The Competition

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.”

“Did the doctor believe there was a suicide risk?” Nick asked.

Bonnie swallowed and nodded. “But he also said it was something the medication and therapy would alleviate. That and time. The doctor felt very sure Logan’s problems would be resolved over time.”

“That must have been very hard for you,” Nick said.

Bonnie teared up. “The poor little guy was giving himself fits.” Then she looked out the living room window and drifted off. No doubt to a happier time, before the “poor little guy” turned into a vicious killer.

“And was the doctor right?” Nick asked. “Did the therapy work?”

Bonnie nodded. “Yes, therapy and the medication. He seemed to calm down considerably.”

Shit. I could see it coming already. A mental defense: the drugs made me do it. “Do you remember what kind?” I asked.

Bonnie squinted at the floor for a few moments. “Luv…something. Luvox? Was that it?” She nodded. “Yes, I believe that’s it. But after about a year, the doctor said he was over the hump and took him off it.”

Nick gave me a look that said he’d take it from there. “Then he wasn’t taking anything by the time he got into middle school?”

“Oh, no. By then he was certainly not taking it anymore.” Bonnie gave a heavy sigh that seemed to deflate her whole body. She was worn down to a nub. “Now I remember. It’s Dr. Bingham. Jerry Bingham.”

Nick asked a few more questions to make sure Bonnie wasn’t sitting on any other information, and then we left and huddled at Nick’s car.

“Thanks for that,” Bailey said to him.

He tipped an imaginary hat with a smile. “Always happy to help out lovely ladies.” Then he looked back at the Jarvis house, his expression somber. “You know, if I met her on the street, I’d never figure her for the mother of a maniac like this.”

True that.

“So how’s that nephew of yours doing?” I asked. Nick looked puzzled. “Your sister’s kid, the one who had mental problems.”

Nick gave a little smile. “Always wished I had a sister.” Nick saluted and took off. We got into Bailey’s car, and I called Dr. Michael to ask if he’d heard of Luvox.

“Of course. It’s a preferred drug for OCD. Just a general question, I assume?”

“Right. A friend of mine asked me about it yesterday.” I had warned the doctors not to mention this case on the phone. “What are the contraindications?”

“There have been some studies that show it may cause suicidal ideation, depression, and violence.”

“Even if he’s not still taking it? Our information is that he stopped taking it years ago,” I said.

“It’s possible. The long-term effects are not well documented.”

I asked Michael if we could drop by. I had more questions, but I couldn’t ask them on the phone.

“Probably better if I meet you at the station,” he said. His office was just ten minutes from the Police Administration Building. “There was a shooting across the street this morning, and the reporters are still floating around.”

“We’ll meet you in the lobby,” I said.

When Michael arrived, we took him straight to an interview room.

“Do you know of a psychologist or psychiatrist by the name of Jerry Bingham?” I asked.

“I do,” Michael said. “He’s a good guy. He was Logan’s doctor?” I nodded. “I’m sure he’d have useful information. But of course…”

“Yeah.” Dr. Bingham couldn’t tell us a damn thing. The information was all privileged. “Would Logan have any way of getting his hands on more Luvox without his parents finding out?”

“Well, I’m not sure why he’d want to. It’s not exactly a hallucinogenic, though I guess you never know.” Michael sighed. “It would have to be under the table. Maybe he could find it online-”

“Or maybe he could talk the doctor into passing him free samples.”

“I really wouldn’t expect any doctor to do that,” Michael said. “Especially with a minor. And even if he did, I doubt he’d have continued to do so over any extended period of time.”

But he couldn’t rule out the possibility. We wouldn’t know for sure until we got to trial.

“Do you have anything more for us on Shane?” Michael asked.

“We’ve got reports on his stint in the Army for you,” Bailey said. “But from what I saw, there’s nothing out of the norm. We’re still digging into his earlier stuff.” Like crazy, actually. But it’d only been two days since we’d identified Shane Dolan as our likely second shooter, and his pre-military history was a little harder to find than we’d expected.

Shane was adopted, no known siblings, and both parents were dead. We hadn’t found his birth parents yet. He hadn’t gone to college, his high school records were archived somewhere-we had unis working on it-and his elementary school records had all been on paper (the school didn’t have digital records when Shane was a kid) and they’d been purged.

Michael frowned. “That’s too bad. What your witnesses have said so far is helpful, but it really only gives us a thumbnail sketch. And there are some…anomalies in terms of Shane being the follower. I have no doubt that Logan chose Fairmont High as their first target. But that doesn’t necessarily mean Shane will let him choose their future targets. The problem is, we don’t know enough about Shane to make even an educated guess about what target he’d choose.” Michael paused. “There’s no indication Shane had any problems in the Army? None at all?”

“Not from what I saw,” Bailey said. “Honorable discharge, no record of discipline. It was probably the only time anyone kept him close to the straight and narrow.”

“Then we focus on Logan’s motives,” he said. “Given what you’ve found, I can’t say that Shane necessarily has a motive to target government buildings-”

“Other than his time in the service-” I said.

“Which was apparently uneventful,” Michael said. “And I don’t have enough data to figure out what motive he might have to target any other place.”