Bailey parked at the curb in a legal spot-and there was a spot next to a fire hydrant just one house up. That’s how upset she was. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the investigating officer.”
“Since when has that mattered?”
“It has always mattered, Detective Keller.”
“Then you’ll have to live with the way I handle it. No interference.”
“Fine.”
Bailey raised an eyebrow. The truth? I have been known to jump in on interviews on occasion. Okay, on most occasions.
As we headed toward the front door, I admired the red and white begonias that were planted in a circle in the middle of the lawn. It was a nice, unexpected touch of color. I wanted to study them for a while. Then maybe check out the backyard, see what fun surprises they’d planted there. Basically, I would have washed their windows to avoid the meeting we were about to have.
21
Sonny Barney answered the door this time. She looked even worse than before, hollow-cheeked, deathly pale, her hair like straw-she’d aged ten years in just one day. And her eyes were filled with so much pain it sent a stab of guilt through my heart. Bailey asked if we could take a few minutes of her time. Given the way our last meeting had ended I wasn’t sure how Sonny would react, but she wordlessly stepped back from the door to let us in. We gathered in the living room again. I was glad to see that Tom didn’t appear to be home.
“Tom’s at the rec center,” Sonny said. “I just came home to get us a change of clothes. She drew in a long breath through her nose and let it out. Then, looking from Bailey to me, she asked, “Do you have any…information about Otis?” Her eyes filled with tears as his name left her lips.
“We haven’t found him,” Bailey said. “But we have come across some information about a friend of his, Logan Jarvis.”
Sonny pulled a tissue from a box on the side table, swiped at her eyes, and frowned. “Logan Jarvis?”
“Yes. You don’t know the name?” Bailey asked.
“No.”
Bailey looked Sonny in the eye, and I saw the effort it took to maintain that eye contact as she spoke the next words. “We have reason to believe they may have been fairly close. It’s very important that you try to remember any contact your son may have had with Logan, anything he might have said about him.”
Sonny’s mouth worked silently for a few seconds, like a television that had been left on mute. “Wh-why would that be import-?” Her eyes widened. “You think Logan is one of the…and that he and Otis…” Sonny grabbed her throat. “No! Please, you’ve got to believe me! Otis is a good boy, he’s never been in trouble! We’d have known if he was…having…problems like that!”
I pitied Sonny. I knew what she was in for, this seemingly decent, loving mother. The world would judge her and Tom, and the Jarvises as well. Maybe, eventually, I would too. But right now, all I felt was profound sympathy. Sonny put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. Listen to me. That’s what those parents said, isn’t it? The ones at Columbine.” She looked from my face to Bailey’s. Our silence was answer enough. She bent forward, her arms wrapped around her torso.
Bailey stepped in gently. “We may be wrong, Sonny. Otis may not be involved. But we can’t rule him out unless we get more information.” Bailey waited. When Sonny looked up, Bailey continued. “If he was close to Logan, there should be some communication between them-and it would probably show up on his computer.”
Sonny slowly straightened up, a defiant look on her swollen face. “Yes, that’s right. There should be. Go ahead, check his computer. That’ll prove you’re wrong! Check his whole room again if you want. We’ve got nothing to hide.” She led us to Otis’s room, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a laptop with a red skull sticker on the back. “I can give you the password for his email.”
That was significant. And surprising. But if Otis was sure she’d never snoop on him, he might not worry about what was on his computer. There was no time to call in Dorian or even Herrera to check for prints. If there was information that might lead us to Otis and Logan, we had to get it now. I pulled a pair of latex gloves out of my purse and went over to the laptop. Touching only the edges, I opened it and waited while it booted up. Sonny directed me to Otis’s account and dictated the password. The most recent emails were from commercial websites selling computer gadgets, jeans, and logo T-shirts. About halfway down the list I found a message from a sender named LJ314. I opened it. There was no text, but there was an attachment.
It was a photo. And it had been sent the night before the shooting. A smiling Logan Jarvis posed with an assault rifle. One that looked a lot like the gun he’d dropped just outside the gym.
22
Behind me, Sonny screamed. “No! How…? It can’t be!”
“I’m sorry, Sonny,” I said.
She sat down on Otis’s bed and hung her head. “I don’t believe it. No…it’s not right. It can’t be right. I know it.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and spoke to her softly. “We’re going to get a search warrant, Sonny. I’m sorry.”
Sonny grabbed my arm. “You don’t understand. I know my son! I know Otis! That isn’t him! Please, you’ve got to believe me!” She dissolved into tears.
I didn’t have any honest words of comfort. “We’re going to finish checking out Otis’s computer before we bring in a search team. You can stay and watch…”
Sonny struggled to her feet and shook her head. “No, I-I need to go lie down.”
I put my arm around her and led her down the hall to her bedroom. I gave her a glass of water, covered her with a blanket, and asked her for her husband’s cell phone number.
“No, don’t call him. Please don’t. Let him not know for a little while longer.”
I nodded and went to Otis’s room. I sat down in front of the laptop and typed “LJ314” in the search bar. There were six other emails from that address, but none with photos. And none mentioned any murderous plans. They were all just routine boy stuff about school, girls, and video games. But Otis might have deleted the incriminating messages up until that last night. By then he was probably too busy putting the final touches on their big plans to remember to get rid of the photo of Logan and his AK. I’d have our cowboy Nick look into it. In any case, the photo, and the timing of its receipt, was damning.
Bailey had been looking around the room and now she held up a binder.
“Don’t tell me we’ve got more musings about Amanda.”
“No, it’s poetry,” she said. “Or song lyrics. They all look like they’re about world peace and racial harmony.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.
“Nope.”
“Is it dated?” If he wrote it back in junior high it wouldn’t mean much.
“No. We’ll be able to take it with the warrant, see if there are any references that can show us when he wrote this. But I’d bet we’ll find more of the ugly stuff like that photo of Logan on the laptop once Nick gets into it.” Bailey sighed. “Let’s do another telephonic. You get the judge. I’ll get the search team.”
I should have felt some sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment. After all, we were pretty sure we’d finally identified both shooters. But all I felt was hollow. None of these parents were monsters. Hard as it was to believe, none of them seemed to have had a clue what was coming. They were shattered by what their children had done. When Tom finally showed up, I could barely bring myself to tell him what we’d found-or that a search team was on its way.