The Competition - [77]

“And?” I asked.

“It was Logan. He was screaming at the top of his lungs at Hot Rod and his buddies. Which took some guts, because he was way outnumbered. But what shocked me was the way Logan looked. His whole body was rigid and shaking, and his face was bright red. And he screamed so hard he was spitting. I was worried he might pass out.”

“And the jocks? How’d they take it?” I asked.

“That’s the strange part. They just stood there and stared. I think they were probably in shock. Logan’s reaction was so completely out of character. He’d always been so quiet, so shy. To see him go ballistic like that was just…kind of scary, actually. Like there was another person inside of him and there was no telling what that person might do.” Cherry looked from me to Bailey. “Kind of significant, isn’t it? I mean, in hindsight.”

Which seemed to be the only way to spot this kind of criminal. “So it didn’t turn into a physical fight?”

“No. Logan finished screaming, and Hot Rod and his crew walked off.”

“The jocks didn’t mess with him again?” I asked.

“Not in my class.”

48

“I’m almost relieved,” I said, as Bailey and I headed out to the parking lot. “Finally, something fits.”

“Yeah, but would you ever have thought that would add up to mass murder?”

The point we’d circled so many times before. “No. But I think this is what the shrinks were talking about. Maybe we should set up surveillance at the school. It’s a long shot but-”

“No chances taken, not with these assholes.” Bailey drove down Ventura Boulevard until she spotted a gas station with a pay phone.

We had to be very careful about what we said on our cell phones, especially about something like this. It was just a theory that Logan might hit his middle school next, but if it got out that we were putting up extra security it would cause a major panic.

When Bailey got back into the car, I shared something that had occurred to me during our interview with Cherry. “Does this story about Hot Rod make you think Logan really was targeting jocks at Fairmont?”

Bailey started the engine. “Nah. I still don’t buy it.”

I pulled on my seat belt. “Why? I mean, I’m not saying it was the only thing on his mind, but it might’ve been one of them.”

“I guess. But if jocks really mattered, they could’ve staged their attack at a basketball game.”

“Maybe. Then again, a game isn’t as controlled an environment. People move in and out-”

“True. But I’m just not feeling this whole jock angle. It feels like bullshit.”

Bailey’s intuition was worth a lot. And I’d played devil’s advocate, but I agreed with her. Logan had a bad experience with Hot Rod in junior high, but there was no indication anything like that had happened since then. It stretched the bands of credibility to the breaking point to believe that some idiots calling him Sir Pantsalot had provoked him to stockpile an arsenal and go on a killing spree years later. No, the notion that Logan was a bullied kid who finally “snapped” and decided to go after his tormentors fit a nice media picture. But it sure as hell didn’t fit the evidence. Not from what we’d seen so far.

Westlake Village was only twenty minutes north of Platt Junior High, and we made it to the home of Logan’s elementary school teacher by four thirty. Vera Littlefield, a petite brunette with sensibly bobbed hair, had just come home from the grocery store and was about to start dinner. She led us into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry to bring you in here instead of the living room, but if I don’t get this dinner rolling we won’t eat until nine o’clock.”

“What are you making?” I asked. Dinner sounded good. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten.

“Fried chicken and mashed potatoes. It’s Kevin’s favorite. Mine too, actually.”

And mine too. Just the words made my mouth water.

The principal had done our intros for us, so we got right down to business and asked Vera what she remembered of Logan.

Vera stood at the sink and washed the chicken pieces. “Such a sweet boy. Very, very smart. Always the tallest boy in his class. For a shy guy like him that was probably a bit of a problem. I believe he has an IQ at genius level.”

“He does,” I said. “Do you remember having any disciplinary problems with him?”

She put the chicken pieces on paper towels and began drying them. “I’ve been thinking about that, and no. None. He was a pretty quiet kid. That’s why it’s so hard to imagine that he was involved in something…like this.” A mixture of fear and sadness crossed Vera’s face as she washed her hands and moved to the refrigerator. I got the feeling that she was glad to help us, but she’d be just as glad to put this interview behind her.

“Did you ever see him act out in a violent manner with any of the other kids?” Bailey asked. “Or see him get unusually…upset?”

Vera took eggs out of the refrigerator and put them into a bowl. “Violent? No. I never worried that he was a danger to others.” She put the bowl on the counter and pulled out a whisk, then gave us a wry half-smile. “And I never saw him start fires or be cruel to animals.” The sociopathic checklist. “But what I do remember is that he was a perfectionist. Even at that early age.”