Danny? He’s a suspected mass murderer. That’s different from a serial killer.”
“Very good, Officer. Plus, he’s a juvenile mass murderer, which is distinctly different as well. Unfortunately, we don’t understand these distinctions, hence my new research assignment.”
Rainie’s brows shot up. “You’re researching school shootings?”
“Correct.”
“You’re going from town to town, investigating kids murdering other kids?”
“Yes.”
Rainie shook her head; she didn’t know whether to be amazed or appalled. “Traffic accidents I can handle,” she told him. “Drunken brawls, stabbings, even the occasional domestic incidents. But what went down in that school yesterday . . . How can you focus on something like that full-time? How can you keep from waking up screaming every night?”
“With all due respect, Officer, I have a bit more experience with violent crime than you.”
Rainie grimaced. “Thank you. Words I haven’t already heard twelve times this morning.” She straightened up in the chair and let her feet hit the floor. “Well, sorry to break it to you, Agent, but I doubt you’ll get to speak with Danny. His parents got him a crack defense attorney who’s placed him off-limits to all interviews. Despite the fact that Danny has confessed twice and was found holding the murder weapons, he’s pleading innocent.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“I think I have a case to put together.”
“That’s a careful answer.”
She smiled at him wolfishly. “I may be inexperienced, SupSpAg, but I learn quick.”
“Soup Spag?”
“Supervisory Special Agent, in local law-enforcement terms. We’re not big on titles, you know.”
“I see.” Quincy appeared a little dazed. Rainie had a feeling he wasn’t sure what to make of her yet, or how to handle her. The thought pleased her. She liked keeping the feds guessing. In the end, it might be the only thing she had to show for her day.
So she supposed she should’ve known. She’d no sooner started feeling smug than the FBI hunter went on the attack.
He said calmly, “I don’t think Daniel O’Grady shot up his school. And I don’t think you’re certain of it either, Officer Conner. I think we’re both still wondering what really happened yesterday afternoon. And better yet, how we can prove it.”
NINE
Wednesday, May 16, 11:43 A . M .
R AINIE DROVE QUINCY to the school.
Quincy sat in the passenger’s seat, gazing out the window with what he was afraid must be an incredulous stare. He had not been to Oregon in many years and had forgotten its stunning beauty. They drove through rolling verdant pastures liberally sprinkled with black and white Holsteins and topped by red farmhouses with bunches of yellow pansies. He could smell freshly mown grass and the salty tang of ocean air. He could see towering mountains ringing the valley, their summits carpeted in dense Douglas fir.
King-size cab trucks whizzed by, their powerful V-8 engines gunning. People waved to Rainie as they passed, and about half a dozen black Labs lolled their tongues as they panted merrily out the window. Up ahead, everyone slowed for a John Deere tractor that was laboring down the road. No one honked at the aging farmer or yelled at him to pull over. They simply waited and waved politely when they finally had room to pass. In answer, the farmer touched the brim of his faded red baseball hat.
“That’s Mike Berry,” Rainie said, as they swung wide around the green tractor, breaking her silence for the first time since they’d gotten into the
“Very good, Officer. Plus, he’s a juvenile mass murderer, which is distinctly different as well. Unfortunately, we don’t understand these distinctions, hence my new research assignment.”
Rainie’s brows shot up. “You’re researching school shootings?”
“Correct.”
“You’re going from town to town, investigating kids murdering other kids?”
“Yes.”
Rainie shook her head; she didn’t know whether to be amazed or appalled. “Traffic accidents I can handle,” she told him. “Drunken brawls, stabbings, even the occasional domestic incidents. But what went down in that school yesterday . . . How can you focus on something like that full-time? How can you keep from waking up screaming every night?”
“With all due respect, Officer, I have a bit more experience with violent crime than you.”
Rainie grimaced. “Thank you. Words I haven’t already heard twelve times this morning.” She straightened up in the chair and let her feet hit the floor. “Well, sorry to break it to you, Agent, but I doubt you’ll get to speak with Danny. His parents got him a crack defense attorney who’s placed him off-limits to all interviews. Despite the fact that Danny has confessed twice and was found holding the murder weapons, he’s pleading innocent.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“I think I have a case to put together.”
“That’s a careful answer.”
She smiled at him wolfishly. “I may be inexperienced, SupSpAg, but I learn quick.”
“Soup Spag?”
“Supervisory Special Agent, in local law-enforcement terms. We’re not big on titles, you know.”
“I see.” Quincy appeared a little dazed. Rainie had a feeling he wasn’t sure what to make of her yet, or how to handle her. The thought pleased her. She liked keeping the feds guessing. In the end, it might be the only thing she had to show for her day.
So she supposed she should’ve known. She’d no sooner started feeling smug than the FBI hunter went on the attack.
He said calmly, “I don’t think Daniel O’Grady shot up his school. And I don’t think you’re certain of it either, Officer Conner. I think we’re both still wondering what really happened yesterday afternoon. And better yet, how we can prove it.”
NINE
Wednesday, May 16, 11:43 A . M .
R AINIE DROVE QUINCY to the school.
Quincy sat in the passenger’s seat, gazing out the window with what he was afraid must be an incredulous stare. He had not been to Oregon in many years and had forgotten its stunning beauty. They drove through rolling verdant pastures liberally sprinkled with black and white Holsteins and topped by red farmhouses with bunches of yellow pansies. He could smell freshly mown grass and the salty tang of ocean air. He could see towering mountains ringing the valley, their summits carpeted in dense Douglas fir.
King-size cab trucks whizzed by, their powerful V-8 engines gunning. People waved to Rainie as they passed, and about half a dozen black Labs lolled their tongues as they panted merrily out the window. Up ahead, everyone slowed for a John Deere tractor that was laboring down the road. No one honked at the aging farmer or yelled at him to pull over. They simply waited and waved politely when they finally had room to pass. In answer, the farmer touched the brim of his faded red baseball hat.
“That’s Mike Berry,” Rainie said, as they swung wide around the green tractor, breaking her silence for the first time since they’d gotten into the
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