The Competition - страница 7

The elevator bounced to a stop at the eighteenth floor of the Criminal Courts Building, one of the two floors occupied by the district attorney’s office. It’s a long-standing, not-so-funny joke that the contract for the elevators went to the lowest bidder. They operate like one of those cheapo traveling carnival rides. “Okay.” My voice was as leaden as my heart. I didn’t even want to imagine what I was about to see.

“We think we’ve already identified the shooters.”

I punched in the security code on the door that led to my wing and headed for my office. “Then why…?” If they already had the shooters, there wouldn’t be much for me to do. I unlocked the door to my office and dropped the case file on my desk.

Bailey sighed. “Yeah, now that I think about it, Rache, maybe you don’t need to come. This one’s gonna be…really bad.”

I couldn’t remember ever wanting to take a pass on a crime scene before, but I did now. Though homicides are always grim, nothing compares to the tragedy of a child victim. Let alone a mass murder involving children. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to know about it. I didn’t want it to be true. But it was. And I had to do something about it. Even if it was too late.

“What do we know?” I asked, as Bailey pulled away from the Criminal Courts Building.

“Precious little. Everyone’s got cell phones, so between the kids and the teachers, we have about a thousand reports. And they’re all over the place. ‘There were two gunmen. There were four gunmen. They had AKs. They had handguns. They had grenades, they had Molotovs.’ The only thing we know for sure is that they yelled at the jocks. But when they fired they didn’t seem to be targeting anyone specific. A soccer coach, maybe. And she might’ve just been in their way.”

“Any idea how many casualties?”

“Not yet.”

“But the building is cleared already?”

Bailey nodded. “SWAT went in through the library window. Word is that’s where the last shots were fired.”

“And that’s where they found the suspects?”

“Yes.”

I looked out the passenger window as we made our way down the 101 freeway. It was an incongruously glorious fall day, the kind I imagine L.A. used to have in abundance before we fouled the air with modern conveniences. Piercingly blue skies; brilliant yellow sunlight; and a clean, mild breeze that carried the burnt orange and ochre smells of autumn. The palm trees swayed gracefully in that breeze. At this moment I hated the sight. It felt like proof that the world didn’t care.

Our destination was Woodland Hills, a suburb in the San Fernando Valley that lies north and west of Los Angeles proper. Bailey got off at Tampa Avenue, and I distracted myself by counting the number of storefronts advertising Asian “foot massage” for twenty dollars. When I reached six, Bailey turned south and headed us into the maelstrom that surrounded Fairmont High School.

Fire engines, police cars, and ambulances-more than I’d ever seen in one place-packed the front entrance. Overhead, police helicopters competed for airspace with news copters. Their deafening whump-whump, the flashing blue and red lights, the piercing scream of ambulances, created a dark swirl that made the whole scene feel apocalyptic.

More than two hundred stunned civilians crowded the grass quad in front of the school. I guessed that most were the families and friends of the students who hadn’t been accounted for. Many were hunched over, holding cell phones to their ears, or staring at them as if willing them to ring. The air was thick with anguish. Circling like vultures were the inevitable news crews. I watched in disgust as reporters held out microphones to catch every drop of misery from the anxious crowd.

Bailey double-parked next to a squad car on the corner, and we headed to the police barricade at the side of the building, where things were quieter. The school was big-two stories high-and relatively new-looking, with a facade of light-colored stucco. The stairs leading to the main entrance were filled with local police officers.