend. Dammit.” Rainie was suddenly fed up. She was the primary. She had hours of work ahead of her, processing a thirteen-year-old boy, testing his hands for gunpowder residue, demanding to know why he’d shot up his school. Then she’d return to the crime scene, wade through it again and again in order
to get into a mass murderer’s head. Finally, worst of all—tomorrow morning, most likely, or evening at best—she would personally attend the autopsies of two little girls who’d died holding hands. She would have to listen to the inventory of the trauma to their bodies. She would have to imagine once again what their last moments had been like. Then she would have to contemplate that another child, one she’d known personally, one she’d been proud of, had done that to them.

  “Get out of here,” she told Shep. “Find Luke and get this show on the road.”

  “I need to find Sandy first,” Shep said stubbornly. “We have a friend . . . a lawyer. She can give him a call.”

  “Get out of here!”

  Shep finally relented. He gave his son one last glance. It looked like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words.

  The sheriff turned and walked out the front doors. Flashbulbs flashed. A roar rose up from the crowd at the sign of fresh activity. Then Rainie caught a new sound—the faint beating of helicopters bearing down upon them. The medevac choppers had finally arrived to carry the wounded away.

  And Rainie couldn’t help thinking that it would be much later before the ME’s office came for the bodies.

  OFFICER LUKE HAYES was thirty-six years old, balding, and shorter than most women. His trim build, however, was a compact one hundred fifty pounds that turned many ladies’ heads and became useful in a fight. In Rainie’s opinion, however, Luke’s biggest asset was his steely blue eyes. She’d seen him stare down drunks twice his size. She’d seen him hypnotize enraged housewives into lowering their favorite knives. Once she’d even watched him reduce a growling Doberman to a groveling mass with a single, relentless look.

  Shep was smoke and steam. Rainie got restless and moody. Luke balanced out their tiny department with his steady presence and slow, curving smile.

  Rainie had never seen him ragged. Until today.

  Leading Danny to the east-side exit—the one opposite the area of incidence—Rainie caught up with Luke just outside the door. His head was covered in sweat and he’d soaked his uniform through. For the last fifty minutes, he’d been trying to keep panicked mothers from rushing the school building, while collecting names and witness statements, and the strain showed on his face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked Rainie immediately.

  “Good enough.”

  His gaze flickered to Danny, and his strong shoulders slumped. Rainie understood his thoughts. Luke and Rainie playing with five-year-old Danny in the one-room sheriff’s department while Shep took care of something or other. Let’s play cops and robbers. Rat-a-tat-tat. Or maybe cowboys and Indians. Bang-bang-bang.

  “You know why big cities have so many problems, Rainie? ’Cause they can’t do anything like this. Can’t bring their kids to the office. Don’t have others help-ing them out. No wonder our jobs are so slow in Bakersville. We’re too busy taking care of our own to have time for trouble.”

  “We need to get going,” Rainie said softly.

  Luke sighed, nodded slowly, and squared his shoulders. He was ready.

  Luke took up the post on the right side of Danny’s hunched form. He looped his hand through the boy’s bound arm. Rainie did the same on the left. On the count of three, herding Danny between them, they ran the gauntlet to the waiting patrol car.

  Compared to the relative quiet inside the school, the sounds and sensations of the outside yard hit Rainie as a one–two punch. Reporters yelling questions as they spotted two cops hustling a cloaked person out of the school. EMTs shouting orders as they frantically loaded up the next injured student. Children crying, crying, crying in their parents’ arms. A mother, alone on her knees on the ground, weeping hopelessly.

  Rainie and Luke kept their attention focused ahead as other officers rushed to assist them.

  “Move, move, move,” someone was yelling. Rainie thought that was stupid. They were all moving as fast as they could.

  “Clear out, clear out. Come on, people, back off!”

  The reporters were closing in, photographers fighting maniacally for the front-page shot.

  Rainie heard a new scream and made the mistake of turning her head. Shep had found his wife. She was holding Becky tight against her chest and turning toward the running police line.

  “No,” Sandy cried, took a step, and was caught from behind by her husband. “No, no, nooooo!”

  A muffled sound emerged from beneath the shirt. Danny had heard his mother and started to cry.

  Finally, they arrived at the patrol car. Rainie hastily stuffed Danny in the back, the shirt still wrapped around his head. The reporters were shamelessly trying to jostle in, but the officers forced them back.

  Rainie rounded the driver’s side. Luke jumped into the passenger’s seat. With two slams of the car doors, they shut out the chaos and were alone with their murder suspect. Shep’s shirt had slipped down. Danny didn’t seem to care, and it was too late to fix it now.

  Luke turned on the sirens. Rainie pulled away from the curb.

  A moment later they hit a wall of people clogging the street. Rainie prompted them with the horn and they reluctantly parted, all craning their necks to peer at the suspect in the back of the car. A few people looked stunned and saddened.

  Others already appeared murderous.

  “Damn,” Luke murmured.

  Rainie stared in the rearview mirror at her young charge. Danny O’Grady, suspected murderer of three, had just fallen asleep.

  SIX

  Tuesday, May 15, Nightfall

  RAINIE WORKED ANOTHER six hours.

  Together, she and Luke formally processed Daniel O’Grady for aggravated murder. They took his fingerprints and photograph. They tested his hands for gunpowder residue (GSR) and had him exchange his clothes for an orange corrections-department jumpsuit that was twice his size. Later his clothing would be tested at the state crime lab for gunpowder, hair, fiber, and bodily fluids—anything that would further tie him to the crime.

  With the Cabot County DA present, they con-ducted a ten-minute interview before a lawyer, Avery Johnson, showed up and coldly put a halt to further questions.

  He berated them for interrogating a child, informed Rainie that his client was obviously not in a stable frame of mind, and demanded that Danny be immediately moved to the county’s juvenile facilities, where he could be examined by a medical doctor and treated for shock.

  During this whole exchange, Danny sat listlessly and appeared to be a million miles away from the sheriff’s office where he had once played after school.

  Luke and Cabot County DA Charles Rodriguez made arrangements to drive Danny the forty-five minutes to the juvie facilities. Rainie had to return to the school grounds, where the CSU had finally arrived and some state homicide detective named Abe Sanders was ordering everyone about as if he owned the place.

  She exchanged one last batch of nasty stares with Avery Johnson. He told her she would be hearing more from him. She told him she could hardly wait. He told her this was a travesty of justice. She just stared at him harder, because she knew what her next line was supposed to be and her heart wasn’t in it.

  She sent the lawyer on his way and, with Danny in Luke’s custody, headed back to the scene of the crime.

  For the next five hours, Rainie walked the scene with the technicians from the state CSU. She reviewed with them what she knew of the EMTs’ intrusion on the scene, as well as her own activities, which had left gunpowder residue and ceiling plaster in the key incidence area. The technicians were not amused. They took her Glock .40 to compare GSR found on it with GSR found at the scene. Then Rainie helped collect more than fifty-five spent cartridges from a shooting that had left three dead, six injured, and an entire town devastated.

  Police officers recovered four empty magazines for the .22 and three speed loaders for the .38 revolver. None of the cops liked finding the rapid loaders—they were a tool designed to make a police officer’s life easier, and it reminded them that this cri
me hit close to home.

  At eight P.M., Rainie held an impromptu briefing out in the playground. She introduced herself as the primary officer and related her experience capturing Danny O’Grady in the afternoon. She thanked the various state and county officers who’d responded to the call and stayed for hours after their shifts had ended to assist with the case.

  Then Detective Sanders, the state liaison, took over, discussing the theory of the crime, which they were developing as they processed the scene.

  It appeared to be a blitzkrieg style of attack, he said, occurring shortly after one P.M., when the students had returned to class. According to the third-grade teacher, the two girls, Alice and Sally, had asked for a bathroom pass. Shortly after they stepped into the hall, everyone heard the first sounds of gunfire.

  It was unclear whether they had been the first victims or if that had been the computer-science teacher, Melissa Avalon. She had been alone in the computer lab, so no one knew if she stepped out after hearing the shots or if she was shot first, then the girls. It was doubtful the medical examiner could shed any light on things, as time of death wasn’t an exact science. What they were working on now was figuring out the exact path the shooter had walked and the trajectory of the shots so they could extrapolate a logical sequence of events.

  No material witnesses? Rainie asked.

  None, the other officers agreed. Most students registered the sound of gunshots, then started running toward the exits with no clear idea where the shots were being fired. Six students reported seeing a man in black, but these were the younger children and none of them could be more specific. Where had this man come from? Where had he gone? How tall? How short? Fat, thin? Asked to be more exact, the kids quickly grew confused.

  Two officers had followed up at the houses immediately around the school grounds. Those neighbors hadn’t spotted any strange man cutting across their yards.

  “Ergo,” Sanders concluded, “this man-in-black thing is a dead end. Probably just the boogeyman, conjured up in traumatized minds. It happens.”