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Authors: Marcia Clark
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name to some of the kids. If the press sees us at Otis’s house and asks the kids…”
It was a problem. We’d warned all the students that it could seriously undermine the investigation if they talked to reporters, and we’d asked them to warn all their friends about it. But it was a big school—more than three thousand enrolled—and reporters knew how to make people feel important. Odds were, someone would cave to the siren song of momentary fame. And even if the kids stayed strong, reporters were bound to have their own sources in the hospitals or in LAPD. Hell, I was sure they had sources in my own office.
“All the more reason to move on it now,” I said. “The press probably has interns comparing lists of wounded and dead to school records even as we speak. I—wait, do we?”
“Have people working on the lists? Yeah. But the attendance records aren’t entirely accurate. Like I said about our buddy Otis, if a kid skipped homeroom, played hooky, or a teacher just made a mistake taking roll, that’ll take a while to sort out.”
Bailey got the number for Tom and Sonny Barney fairly quickly. She paused before punching it in. “For our sake, I hope this is our guy. But for their sake…”
I nodded. I could hear the phone ring. No one picked up. Not even an answering machine.
Bailey ended the call. “Could mean they’re on the phone or—”
“At the rec center, looking for their son.” The community recreation center had been designated as the gathering place where family and friends of missing students could wait for reports. “Let’s hit the house first.” It’d be easier to talk to them there. “You have an address?”
Otis lived five miles away, in a small Spanish-style house adorned with colorful tiles just under the roofline. Bailey and I approached the house quietly, listening for any sounds coming from inside. When we reached the front door I heard a woman’s voice, shrill with tension, then the deeper tones of a male voice. Bailey and I exchanged a look.
With one hand on the holster of her gun, she knocked. The voices abruptly stopped. After a few seconds the male voice responded, “Who’s there?”
Bailey identified us. “We’re here to ask you about your son, Otis.”
The door opened, and a man in socks and corduroys stared at us for a moment before asking to see our IDs. As I held out my badge, I saw a petite woman with short, dark hair peeking out from behind him. She was holding a Kleenex to her nose, and her eyes were wet and red. Tom and Sonny Barney.
The man stood back to let us in and gestured to the couch against the wall. Before we even sat down, the woman asked, “Have you found our boy? Do you know where he is?”
“No, ma’am,” Bailey said. “We were hoping you’d heard from him.”
At this, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as tears leaked out and ran down her cheeks. There was a framed photograph on the side table next to the couch that showed Otis standing between his parents. He could definitely be described as medium height and build—for what it was worth.
“We’re so sorry we don’t have better news,” I said. “You’ve heard nothing all day?”
Tom Barney shook his head. “We’ve been at the rec center—just came home to change clothes. And we’ve called all over the place, but no one seems to know anything.”
Bailey and I exchanged a look.
“We can tell you that his name has not shown up on the list of injured or…deceased,” Bailey said. “But he doesn’t seem to have been in school today either. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“Not in school?” Sonny asked, her tone incredulous. “That’s impossible. I dropped him off myself this morning.”
“Did you see him go inside?” I asked.
“N-no. There was a line of cars behind me. I had to move. But he doesn’t ditch. He might play sick, try to stay home, but…”
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“His usual:
It was a problem. We’d warned all the students that it could seriously undermine the investigation if they talked to reporters, and we’d asked them to warn all their friends about it. But it was a big school—more than three thousand enrolled—and reporters knew how to make people feel important. Odds were, someone would cave to the siren song of momentary fame. And even if the kids stayed strong, reporters were bound to have their own sources in the hospitals or in LAPD. Hell, I was sure they had sources in my own office.
“All the more reason to move on it now,” I said. “The press probably has interns comparing lists of wounded and dead to school records even as we speak. I—wait, do we?”
“Have people working on the lists? Yeah. But the attendance records aren’t entirely accurate. Like I said about our buddy Otis, if a kid skipped homeroom, played hooky, or a teacher just made a mistake taking roll, that’ll take a while to sort out.”
Bailey got the number for Tom and Sonny Barney fairly quickly. She paused before punching it in. “For our sake, I hope this is our guy. But for their sake…”
I nodded. I could hear the phone ring. No one picked up. Not even an answering machine.
Bailey ended the call. “Could mean they’re on the phone or—”
“At the rec center, looking for their son.” The community recreation center had been designated as the gathering place where family and friends of missing students could wait for reports. “Let’s hit the house first.” It’d be easier to talk to them there. “You have an address?”
Otis lived five miles away, in a small Spanish-style house adorned with colorful tiles just under the roofline. Bailey and I approached the house quietly, listening for any sounds coming from inside. When we reached the front door I heard a woman’s voice, shrill with tension, then the deeper tones of a male voice. Bailey and I exchanged a look.
With one hand on the holster of her gun, she knocked. The voices abruptly stopped. After a few seconds the male voice responded, “Who’s there?”
Bailey identified us. “We’re here to ask you about your son, Otis.”
The door opened, and a man in socks and corduroys stared at us for a moment before asking to see our IDs. As I held out my badge, I saw a petite woman with short, dark hair peeking out from behind him. She was holding a Kleenex to her nose, and her eyes were wet and red. Tom and Sonny Barney.
The man stood back to let us in and gestured to the couch against the wall. Before we even sat down, the woman asked, “Have you found our boy? Do you know where he is?”
“No, ma’am,” Bailey said. “We were hoping you’d heard from him.”
At this, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as tears leaked out and ran down her cheeks. There was a framed photograph on the side table next to the couch that showed Otis standing between his parents. He could definitely be described as medium height and build—for what it was worth.
“We’re so sorry we don’t have better news,” I said. “You’ve heard nothing all day?”
Tom Barney shook his head. “We’ve been at the rec center—just came home to change clothes. And we’ve called all over the place, but no one seems to know anything.”
Bailey and I exchanged a look.
“We can tell you that his name has not shown up on the list of injured or…deceased,” Bailey said. “But he doesn’t seem to have been in school today either. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“Not in school?” Sonny asked, her tone incredulous. “That’s impossible. I dropped him off myself this morning.”
“Did you see him go inside?” I asked.
“N-no. There was a line of cars behind me. I had to move. But he doesn’t ditch. He might play sick, try to stay home, but…”
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“His usual:
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