Marcia Clark - The Competition

I put up a hand. “Hold your fire. I haven’t exactly been lying around in my fat pants with a spoon and a can of frosting.” I told her about J.D.’s no-go on the search warrant and my plan to bring a shrink on board.

Bailey gave me an incredulous look. “A shrink? ”

“Actually, two shrinks. Eric liked my idea of Dr. Malloy, and he suggested Dr. Shelby.”

“Dr. Malloy sounds familiar. Didn’t he testify in that pedophile case last year?”

“Yep,” I said. It was a case involving seven victims who’d been molested by a summer camp counselor. Not one of them had reported the crime, and when police first questioned them, five denied it. The jury was falling for the defense claim that the police coerced the kids into saying they’d been molested-until Dr. Malloy showed up.

“But does he have experience with teen freaks?”

“That I don’t know.” But how many shrinks could there be who had firsthand experiences with psychos like these?

“What did Eric say about Dr. Shelby?”

“She’s a child psychologist too, but she’s got more hands-on experience with juvenile offenders. And she’s done studies on Columbine and some of the other school shootings.”

Bailey nodded. “Sounds like a good team. How fast can you get them on board?”

“I’ll call them right now. How fast they’ll come is another matter.” In my experience, forensic psychologists-at least the good ones-were usually overbooked. I dialed Dr. Malloy’s number, expecting to hear that at best he might be able to fit us in sometime next week.

But I’d underestimated the powerful pull of this case. Not the media-whore factor-in fact, both doctors demanded that their names not be released to the press. I mean the desire-to-help factor. They agreed to drop everything for this case simply because they wanted to help us find the shooters. In this job it’s easy to forget that there are people like that in the world.

I asked them to meet us at the station as soon as they could. They said they were on their way.

“Got coffee?”I asked. I’d been up since five thirty, and my engine was starting to sputter.

“I’ll see if I can snag some of Graden’s. The shit we’ve got probably had dinosaurs stuck in it. In the meantime, check this out.” She handed me a large manila envelope. Inside, I found the blowup of the taller gunman’s wrist. When Bailey came back with two steaming mugs, I held it up. “What the hell is that? A dagger through a rose? A spider? A screwed-up iron cross? I can’t believe this is the best they can do.” I’d hoped this picture would give us a solid lead on the second shooter.

“It’s not great. I’ve got the lab working on getting us a better enhancement, but don’t expect much. It’ll probably never be super clear.”

“We need to show it to Charlotte and her buddies.”

“We will.”

I held the photo at arm’s length to see if it helped. It didn’t.

“Rache, don’t obsess. It’ll be good enough if we find someone who knows him. At least you can tell it’s not just a birthmark.”

That much was true. It was better than nothing.

A patrol officer with two civilians in tow headed toward us. Our doctors had arrived. Bailey and I thanked them for showing up on such short notice and for agreeing to help us. “I know you had to push a lot out of the way to get here,” I said.

“Please,” Dr. Malloy said. “I’m just glad to be able to help out. And you’ll have to call me Michael if we’re going to work together.

He looked like a Michael. And he looked like someone kids would have an easy time opening up to. Of average height and sporting a hint of a belly, he had warm brown eyes and thick, wavy brown hair that in spite of his best efforts kept falling into his eyes. To top it off, he wore a sweater vest. Nothing says “cuddly” like a sweater vest.

Dr. Shelby, who likewise insisted on her first name-Jenny-was slender and attractive. Not the frilly type, she wore a brown turtleneck sweater and black slacks. Her shoulder-length dark blonde hair hung straight and simple in a side part, and she wore minimal makeup that enhanced her gray eyes and high cheekbones. She too had an easy, approachable vibe. Even without a sweater vest.

They declined my offer of Graden’s coffee-it really was pretty good-and Bailey led the way to one of the smaller conference rooms. We got right down to business. I told them what we knew so far and what we needed from them. Then I played the video footage from inside the gym. When it ended, Michael rubbed the side of his head as though he were trying to wake up from a nightmare. Jenny looked pale.

“How many dead?” Jenny asked.

“Thirty-three as of now,” Bailey replied. “We’re hoping it stops there.”

“Jesus,” Michael said. “That’s worse than Sandy Hook.”

“And much worse than Columbine,” Jenny said. “But from what you’ve told me, I’d agree that may be exactly what they intended. They wanted to prove they were better, so they exceeded the body count and managed to escape.”

“Yes, that much seems obvious,” Michael said.

“As for what type of person you’re looking for, that’s less obvious,” Jenny said. “The angry loner, bully victim-which seems to be Otis Barney-is a stereotype, but it doesn’t always hold. Columbine is instructive. Eric Harris was very socially adept-”

“And popular with the girls, if my memory serves,” Michael said.

“He was,” Jenny said. “Even Dylan Klebold was fairly social. So there are no hard-and-fast rules. Studies show these mass shooters are a heterogeneous group. They come in all stripes. But there are certain markers that show up with some consistency.”

“The sense of feeling persecuted or victimized is very common,” Michael said. “They frequently feel mistreated or undervalued by the school, their teachers, their parents-”

“Great,” Bailey said. “How’re we going to spot that?”

“By asking other students to tell you if they’ve heard anyone talk about feelings of persecution and plans for revenge,” Jenny said. “Individuals with this type of pathology often vent to others, may even demand an audience.”

“You should also ask students if anyone has seemed overly invested in guns or military paraphernalia, or romanticizes guns and weaponry in general,” Michael said.

“What about the video gamer theory?” I said. “Some shrinks-uh, sorry, psychologists-say the first-person-shooter battle games desensitize kids, get them addicted to violent fantasies, and make them forget people are real. I heard there’s even a game called School Shooter.” Which sickened me on every level: both the fact that someone dreamed it up and the fact that people bought it.

“First of all, we call each other shrinks, so no apologies necessary,” Michael said. “Second of all, no normal kid turns into a mass murderer because he played too many video games-”

“But if a kid has pathological homicidal tendencies, an addiction to violent video games can tip him over,” Jenny said. “So the games may exacerbate the tendency, but they don’t create it. In fact, someone who’s already planning to commit this type of crime might use the video game as a form of practice and perhaps to further desensitize himself-”

“Just to play devil’s advocate, isn’t it possible the games act as a form of release?” I said. “You know, like porn?”

Jenny smiled. “They may. If you’re normal. In that case, certainly, porn or video games can be beneficial. But for a sexual predator, or someone with a homicidal pathology, the opposite is true. The porn might offer the predator temporary release, but in the long run it’ll just cause the pathology to escalate until he explodes and acts out. Same thing with the homicidal types. The games might provide transitory relief, but ultimately the games aggravate the unbridled rage and lack of focus that’s intrinsic to their pathology.”