The Third Victim (18 page)

Richard Mann’s shoulders slumped. He simply sat there, shaking his head.

Quincy leaned forward. “Mr. Mann, do you happen to have a copy of any of the e-mails?”

“Danny wouldn’t let me keep them. He worried he was already violating the person’s trust by even showing them to me.”

“Do you remember anything about them? A name, a chat room, an e-mail address?”

“I don’t—wait a minute. The e-mail address. I remember trying to understand what the guy meant. Something about no fires. Volcanoes. Lava. That was it: No Lava. Isn’t that odd for a signature?”

“No Lava. No Lava what? Do you remember the carrier, the Internet provider?”

“One of the major ones, I think. AOL maybe, or CompuServe. Something like that.”

Rainie scribbled it down. She looked at Quincy.

“We have some federal agents who specialize in undercover Internet operations,” he said. “We could send someone on, pretending to be a teenage boy, see if No Lava takes an interest.”

Richard Mann sat back. He ran a hand through his short hair and expelled a pent-up breath. “I really am trying to make things right. Sally and Alice were sweet girls. And this . . . it just shouldn’t have happened here.”

“We’ll see.”

Rainie rose. She handed Mann her card and gave him the usual spiel to call the sheriff’s office if he thought of anything else, though she seriously doubted he’d be in the mood to talk to her anytime soon. As she opened the door of the office, however, he spoke up again.

“Officer Conner.” Rainie halted, and the counselor motioned to the space behind her, which housed a large desk for the school’s secretary. “As you can see, my office is directly off the main administrative space. While I might have been eating lunch alone at the time of the shooting, there is no way I could have left without someone noticing. Ask our secretary, Marge. I’m sure she can confirm that I took one roast beef sandwich into my office at the start of the period, and I hadn’t gone anywhere by the time the first shot was fired. Just so you know.”

Rainie nodded. She knew when she was being put in her place. Then her gaze fell to the old files strewn across the floor and she read the two names on top.
Sally Walker. Alice Bensen.
Of course. They wouldn’t need permanent records anymore.

Richard Mann had followed her line of sight. His expression had become equally subdued.

“I should take those,” Rainie murmured after a moment. “For the victimology reports.”

Mann gazed at her curiously. Was he startled by how she could think that way? Or was he wondering, as she was, when she had learned to be so cold?

He picked up the two files. He handed them over to her.

After that, there was nothing left to say.

EIGHTEEN
                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Thursday, May 17, 3:12
P
.
M
.

B
Y THE TIME
RAINIE
and Quincy grabbed lunch at Dairy Queen and headed back to the task-force center, Abe Sanders was waiting for them. The state detective was sporting a sharply pressed gray suit and shiny black shoes, making Rainie suspicious that the man who traveled with salad also packed an iron and a shoe-polishing kit. Just what did he do for fun in his spare time?

He had made himself at home behind Rainie’s desk and was reading a fax. Rainie snatched the paper out of his hands without preamble.

“I doubt that’s for your eyes.”

“You mean we’re not all part of one big happy family?” he drawled innocently.

Rainie skewered him with a glance, then scanned the fax. It was from the law offices of Johnson, Johnson, and Jones. Those office Christmas parties must be a hoot. The fax informed her that she and her deputies were not to contact Shep, Sandy, or Becky O’Grady without legal counsel being present. If any member of the task force insisted on violating this order, a harassment suit would be filed against the Bakersville sheriff’s department. Sincerely, Avery Johnson.

“Wonderful,” Rainie muttered. That conversation between Shep and Sandy had obviously gone well. Or had Shep mentioned her interest in interviewing Becky to Avery Johnson as part of his desire to do everything absolutely right for Danny? You would think an experienced sheriff would know better.

“Looks like we won’t be interviewing Becky O’Grady anytime soon,” Sanders commented.

“We’ll see,” Rainie said. She handed the fax to Quincy, who appeared unconcerned.

“Routine,” he said.

“Just the beginning,” Sanders agreed, speaking with the confident air of one experienced officer to another. “By the end of this case, the whole town will be swimming in lawyers representing, protecting, and suing the masses. I’m surprised George Walker hasn’t already filed a notice to sue the sheriff’s department. God knows he thinks this whole thing is Shep’s fault.”

Rainie chewed her bottom lip. She hated to admit this with Sanders present, but she was out of her league. “You think I’ll be sued?”

“Sure,” Sanders said matter-of-factly. “The Walkers and the Bensens will probably launch civil suits against the sheriff’s department for either not warning the community about Daniel O’Grady or botching the investigation against him. That, of course, will involve you. Then they’ll probably file a civil suit against the O’Gradys personally, just in case things don’t work out in criminal court. I wouldn’t be surprised if Melissa Avalon’s parents do the same. Finally, you have all the kids who were injured, though none of them sustained wounds that are that serious. They’ll probably fall into two camps: those who would just as soon put this all behind them and those who will pool their resources and go for blood.”

“But why sue a sheriff’s department?” Rainie asked with a scowl. “We’re so broke most of our officers work for free. And the money we do have comes straight from the city, which means people are just suing their neighbors in the end.”

“The city and department carry liability insurance,” Sanders explained. “Those policies run into the millions, so a good lawyer will argue that there’s money to be had with only the insurance companies to be hurt.”

“But the premiums go up, and taxes go up, and again all the neighbors foot the bill.”

“You’re thinking too logically, Rainie. Kids got hurt. The system let people down. Now they want someone to blame. Didn’t you learn anything in the nineties? Law enforcement is both the first line of defense and the best scapegoat in town.”

Rainie shook her head. She hated lawyers. They took everything and made it too complicated. And they seemed to think that money healed all wounds. Don’t just mourn your child, cash in on the loss.

Rainie crossed behind her desk, nudged Sanders to get the hell out of her seat, and did her best to focus on the matters at hand.

“So,” she said shortly, folding her hands in front of her and regarding both men. “I met with ballistics, as well as the medical examiner in Portland this morning. Sanders, is there anything you’ve been meaning to tell me, or should I shoot first and ask questions later?”

The state detective shrugged. “Oh, you mean about the so-called mystery casing.”

“What the hell, let’s start with that.”

“Ballistics has an odd duck, that’s all. One casing that has no prints on the outside and some kind of substance on the inside.”

“A polymer,” Quincy said.

Sanders shot him a look. Then he gave Rainie a stare of disgruntlement. He obviously didn’t like her sharing information with the fed. Rainie couldn’t care less.

“Yeah, a polymer,” Sanders said finally. “I didn’t tell you about it, though, because we don’t know anything yet. They need to run more tests. Until then we don’t have any new information.”

“Sanders, a strange casing is information—”

“Conner, a case of this size with this much evidence has a million and a half things like a strange casing. We got debris that can’t be categorized, footprints we can’t match, and bodily fluids out of place. It goes with the territory. If I tell you about every single question that comes up, you’re gonna go nuts.”

“I’m the primary officer, Sanders. Going nuts is my problem, not yours.”

“All right, all right.” Sanders held up two hands in a gesture of peace. “I was honestly trying to be helpful.”

“Bullshit. You just want to keep this case quick and simple.”

“Yes! Quick and simple is better for everyone. For God’s sake, this whole town is knee-deep in firearms.”

“All the more reason for us to be making sure we get at the truth. And right now I’m really not sure Danny did it.”

“Because of a stupid casing?”

“Because of a stupid casing, a stupid slug, and a stupid trajectory that indicates Melissa Avalon’s killer was at least a few inches taller than her!”

“What?”

Abe Sanders appeared genuinely startled. Rainie also drew up short. Then she got it. The detective didn’t know about the medical examiner’s report yet. He’d only been communicating with the crime lab, not the ME’s office.

“Didn’t you know?” she couldn’t help drawling in mocking imitation. “The .22 slug followed a downward trajectory from the victim’s forehead to the back base of the skull. In other words, an undersize thirteen-year-old boy did not shoot a standing grown woman.”

Sanders looked stunned, then perplexed, then thoughtful. Rainie could see him turning over the facts in his mind. Was there any way Danny could’ve reached up with his arm and held the gun at a downward angle? What if Danny had been standing on something? What would he have stood on, and why?

She understood Sanders’s mental musing, because she’d gone through it all herself at seven this morning. The ME and her assistant had even demonstrated the logistics to Rainie. The only way they could re-create the approximate trajectory of the slug was if someone at least the same height fired the shot.

“Shit,” Sanders said after a moment.

“Exactly. So now this mystery casing isn’t as unimportant as you thought. Plus we have the issue of a .22 slug with no rifling marks. In short, none of our evidence matches anymore.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Sanders said quickly. “Let’s not throw out the baby with the bathwater. We recovered a .38 revolver at the scene, which was used to kill two victims. We have Danny’s prints on the majority of the .38 shell casings, plus three rapid loaders. I don’t know about Melissa Avalon, but we still have a case against Danny for Sally and Alice.”

Rainie stared at the state detective incredulously. “This doesn’t change things? We have a major hole in the case and it doesn’t change anything for you?”

“It raises some questions we need to answer,” Sanders said levelly, “but no, it doesn’t change the case for me.”

“How can it not change everything?”

“Because everything isn’t changed! Look, I know this is your first homicide, Conner, but the truth is, they don’t all wrap up in neat little boxes. You end up with questions and sometimes the evidence is a mess. Our job is to make a case, and we still have enough to argue that Danny killed two girls. Now, maybe he didn’t kill Melissa Avalon, maybe there was somebody else at the scene or someone who decided to take advantage of the chaos for his own agenda, but from where I stand, Danny O’Grady killed Alice Bensen and Sally Walker, case closed.”

“No,” Rainie insisted vehemently. “Case is not closed. The minute we get a mystery person at the scene, case is shot to hell. Enter defense lawyer Avery Johnson. See Avery Johnson argue that Danny procured the guns and Danny loaded the guns but that somebody else—say, the five-foot-eight man on the grassy knoll—pulled the trigger. Watch jury lap it up like a cat at a creamer. The minute we have a mystery person at the scene, our case, as it were, is officially dead in the water.”

Sanders scowled. He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it, then started to speak again, then finally settled for scowling harder. It was obvious he genuinely believed that Danny had done the shooting. But he also couldn’t fault Rainie’s logic. A mystery person provided reasonable doubt; they no longer had enough for the DA to make his case.

Sanders turned to Quincy. “Feel free to step in at any time,” the state detective growled.

Quincy shrugged. “I thought Officer Conner was doing a nice job.”

“Well, you’re the expert, dammit. Tell us what we’re missing.”

“Honestly, I believe we’re back to investigative basics. It seems to me we have a number of key questions. One, why Melissa Avalon? Her murder bears unique elements, so one theory would be that she’s the linchpin behind what happened. We know that she and VanderZanden were probably involved. According to Richard Mann, she had fractured relations with her family, particularly her father. Now, I wonder if her father has access to a computer.”

“Luke Hayes is in charge of the victimology reports,” Rainie said. “I can ask him to focus on Melissa Avalon for now and try to have something for us tomorrow.”

Quincy nodded. “Second area of focus: the school computers. We know Danny spent a great deal of time on-line, possibly talking to someone called No Lava. Who is this person? And what was his agenda when he contacted a thirteen-year-old boy? Learning what’s on the computers should help us with a second possible theory of this case, that the man in black is a stranger who Danny met on-line.”

“Speaking of which,” Sanders interjected gloomily. Both Rainie and Quincy turned to stare at him. He focused on Rainie, saying defensively, “I was going to tell you. There just hasn’t been time.”

“Spit it out, Sanders.”

“I got a call from our technicians this morning. They’re having problems recovering data from the school computers.”

“What kind of problems?”

Sanders smiled tightly. “You’ll like this. As I mentioned before, there were some signs that Danny—”

“That someone,” Rainie corrected.

“Fine, that someone made an attempt to clean the machines. The history file for the Web browser had been deleted and the cache file had been purged. But that’s pretty obvious stuff that most computer-literate people know how to do, so the techies weren’t that worried.”

“I gather it gets worse.”

“In a nutshell. I guess anytime you visit a Web site, the site puts a small piece of information in the computer’s ‘cookie’ file so that the next time the user visits the site, the site can ‘remember’ information about the user. A good technician can bring up the cookie file from the hard drive and get fairly complete records of every place the user has been. Nope. On all four computers, the cookie files had been deleted as of six
P
.
M
. Monday, May fourteenth. The only cookies present are new ones from Tuesday morning, and they’re a hodgepodge collection of eToys.com and various Pokémon sites, probably from the kids that morning.”

“What about e-mails?” Quincy pressed. “I know I can go on-line and retrieve old e-mails, even ones I’ve read and deleted.”

“Generally yes.
Someone,
however, cleaned out the old and the saved e-mails, then compacted the files so they’re unrecoverable. Finally, the person accessed the firewall server and deleted all the data logs. In short, the four computers are wiped clean.”

“I want them,” Quincy said simply.

“You can have them,” Rainie agreed.

“Wait a minute,” Sanders protested. “We have good people—”

“The FBI has better.”

“Dammit, our technicians have already started work—”

“Then the FBI’s data-recovery agents will be all that much faster at finishing.”

“It’s true,” Quincy told Sanders, who looked ready for a full-blown snit. “Even after everything you’ve described, the information is somewhere on the computers. When a file is deleted, the computer generally only deletes the directory reference to the file, not the actual data. So unless our infamous someone thought to use a Department of Defense–approved deletion program that overwrites the data with zeros, the information is on the machine. We need this information. Whatever Danny was doing on-line with No Lava is highly relevant to what went down Tuesday afternoon. So let our data-recovery agents handle it. We’ll get answers sooner versus later.”

“We can get the information too,” Sanders insisted curtly. “I can put a rush order on it. There’s no reason for the FBI to get involved.”

“Too late,” Rainie said.

“Dammit, it’s just an excuse to steal jurisdiction—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass!” Rainie yelled back. She slapped her hand against the top of her desk. “Someone else was in the school. Someone else shot Melissa Avalon. I want to know who, goddammit, and for the last time, Sanders, it’s
not
your call.”

Sanders fell back into steely silence. He crossed his arms over his chest. He muttered, “Man, what I’d give for a hot fudge sundae right now.”