Bailey gave me a grim nod. Talking to victims of a violent crime is always hard. But this would be worse by a factor of about a hundred. These kids had been through a massacre that would’ve made battle-hardened soldiers weep.
“Best to do it in their homes, where they feel safer,” Bailey said. “I’ll get some unis to help. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
And we had to cover it fast.
“I’ll call Graden,” Bailey said. “Guess you better hurry up and call Vanderhorn.”
William Vanderhorn, known on the inside as Vanderputz and by the outside world as the district attorney of Los Angeles County, was everything I detested in a manager or politician-which was like saying he epitomized the worst of the slimiest ooze that inhabits the blackest of lagoons. Politicians and managers-to me they’re cut from the same useless, unproductive, endlessly self-promoting, ass-covering, you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours cloth. Vanderputz’s sole talent lies in currying favor with the people who can get him elected. He couldn’t handle a trial if his life depended on it. The only thing he could do was look good standing at the podium with the flag behind him. I’d call him an empty vessel, but it would be an insult to empty vessels. And he’s just as fond of me as I am of him. Ours is a relationship in perfect balance, steeped in a deep, abiding mutual loathing.
It satisfied Bailey’s sadistic streak to watch me squirm whenever I had to meet with him. But this time she wouldn’t get her wish. For now, I figured I could dodge that bullet and report to my immediate boss, Eric Northrup, head deputy of the Special Trials Unit. Eric was everything Vanderputz was not. Smart, experienced, savvy, and unflappable, he was a lawyer’s lawyer, and that unique person who could try lawsuits and be a good manager. As a result, he was beloved by all-no easy feat in an office full of big egos and power players.
I called Eric and got Melia, his secretary. Though generally unmotivated, Melia had shown a whole other-downright efficient-side when I picked up the Antonovich case. Prosecuting a Hollywood big shot had made me a weird kind of celebrity, and Melia, an unrepentant celebrity junkie, instantly became my devoted fan. Suddenly, I got my messages on time, I got through to Eric faster than anyone else, and she personally escorted witnesses to my office. I knew my shine wouldn’t last forever, so I intended to enjoy the ride for as long as I could.
“Hey, Melia. Is Eric around? It’s pretty urgent. Oh, and it’s Rachel.”
“Rachel, come on, I know your voice.” There was a warm smile in hers. Ah, the perks of fame. “I’ll get him right away. Hold on.” Toni would turn green if she could see the Melia-love I was getting.
Eric got on the line and I brought him up to speed.
“Just a bit of advice,” he said. “Get the students’ cell phones and watch any footage they got before you do the interviews. The kids will probably still be a mess, so you’ll need to know what makes sense and what doesn’t.”
“Right. And I’ll tell the crime lab to put a rush on everything.”
“You won’t have any problem with that,” he said. “The press is already all over it. When they find out the killers are at large-”
“It’ll be completely batshit. So what are they saying about the shooting so far?”
“That the shooters were a couple of fringe-type losers who’d been victims of bullying by the jocks-”
“But they fired at random-”
“But they targeted a pep rally, and specifically called out the jocks,” Eric said. “I’m not saying you rule anyone out based on that. As far as we’re concerned, everyone who isn’t accounted for has to be considered a possible suspect. All I’m saying is, it wouldn’t hurt to start there. Get a list of kids who fit the profile.”
I ended the call and went to find Bailey. I had to get the cell phones and start the interviews ASAP. With traumatized kids running all over the place and being treated at who knew how many hospitals, just figuring out who hadn’t been accounted for was going to be a daunting task.
And that was only the beginning.
8
Bailey had the cell phones brought to us in Principal Campbell’s office. The paramedics had ordered him to go home, and he’d generously offered us the space so we could work in private. I braced myself for what we were about to see. We’d only viewed the footage from a camera positioned outside the gym doors. These phones would show us the scene inside the gym.
Though the images were shaky and out of focus, and the sound was tinny, this footage gave us our first real glimpse of the kind of monsters we were dealing with. The killers, looking like evil personified in their camouflage jackets, boots, and black balaclavas, stalked down through the bleachers and strafed the students with a bloodlust that was palpable even on these small screens. One of them laughed as he fired into the face of a young girl cowering on the floor, a high-pitched, almost manic-sounding giggle. I was sick with fury.
“Which one is Chuckles?” I asked. “The short shithead or the taller one?”
Bailey pointed to the shorter of the two. “Him, I think.” She held up the phone that had the most close-range footage. “See how his head tilts up when you hear the laugh?”
I wanted to tilt his head up myself. Up and off. I picked up another cell. This one seemed to have been held by someone who was on the floor just inside the doors to the gym, behind the shooters. A brave soul who might already be dead. At first, the images were jumbled, a bouncy montage of students running, stumbling, and screaming. Then, the taller of the two shooters came into view. I recognized the motion he was making from the surveillance video. He was shaking the assault rifle. I now knew it was because the gun had jammed. He extended his arm and the skin of his wrist was exposed. I saw something on it-a dark spot. I hit “pause” and tried to enlarge the image. Something was definitely there. A bruise? A birthmark? A tattoo? It was too blurry to make out. I showed Bailey.
“We’ll get the lab to work on this,” she said.
“Is the kid who took this…?”
“Alive?” I nodded. “Is there a name on the evidence bag?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Hugh Filoma.”
“I’ll check right now.”
“Did you get any footage with a better shot of the shorter guy?” I asked.
“No. But I think I know why. It looks to me like he was doing most of the shooting. The kids closest to him are either hiding, on the run, or already down. The only reason this Hugh kid could get a shot that close is because the shorter one was gone and the taller one was right in front of him. This is the best lead we’ve got so far.”
It was also the only one. We packed up the cell phones and headed out to start our interviews. We’d just reached the main entrance when a small, slender man in a black parka waved us down from the front steps of the school.
Bailey smiled. “Hey, Ed. Since when do they let you out in public?”
“Since they lost the key to my cage.” He glanced at me. “That your partner?”
“Sort of. Rachel Knight, Special Trials, DA’s office, meet Ed Berry, senior firearms examiner.”
We shook hands. His was leathery. “You here to check out the weapons?” I asked.
“And all the casings. Got more brass here than a shooting range.” He shook his head.
“Can you tell us anything?” Bailey asked.
“I can tell you that one of these assault rifles was fired a hell of a lot more than the other. They both had fifty-round magazines, but one rifle about emptied the clip in that gym. Only had a few left by the time he got out to the hallway. The other one only fired a few in the gym before it jammed.”
That would’ve been the taller shooter’s gun. “And outside the gym, on the stairs and second floor?” I asked.
“So far, it looks like a mix of forty-four- and three-fifty-seven-caliber casings. Mostly forty-fours. Those guns haven’t shown up-”