The Competition - [78]

“What age exactly?” I asked.

“Ten. I taught fifth grade. It isn’t that uncommon to see kids be perfectionists at that age, but Logan took it to an extreme. If every single thing he did wasn’t absolutely flawless, he’d have a fit, and I mean that literally. He’d shred the work, clench his fists, and shake. Sometimes even scream and call himself names, like ‘stupid idiot’ and ‘loser.’”

“What did you do?” I asked.

Vera cracked the eggs into the bowl. “I’d try to calm him down as best I could, and eventually, it would pass. But I knew it was a sign that there was a problem, so I told his parents about it and recommended a child psychologist.” Vera began to beat the eggs.

“How did they take it?” Some parents didn’t appreciate it when teachers suggested their children needed professional help.

“Very well, actually. They started therapy right away. At least that’s what they told me.” Vera put the chicken pieces into the bowl and coated them.

Bailey and I exchanged a look. “Did Logan seem to get better?” I asked.

“He did. He definitely stopped having those fits.”

We fished around for a little while longer to make sure there was nothing else of consequence, then thanked Vera for her time and let ourselves out. The spatter of chicken hitting hot grease crackled behind us as we headed out the door.

When we got into the car, Bailey pulled out her cell. “Someone should check this shrink business out with the Jarvises. See if they put Logan on some kind of medication.”

If we got to trial, any possible chemical influences would offer big support to a mental defense. “Damn. I’d like to hear this for myself. What if we got Nick to go with us? Think that would help?” Nick had the kind of laid-back attitude that might soften the parents’ feelings toward us. Although he’d been at the Jarvis house during the search, he’d stayed in the background. It was possible the parents never even noticed him.

Bailey chewed the inside of her cheek. “Bonnie’ll be less hostile than Brad. I’ll have Nick call and see who’s home. If it’s just her, and Nick’s available, we can give it a try, see if she’ll talk. But if she gets the least bit hinky, we’re outta there. Harrellson can handle it.”

“Of course.” Logan’s parents didn’t have a right to refuse to talk to us. And, fortunately, they hadn’t lawyered up yet. But if they’d be more cooperative with another officer, there was no sense insisting on doing the interview ourselves. I could only hope that Nick’s charm would work its magic. Because I wanted to hear for myself what Bonnie had to say about all this. And why she hadn’t given us this information before.

49

The Jarvises had moved since we’d last seen them. From the moment we’d released Logan’s name as a person of interest, they’d been under siege. Reporters camped out in their front yard, gawkers and hecklers filled the street, and within twenty-four hours, they’d not only received death threats, but someone had painted graffiti on the walls of their garage and sidewalk calling them “killer breeders.” Luckily, a friend had a small rental property available in Santa Clarita, which was about half an hour northeast of Woodland Hills.

Nick toned down the cowboy theme for the occasion. He still wore the boots, but he’d dispensed with the hat, and his sheepskin-lined leather coat looked expensive. He introduced himself with a warm smile, apologized for the inconvenience with convincing sincerity, and told Bonnie he’d take “just a few moments” of her time.

Bonnie’s expression had hardened when she saw us on her doorstep, but Nick’s easy manner won her over. She stood aside and let us in without complaint. As we got seated in the living room, I saw that Bonnie looked a great deal worse for wear. It’d been less than a week since the shooting, but she’d aged ten years. Her face sagged like a melted candle. By unspoken agreement, Nick took the lead in the questioning. He broached the subject of Logan’s therapy gently. “We’ve learned that Logan’s problems were somewhat more…serious than what you mentioned. Tell you the truth, it sounded like the same kind of problems a nephew of mine had a while back. Sure was tough on my sister. I was just wondering what you could tell us about that.”

Bonnie’s lip trembled. She stared out the window in silence for several long moments. “I-I hate to talk about it. It’s embarrassing to Logan, and it’s really not relevant anymore. It was such a long time ago. The doctor said he was fine.”

Her reaction was understandable…if Logan was in trouble for ditching school. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and scream, “Embarrassing to Logan? Have you lost your mind?” It was a good thing Nick was doing the questioning.

“But you did get him some help,” Nick said.

“Yes, we took him to a therapist.” She looked up at the ceiling. “What was his name?” After a few moments, Bonnie sighed. “It’ll come to me. But he was a wonderful man. He did Logan a world of good. The diagnosis was obsessive-compulsive disorder and anxiety. No hallucinations or voices.” She looked at us pointedly. “No indication of any violent thoughts or tendencies. At least, not toward others.”