The Competition

17

Bailey turned onto a quiet street lined with trees that had grown so large their roots had buckled the sidewalks. The houses were a mix of ranch, Tudor, and Cape Cod styles, but all were in the four-thousand-square-foot range and well maintained. Bailey pulled over and pointed across the street to a beige two-story house with off-white trim situated on a large lot at the end of the block. Red and white roses lined the walk leading up to the front door, and still-leafy jacaranda trees shaded the front yard-the very epitome of upper-middle-class suburbia. I wondered if it housed one of the nation’s most heinous mass murderers.

We headed across the street and when we reached the door Bailey used the brass knocker to give two sharp raps. I felt footsteps approaching from somewhere in the house. Seconds later, a tall, stoop-shouldered man answered the door. His eyes were red rimmed behind wire-framed glasses, his short brown hair was matted on one side, and his clothes-a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans-looked slept-in.

Bailey produced her badge, and I did the same. “Mr. Jarvis? I’m Detective Keller and this is Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight. Thank you for meeting us here.”

I saw alarm and misery in his face. He opened his mouth, but just stared at us silently for a moment before gesturing for us to come in. We followed him down a short hall and turned right, into a tastefully furnished living room. We settled on the sofa and he sat down in the wingback chair across from us, his hands on his knees. He cleared his throat with a harsh cough, took a deep breath, and made himself ask the question. “Have you found him? Have you found my son?” He looked from me to Bailey.

I could see how much that question had cost him. We shook our heads. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jarvis,” I said.

He blinked slowly, nodded.

“Does he usually drive his car to school?” Bailey asked.

“Yes. But it’s not there. We’ve been calling everywhere trying to find him. No one seems to know anything-”

A woman’s voice called out from the hallway. “Brad? Are they…” A small, slender woman in jeans, whose face and body sagged as though attached to lead weights, entered with quick, nervous steps.

“Yes, it’s the police, Bonnie-”

Her swollen eyes asked the question she was too afraid to voice.

“We have not found your son yet, Mrs. Jarvis,” Bailey said.

The mother sank onto the other end of the sofa and twisted a Kleenex in her hands. The anguish in that room was heartbreaking. They had no idea why we were really here. Their only fear was that he was a victim. What we would tell them in the next few moments would make them long for that relatively simple form of agony.

“Can I ask you if Logan has a tattoo anywhere on his body?” I asked.

Bonnie lifted her head. “Yes, he has a tattoo of an iron cross on his right wrist.”

I pulled out the photograph of the taller shooter’s forearm. “This is a little fuzzy, but could this be it?”

The mother leaned forward to look but didn’t take the photograph from my hand. She pressed her lips together and nodded. I showed the photograph to the father. His face turned white.

“Where…when was this taken?” he asked.

I glanced at Bailey. We wanted to hold off on telling them for as long as possible.

“Would you mind if we had a look around Logan’s room?” Bailey asked. “We might pick up on some clue as to where he might be.”

Brad Jarvis’s face lifted with surprised relief. “So you’re saying he’s still alive?”

“He might be,” Bailey said. “We don’t know yet.”

He looked from Bailey to me. I saw his expression harden as relief turned to suspicion. “You didn’t answer my question, Detective,” he said. “Where and when was that picture taken?”

There was no avoiding it now. Bailey looked him steadily in the eye. “It was taken during the shooting in the gym.” She waited a moment for that to sink in, then continued. “This is a blowup. The original photograph shows the entire hand. It’s holding an assault rifle. It’s the hand of one of the shooters.”

It felt for a moment as though we were suspended in space, with no gravity, no oxygen. For several long moments, there was dead silence. Then suddenly a shriek broke through the vacuum.

“No!” Bonnie Jarvis jumped to her feet. She stared at us, wide-eyed, then slowly shook her head. “No! It can’t be! You’re wrong! Not my Logan! Not my son!” Tears began to stream down her face. She clutched her husband’s arm. “Tell them, Brad! Tell them!” She dropped her head and sobbed, the hoarse, choked sob of someone who’d already cried herself raw.

Brad Jarvis remained sitting but drew himself up and clutched his knees even more tightly. His face had paled, but his eyes spit fury. “I refuse to listen to this…crap! It can’t be Logan.” He threw a contemptuous glance at the photo. “That picture’s so grainy, you can’t possibly say it’s his tattoo. Hell, you can’t tell who that is! My son could never, never do a thing like this! You’re out of your minds!”

Bailey let the air clear. When she spoke, her voice was low and calm. “Mr. Jarvis, I do not for one moment believe we have enough evidence to charge your son with anything right now. We’re following leads. That’s our job, and that’s all we’re doing.”

Bonnie Jarvis slowly sat up and dried her tears on her sleeve. I hoped she might be able to listen to reason. I leaned toward her. “Mrs. Jarvis, it’s just as important that we clear the innocent as convict the guilty. We need to search Logan’s room because given what we know so far, it’s the next logical step in this investigation. It may yield evidence that clears him. If he isn’t involved, we need to know that as soon as possible so we can move on. I’ll be honest with you, I think we have enough to get a search warrant. So you can delay the search but you can’t stop it. The problem is, the longer we wait, the more time the killers have to get away.” I paused for a moment to let her process what I’d said. “And I’m sure you, as a parent, want us to do everything in our power to catch them.”

Bonnie Jarvis drew several ragged breaths, then looked at her husband through eyes that were now nearly swollen shut. “Brad, I think we have to-”

Her husband folded his arms and shot daggers at her. “No, we don’t, Bonnie. They’re on a witch hunt, can’t you see? They just need to put someone in jail to get the public off their back. I refuse to help them frame my son!”

“We only need one of you to consent,” I said. Then clamped my mouth shut. Fighting with Brad Jarvis would only force Bonnie to defend her husband. Bonnie looked at her husband imploringly, but he stomped out of the room. She wrapped her arms around her waist and watched him go as tears rolled down her face. Finally, she spoke.

“I’ll show you his room.”