It had been pure coincidence that Quincy was on the West Coast when Quantico called about the Bakersville shooting. In theory, Quincy was on personal leave from his job of researching killers and teaching homicide-investigation classes at the FBI Academy in Virginia. Last week, however, he’d received word of a strangled prostitute’s body found along Interstate 5 in Seattle. Local police were concerned the case might have connections to another string of murders committed in the eighties by the notorious Green River Killer, who was never caught. Quincy had revisited that case last year as part of a project to close out cold-case files. Unfortunately he’d not found any fresh leads. Then the new murder.
The FBI’s deputy director had personally given Quincy the news and told him to stay home.
“These are the times when you need to be with your family,” the deputy director had said. “We understand that. This case is probably unrelated. I don’t want you worrying about it.”
Quincy had thanked the man for his concern. Then he had gone to Dulles airport, purchased a ticket to Seattle, and boarded the plane. His youngest daughter was returning to college the next day, his ex-wife had no intention of speaking to him even if he did stay, and as for his daughter Amanda . . . There was nothing Quincy could do anymore for Amanda. What was done was done, and frankly, Quincy needed his work.
Before transferring to a research role with the Behavioral Science Unit five years ago, Supervisory Special Agent Quincy had earned his stripes as one of the Bureau’s finest profilers. Each year, he’d taken on roughly one hundred and twenty serial rapists, murderers, and child kidnappers. He’d pursued men with IQs well above genius level and ensnared them in traps of their own making. He’d analyzed crime scenes awash with blood and found the case-breaking clue. He’d saved lives and he’d made mistakes that sometimes cost lives.
He knew how to handle that kind of stress. In fact, his ex-wife, Bethie, routinely claimed he didn’t know how to live without it. According to her, his world had become as dark as the murderers he analyzed, and without a brutal slaying to unravel, he simply didn’t know what to do with himself.
Quincy didn’t care for that image of himself, but neither did he refute it. His line of work did take its toll. He spent so much time enmeshed in cases of extreme violence, it was easy to lose perspective. All county fairs became places where child molesters lay in wait for new victims. All basements housed human remains. All charming, good-looking law students were secretly psychopaths.
Frankly, Quincy would never, ever take a ride in a Volkswagen Bug, the vehicle of choice for many serial killers. He just wouldn’t do it.
Nor, he had found, could he watch his daughter die.
In Seattle, the prostitute’s murder turned out to be a one-off crime, eventually traced to a trucker passing through the area. Quincy had gone so far as to peruse homicide’s cold-case files, ostensibly to offer fresh perspective but really to delay going home, where he would no longer be Super Agent, capable of capturing even the most vile of villains, but instead Helpless Parent, resigned to waiting by a hospital bed like any other person for the inevitable to occur.
Then a young boy had walked into his Oregon school and opened fire. And Quincy, in a matter of speaking, had been saved.
Like most Americans, Quincy had only peripherally noticed a small but tragic shooting that occurred in November 1995 at Richland High School in Lynnville, Tennessee, leaving two dead and one wounded. The tiny town, population 353, seemed too remote to have any connection with Quincy’s life, and the small murder spree seemed an isolated occurrence. But just three months later another shooting occurred: Frontier Junior High, Moses Lake, Washington. Three killed, one wounded, by a fourteen-year-old student. Almost exactly a year later a new shooting, in Bethel, Alaska. Two killed, two wounded, by a sixteen-year-old gunman who had lined up a gallery of friends to watch his rampage. Eight months later sixteen-year-old Luke Woodham murdered three people and wounded seven in Pearl, Mississippi. Two months after that three more students died at Heath High School, in West Paducah, Kentucky. The pattern was clear. Jonesboro, Arkansas; Springfield, Oregon; Littleton, Colorado; Fort Gibson, Oklahoma. Other schools, other tragedies seared into the national consciousness.
Headlines screamed of an epidemic of violence sweeping across America’s youth. Video games, some cried. Too many guns, not enough parents. Or maybe it was Hollywood or Capitol Hill or Jerry Springer. But something had to be done to stem the tide. Ban guns, censor cartoons, install metal detectors, enforce dress codes, something.
In the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, researchers such as Quincy were less certain. Were the shootings a genuine trend or a statistical anomaly? Were these “normal” children motivated by outside forces such as the media, or did this point to a deeper, developmental issue?
What really drove teenagers to kill, and how could shootings be prevented?
Even at Quantico, the leading criminal experts didn’t have ready answers.
And that frightened them, for they had children too.
Six months ago Quincy had begun a major research effort to dissect the minds of juvenile mass murderers and identify ways to help them, as well as to prevent future shootings. The goal was to devise a system that would help identify potential mass murderers for school officials and law-enforcement agencies. Also, Quincy hoped to formulate action steps to help parents and teachers deal more effectively with potentially violent teens.
Identifying future shooters, however, was easier said than done.
Unlike serial killers, mass murderers were not a homogeneous bunch. People went postal because they’d had a bad day, because they were mentally unstable, because someone influenced them, because they were high/drunk/stoned, because they were in love/out of love/confused by love, because they sought glory, because they sought revenge, because they sought death. Mass murderers could be young, old, rich, poor, well educated, poorly educated, well adjusted, or loners. Their attacks could be random or well planned.
In addition, many mass murderers ended their rampages by taking their own lives, making it difficult to get more information. What had brought that person to the breaking point? What had the shooter been thinking during his rampage? Would he repeat his act given the chance, or was it a onetime homicide spree? Most of the time, no one ever knew.
The best experts could do currently was a “risk assessment” of individuals, a checklist of behaviors statistically found in mass murderers. Mass murderers:
1. had a history of violence, e.g., wife-beating, child abuse, brawls, etc.
2. inspired “subjective fear” in people. After shootings, there were always a few neighbors or coworkers who had a “bad feeling” about the person. They avoided the man at work, didn’t let their children play with the boy, were sure never to be alone with the guy, etc.
3. exhibited antisocial behavior, either a loner-type personality or someone who deliberately violated societal rules.
4. had poor social skills.
5. liked to make threats, realistic or idle.
6. lacked a support system, e.g., came from a fractured family, had few friends, etc.
7. felt wronged—by life, the corporation, peers, spouse, etc.
8. were under severe situational stress, e.g., recent job loss, impending divorce, death in the family, etc.
QUINCY FELT THAT THE checklist was not a bad tool. Human resources departments of many major corporations routinely used it to identify potentially dangerous employees. In the wake of school shootings, school counselors across the country had also requested the information for their offices.
Unfortunately, the checklist was proving too vague when applied to youthful offenders. What was “situational stress” for an eleven-year-old? Getting braces, having a pimple, breaking up? What was a “history of violence” for a grade-school boy? Throwing rocks, tearing wings off flies, engaging in rough sports?
Add to that the significant number of children who came from broken homes, and that every tee
nager worth his salt felt deeply and grievously wronged by life, and a statistically improbable number of youths emerged as future homicidal maniacs—hardly an encouraging thought.
Children were simply too hard for adults to understand or predict in the best of circumstances. Their coping skills were limited, they were a bundle of hormones, and they generally believed everything must happen now, today, immediately, with no thought of long-term consequences.
Finally, juveniles were highly motivated by peer pressure, a rare factor in adult homicide. Children were also proving more susceptible to media images and outside influences such as cults and hate groups.
In short, the more Quincy learned, the more he realized how much he had left to learn. This would be a long assignment. Years, he was beginning to think, of spending quality time with kids who killed kids.
He was both intrigued by the task and repelled by it—in other words, his general state of mind.
The fasten-seat-belt light came on. The plane was preparing for descent. Quincy gathered up Danny O’Grady’s interview tape and notes. His brow furrowed.
He did not have much information on the case yet, but already there were a number of elements that bothered him. The shooting of the teacher seemed so exact, for one thing. He wanted to know more about her and Danny’s relationship. Then there was the timing of the shooting. Why when all the students had gone back into class? That struck him as an attack strategy devised to limit the amount of damage, as if the shooter didn’t want many people hurt.
Finally, there was the interview. Judging by the tone of the child’s voice, Quincy would bet he’d been in a state of shock, not the best time for a thorough interrogation. Plus, while the investigating officer had done a nice job of trying to open the boy up by resorting to simpler questions, she had used too many leading questions. That was always dangerous with children, as they were prone to giving the answer they thought the adult desired, instead of the right answer. Danny’s repeated reference to being smart bothered Quincy as well. Something else needed to be asked.
He wondered what the chances were of the boy’s lawyer agreeing to an interview. Then he wondered what the chances were of the local police welcoming his assistance with the case.
Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy smiled.
A local police officer welcome a fed with open arms? Hardly. He was already placing bets on which expletive Officer Lorraine Conner would use first.
EIGHT
Wednesday, May 16, 11:08 A.M.
YOU LITTLE SHIT. Go behind my back to the DA one more time, and I’ll tie you up, take you out into a field, and personally introduce you to Bakersville’s home-grown cow pies. Got it?”
“I simply needed some information—”
“You tried to yank my case!”
“Only when it became clear that you weren’t qualified to handle it.”
Rainie’s eyes bugged open and she nearly foamed at the mouth. She was having a bitch of a morning, which had already included one very terse conversation with Abe Sanders at seven A.M. Apparently that had not gotten the job done, however, because here it was just after eleven and she was going to have to take her scissors and cut him down to size. How dare he ask the DA to remove her as primary officer on the case! How dare he try to claim state jurisdiction of her homicide!
Didn’t he know better than to mess with a woman who’d gotten only four hours of sleep?
Rainie moved out from behind the hastily erected desk—actually a piece of plywood laid atop two sawhorses—that had just been placed in the brand-new “op center” for the Bakersville case team. Sure, the command post was really the attic of Town Hall, stifling and dusty and hot, but she’d managed to commandeer a coffeepot and a water cooler from the mayor’s office. Already, that made these quarters luxurious compared to the twenty-by-twenty headquarters of the sheriff’s department.
Rainie had been working her damnedest this morning. Up at four-thirty to burn the knots out of her muscles with a good, hard run, she then typed up the police reports from the night before, met with the mayor about getting more space for her case team, and prepared for her first meeting with Abe. She’d thought they’d made the ground rules perfectly clear at that time. The case would require state and local cooperation. Abe would serve as point man for the state’s resources, handling the physical evidence, managing the CSU, and adding his own considerable experience to the investigative efforts. Rainie’s department would provide the ground troops—herself, Luke, and three volunteer officers—to conduct interviews and pull records. They knew the people in their town the best and would get more cooperation from the school and parents than state officers would.
Abe was welcome to process the crime scene and commandeer the school computers in search of further evidence. Rainie knew she needed help. But she would not, could not, should not, give up jurisdiction of the case. End of story.
Or so she’d thought at seven this morning.
“You messed up,” Sanders said now, obviously worried she hadn’t gotten the message the first time. “You’re inexperienced and it showed.”
“I secured the scene and arrested a murderer. Shame on me.”
“You trampled the scene,” he corrected with a grimace. “My God, you let in the EMTs. Haven’t you ever seen what they do to a place? Why not just invite the fire department and throw a party?”
“I ordered Walt docked. He chose to violate those orders. Something Bradley Brown is still very grate-ful for.”
“He might have lived anyway.”
“Might have lived? Are you guys paid by the body or what?”
Sanders remained unswayed. “EMTs ruin scenes, simple fact of life. So do concerned parents running after their children and school bureaucrats trying to do head counts—”
“We got there as fast as we could. Geography is another simple fact of life, and geography places that school in the middle of a residential area and us fifteen minutes away. Can’t stop what we aren’t there to manage.”
“Fine, what about once you were there? Discharging your weapon? In the middle of the scene?” He raised a brow.
“An armed murder suspect drew down on me!” Rainie snapped. “Value a crime scene. Don’t plan on dying for it.”
“Oh, now I get it. You were afraid for your life, so you shot up the ceiling. I stand corrected, Officer. That makes perfect sense.”
“You insufferable—”
Rainie fisted her hands at her side. She counted to ten a second time and noticed that another man had just appeared in the doorway, also wearing a sharply pressed suit. God help her, the state men were multiplying.
She forced her fists open and managed in a more reasonable tone of voice, “As I wrote in my report, Detective—which you have no doubt read, edited, and found fault with the font size—at the last minute the suspect’s father threw himself in front of me, forcing me to alter my fire.”
“So you’re trigger-happy? That’s how you want to go on record?”
“Hey, have you ever pulled your weapon on the job? Have you ever been in the line of fire? What the hell do you know about being trigger-happy?”
Sanders scowled. Apparently, Mr. Perfect never had been at the front lines. Look who was the inexperienced one now? Rainie’s triumph, however, was short-lived.
“Well,” the state detective said briskly, “that brings us to all the problems with the arrest.”
“What?”
“First off, the confession. Have you talked to the DA yet about the confession?”
“Hell, I called Rodriguez in to listen to the confession. Everything was by the book.”
“Apparently not everything. O’Grady’s lawyer is already seeking to have the confession tossed—”
“You thought he’d ask to have it entered into evidence instead?”
Sanders ignored her sarcasm. “He claims the boy was in shock at the time and in no state of mind to waive his rights. He also points out that your questions were leading, which is ina
ppropriate when interrogating a minor. He has a score of experts lined up to contend that you put words in Danny’s mouth, getting him to say exactly what you wanted to hear.”
“Like I wanted to hear that my boss’s son killed three people,” Rainie grumbled, then waved her hand in a dismissive motion. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. We still have the positive GSR results and the two handguns. We can build one helluva case off that.”
Sanders smiled thinly. For the first time, Rainie understood that they really were in trouble.
“Yes. The gunpowder residue found on Danny O’Grady’s hands and clothing.” Sanders adopted the demeanor of a thin-lipped defense attorney. “Is it true, Officer Conner, that you discharged your weapon at the scene?”
“Yes, as I explained—”
“Isn’t it true that anytime a gun is fired, it emits gunpowder residue?”
“Sure, but I was hardly standing over Danny—”
“But it would get on your hands, wouldn’t it, Officer? And then didn’t you pat down the suspect, Danny O’Grady? Didn’t you touch his clothes, his arms, his hands as you searched for weapons, as you twisted his arms behind his back for the bracelets? In fact, couldn’t all that gunpowder found on his person really have come from your hands from discharging your weapon?”
Rainie was stunned. Christ, she hadn’t thought of that. Everything had happened so fast. First trying hard not to kill Shep or his kid. Then needing to get Danny immediately restrained. What was she supposed to do? Tell a murder suspect to stay there like a good boy while she ran to the lavatory to wash her hands?
“The lab can do more tests,” Rainie mumbled desperately. “There are different kinds of gunpowder. They could prove what’s from my weapon, what’s from his.”
“Oh, they’re trying to,” Sanders assured her, resuming his normal punching tone. “We don’t know yet if it’s possible, however. Looks like Danny was using his father’s ammo, and wouldn’t you know it, Shep does his ordering for the department and for himself all from the same manufacturer. Tricky, huh?”