The Competition - [9]

The library, the talk of two bullied, disenfranchised losers going ballistic-it all seemed too familiar. “Doesn’t it kind of sound like a rip-off of Columbine?” I said. “With a different ‘uniform’?” The Columbine killers had worn trench coats and hadn’t covered their faces.

Graden nodded. “Yeah, it does. Like a deliberate copy, in fact.”

“Seems pretty obvious the suspects knew the layout of the school, and knew there’d be a pep rally in the gym today-” I said.

“Had to be students,” Bailey said.

I dredged up what I could remember about Columbine. “But no propane tank bombs?” Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold had set up propane tank bombs in the cafeteria of Columbine High, but they’d malfunctioned and never went off. If they had, the death toll would have topped three hundred-more than the Oklahoma City bombing. Their goal, according to Harris’s journals.

“No,” Graden said. “And we haven’t found any pipe bombs or Molotovs like the ones they used at Columbine either-”

“But they still managed to top the Columbine body count,” Bailey said.

Graden nodded. We stood in silence for a few moments. Finally, Graden spoke. “Seen enough?”

“For a lifetime,” I said.

We headed out of the Hellmouth.

5

Graden took us to an ambulance that was parked behind the school where a surrounding wall and steep hillside provided a measure of privacy and quiet. He gestured to a figure wrapped in a blanket sitting on the gurney inside. “This is Harley Jenson. He’s still a little shock-y, obviously, but he’s pretty coherent, all things considered.”

We walked over and introduced ourselves. Pale, baby-faced, and slender, his dark hair cut conservatively short, Harley was the quintessential studious high school nerd. But right now, huddled inside that blanket, he looked more like a frightened sixth-grader.

In halting sentences, he told us what he’d seen. As he described how one of the killers put the gun to the girl’s head, he began to shake and his teeth chattered so hard he had to stop. We waited in silence until he found his voice. Finally, speaking in a monotone, his eyes staring, vacant, he told us how he’d been momentarily deafened by the shots that killed the girl under the nearby desk, how he’d heard the killers do the countdown, and how he’d been sure he was going to die.

“Did you see their faces?” I asked.

“No, I-I was afraid to look.”

“Did you see what kind of shoes they were wearing?” I asked. “Or their pants?”

Harley shook his head and began to shake again. “I must have, right?” Harley said. “But every time I try to remember things, I just keep hearing that girl saying ‘Please, please don’t’…” Tears filled his eyes and he swallowed hard.

I knew the sights and sounds would haunt him for the rest of his life, so I didn’t offer any platitudes about the healing effects of time. I don’t lie to victims. They deserve the respect of honesty. I gave Harley a few moments to recover, then asked whether he remembered what the suspects said.

“They really didn’t say anything, except ‘Knock, knock’ and the things I already told you. And then the countdown.”

“Did either of the voices sound familiar?” I asked. Harley shook his head. “They didn’t say anything about jocks?” I continued. The “why” of this atrocity was going to be the focal point of the investigation. The more I could gather from the survivors about the suspects’ words and behavior, the more we’d learn about their possible motives.

“No. But I heard that they called out the jocks when they were in the gym. Everyone’s saying they probably got bullied by them.”

“‘Everyone’s saying’?” I asked.

Harley held out his cell phone, the bane of most investigations. We always try to keep witnesses from talking to each other and influencing each other’s memories. But it was obviously a hopeless cause in this case.

Harley leaned forward. “Can I ask you a question?”

I nodded.

“Have you seen Christy Shilling? I’ve been calling and calling, but I keep getting her voice mail. She’s a cheerleader. She was in the gym when…” Harley licked dry lips that barely moved. “Is she okay?” His voice cracked.

“I don’t know, Harley,” I said. “It’s going to take a little while to find everyone. I’m sorry.”

Harley’s mouth trembled as he nodded. He’d been holding it together pretty well, but I could see that wasn’t going to last much longer. I fought the urge to put my arms around him. The paramedic gave me a warning look. I nodded. I wasn’t going to ask him any more questions. At least, not right now. Whatever else he’d seen-and I didn’t think it was much-he was too traumatized to remember it. We’d come back to Harley when he was in better shape. I looked at Bailey, who shook her head. We thanked him and headed for Bailey’s car.

“You said some kids got video?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’ve been collecting their phones,” Graden said. “Which really made them happy.”

“Who’s got them?”

“I’ll check.”

“No, I’ll do it,” Bailey said. “You’ve got bigger fish to fry. Thanks for the walk-through.”

Graden nodded to Bailey, gave me a warm smile, and walked off to do lieutenant business.