Marcia Clark - The Competition

“No, ma’am,” Bailey said. “We were hoping you’d heard from him.”

At this, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as tears leaked out and ran down her cheeks. There was a framed photograph on the side table next to the couch that showed Otis standing between his parents. He could definitely be described as medium height and build-for what it was worth.

“We’re so sorry we don’t have better news,” I said. “You’ve heard nothing all day?”

Tom Barney shook his head. “We’ve been at the rec center-just came home to change clothes. And we’ve called all over the place, but no one seems to know anything.”

Bailey and I exchanged a look.

“We can tell you that his name has not shown up on the list of injured or…deceased,” Bailey said. “But he doesn’t seem to have been in school today either. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“Not in school?” Sonny asked, her tone incredulous. “That’s impossible. I dropped him off myself this morning.”

“Did you see him go inside?” I asked.

“N-no. There was a line of cars behind me. I had to move. But he doesn’t ditch. He might play sick, try to stay home, but…”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“His usual: hoodie and jeans,” Sonny said.

“Have you checked with his friends?” Bailey asked. “Asked whether they’ve seen him?”

Sonny dropped her head slightly. “He really doesn’t have many.”

Tom frowned. “I’ve been trying to remember the name of that kid he did that science project with. Jason…something. He came over here a couple of times, didn’t he?”

“That was last year, Tom. He hasn’t come around since.” Sonny looked at us, her eyes filled with pain. “Otis is a very sweet boy, but not much of a socializer. I-I’m afraid I don’t know of any friends he’d skip school with.”

“Do you mind if we take a look at his room?” Bailey asked.

Sonny stopped, looked at Bailey, then at me for a long moment. “Wait a minute…what’s going on?”

“Now, Sonny.” Tom put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re probably just checking on all the students who’re still missing.” Tom Barney looked from me to Bailey. “Right?”

Bailey and I were silent.

Sonny’s breathing quickened. “No. They’re not.” Her eyes flashed, her voice was low and raw. “You think he’s one of them! Don’t you? Well, I’m telling you right now, that’s impossible! I know my son! He had nothing to do with this! Do you hear me? Nothing!”

“Mrs. Barney, we’re not accusing your son of anything,” I said. “But we have to follow up on all leads. We have reason to believe someone involved in the shooting may still be at large,” I said. We hadn’t released the fact that the killers had escaped, so I had to keep it vague. “If you won’t cooperate, we’ll just have to get a search warrant. It’ll cost us precious time, but…”

I was bluffing. I didn’t have enough to get a warrant. We might be able to justify a quick search right now as hot pursuit of a fleeing felon. But getting consent would be a lot safer. I waited and tried to act confident.

Sonny’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her body began to shake, whether from rage or fear or grief-or all three-I couldn’t tell. Tom put his arms around her, his expression tortured. After a few moments, he spoke. His voice was raw, angry. “Sonny’s right. Whatever kind of ‘leads’ you got that pointed to Otis are wrong. But we have nothing to hide. Look all you want.” Tom led us down a short hallway, to a room with navy-blue walls covered with posters of bands I didn’t recognize. Bloodstained Boots, Crew XXX, and Der Fuehrer. They all showed white guys with shaved heads, most sporting swastika tattoos.

“Mind if we look around?” Bailey asked.

Tom made a sweeping gesture. “Have at it.”

We went through everything-his chest of drawers, the bedding, the closet-searching for guns, ammunition, any mention of a weapons supplier, any notes or photos that might relate to the school shooting. Nothing. I glanced up at the posters on Otis’s wall again.

Sonny saw me. “I know how it looks. We hate them too, but Otis isn’t…he’s not that guy. It’s just a…phase he’s been going through. We think it probably makes him feel powerful, tough. But he’s a good kid. Really.”

I didn’t answer. Tom saw my expression, and his features hardened.

Bailey scanned the room. “It’d help if we could have a crime scene tech in to test for gunshot residue or-”

Tom cut her off. “We’ve already helped enough. Now how about you help us and find our son, goddamnit! Otis had nothing to do with this! So if you want to waste more time searching here, you’d better get a warrant.”

He turned and left the room and we followed him out. There was no point arguing. If we got anything more to tie Otis to the shooting, we’d get that warrant. Short of that, we had no choice but to leave.

From what we’d seen, Otis did look like the typical angry, alienated loner who hated the world enough to lash out, but that didn’t mean he was one of the shooters. At least, not yet.

By the timewe left Otis Barney’s house it was almost eleven p.m. The autumn air had a bite that made me pull my peacoat closer and wish I’d brought my cashmere scarf. When we got back to Bailey’s car I reached for the heater.

“It’s not that cold,” she said.

“It is for me.”

Bailey closed the vents on her side. “Maybe you should transfer to the DA’s office in Dubai.” We rode in silence as she steered us toward the Tampa Avenue freeway on-ramp.

“Those posters were pretty strange,” I said. “But we didn’t find anything else. Maybe his parents are right. Maybe he isn’t one of the shooters.”

“And maybe his parents are in denial about who their son is. They wouldn’t be the first. But I don’t blame them for being pissed off at us. It’s a hell of a thing to hear your kid accused of mass murder.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. It was hard to even imagine how that must feel. I pictured Otis’s room again. Those posters. And something I hadn’t seen. “I didn’t notice a computer,” I said. “He must have one.”

“Yeah, probably a laptop. But I didn’t want to bring it up and give them any ideas. If Otis does have one, I’m hoping they won’t think to wipe it before we can get a warrant.” Which meant we had to dig up some probable cause for a search warrant, and fast. “Home?” she asked.

“May as well. Can’t get anything more done tonight.” I put my hands next to the vents to warm them. “We need to have the unis ask around about Otis. Talk to students, teachers, and counselors and find out if he was into guns or made any threats, that kind of thing. But they can’t make it sound like-”

“He’s our guy. One of ’em, anyway. I know.”

Traffic was light, and before I knew it, we were heading into downtown Los Angeles. Bailey cleared her throat. “Feel like a drink?”

I was tired and depressed and in no mood to hang out, but Bailey’s voice was uncharacteristically strained. I looked at her closely. She had a death grip on the steering wheel, and her jaw was clenched so hard the cords in her neck stood out. She needed company-and a stiff drink…or seven. Come to think of it, so did I. “Sure. And why don’t you crash with me?”

Bailey gave me a tight smile. “Sounds good.”

Twenty minutes later, Bailey pulled up in front of the Biltmore and parked next to a fire hydrant. Bailey believes illegal parking is one of the few perks of being a cop. But it’s not just a matter of convenience. She’ll pick the red zone over a closer space every time. It’s a religion with her. “You know, eventually, someone’s going to bust you for this shit.”