I say we put the unis on Carson, find out if he’s shown up anywhere. In the meantime, we can ask around about him while we keep running on Otis Barney. Are Tom and Sonny still hammering Graden?”
“Every five minutes,” Bailey said. “Graden keeps telling them Otis isn’t the only one who’s still MIA, that they’re working twenty-four/seven to account for everyone, but—”
“They know he didn’t have any friends to run to, and he hasn’t turned up in the hospital or the morgue. And they don’t like what that means. But they haven’t gone public yet, right?”
“Not yet.”
“We need to whittle down that list. Is anyone going through juvy cases? Maybe one of our shooters has a record.”
“That would be refreshing,” Bailey said. “And of course we’re checking juvy cases. So far, all they found were some curfew violations and minor drug busts. All those kids are accounted for. The only thing we can do is move fast on the interviews. We’ve already got Liam’s student list, so we may as well start there. I’ll call Dale and get student lists for the rest of Otis’s classes. Start with this year and work our way backward.”
“Shit.” That might mean hundreds of interviews. While two murderers ran the countryside.
“You got a better idea, Sherlock?”
I folded my arms and tried to come up with one while Bailey made the calls.
We managed to line up immediate interviews with four of Liam’s students. One of the moms, Meredith Charnosh, volunteered to let us use her house. “I just think it’d be nice not to traumatize them any further by making them go to a police station,” she said.
I considered telling her it might actually be reassuring for them to see law enforcement at work, but I had the feeling she just didn’t want to let her son out of her sight. I didn’t blame her.
We gathered in the living room, which was overfurnished but oddly comforting. The three boys, Mark, Vincent, and Harrison, took the sofa. The only girl, Paula, perched on the matching ottoman. All of them had that hundred-yard stare usually reserved for battle-scarred soldiers.
“Were you all in the gym when it happened?” I asked. They were. I asked what they’d been able to see of the gunmen.
“Just that they were wearing camo jackets and masks with eyeholes,” Paula said.
The boys agreed. They’d all noticed that one was taller than the other. Estimates of the taller one’s height varied between six feet two and six feet six.
“One of them yelled something about jocks,” Mark said. Vincent and Paula heard that too.
In short, nothing new. Time to move on to Otis and Carson.
I had to be careful not to get too heavy with specific questions about them. If I did, it’d hit the grapevine in seconds and some kids might suddenly “remember” things that were more a product of imagination than reality. Not necessarily to get attention, but just because some people are susceptible to suggestion. Plant the idea and they’ll fill in the blanks. So I started by asking the open-ended questions suggested by our shrinks: did they know anyone who vented frequently about feeling persecuted and hating the world or talked about taking revenge—
“On who?” Mark asked. “Lots of kids feel screwed over and talk about payback against their teachers or”—he craned his neck to see if Mrs. Charnosh was within earshot—“their parents.”
“Or other kids,” Vincent Charnosh said.
A fair question. “I mean someone who was always venting about everyone screwing him over, and wanting to kill them. Not just someone who spouted off once about wanting to kill the math teacher because he got an F. Someone who’s angry at the world and talks about payback—a lot.”
“I can’t remember anyone talking like that, ” Paula said.
“I’m pretty sure I would’ve turned in someone who went off like that,” said Harrison, the most conservative-looking of the group. “After Sandy Hook and that freak in
“Every five minutes,” Bailey said. “Graden keeps telling them Otis isn’t the only one who’s still MIA, that they’re working twenty-four/seven to account for everyone, but—”
“They know he didn’t have any friends to run to, and he hasn’t turned up in the hospital or the morgue. And they don’t like what that means. But they haven’t gone public yet, right?”
“Not yet.”
“We need to whittle down that list. Is anyone going through juvy cases? Maybe one of our shooters has a record.”
“That would be refreshing,” Bailey said. “And of course we’re checking juvy cases. So far, all they found were some curfew violations and minor drug busts. All those kids are accounted for. The only thing we can do is move fast on the interviews. We’ve already got Liam’s student list, so we may as well start there. I’ll call Dale and get student lists for the rest of Otis’s classes. Start with this year and work our way backward.”
“Shit.” That might mean hundreds of interviews. While two murderers ran the countryside.
“You got a better idea, Sherlock?”
I folded my arms and tried to come up with one while Bailey made the calls.
We managed to line up immediate interviews with four of Liam’s students. One of the moms, Meredith Charnosh, volunteered to let us use her house. “I just think it’d be nice not to traumatize them any further by making them go to a police station,” she said.
I considered telling her it might actually be reassuring for them to see law enforcement at work, but I had the feeling she just didn’t want to let her son out of her sight. I didn’t blame her.
We gathered in the living room, which was overfurnished but oddly comforting. The three boys, Mark, Vincent, and Harrison, took the sofa. The only girl, Paula, perched on the matching ottoman. All of them had that hundred-yard stare usually reserved for battle-scarred soldiers.
“Were you all in the gym when it happened?” I asked. They were. I asked what they’d been able to see of the gunmen.
“Just that they were wearing camo jackets and masks with eyeholes,” Paula said.
The boys agreed. They’d all noticed that one was taller than the other. Estimates of the taller one’s height varied between six feet two and six feet six.
“One of them yelled something about jocks,” Mark said. Vincent and Paula heard that too.
In short, nothing new. Time to move on to Otis and Carson.
I had to be careful not to get too heavy with specific questions about them. If I did, it’d hit the grapevine in seconds and some kids might suddenly “remember” things that were more a product of imagination than reality. Not necessarily to get attention, but just because some people are susceptible to suggestion. Plant the idea and they’ll fill in the blanks. So I started by asking the open-ended questions suggested by our shrinks: did they know anyone who vented frequently about feeling persecuted and hating the world or talked about taking revenge—
“On who?” Mark asked. “Lots of kids feel screwed over and talk about payback against their teachers or”—he craned his neck to see if Mrs. Charnosh was within earshot—“their parents.”
“Or other kids,” Vincent Charnosh said.
A fair question. “I mean someone who was always venting about everyone screwing him over, and wanting to kill them. Not just someone who spouted off once about wanting to kill the math teacher because he got an F. Someone who’s angry at the world and talks about payback—a lot.”
“I can’t remember anyone talking like that, ” Paula said.
“I’m pretty sure I would’ve turned in someone who went off like that,” said Harrison, the most conservative-looking of the group. “After Sandy Hook and that freak in
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