The Competition - [43]

So he blamed Otis for pushing Logan down the wrong path. And himself for not having time for Logan anymore. “Then you and Logan were pretty tight-at least at one time?”

“Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t say ‘best’ friends, but we hung out.”

“Did you ever know Logan to be violent?” I asked. “Or have a temper?”

“He didn’t used to. But more and more he seemed kind of…I don’t know, edgy? Everything seemed to bug him.” He paused, his expression troubled. “And, yeah, he lost his temper a couple of times.”

“What would set him off?” I asked.

Evan shook his head. “That’s what was so weird. Nothing big. An A minus in calculus, a stain on his shirt. Stupid stuff.”

“Did you ever hear him threaten anyone?” Bailey asked.

“Not specifically. He’d just hate on everything. Probably why I didn’t take it seriously. I mean, he wasn’t going to try and take out the whole world, right?” I said nothing. Evan huffed. “Come on. Seriously? He was just venting. Look, I heard the press conference, so I know what you think, but there’s no way he did this.”

“Did he ever talk about guns?” I asked.

“Not that I ever knew.”

“What about Otis Barney?” I asked. “Did he ever mention wanting to get guns, or being able to get them?”

“Specifically, did he say he was going to buy a gun? No. But that kid, I’d put money on it. Isn’t he the typical kind of loser jerk who needs to have a gun to feel tough?”

“You tell me,” I said. “Is he?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t be surprised if that kid had a whole arsenal stashed somewhere.”

I was getting the distinct impression Evan was not an Otis fan.

“Where were you when the shooting happened?” Bailey asked.

“In the gym.”

We asked what he’d seen and heard, but like many others, he’d ducked under a bench when the first shots were fired. He couldn’t tell us anything we hadn’t heard at least fifty times before.

“Did you see Otis or Logan the day of the shooting?” I asked.

“No. I wish I had.”

“Because you would’ve stopped it?”

“I would’ve tried.” Evan’s knee began to bounce. “And I’m not saying I believe Logan’s involved. I don’t. I’m just saying…I…whatever.” He stared at the floor.

“Let me go back to something you mentioned before,” I said. “You said Logan had more free time than you. That maybe that was why he got friendly with Otis.” Evan nodded. “According to Logan’s mother, he had a job too,” I said. “And he was working lots of hours.”

“But not all the time, at least not from what I remember.”

“What about in the past few weeks?”

Evan shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been pretty busy myself.”

Logan’s job at the mall was on the to-do list we’d given the unis. It’d be easy enough to check out.

We wrapped up with the usual shrink questions. And got the usual answers. We let Evan go. He shuffled out looking fairly miserable.

I was feeling the same way. “How come the only guy anyone remembers talking shit like the shrinkers described is the guy who’s hooked up to an IV in the hospital?” I asked.

“To be fair, they warned us these shooter types come in all shapes and sizes.”

“True.”

“Our next interview’s waiting for us in the main office.” She pulled out her notepad. “Otis’s English teacher. Arthur Windemere.”

26

Mr. Windemere did not ask us to call him Arthur. As we introduced ourselves, he nervously adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses and pursed his lips. His thinning red hair contrasted sharply with his young-albeit pale and prunish-face. The principal of Taft High School, Michael Dingboom, a heavyset man who wore a janitor-sized set of keys on his belt, was sitting in on the interview. I had a feeling Mr. Windemere had asked him to. Just to mess with Windemere, I wanted to advise him of his rights and ask where he was during the shooting, but he looked like the type who’d call the teachers’ union and threaten to sue.

The small office was crowded with the four of us. Bailey and I faced Mr. Windemere across the principal’s desk, and the principal sat spread-legged in a chair inconveniently placed in the corner near the door.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with us, Mr. Windemere,” Bailey said.

“What can you tell us about Otis Barney?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know what his other teachers have said.” He paused and peered at Bailey and me. “But I found Mr. Barney extremely…disturbing.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but when the silence stretched out, I realized he was waiting for a prompt. “Did he cause problems in class?”

Mr. Windemere shook his head. “No, nothing that overt. And of course, hindsight always gives us perfect vision, but after seeing what he wrote, I should have known.” He opened a file on the desk and pulled out a page. “The assignment was to write a paragraph describing the perfect city.” He gave us a dark look and passed the page to me. I held it so Bailey and I could read together.

“I suppose most people would say the perfect city is one where there’s no smog, no gangs, and no violence. But to me, the perfect city is one where there are no people.”

After the drumroll Windemere had given us, I’d expected an essay that promised mass destruction. Still, I decided to humor him. “In hindsight it does seem ominous.” I could see that my response was not what he’d expected. He fiddled with his glasses and cast a disapproving look at Bailey and me. What did he expect us to do? Jump up, put our hands to our cheeks, and shout, “Oh my! You’ve cracked the case!”? On second thought, that might be fun. But it was too late now. He’d never buy it. “Is there anything else you can remember? Any remarks he made in class that indicated violent fantasies? Or that indicated he was planning to take revenge against anyone?”